MRS. BINDLE BREAKS AN ARMISTICE
I
"Pleasant company, you are," snapped Mrs. Bindle, as she made an
onslaught upon the kitchen fire, jabbing it viciously with a short steel
poker.
Bindle looked up from the newspaper he was reading. It was the third
attack upon the kitchen fire within the space of five minutes, and he
recognised the portents--a storm was brewing.
"I might as well be on a desert island for all the company you are," she
continued. "Here am I alone all day long with no one to speak to, and
when you come home you just sit reading the horse-racing news in the
paper."
"Wot jer like to talk about?" he enquired, allowing the paper to drop to
the floor opposite him.
She sniffed angrily and threw the poker into the ash-pan.
"I wasn't readin' about racin'," he continued pacifically. "I was jest
readin' about a cove wot went orf with another cove's missis, 'is best
overcoat and two chickens."
"Stop it!" She stood over him, her lips compressed, her eyes hard and
steely, as if meditating violence, then, turning suddenly, she walked
swiftly across to the dresser and pulled out the left-hand drawer.
Taking from it her bonnet, she put it on her head and proceeded to tie
the strings beneath her chin.
From behind the kitchen door she unhooked a brown mackintosh, into which
she struggled.
"Goin' out?" he enquired.
"Yes," she replied, as she tore open the door, "and perhaps I'll never
come back again," and with a bang that shook the house she was gone.
She took a tram to Hammersmith on her way to see her niece, Millie
Dixon. She was angry; the day had been one of continual annoyances and
vexations. Entering the car she buried her elbows deep into the
redundant figure of a woman who was also endeavouring to enter.
Once inside, the woman began to inform the car what she thought of
"scraggy 'Uns with faces like a drop of vinegar on the edge of a knife."
"That's the way you gets cancer," she continued, as she stroked the left
side of her ample bust. "People with elbows like that should 'ave 'em
padded," and Mrs. Bindle was conscious that the car was with her
antagonist.
Mrs. Bindle next proceeded to quarrel with the conductor about the fare,
which had gone up a halfpenny, and she ended by threatening to report
him for not setting her down between the scheduled stopping-places.
"She's lost a Bradbury and found the water-rate," remarked the
conductor, as he turned once more to the occupants of the car after
watching Mrs. Bindle alight.
The fat woman responded to the pleasantry by expressing her views on
"them wot don't know 'ow to be'ave theirselves like ladies."
With Mrs. Bindle, the lure of Joseph the Second was strong within her.
When her loneliness became too great for endurance, or the domestic
atmosphere manifested signs of a greater voltage than the normal, her
thoughts instinctively flew to the blue-eyed nephew, who slobbered and
cooed at her and raised his chubby fists in meaningless gestures. Then
the hunger within her would be appeased, until some chance mention of
Bindle's name would awaken her self-pity.
She found Millie alone with Joseph the Second asleep in his cot beside
her. As she feasted her gaze upon the eye-shut babe, Mrs. Bindle was
conscious of a feeling of disappointment. She wanted to babble
baby-talk, and gaze into those filmy blue eyes.
In spite of her aunt's protests, Millie made a cup of tea, explaining as
she did so that Charley was staying late at the office.
"It's a good cake, Millie," said Mrs. Bindle a few minutes later, as she
delicately cut another small square from the slice of home-made cake
upon the plate before her. In her eyes there was a look which was a
tribute from one good cook to another. "Who gave you the recipe?"
"It was all through Uncle Joe," said Millie. "He was always saying what
a wonderful cook you are, Aunt Lizzie, and that if you didn't feed
pussy he wouldn't purr," she laughed. "You know what funny things he
says," she added parenthetically--"so I took lessons. You see," she
added quaintly, "I wanted Charley to be very happy."
"Pretty lot of purring there is in our house," was Mrs. Bindle's grim
comment, as she raised her cup-and-saucer from the table upon the
finger-tips of her left hand and, with little finger awkwardly crooked,
lifted the cup with her disengaged hand and proceeded to sip the tea
with Victorian refinement.
"How is Uncle Joe?" asked Millie. "I wish he had come."
"Oh! don't talk to me about your uncle," cried Mrs. Bindle peevishly.
"He's sitting at home smoking a filthy pipe and reading the horse-racing
news. I might be dirt under his feet for all the notice he takes of me."
The grievances of the day had been cumulative with Mrs. Bindle, and the
burden was too heavy to be borne in silence. Beginning with a bad tomato
among the pound she had bought that morning at Mr. Hearty's Fulham shop,
her troubles had piled up one upon another to the point when she found
Joseph the Second asleep.
She had burned one of her best hem-stitched handkerchiefs whilst ironing
it, the milk had "turned" on account of the thunder in the air and, to
crown the morning's tragedies, she had burned a saucepan owing to the
dustman coming at an inconvenient moment.
"He's never been a proper husband to me," she sniffed ominously.
"Dear Aunt Lizzie," said Millie gently, as she leaned forward and placed
her hand upon Mrs. Bindle's arm.
"He humiliates me before other people and--and sometimes I wish I was
dead, Millie, God forgive me." Her voice broke as she stifled a sob.
Millie's large, grave eyes were full of sympathy, mixed with a little
wonder. She could not understand how anyone could find "Uncle Joe" other
than adorable.
"Ever since I married him he's been the same," continued Mrs. Bindle,
the flood-gates of self-pity opening wide under the influence of
Millie's gentleness and sympathy. "He tries to make me look small before
other people and--and I've always been a good wife to him."
Again she sniffed, and Millie squeezed her arm affectionately.
"He's just the same with Mr.--with your father," Mrs. Bindle corrected
herself. "Why he stands it I don't know. If I was a man I'd hit him,
that I would, and hard too," she added as if to allow of no doubt in her
niece's mind as to the nature of the punishment she would administer.
"I'd show him; but Mr. Hearty's so good and patient and gentle." Mrs.
Bindle produced a handkerchief, and proceeded to dab the corners of her
eyes, although there was no indication of tears.
"But, Aunt Lizzie," protested Millie gently, "I'm sure he doesn't mean
to make you--to humiliate you." She felt that loyalty to her beloved
Uncle Joe demanded that she should defend him. "You see, he--he loves a
joke, and he's very good to--to, oh, everybody! Charley just loves Uncle
Joe," she added, as if that settled the matter as far as she were
concerned.
"Look how he goes on about the chapel," continued Mrs. Bindle, fearful
lest her niece's sympathy should be snatched from her. "I wonder God
doesn't strike him dead. I'm sure I----"
"Strike him dead!" cried Millie in horror. "Oh, Aunt Lizzie! you don't
mean that, you couldn't." She paused, seeming to bring the whole twelve
months of her matronhood to the examination of the problem. "I know he's
very naughty sometimes," she added sagely, "but he loves you, Aunt
Lizzie. He thinks that----"
"Love!" cried Mrs. Bindle with all the scorn of a woman who has no
intention of being comforted. "He loves nothing but his food and his low
companions. He shames me before the neighbours, talking that familiar
with common men. When I'm out with him he shouts out to bus-conductors,
or whistles at policemen, or winks at--at hussies in the street." She
paused in the catalogue of Bindle's crimes, whilst Millie turned her
head to hide the smile she could not quite repress.
She herself had been with Bindle when he had called out to his
bus-conductor friends, and whistled under his breath when passing a
policeman, "If You Want to Know the Time Ask a Policeman"; but he had
never winked at girls when he had been with her; of that she was sure.
"You see, Aunt Lizzie, he knows so many people, and they all like him
and----"
"Only common people, like chauffeurs and workmen," was the retort. "When
I'm out with him I sometimes want to sink through the ground with shame.
He lets them call him 'Joe,' and of course they don't respect me." Again
she sniffed ominously.
"I'll speak to him," said Millie with a wise little air that she had
assumed since her marriage.
"Speak to him!" cried Mrs. Bindle scornfully. "Might as well speak to a
brick wall. I've spoken to him until I'm tired, and what does he do?
Laughs at me and says I'm as----" she paused, as if finding difficulty
in bringing herself to give Bindle's actual expression--"says I'm as
holy as ointment, if you know what that means."
"But he doesn't mean to be unkind, Aunt Lizzie, I'm sure he doesn't,"
protested Millie loyally. "He calls Boy--I mean Charley," she corrected
herself with a little blush, "all sorts of names," and she laughed at
some recollection of her own. "Don't you think, Aunt Lizzie----" she
paused, conscious that she was approaching delicate ground. "Don't you
think that if you and Uncle Joe were both to try and--and----" she
stopped, looking across at her aunt anxiously, her lower lip indrawn and
her eyes gravely wide.
"Try and what?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, a hardness creeping into her voice
at the thought that anyone could see any mitigating circumstance in
Bindle's treatment of her.
"I thought that if perhaps--I mean," hesitated Millie, "that if you both
tried very hard to--to, not to hurt each other----" again she stopped.
"I'm sure I've never said anything to him that all the world might not
hear," retorted Mrs. Bindle, with the unction of the righteous,
"although he's always saying things to me that make me hot with shame,
married woman though I am."
"But, Aunt Lizzie," persisted Millie, clasping Mrs. Bindle's arm with
both hands, and looking appealingly up into her face, "won't you try,
just for my sake, pleeeeeease," she coaxed.
"I've tried until I'm tired of trying," was the ungracious retort. "I
moil and toil, inch and pinch, work day and night to mend his clothes
and get his food ready, and this is what I get for it. He makes me a
laughing-stock, talks about me behind my back. Oh, I know!" she added
hastily, as Millie made a sign of dissent. "He can't deceive me. He
wants to bring me down to his own level of wickedness, then he'll be
happy; but he shan't," she cried, the Daughter of the Lord manifesting
herself. "I'll kill myself first. He shall never have that pleasure, no
one shall ever be able to say that I let him drag me down.
"I've always done my duty by him," she continued, returning to the
threadbare phrase that was ever present in her mind. "I've worked
morning, noon and night to try and keep him respectable, and see how he
treats me. I'm worse off than a servant, I tell him so and what does he
do?" she demanded. "Laughs at me," she cried shrilly, answering her own
question, "and humiliates me before the neighbours. Gets the children to
call after me, makes----"
"Oh, Aunt Lizzie! You mustn't say that," cried Millie in distress. "I'm
sure Uncle Joe would never do such a thing. He couldn't," she added with
conviction.
"Well, they do it," retorted Mrs. Bindle, conscious of a feeling that
possibly she had gone too far; "only yesterday they did it."
"What did they say?" enquired Millie curiously.
"They said," she paused as if hesitating to repeat what the youth of
Fenton Street had called after her. Then, as if determined to convict
Bindle of all the sins possible, she continued, "They called after me
all the way up Fenton Street----" again she paused.
"Yes, Aunt Lizzie."
"They called 'Mrs. Bindle turns a spindle.'"
Millie bent quickly forward that her involuntary smile might not be
detected.
"They never call out after him," Mrs. Bindle added, as if that in itself
were conclusive proof of Bindle's guilt. "And now I must be going,
Millie," and she rose and once more bent down to gaze where Joseph the
Second slept the sleep of an easy conscience and a good digestion.
"Bless his little heart," she murmured, for the moment forgetting her
own troubles in the contemplation of the sleeping babe. "I hope he
doesn't grow up like his uncle," she added, her thoughts rushing back
precipitately to their customary channel.
"I'm going to have a talk with Uncle Joe," said Millie, as she followed
her aunt along the passage, "and then----" she paused.
"You'd talk the hind leg off a donkey before you'd make any impression
on him," was the ungracious retort. "Good night, Millie, I'm glad you're
getting on with your cooking," and Mrs. Bindle passed out into the night
to the solitude of her own thoughts, populated exclusively by Bindle and
his shortcomings.
II
"I haven't told Charley, Uncle Joe, so be careful," whispered Millie, as
Bindle hung up his hat in the hall.
"'Aven't told 'im wot, Millie?"
"That--that----" she hesitated.
"I get you Steve," he cried, with a knowing wink, "you ain't told 'im
'ow you're goin' to make yer Aunt Lizzie the silent wife of Fulham."
"Now, Uncle Joe," she admonished with pouting lips, "you promised. You
will be careful, won't you?" She had spent two hours the previous night
coaching Bindle in the part he was to play.
"Reg'lar dove I am to-night," he said cheerily. "I could lay an egg,
only I don't know wot colour it ought to be."
Millie gazed at him for a few seconds in quizzical doubt, then, with a
shrug of her pretty shoulders, and a pout that was very popular with
Charley, she turned and led the way into the drawing-room.
Charley Dixon was doing his best to make conversation with his
aunt-in-law; but Mrs. Bindle's monosyllabic methods proved a serious
obstacle.
"Now we'll have supper," cried Millie, after Bindle had greeted Charley
and gazed a little doubtfully at Mrs. Bindle. He seemed on the point of
making some remark; but apparently thought better of it, instead he
turned to admire an ornament on the mantelpiece. He had remembered just
in time.
Millie had spread herself upon the supper. There was a small cold
chicken that seemed desirous of shrinking within itself; a salad in a
glass bowl, with a nickel-silver fork and spoon adorned with blue china
handles; a plate of ham well garnished with parsley; a beef-steak and
kidney pie, cold, also garnished with parsley; some pressed beef and
tongue, of a thinness that advertised the professional hand which had
cut it.
On the sideboard was an infinity of tarts, blanc-mange, stewed fruit and
custard. With all the recklessness of a young housewife, Millie had
prepared for four what would have been ample for fourteen.
It was this fact that first attracted Mrs. Bindle's attention. Her keen
eyes missed nothing. She examined the knives and spoons, identifying
them as wedding presents. She lifted the silver pepper-castor, a trifle,
light as air, examined the texture of the tablecloth and felt the
napkins with an appraising thumb and forefinger, and mentally
deprecated the lighting of the two pink candles, in silver candlesticks
with yellow shades, in the centre of the table.
Millie fluttered about, acutely conscious of her responsibilities and
flushed with anxiety.
"I hope--I hope," she began, addressing her aunt. "I--I hope you will
like it."
"You must have worked very hard, Millie," said Mrs. Bindle, an unusual
gentleness in her voice, whereat Millie flushed.
Bindle and Charley were soon at work upon the beef-steak and kidney pie,
hot potatoes and beans. Bindle had nearly fallen at the first hurdle. In
the heat of an argument with Charley as to what was the matter with the
Chelsea football team, he had indiscreetly put a large piece of potato
into his mouth without realising its temperature. A look of agony
overspread his features. He was just in the act of making a preliminary
forward motion to return the potato from whence it came, when Charley,
with a presence of mind that would have brought tears to Bindle's eyes,
had they not already been there, indicated the glass of beer in front of
him.
With a swoop Bindle seized it, raised it to his lips, and cooled the
heated tuber. Pulling his red silk handkerchief from his breast-pocket,
he mopped up the tears just as Mrs. Bindle turned her gaze upon him.
"Don't make me laugh, Charley," he cried with inspiration, "or I'll
choke," at which Charley laughed in a way that proved him entirely
devoid of histrionic talent.
"I'll do as much for you one o' these days, Charley," Bindle whispered,
looking reproachfully at the remains of the potato that had betrayed
him. "My Gawd! It was 'ot," he muttered under his breath. "Look out for
yourself an' 'ave beer 'andy."
He turned suddenly to Mrs. Bindle. In his heart there was an
uncharitable hope that she too might be caught in the toils from which
he had just escaped; but Mrs. Bindle ate like a book on etiquette. She
held her knife and fork at the extreme end of the handles, her elbows
pressed well into her sides, and literally toyed with her food.
After each mouthful, she raised her napkin to her lips, giving the
impression that it was in constant movement, either to or from her lips.
She took no table risks. She saw to it that every piece of food was
carefully attached to the fork before she raised it from the plate, and
never did fork carry a lighter load than hers. After each journey, both
knife and fork were laid on her plate, the napkin--Mrs. Bindle referred
to it as a serviette--raised to her unsoiled lips, and she touched
neither knife nor fork again until her jaws had entirely ceased working.
Between her visits to the kitchen, Millie laboured desperately to
inveigle her aunt into conversation; but although Mrs. Bindle possessed
much religious and domestic currency, she had no verbal small change.
During the afternoon, Millie had exhausted domesticity and herself
alike--and there had been Joseph the Second. Mrs. Bindle did not read,
they had no common friends, she avoided the pictures, and what she did
see in the newspapers she so disapproved of as to close that as a
possible channel of conversation.
"Aunt Lizzie," cried Millie in desperation for something to say, "you
aren't making a good supper."
"I'm doing very nicely, thank you, Millie," said Mrs. Bindle, who in a
quarter of an hour had managed to envelop about two square inches of ham
and three shreds of lettuce.
"You don't like the ham, Aunt Lizzie," protested the hospitable Millie;
"have some pie."
"It's very nice, thank you, Millie," was the prim reply. "I'm enjoying
it," and she proceeded to dissect a piece of lettuce to a size that even
a "prunes and prisms" mouth might have taken without inconvenience.
"Charley," cried Millie presently. "I won't have you talking football
with Uncle Joe. Talk to Aunt Lizzie."
A moment later she realized her mistake. Bindle returned to his plate,
Charley looked at his aunt doubtfully, and conversation lay slain.
"Listen," cried Millie who, at the end of five minutes, thought she must
either say something, or scream. "That's Joey, run up and see, Charley,
there's a dear"--she knew it was not Joey.
Charley rose dutifully, and once more silence descended upon the table.
"Aunt Lizzie, you _are_ making a poor meal," cried Millie, genuinely
distressed, as Mrs. Bindle placed her knife and fork at the "all clear"
angle, although she had eaten less than half what her plate contained.
"I've done very nicely, thank you, Millie, and I've enjoyed it."
Millie sighed. Her eyes wandered from the heavily-laden table to the
sideboard, and she groaned in spirit. In spite of what Bindle and
Charley had done, and were doing, there seemed such a lot that required
to be eaten, and she wondered whether Charley would very much mind
having cold meat, blanc-mange and jam tarts for the rest of the week.
"It wasn't him, Millie," said Charley, re-entering the room, and
returning to his plate with the air of one determined to make up for the
time he had lost in parental solicitude, whilst Bindle pushed his own
plate from him as a sign that, so far as the first round was concerned,
he had nothing more to say.
"You're very quiet to-night, Uncle Joe," said Millie, the soul of
hospitality within her already weeping bitter tears.
"Me?" cried Bindle, starting and looking about him. "I ain't quiet,
Millie," and then he relapsed once more into silence.
Charley did not seem to notice anything unusual. In his gentle,
good-natured way he hoped that Millie would not again ask him to talk to
Aunt Lizzie.
Mrs. Bindle partook, no other word adequately describes the action, of
an open jam tart with the aid of a spoon and fork, from time to time
sipping daintily from her glass of lemonade; but she refused all else.
She had made an excellent meal, she repeatedly assured Millie, and had
enjoyed it.
Millie found comfort in plying Bindle with dainties. He had received no
orders to curtail his appetite, so he had decided in his own idiom to
"let 'em all come"--and they came, tarts and turnovers, fruit-salad and
blanc-mange, custard and jelly. By the time the cheese and biscuits had
arrived, he was forced to lean back in his chair and confess himself
vanquished.
"Not if you was to pay me," he said, as he shook a regretful head.
After the meal, they returned to the drawing-room. Millie showed Mrs.
Bindle an album of coloured postcards they had collected during their
honeymoon, whilst Charley wandered about like a restless spirit, missing
his after-dinner pipe.
"Ain't we goin' to smoke?" Bindle had whispered hoarsely, as they
entered the drawing-room; but Charley shook a sad and resigned head.
"She mightn't like it," he whispered back, so Bindle seated himself in
the corner of a plush couch, and wondered how long it would be before
Mrs. Bindle made a move to go home.
Millie was trying her utmost to make the postcards last as long as
possible. Charley had paused beside her in his restless strolling about
the room, and proceeded to recall unimportant happenings at the places
pictured.
At length the photographs were exhausted, and both Millie and Charley
began to wonder what was to take their place, when Mrs. Bindle rose,
announcing that she must be going. Millie pressed her to stay, and
strove to stifle the thanksgiving in her heart, whilst Charley began to
count the minutes before he would be able to "light up."
The business of parting, however, occupied time, and it was fully twenty
minutes later that Bindle and Mrs. Bindle, accompanied by Charley and
Millie, passed down the narrow little passage towards the hall door.
Another five minutes were occupied in remarks upon the garden and how
they had enjoyed themselves--and then the final goodnights were uttered.
As his niece kissed him, Bindle muttered, "I been all right, ain't I,
Millikins?" and she squeezed his arm reassuringly, at which he sighed
his relief. The tortures he had suffered that evening were as nothing,
provided Millie were happy.
As the hall door closed, Charley struck a match and lighted his pipe.
Returning to the drawing-room, he dropped into the easiest of the uneasy
chairs.
"What's the matter with Uncle Joe to-night, Millie?" he enquired, and
for answer Millie threw herself upon him, wound her arms round his neck
and sobbed.
* * * * *
"Been a pleasant evenin', Lizzie," said Bindle conversationally, as they
walked towards the nearest tram-stop.
Mrs. Bindle sniffed.
"Nice young chap, Charley," he remarked a moment later. He was
determined to redeem his promise to Millie.
"What was the matter with you to-night?" she demanded aggressively.
"Matter with me?" he enquired in surprise. "There ain't nothink the
matter with me, Lizzie, I enjoyed myself fine."
"Yes, sitting all the evening as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth."
"But----" began Bindle.
"Oh, I know you," she interrupted. "You wanted Millie and Charley to
think it's all my fault and that you're a saint. They should see you in
your own home," she added.
"But I ain't said nothink," he protested.
"You aren't like that at home," she continued. "There you do nothing but
blaspheme and talk lewd talk and sneer at Mr. Hearty. Oh! I can see
through you," she added, "and you needn't think you deceived Millie, or
Charley. They're not the fools you think them."
Bindle groaned in spirit. He had suffered acutely that evening, mentally
having had to censor every sentence before uttering it.
"Then look at the way you behaved. Eating like a gormand. You made me
thoroughly ashamed of you. I could see Millie watching----"
"But she was watchin' to see I 'ad enough to eat," he protested.
"Don't tell me. Any decently refined girl would be disgusted at the way
you behave. Eating jam tarts with your fingers."
"But wot should I eat 'em with?"
Before she had time to reply, the tram drew up and, following her usual
custom, Mrs. Bindle made a dart for it, elbowing people right and left.
She could always be trusted to make sufficient enemies in entering a
vehicle to last most people for a lifetime.
"But wot should I eat 'em with?" enquired Bindle again when they were
seated.
"Sssh!" she hissed, conscious that a number of people were looking at
her, including several who had made acquaintance with the sharpness of
her elbows.
"But if you ain't to eat jam tarts with yer fingers, 'ow are you goin'
to get 'em into yer mouth?" he enquired in a hoarse whisper, which was
easily heard by the greater part of the occupants of the tram. "They
don't jump," he added.
A ripple of smiles broke out on the faces of most of their
fellow-passengers.
"_Will_ you be quiet?" hissed Mrs. Bindle.
"Mind you don't grow up like that, kid," whispered an amorous youth to a
full-busted young woman, whose hand he was grasping with interlaced
fingers.
Mrs. Bindle heard the remark and drew in her lips still further.
"Been gettin' yer face sticky, mate?" enquired a little man sitting next
to Bindle, in a voice of sympathy.
Bindle turned and gave him a wink.
No sooner had they alighted from the tram at The King's Head, than Mrs.
Bindle's restraint vanished. All the way to Fenton Street she reviled
Bindle for humiliating her before other people. She gave full rein to
the anger that had been simmering within her all the evening. Millie
should be told of his conduct. Charley should learn to hate him, and
Little Joey to execrate the very mention of his name.
"But you shouldn't go a-jabbin' yer elbows in people's----" Bindle
paused for a word sufficiently delicate for Mrs. Bindle's ears and
which, at the same time, would leave no doubt as to the actual portion
of the anatomy to which he referred.
"I'll jab my elbows into you, if you're not careful," was the
uncompromising response. "I'm referring to the tarts."
And Bindle made a bolt for it.
"Now this all comes through tryin' to sit on a safety-valve," he
muttered. "Mrs. B. 'as got to blow-orf some'ow, or she'd bust."