THE COMING OF JOSEPH THE SECOND
"Why can't you drink your tea like a Christian?" Mrs. Bindle hurled the
words at Bindle as if she hoped they would hit him.
He gazed at her over the edge of the saucerful of tea, which he had
previously cooled by blowing noisily upon it. A moment later he
proceeded to empty the saucer with a sibilant sound suggestive of
relish. He then replaced it upon the table.
"Might as well be among pigs, the way you behave at table," she snapped
and, as if to emphasise her own refinement in taking liquids, she lifted
her cup delicately to her lips, the little finger of her right hand
crooked at an awkward angle.
Bindle leaned slightly towards her, his hand to his ear. Ignoring his
attitude, she replaced the cup in the saucer.
"You done that fine, Mrs. B. I didn't 'ear a sound," and he grinned in
that provocative manner which always fanned the flame of her anger.
"Pity you don't learn yourself, instead of behaving as you do."
"But 'ow am I to know 'ow a Christian drinks?" he demanded, harking
back to Mrs. Bindle's remark. "There's 'Earty now, 'e's a Christian; but
he sucks in 'is whiskers as if 'e was 'ungry."
"Oh! don't talk to me," was the impatient response, as she proceeded to
pour herself out another cup of tea.
"Wotjer marry me for, then? I told you I was always chatty at
breakfast."
"Don't be disgusting!" she cried angrily. He stared at her in genuine
astonishment. "You know I never allowed you to say such things to me
before we were married."
"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered as he pushed across his cup that it
might be refilled.
"Millie's coming this afternoon."
"Millie!" he cried, his face beaming. "She all right again?"
"Don't be disgusting," she said.
"Disgustin'," he repeated vaguely. Then understanding came to him.
Millie Dixon, nee Hearty, had, some weeks previously, presented her
husband with "a little Joe." These had been her first words to Charley
Dixon when he, still partially in the grip of the terror through which
he had passed, had been taken by the nurse to be introduced to his son
and heir, whilst a pale, tired Millie smiled bravely up at him.
To Mrs. Bindle the very mention of the word "babies" in mixed company
was an offence. The news that he was an uncle had reached Bindle from
Mrs. Hearty, Mr. Hearty sharing his sister-in-law's views upon
reticence in such delicate and personal matters.
"She goin' to bring it with 'er?" Bindle enquired eagerly; but Mrs.
Bindle, anticipating such a question, had risen and, going over to the
sink, had turned on the tap, allowing the question to pass in a rushing
of water.
"Funny feelin' like that about babies," he muttered as he rose from the
table, his meal completed. "I suppose that's why she wouldn't let me
keep rabbits."
"Charley's coming in later; he's going to mend Aunt Anne's musical-box,"
was Mrs. Bindle's next announcement.
Bindle whistled incredulously.
"What's the matter now?"
"You ain't goin' to trust 'im with Ole Dumb Abraham, are you?" he asked
in a hushed voice.
"And why not, pray?" she challenged. "Millie says Charley is very clever
at mending things, and it's never played."
Bindle said nothing. The musical-box had been left to Mrs. Bindle by
"poor Aunt Anne"--Mrs. Bindle referred to all dead relatives as "poor";
it was her one unconscious blasphemy. Dumb Abraham, as Bindle called the
relic, had always been the most sacred among Mrs. Bindle's household
gods. It had arrived dumb, and dumb it had remained, as she would never
hear of it leaving the house to be put in order.
If Bindle ever went into the parlour after dark, he was always told to
be careful of Aunt Anne's musical box. Many a battle had been waged over
its dumb ugliness. Once he had rested for a moment upon its glassy
surface a half-smoked cigar, a thoughtless act which had resulted in one
of the stormiest passages of their married life.
"Well!" challenged Mrs. Bindle, as he remained silent.
"I didn't say anythink," he mumbled, picking up his cap and making for
the door, thankful that it was Saturday, and that he would be home in
time to see his beloved niece.
That afternoon Bindle arrived home with his pockets bulging, and several
parcels of varying sizes under his arm.
"What have you got there?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, who was occupied in
spreading a white cloth upon the kitchen table.
"Oh! jest a few things for 'is Nibs," was the response.
"For who?"
"The nipper," he explained, as he proceeded to unburden himself of the
parcels, laying them on the dresser.
"I wish you'd try and talk like a Christian," and she banged a metal
tea-tray upon the table.
Bindle ignored her remark. He was engaged in taking from its wrappings a
peculiarly hideous rag-doll.
Mrs. Bindle paused in her preparations to watch the operation.
"What's that for?" she demanded aggressively.
"Millie's kid," he replied, devoting himself to the opening of other
packages, and producing a monkey-on-a-stick, an inexpensive teddy-bear,
a jack-in-the-box and several metal animals, which on being blown
through emitted strident noises.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, wasting money on hideous things
like that. They'd frighten the poor child to death."
"Frighten 'im!" he cried. "These ain't goin' to frighten 'im. You wait
an' 'ear wot 'e's got to say about 'em."
"You just clear those things out of my kitchen," was the uncompromising
rejoinder. "I won't have the poor child sent into convulsions because
you're a fool."
There was something in her voice which caused Bindle meekly to gather
together the toys and carry them out of the kitchen and upstairs, where
he placed them in a drawer devoted entirely to his own possessions.
"Well, I'm blowed," he murmured, as he laid them one beside another.
"And me a-thinkin' they'd make 'im laugh;" with that he closed the
drawer, determined that, at least, Millie should see the toys that were
as much a tribute to her as to her offspring.
"Fancy little Millikins 'avin' a kid all of 'er own," he muttered, as he
descended the stairs, "'er wot I used to dangle on my knee till she
crowed again. Well, well," he added as he opened the kitchen door, "we
ain't none of us gettin' younger."
"Wot's that?" enquired Mrs. Bindle.
"Merely a sort o' casual remark that none of us ain't puttin' back the
clock."
Mrs. Bindle sniffed disdainfully, and busied herself with preparations
for tea.
"Why didn't you tell me before that Millikins was comin'?" he enquired.
"Because you're never in as any other decent husband is."
He recognised the portents and held his peace.
When Mrs. Bindle was busy, her temper had a tendency to be on what
Bindle called "the short side," and then even her favourite hymn,
"Gospel Bells," frequently failed to stem the tide of her wrath.
"Ain't we goin' to 'ave tea in the parlour?" he enquired presently, as
Mrs. Bindle smoothed the cloth over the kitchen table.
"No, we're not," she snapped, thinking it unnecessary to add that Millie
had particularly requested that she might have it "in your lovely
kitchen," because she was "one of the family."
Although Bindle infinitely preferred the kitchen to that labyrinth of
furniture and knick-knacks known as the parlour, he felt that the
occasion demanded the discomfort consequent upon ceremony. He was,
however, too wise to criticise the arrangement; for Mrs. Bindle's temper
and tongue were of a known sharpness that counselled moderation.
She had made no mention of the time of Millie's arrival, and Bindle
decided not to take the risk of enquiring. He contented himself with
hovering about, getting under Mrs. Bindle's feet, as she expressed it,
and managing to place himself invariably in the exact spot she was
making for.
If he sat on a chair, Mrs. Bindle seemed suddenly to discover that it
required dusting. If he took refuge in a corner, Mrs. Bindle promptly
dived into it with an "Oh! get out of my way, do," and he would do a
swift side-step, only to make for what was the high-road of her next
strategic move.
"Why don't you go out like you always do?" she demanded at one point.
"Because Millikins is comin'," he replied simply.
"Yes, you can stay at home for--when somebody's coming," she amended,
"but other days you leave me alone for weeks together."
"But when I do stay at 'ome you 'ustles me about like a stray goat," he
complained, only just succeeding in avoiding a sudden dash on Mrs.
Bindle's part.
"That's right, go on. Blame everything on to me," she cried, as she made
a swift dive for the stove, and proceeded to poke the fire as if
determined to break the fire-brick at the back. "If you'd only been a
proper 'usband to me I might have been different."
Bindle slipped across the kitchen and stepped out into the passage. Here
he remained until Mrs. Bindle suddenly threw open the kitchen door.
"What are you standing there for?" she demanded angrily.
"So as not to get in the way," was the meek reply.
"You want to be able to tell Millie that you were turned out of the
kitchen," she stormed. "I know you and your mean, deceitful ways. Well,
stay there if you like it!" and she banged the door, and Bindle heard
the key turn in the lock.
"There's one thing about Mrs. B.," he remarked, as he leaned against the
wall, "she ain't dull."
When at length the expected knock came, it was Mrs. Bindle who darted
out and opened the door to admit Millie Dixon, carrying in her arms the
upper end of what looked like a cascade of white lace.
A sudden fit of shyness seized Bindle, and he retreated to the kitchen;
whilst aunt and niece greeted one another in the passage.
"Where's Uncle Joe?" he heard Millie ask presently.
"I'm 'ere, Millikins," he called-out, "cookin' the veal for that there
young prodigal."
A moment later Millie, flushed and happy, fluttered into the room, still
holding the cascade of lace.
"Darling Uncle Joe," she cried, advancing towards him.
He took a step backwards, a look of awe in his eyes, which were fixed
upon the top of the cascade.
"Aren't you going to kiss me, Uncle Joe?" she asked, holding up her
face.
"Kiss you, my dear, why----" Bindle was seized with a sudden huskiness
in his voice, as he leaned forward gingerly and kissed the warm red lips
held out to him.
"Is that It?" he asked, looking down with troubled eyes at Millie's
burden.
"This is Little Joe," she said softly, the wonder-light of motherhood in
her eyes, as she placed one foot on the rail of a chair to support her
precious burden, thus releasing her right hand to lift the veil from a
red and puckered face, out of which gazed a pair of filmy blue eyes.
"Ooooooosssss." Instinctively Bindle drew a deep breath as he bent a few
inches forward.
For fully a minute he stood absorbing all there was to be seen of Joseph
the Second.
"'E ain't very big, is 'e?" he enquired, raising his eyes to Millie's.
"He's only six weeks old," snapped Mrs. Bindle, who had followed Millie
into the kitchen and now stood, with ill-concealed impatience, whilst
Bindle was gazing at the infant. "What did you expect?" she demanded.
"Don't 'e look 'ot?" said Bindle at length, his forehead seamed with
anxiety.
"Hot, Uncle Joe?" enquired Millie, unable to keep from her voice a tinge
of the displeasure of a mother who hears her offspring criticised.
"I mean 'e don't look strong," he added hastily, conscious that he had
said the wrong thing.
"Don't be silly, Uncle Joe, he's just a wee little baby, aren't you,
bootiful boy?" and she gazed at the red face in a way that caused Bindle
to realise that his niece was now a woman.
"'E's the very spit of 'is old uncle, ain't 'e?" and he turned to Mrs.
Bindle for corroboration.
She ignored the remark; but Millie smiled sympathetically.
"I 'ad a takin' way with me when I was a little 'un," continued Bindle
reminiscently. "Why, once I was nearly kissed by a real lady--one with a
title, too."
"Oh! do tell me, Uncle Joe," cried Millie, looking at him with that odd
little lift of the brows, which always made Charley want to kiss her.
She had heard the story a score of times before.
"Well, 'er 'usband was a-tryin' to get into Parliament, an' 'is wife,
wot was the lady, came round a-askin' people to vote for 'im. Seein' me
in my mother's arms, she says, 'Wot a pretty child.' You see, Millikins,
looks was always my strong point," and he paused in the narrative to
grin.
"Then she bends down to kiss me," he continued, "an' jest at that moment
wot must I go and do but sneeze, an' that's 'ow I missed a kiss an' 'er
'usband a vote."
"Poor Uncle Joe," laughed Millie, making a little motion with her arms
towards Mrs. Bindle.
Without a word, Mrs. Bindle took the precious bundle of lace, out of
which two filmy eyes gazed vacantly. With a swaying movement she began
to croon a meaningless tune, that every now and then seemed as if it
might develop into "Gospel Bells"; yet always hesitated on the brink and
became diverted into something else.
The baby turned on her a solemn, appraising look of interrogation, then,
apparently approving of the tune, settled down comfortably to enjoy it.
Bindle regarded Mrs. Bindle with wonder. Into her eyes had crept a
something he had only once seen there before, and that was on the
occasion he had brought Millie to Fenton Street when she left home.
Seeing that "Baby" was content, Millie dropped into a chair with a
tired little sigh, her eyes fixed upon the precious bundle of lace
containing what would one day be a man.
Mrs. Bindle continued to sway and croon in a way that seemed to Little
Joe's entire satisfaction.
"Aren't you glad we called him after you, Uncle Joe?" said Millie,
tearing her eyes with difficulty from the bundle and turning them upon
Bindle.
"Yer aunt told me," he said simply.
"Oh! I do hope he'll grow up like you, Uncle Joe, dear Uncle Joe," she
cried, clasping her hands in her earnestness, as if that might help to
make good her wish.
"Like me?" There was wonder and incredulity in his voice.
"Charley says he _must_ grow up like you, darling Uncle Joe. You
see----" She broke off as Bindle suddenly turned and, without a word,
made for the door. A moment later it banged-to behind him arousing Mrs.
Bindle from her pre-occupation.
"Where's your Uncle gone?" she enquired, lifting her eyes from their
absorbed contemplation of the flaming features of her nephew.
"He's--he's gone to fetch something," lied Millie. Instinctively she
felt that this was an occasion that called for anything but the truth.
She had seen the unusual brightness of Bindle's eyes.
From the passage he was heard vigorously blowing his nose.
"It's them toys he's after," said Mrs. Bindle, with scornful
conviction.
"Toys?" Millie looked up enquiringly.
"He bought a lot of hideous things for this little precious," and her
eyes fell upon the bundle in her arms, her lips breaking into a curve
that Bindle had never seen.
"You see, Millie," she continued, "he doesn't know. We've neither chick
nor child of----" She broke off suddenly, and bowed her head low over
the baby.
In a second Millie was on her feet, her arm round Mrs. Bindle's
shoulders.
"Dear Aunt Lizzie!" she cried, her voice a little unsteady. "Darling
Aunt Lizzie. I--I know--I----"
At this point Joseph the Second, objecting to the pressure to which he
was being subjected between the two emotional bosoms, raised his voice
in protest, just as Bindle entered, his arms full of the toys he had
bought.
He stood in the doorway, gaping with amazement.
As Mrs. Bindle caught sight of him, she blinked rapidly.
"Don't bring that rubbish in here," she cried with a return to her
normal manner. "You'll frighten the child out of its life."
"Oh! Uncle Joe," cried Millie, as Bindle deposited the toys on the
table. "I think you're the darlingest uncle in all the world."
There were tears in the eyes she turned on him.
Mrs. Bindle swung her back on the pair, as Bindle proceeded to explain
the virtues and mechanism of his purchases. She was convinced that such
monstrosities would produce in little Joseph nothing less than
convulsions, probably resulting in permanent injury to his mind.
Whilst they were thus engaged, Mrs. Bindle walked up and down the
kitchen, absorbed in the baby.
"Auntie Lizzie," cried Millie presently, "please bring Little Joe here."
Mrs. Bindle hesitated. "They'll frighten him, Millie," she said, with a
gentleness in her voice that caused Bindle to look quickly up at her.
To disprove the statement, and with all the assurance of a young mother,
Millie seized the rag-doll and a diminutive golliwog, and held them over
the recumbent form of Joseph the Second.
In an instant a pudgy little hand was thrust up, followed immediately
after by another, and Joseph the Second demonstrated with all his
fragile might that, as far as toys were concerned, he was at one with
his uncle.
Bindle beamed with delight. Seizing the monkey-on-a-stick he proceeded
vigorously to work it up and down. The pudgy hands raised themselves
again.
"Oh! let Uncle Joe hold him," cried Millie, in ecstasy at the sight of
the dawning intelligence on the baby's face.
"Me!" cried Bindle in horror, stepping back as if he had been asked to
foster-mother a vigorous young rattlesnake. "Me 'old It?" He looked
uncertainly at Mrs. Bindle and then again at Millie. "Not for an old-age
pension."
"He'll make him cry," said Mrs. Bindle with conviction, hugging Little
Joe closer and increasing the swaying movement.
"Oh yes, you must!" cried Millie gaily. "I'll take him, Auntie Lizzie,"
she said, turning to Mrs. Bindle, who manifested reluctance to
relinquish the bundle.
"I might 'urt 'im," protested Bindle, retreating a step further, his
forehead lined with anxiety.
"Now, Uncle Joe," commanded Millie, extending the bundle, "put your arms
out."
Bindle extended his hands as might a child who is expecting to be caned.
There was reluctance in the movement, and a suggestion that at any
moment he was prepared to withdraw them suddenly.
"Not that way," snapped Mrs. Bindle, with all the scorn of a woman's
superior knowledge.
Millie settled the matter by thrusting the bundle into Bindle's arms and
he had, perforce, to clasp it.
He looked about him wildly, then, his eyes happening to catch those of
Joseph the Second, he forgot his responsibilities, and began winking
rapidly and in a manner that seemed entirely to Little Joe's
satisfaction.
"Oh, Auntie Lizzie, look," cried Millie. "Little Joe loves Uncle Joe
already." The inspiration of motherhood had enabled her to interpret a
certain slobbering movement about Little Joe's lips as affection.
"Oh, look!" she cried again, as one chubby little hand was raised as if
in salutation. "Auntie Lizzie----" She suddenly broke off. She had
caught sight of the tense look on Mrs. Bindle's face as she gazed at the
baby, and the hunger in her eyes.
Without a word she seized the bundle from Bindle's arms and placed it
in those of her aunt, which instinctively curved themselves to receive
the precious burden.
"There, darling Joeykins," she crooned as she bent over her baby's face,
as if to shield from Mrs. Bindle any momentary disappointment it might
manifest. "Go to Auntie Lizzie."
"'Ere, wot 'ave I----?" began Bindle, when he was interrupted by a knock
at the outer door.
"That's Charley," cried Millie, dancing towards the door in a most
unmatronly manner. "Come along, Uncle Joe, he's going to mend the
musical-box," and with that she tripped down the passage, had opened the
door and was greeting her husband almost before Bindle had left the
kitchen.
"Come in here," she cried, opening the parlour door, and hardly giving
Bindle time to greet Charley.
"'Ere," cried Bindle, "why----?"
"Never mind, Uncle Joe, Charley's going to mend the musical-box."
"But wot about it--'im," Bindle corrected himself, indicating the
kitchen with a jerk of his thumb.
"Charley's-going-to-mend-the-musical-box," she repeated with great
distinctness. And again Bindle marvelled at the grown-upness of her.
He looked across at his nephew, a puzzled expression creasing his
forehead.
"Better do as she says, Uncle Joe," laughed Charley. "It saves time."
"But----" began Bindle.
"There it is, Charley," cried Millie, indicating a mahogany object,
with glass top and sides that gave an indelicate view of its internal
organism. Being a dutiful husband, Charley lifted down the box and
placed it on to the table.
"For Gawd's sake be careful of Ole Dumb Abraham," cried Bindle. "If----"
"Of who?" cried Millie, her pretty brows puckered.
Bindle explained, watching with anxious eyes as Charley lifted the
treasure from the small table on which it habitually rested, and placed
it upon the centre table, where Millie had cleared a space.
Charley's apparent unconcern gave Bindle an unpleasant feeling at the
base of his spine. He had been disciplined to regard the parlour as holy
ground, and the musical-box as the holiest thing it contained.
For the next three-quarters of an hour Bindle and Millie watched
Charley, as, with deft fingers, he took the affair to pieces and put it
together again.
Finally, with much coaxing and a little oil, he got it to give forth an
anaemic interpretation of "The Keel Row." Then it gurgled, slowed down
and gave up the struggle, in consequence of which Charley made further
incursions into its interior.
Becoming accustomed to the thought of Aunt Anne's legacy being subjected
to the profanation of screw-driver and oil-bottle, Bindle sat down by
the window, and proceeded to exchange confidences with Millie, who had
made it clear to him that her aunt and son were to be left to their
tete-a-tete undisturbed.
The conversation between uncle and niece was punctuated by snatches from
"The Keel Row," as Charley was successful in getting the sluggish
mechanism of Dumb Abraham into temporary motion.
Occasionally he would give expression to a hiss or murmur of impatience,
and Millie would smile across at him an intimate little smile of
sympathy.
Suddenly, gaunt tragedy stalked into the room.
Crash!
"My Gawd!"
"Oh, Charley!"
"Damn!"
And Poor Aunt Anne's musical-box lay on the floor, a ruin of splintered
glass.
Charley Dixon sucked a damaged thumb, Millie clung to his arm,
solicitous and enquiring, whilst Bindle gazed down at the broken mass,
fear in his eyes, and a sense of irretrievable disaster clutching at his
heart.
Charley began to explain, Millie demanded to see the damaged thumb--but
Bindle continued to gaze at the sacred relic.
Five minutes later, the trio left the parlour. As noiselessly as
conspirators they tip-toed along the passage to the kitchen door, which
stood ajar.
Through the aperture Mrs. Bindle could be seen seated at the table,
Joseph the Second reposing in the crook of her left arm, whilst she,
with her right hand, was endeavouring to work the monkey-on-a-stick.
In her eyes was a strange softness, a smile broke the hard lines of her
mouth, whilst from her lips came an incessant flow of baby language.
For several minutes they watched. They saw Mrs. Bindle lay aside the
monkey-on-a-stick, and bend over the babe, murmuring the sounds that
come by instinct to every woman's lips.
At a sign from Millie, they entered. Mrs. Bindle glanced over her
shoulder in their direction; but other and weightier matters claimed her
attention.
"Lizzie," began Bindle, who had stipulated that he should break the
awful news, urging as his reason that it had to be done with "tack." He
paused. Mrs. Bindle took no notice; but continued to bend over Little
Joe, making strange sounds.
"Lizzie----" he began, paused, then in a rush the words came. "We broken
the musical-box."
He stopped, that the heavens might have an opportunity of falling.
"Did-he-love-his-Auntie-Lizzie-blossom-um-um-um-um."
Charley and Millie exchanged glances; but Bindle was too intent upon his
disastrous mission to be conscious of anything but the storm he knew was
about to break.
"Did you 'ear, Lizzie," he continued. "We broken the musical-box.
Smashed it all to smithereens. Done for it," he added, as if to leave no
loophole for misconception as to the appalling nature of the tragedy.
He held his breath, as one who has just tugged at the cord of a
shower-bath.
"Oh! go away do!" she cried. "Um-um-um-um-prettyums."
"Pore Aunt Anne's musical-box," he repeated dully. "It's smashed."
"Oh, bother the musical-box! Um-um-um-per-weshus-um-um-um."
Mrs. Bindle had not even looked up.
It was Millie who shepherded the others back into the parlour, where
Bindle mopped his brow, with the air of a man who, having met death face
to face, has survived.
"Well, I'm blowed!" was all he said.
And Millie smiled across at Charley, a smile of superior understanding.