MRS. BINDLE'S DISCOVERY
I
On Wednesday evenings, Mrs. Bindle went to chapel to engage in the
weekly temperance service. As temperance meetings always engendered in
Mrs. Bindle the missionary spirit, Bindle selected Wednesday for what he
called his "night out."
If he got home early, it was to encounter Mrs. Bindle's prophetic views
as to the hereafter of those who spent their leisure in gin-palaces.
At first Mrs. Bindle had shown her resentment by waiting up until Bindle
returned; but as he made that return later each Wednesday, she had at
last capitulated, and it became no longer necessary for him to walk the
streets until two o'clock in the morning, in order to slip upstairs
unchallenged as to where he expected to go when he died.
One Wednesday night, as he was on his way home, whistling "Bubbles" at
the stretch of his powers, he observed the figure of a girl standing
under a lamp-post, her head bent, her shoulders moving convulsively.
"'Ullo--'ullo!" he cried. "Wot's the matter now?"
At Bindle's words she gave him a fleeting glance, then, turning once
more to the business on hand, sobbed the louder.
"Wot's wrong, my dear?" Bindle enquired, regarding her with a puzzled
expression. "Oo's been 'urting you?"
"I'm--I'm afraid," she sobbed.
"Afraid! There ain't nothink to be afraid of when Joe Bindle's about.
Wot you afraid of?"
"I'm--I'm afraid to go home," sobbed the girl.
"Afraid to go 'ome," repeated Bindle. "Why?"
"M-m-m-m-mother."
"Wot's up with 'er? She ill?"
"She--she'll kill me."
"Ferocious ole bird," he muttered. Then to the girl, "'Ere, you didn't
ought to be out at this time o' night, a young gal like you. Why, it's
gettin' on for twelve. Wot's wrong with Ma?"
"She'll kill me. I darsen't go home." She looked up at Bindle, a
pathetic figure, with twitching mouth and frightened eyes. Then,
controlling her sobs, she told her story.
She had been to Richmond with a girl friend, and some boys had taken
them for a run on their motorcycles. One of the cycles had developed
engine-trouble and, instead of being home by ten, it was half-past
eleven before she got to Putney Bridge Station.
"I darsen't go home," she wailed, as she finished her story. "Mother'll
kill me. She said she would last time. I know she will," and again she
began to cry, this time without any effort to shield her tear-stained
face. Fear had rendered her regardless of appearances.
"'Ere, I'll take you 'ome," cried Bindle, with the air of a man who has
arrived at a mighty decision. "If Mrs. B. gets to 'ear of it, there'll
be an 'ell of a row though," he muttered.
The girl appeared undecided.
"You won't let her hurt me?" she asked, with the appealing look of a
frightened child.
"Well, I can't start scrappin' with your ma, my dear," he said
uncertainly; "but I'll do my best. My missis is a bit of a scrapper, you
see, an' I've learned 'ow to 'andle 'em. Of course, if she liked 'ymns
an' salmon, it'd be sort of easier," he mused, "not that there's much
chance of gettin' a tin' o' salmon at this time o' night."
The girl, unaware of his habit of trading on Mrs. Bindle's fondness for
tinned salmon and hymn tunes, looked at him with widened eyes.
"No," he continued, "it's got to be tack this time. 'Ere, come along,
young un, we can't stay 'ere all night. Where jer live?"
She indicated with a nod the end of the street in which they stood.
"Well, 'ere goes," he cried, starting off, the girl following. As they
proceeded, her steps became more and more reluctant, until at last she
stopped dead.
"'Wot's up now?" he enquired, looking over his shoulder.
"I darsen't go in," she said tremulously. "I d-d-darsen't."
"'Ere, come along," cried Bindle persuasively. "Your ma can't eat you.
Which 'ouse is it?"
"That one." She nodded in the direction of a gate opposite a lamp-post,
fear and misery in her eyes.
"Come along, my dear. I won't let 'er 'urt you," and, taking her gently
by the arm, he led her towards the gate. Here, however, the girl stopped
once more and clung convulsively to the railings, half-dead with fright.
Opening the gate, Bindle walked up the short tiled path and, reaching
up, grasped the knocker. As he did so, the door opened with such
suddenness that he lurched forward, almost into the arms of a stout
woman with a fiery face and angry eyes.
From Bindle her gaze travelled to the shrinking figure clinging to the
railings.
"You old villain!" she cried, in a voice hoarse with passion, making a
dive at Bindle, who, dodging nimbly, took cover behind a moth-eaten
evergreen in the centre of the diminutive front garden.
"You just let me catch you, keeping my gal out like this, and you old
enough to be her father, too. As for you, my lady, you just wait till I
get you indoors. I'll show you, coming home at this time o' night."
She made another dive at Bindle; but her bulk was against her, and he
found no difficulty in evading the attack.
"What d'you mean by it?" she demanded, as she glared at him across the
top of the evergreen, "and 'er not seventeen yet. For two pins I'd have
you taken up."
"'Ere, old 'ard, missis," cried Bindle, keeping a wary eye upon his
antagonist. "I ain't wot you think. I'm a dove, that's wot I am, an'
'ere are you a-playin' chase-me-Charlie round this 'ere----"
"Wait till I get you," she shouted, drowning Bindle's protest. "I'll
give you dove, keeping my gal out all hours. You just wait. I'll show
you, or my name ain't Annie Brunger."
She made another dive at him; but, by a swift movement, he once more
placed the diminutive evergreen between them.
"Mother!--mother!" The girl rushed forward and clung convulsively to her
mother's arm. "Mother, don't!"
"You wait, my lady," cried Mrs. Brunger, shaking off her daughter's
hand. "I'll settle with you when I've finished with him, the beauty.
I'll show him!"
The front door of the house on the right slowly opened, and a
curl-papered head peeped out. Two doors away on the other side a window
was raised, and a man's bald head appeared. The hounds of scandal
scented blood.
"Mother!" The girl shook her mother's arm desperately. "Mother, don't!
This gentleman came home with me because I was afraid."
"What's that?" Mrs. Brunger turned to her daughter, who stood with
pleading eyes clutching her arm, her own fears momentarily forgotten.
"He saw me crying and said he'd come home with me because----Oh, mother,
don't!--don't!"
Two windows on the opposite side of the way were noisily pushed up, and
heads appeared.
"'Ere, look 'ere, missis," cried Bindle, seizing his opportunity. "It's
no use a-chasin' me round this 'ere gooseberry bush. I told you I ain't
no lion. I come to smooth things over. A sort o' dove, you know."
"Mother!--mother!" Again the girl clutched her mother's arm, shaking it
in her excitement. "I was afraid to come home, honestly I was, and--and
he saw me crying and--and said----" Sobs choked her further utterance.
"Come inside, the pair of you." Mrs. Brunger had at length become
conscious of the interest of her neighbours. "Some folks never can mind
their own business," she added, as a thrust at the inquisitive. Turning
her back on the delinquent pair, she marched in at the door, along the
short passage to the kitchen at the farther end, where the gas was
burning.
Bindle followed her confidently, and stood, cap in hand, by the
kitchen-table, looking about him with interest. The girl, however,
remained flattened against the side of the passage, as if anxious to
efface herself.
"Elsie, if you don't come in, I'll fetch you," announced the mother
threateningly.
Elsie slid along the wall and round the door-post, making for the corner
of the room farthest from her mother. There she stood with terrified
eyes fixed upon her parent.
"Now, then, what have you two got to say for yourselves?" Mrs. Brunger
looked from Bindle to her daughter, with the air of one who is quite
prepared to assume the responsibilities of Providence.
"Well, it was like this 'ere," said Bindle easily. "I see 'er," he
jerked his thumb in the direction of the girl, "cryin' under a lamp-post
down the street, so I asks 'er wot's up."
Bindle paused, and Mrs. Brunger turned to her daughter with a look of
interrogation.
"I--I----" began the girl, then she, too, stopped abruptly.
"You've been with that hussy Mabel Warnes again." There was accusation
and conviction in Mrs. Brunger's tone. "Don't you deny it," she
continued, although the girl made no sign of doing so. "I warned you
what I'd do to you if you went out with that fast little baggage again,
and I'll do it, so help me God, I will." Her voice was rising angrily.
"'Ere, look 'ere, missis----" began Bindle.
"My name's Brunger--Mrs. Brunger," she added, to prevent any possibility
of misconception. "I thought I told you once."
"You did," said Bindle cheerfully. "Now, look 'ere," he continued
persuasively, "we're only young once."
Mrs. Brunger snorted disdainfully; and the look she gave her daughter
caused the girl to shrink closer to the wall.
"Rare cove I was for gettin' 'ome late," remarked Bindle reminiscently.
"More shame you," was the uncompromising retort.
"Shouldn't wonder if you was a bit late now an' again when you was a
gal," he continued, looking up at Mrs. Brunger with critical
appreciation--"or else the chaps didn't know wot was wot," he added.
"Two blacks don't make a white," was Mrs. Brunger's obscure comment.
"Yes; but a gal can't 'elp bein' pretty," continued Bindle, following
the line of his reasoning. "Now, if you'd been like some ma's, no one
wouldn't 'ave wanted to keep 'er out."
"Who are you getting at?" demanded Mrs. Brunger; but there was no
displeasure in her voice.
"It's only the pretty ones wot gets kept out late," continued Bindle
imperturbably, his confidence rising at the signs of a weakening
defence. "Now, with a ma like you," he paused eloquently, "it was bound
to 'appen. You didn't ought to be too 'ard on the gal, although, mind
you," he said, turning to the culprit, "she didn't ought to go out with
gals against her ma's wishes, an' she's goin' to be a good gal in
future--ain't that so, my dear?"
The girl nodded her head vigorously.
"There, you see," continued Bindle, turning once more to Mrs. Brunger,
whose face was showing marked signs of relaxation. "Now, if I was a
young chap again," he continued, looking from mother to daughter, "well,
anythink might 'appen."
"Go on with you, do." Mrs. Brunger's good humour was returning.
"Well, I suppose I must," said Bindle, with a grin. "It's about time I
was 'opping it."
His announcement seemed to arouse the girl. Hitherto she had stood a
silent witness, puzzled at the strange turn events were taking; but now
she realised that her protector was about to leave her to the enemy. She
started forward, and clutched Bindle by the arm.
"Don't go!--oh, don't go! I----" She stopped suddenly, and looked across
at her mother.
"You ain't a-goin' to be too 'ard on 'er?" said Bindle, interpreting the
look.
Mrs. Brunger looked irresolute. Her anger found its source in the
mother-instinct of protection rather than in bad temper. Bindle was
quick to take advantage of her indecision. With inspiration he turned to
the girl.
"Now, you mustn't worry yer ma, my dear. She's got quite enough to see
to without bein' bothered by a pretty little 'ead like yours. Now, if
she forgives you, will you promise 'er not to be late again, an' not to
go with that gal wot she don't like?"
"Oh, yes, yes! I won't, mums, honestly." She looked appealingly at her
mother, and saw something in her face that was reassuring, for a moment
later she was clinging almost fiercely to her mother's arm.
"You must come in one Saturday evening and see my husband," said Mrs.
Brunger a few minutes later, as Bindle fumbled with the latch of the
hall door. "He's on _The Daily Age_, and is only home a-Saturday
nights."
"Oh, do, _please_!" cried the girl, smiles having chased all but the
marks of tears from her face, and Bindle promised that he would.
"Now, if Mrs. B. was to 'ear of these little goin's on," he muttered, as
he walked towards Fenton Street, "there'd be an 'ell of a row. Mrs. B.'s
a good woman an', bein' a good woman, she's bound to think the worst,"
and he swung open the gate that led to his "Little Bit of 'Eaven."
II
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Stitchley."
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Bindle. I 'ope I 'aven't come at a inconvenient
time."
"No, please come in," said Mrs. Bindle, with almost geniality, as she
stood aside to admit her caller, then, closing the front-door behind
her, she opened that leading to the parlour.
"Will you just wait here a minute, Mrs. Stitchley, and I'll pull up the
blind?" she said.
Mrs. Stitchley smirked and smiled, whilst Mrs. Bindle made her way, with
amazing dexterity, through the maze of things with which the room was
crammed, in the direction of the window.
A moment later, she pulled up the dark-green blind, which was always
kept drawn so that the carpet might not fade, and the sunlight shuddered
into the room. It revealed a grievous medley of antimacassared chairs,
stools, photograph-frames, pictures and ornaments, all of which were
very dear to Mrs. Bindle's heart.
"Won't you sit down, Mrs. Stitchley?" enquired Mrs. Bindle primly. Mrs.
Stitchley was inveterate in her attendance at the Alton Road Chapel;
Bindle had once referred to her as "a chapel 'og."
"Thank you, my dear, thank you," said Mrs. Stitchley, whose manner
exuded friendliness.
She looked about her dubiously, and it was Mrs. Bindle who settled
matters by indicating a chair of stamped-plush, the seat of which rose
hard and high in the centre. Over the back was an ecru antimacassar,
tied with a pale-blue ribbon. After a moment's hesitation, Mrs.
Stitchley entrusted it with her person.
"It's a long time since I see you, Mrs. Bindle." They had met three
evenings previously at chapel.
Mrs. Bindle smiled feebly. She always suspected Mrs. Stitchley of
surreptitious drinking, in spite of the fact that she belonged to the
chapel Temperance Society. Mrs. Stitchley's red nose, coupled with the
passion she possessed for chewing cloves, had made her fellow-worshipper
suspicious.
"Wot a nice room," Mrs. Stitchley looked about her appreciatively, "so
genteel, and 'ow refined."
Mrs. Bindle smirked.
"I was sayin' to Stitchley only yesterday mornin' at breakfast--he was
'avin' sausages, 'e bein' so fond of 'em--'Mrs. Bindle 'as taste,' I
says, '_and_ refinement.'"
Mrs. Bindle, who had seated herself opposite her visitor, drew in her
chin and folded her hands before her, with the air of one who is
receiving only what she knows to be her due.
There was a slight pause.
"Yes," said Mrs. Stitchley, with a sigh, "I was always one for
refinement _and_ respectability."
Mrs. Bindle said nothing. She was wondering why Mrs. Stitchley had
called. Although she would not have put it into words, or even allow it
to find form in her thoughts, she knew Mrs. Stitchley to be a woman to
whom gossip was the breath of life.
"Now you're wonderin' why I've come, my dear," continued Mrs. Stitchley,
who always grew more friendly as her calls lengthened, "but it's a
dooty. I says to Stitchley this mornin', 'There's that poor, dear Mrs.
Bindle a-livin' in innocence of the way in which she's bein' vilated.'"
Mrs. Stitchley was sometimes a little loose in the way she constructed
her sentences and the words she selected.
Mrs. Bindle's lips began to assume a hard line.
"I don't understand, Mrs. Stitchley," she said.
"Jest wot I says to Stitchley, 'She don't know, the poor lamb,' I says,
''ow she's bein' deceived, 'ow she's----'" Mrs. Stitchley paused, not
from any sense of the dramatic; but because of a violent hiccough that
had assailed her.
"Excuse me, mum--Mrs. Bindle," she corrected herself; "but I always was
a one for 'iccups, an' when it ain't 'iccups it's spasms. Stitchley was
sayin' to me only yesterday, no it wasn't, it was the day before,
that----"
"Won't you tell me what you were going to?" said Mrs. Bindle. She knew
of old how rambling were Mrs. Stitchley's methods of narration.
"To be sure, to be sure," and she nodded until the jet ornament in her
black bonnet seemed to have become palsied. "Well, my dear, it's like
this. As I was sayin' to Stitchley this mornin', 'I can't see poor Mrs.
Bindle deceived by that monster.' I see through 'im that evenin',
a-turnin' your 'appy party into----" she paused for a simile--"into wot
'e turned it into," she added with inspiration.
"Oh! the wickedness of this world, Mrs. Bindle. Oh! the sin and error."
She cast up her bleary, watery blue eyes, and gazed at the yellow paper
flycatcher, and once more the jet ornament began to shiver.
"Please tell me what it is, Mrs. Stitchley," said Mrs. Bindle, conscious
of a sense of impending disaster.
"The wicked man, the cruel, heartless creature; but they're all the
same, as I tell Stitchley, and him with a wife like you, Mrs. Bindle, to
carry on with a young Jezebel like that, to----"
"Carry on with a young Jezebel!"
Mrs. Bindle's whole manner had changed. Her uprightness seemed to have
become emphasised, and the grim look about her mouth had hardened into
one of menace. Her eyes, hard as two pieces of steel, seemed to pierce
through her visitor's brain. "What do you mean?" she demanded.
Instinctively Mrs. Stitchley recoiled.
"As I says to Stitchley----" she began, when Mrs. Bindle broke in.
"Never mind Mr. Stitchley," she snapped. "Tell me what you mean."
Mrs. Stitchley looked hurt. Things were not going exactly as she had
planned. In the retailing of scandal, she was an artist, and she
constructed her periods with a view to their dramatic effect upon her
listener.
"Yes," she continued reminiscently, "'e's been a good 'usbindt 'as
Stitchley. Never no gallivanting with other females. 'E's always said:
'Matilda, my dear, there won't never be another woman for me.' His very
words, Mrs. Bindle, I assure _you_," and Mrs. Stitchley preened herself
like a moth-eaten peacock.
"You were saying----" began Mrs. Bindle.
"To be sure, to be sure," said Mrs. Stitchley; "but we all 'ave our
crosses to bear. The Lord will give you strength, Mrs. Bindle, just as
He gave me strength when Stitchley lorst 'is leg. 'The Lord giveth and
the Lord taketh away,'" she added enigmatically.
"Mrs. Stitchley," said Mrs. Bindle, rising with an air of decision, "I
insist on your telling me what you mean."
"Ah! my dear," said Mrs. Stitchley, with an emotion in her voice that
she usually kept for funerals, "I knew 'ow it would be. I says to
Stitchley, 'Stitchley,' I says, 'that poor, dear woman will suffer. She
was made for sufferin'. She's one of them gentle, tender lambs, that's
trodden underfoot by the serpent's tooth of man's lust; but she will
bear 'er cross.' Them was my very words, Mrs. Bindle," she added,
indifferent to the mixture of metaphor.
Mrs. Bindle looked at her visitor helplessly. Her face was very white;
but she realised Mrs. Stitchley's loquacity was undammable.
"A-takin' 'ome a young gal at two o'clock in the mornin', and then bein'
asked in by 'er mother--and 'er father away at 'is work every night--and
'er not mor'n seventeen, and all the neighbours with their 'eads out of
the windows, and 'er a-screechin' and askin' of 'er mother not to 'it
'er, and 'er sayin' 'Wait 'till I get you, my gal,' and callin' 'im an
ole villain. 'E ought to be took up. I says to Stitchley, 'Stitchley,' I
says, 'that man ought to be took up, an' it's only because of Lord
George that 'e ain't.'"
"What do you mean?" Mrs. Bindle made an effort to control herself. "Who
was it that took some one home at two o'clock in the morning?"
"You poor lamb," croaked Mrs. Stitchley, gazing up at Mrs. Bindle, whose
unlamblike qualities were never more marked than at that moment. "You
poor lamb. You're being deceived, Mrs. Bindle, cruelly and wickedly
vilated. Your 'usbindt's carrying on with a young gal wot might 'ave
been 'is daughter. Oh! the wickedness of this world, the----"
"I don't believe it."
Mrs. Stitchley started back. The words seemed almost to hit her in the
face. She blinked her eyes uncertainly, as she looked at Mrs. Bindle,
the embodiment of an outraged wife and a vengeful fury.
"I'm afraid I must be going, my dear," said Mrs. Stitchley; "but I felt
I ought to tell you."
"Not until you've told me everything," said Mrs. Bindle, with decision,
as she moved towards the door, "and you don't leave this room until
you've explained what you mean."
Mrs. Stitchley turned round in her chair as Mrs. Bindle passed across
the room, surprise and fear in her eyes.
"Lord a mercy me!" she cried. "Don't ee take on like that, Mrs. Bindle.
'E ain't worth it."
Then Mrs. Bindle proceeded to make it abundantly clear to Mrs. Stitchley
that she required the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,
without unnecessary circumlocution, verbiage, or obscuring metaphor.
At the end of five minutes she had reduced her visitor to a state of
tearful compliance.
At first her periods halted; but she soon got into her stride and swung
along with obvious enjoyment.
"My sister-in-law, not as she is my sister-in-law regler, Stitchley's
father 'avin' married twice, 'is second bein' a widow with five of 'er
own, an' 'er not twenty-nine at the time, reckless, I calls it. As I was
sayin', Mrs. Coggles, 'er name's enough to give you a pain, an' the
state of 'er 'ome, my dear----" Mrs. Stitchley raised her eyes to the
ceiling as if words failed her.
"Well," she continued after a momentary pause, during which Mrs. Bindle
looked at her without moving a muscle, "as I was sayin', Mrs.
Coggles"--she shuddered slightly as she pronounced the name--"she lives
in Arloes Road, No. 9, pink tie-ups to 'er curtains she 'as, an' that
flashy in 'er dress. Well, well!" she concluded, as if Christian
charity had come to her aid.
"She told me all about it. She was jest a-goin' to bed, bein' late on
account of 'Ector, that's 'er seventh, ten months old an' still at the
breast, disgustin' I calls it, 'avin' wot she thought was convulsions,
an' 'earin' the row an' 'ubbub, she goes to the door an' sees
everythink, an' that's the gospel truth, Mrs. Bindle, if I was to be
struck down like Sulphira."
She then proceeded to give a highly elaborated and ornate account of
Bindle's adventure of some six weeks previously. She accompanied her
story with a wealth of detail, most of which was inaccurate, coupled
with the assurance that the Lord and Mrs. Stitchley would undoubtedly do
all in their power to help Mrs. Bindle in her hour of trial.
Finally, Mrs. Stitchley found herself walking down the little tiled path
that led to the Bindles' outer gate, in her heart a sense of great
injustice.
"Never so much as bite or sup," she mumbled, as she turned out of the
gate, taking care to leave it open, "and me a-tellin' 'er all wot I told
'er. I've come across meanness in my time; but I never been refused a
cup-o'-tea, an' me fatiguing myself something cruel to go an' tell 'er.
I don't wonder he took up with that bit of a gal."
That night she confided in her husband. "Stitchley," she said, "there
ain't never smoke without fire, you mark my words," and Stitchley,
glancing up from his newspaper, enquired what the 'ell she was gassing
about; but she made no comment beyond emphasising, once more, that he
was to mark her words.
That afternoon, Mrs. Bindle worked with a vigour unusual even in her.
She attacked the kitchen fire, hurled into the sink a flat-iron that had
the temerity to get too hot, scrubbed boards that required no scrubbing,
washed linoleum that was spotless, blackleaded where to blacklead was
like painting the lily. In short, she seemed determined to exhaust her
energies and her anger upon the helpless and inanimate things about her.
From time to time there burst from her closed lips a sound as of one who
has difficulty in holding back her pent-up feelings.
At length, having cleaned everything that was cleanable, she prepared a
cup-of-tea, which she drank standing. Then, removing her apron and
taking her bonnet from the dresser-drawer, she placed it upon her head
and adjusted the strings beneath her chin.
Without waiting for any other garment, she left the house and made
direct for Arloes Road.
Twice she walked its length, subjecting to a careful scrutiny the house
occupied by the Brungers, noting the windows with great care, and
finding in them little to criticise. Then she returned to Fenton Street.
The fact of having viewed the actual scene of Bindle's perfidy seemed to
corroborate Mrs. Stitchley's story. Before the storm was to be permitted
to burst, however, Mrs. Bindle intended to make assurance doubly sure
by, as she regarded it in her own mind, "catching him at it."
That night, she selected for her evening reading the chapter in the
Bible which tells of the plagues of Egypt. Temporarily she saw herself
in the roll of an outraged Providence, whilst for the part of Pharaoh
she had cast Bindle, who, unaware of his impending doom, was explaining
to Ginger at The Yellow Ostrich that a bigamist ought to be let off
because "'e must be mad to 'ave done it."
III
Mrs. Bindle awaited the coming of Saturday evening with a grimness that
caused Bindle more than once to regard her curiously. "There's somethink
on the 'andle," he muttered prophetically; but as Mrs. Bindle made no
sign and, furthermore, as she set before him his favourite dishes, he
allowed speculation to become absorbed in appetite and enjoyment.
It was characteristic of Mrs. Bindle that, Bindle being more than
usually under a cloud, she should take extra care in the preparation of
his meals. It was her way of emphasising the difference between them; he
the erring husband, she the perfect wife.
"I shan't be in to supper to-night, Lizzie," Bindle announced casually
on the evening of what Mrs. Bindle had already decided was to be her day
of wrath. He picked up his bowler-hat preparatory to making one of his
lightning exits.
"Where are you going?" she demanded, hoping to trap him in a lie.
"When you gets yerself up dossy an' says you're goin' to chapel," he
remarked, edging towards the door, "I says nothink at all, bein' a
trustin' 'usband; so when I gets myself up ditto an' says I ain't goin'
to chapel, you didn't ought to say nothink either, Mrs. B. Wot's sauce
for the goose is----"
"You're a bad, black-hearted man, Bindle, and you know it."
The intensity of feeling with which the words were uttered surprised
him.
"Don't you think you can throw dust----" She stopped suddenly, then
concluded, "You'd better be careful."
"I am, Mrs. B.," he replied cheerily, "careful _as_ careful."
Bindle had fallen into a habit of "dropping in" upon the Brungers on
Saturday evenings, and for this purpose he had what he described as "a
wash an' brush-up." This resolved itself into an entire change of
raiment, as well as the customary "rinse" at the kitchen sink. This in
itself confirmed Mrs. Stitchley's story.
"Well, s'long," said Bindle, as he opened the kitchen door. "Keep the
'ome fires burnin'," and with that he was gone.
Bindle had learned from past experience that the more dramatic his exit
the less likelihood there was of Mrs. Bindle scoring the final
dialectical point.
This evening, however, she had other and weightier matters for
thought--and action. No sooner had the kitchen door closed than, moving
swiftly across to the dresser, she pulled open a drawer, and drew out
her dark brown mackintosh and bonnet. With swift, deft movements she
drew on the one, and tied the strings of the other beneath her chin.
Then, without waiting to look in the mirror over the mantelpiece, she
passed into the passage and out of the hall door.
She was just in time to see Bindle disappear round the corner. Without a
moment's hesitation she followed.
Unconscious that Mrs. Bindle, like Nemesis, was dogging his steps,
Bindle continued his way until finally he turned into Arloes Road. On
reaching the second lamp-post he gave vent to a peculiarly shrill
whistle. As he opened the gate that led to a neat little house, the
front door opened, and a young girl ran down the path and clasped his
arm. It was obvious that she had been listening for the signal. A moment
later they entered the house together.
For a few seconds Mrs. Bindle stood at the end of the road, staring at
the door that had closed behind them. Her face was white and set, and a
grey line of grimness marked the spot where her lips had disappeared.
She had noted that the girl was pretty, with fair hair that clung about
her head in wanton little tendrils and, furthermore, that it was bound
with a broad band of light green ribbon.
"The villain!" she muttered between set teeth, as she turned and
proceeded to retrace her steps. "I'll show him."
Arrived back at Fenton Street, she went straight upstairs and proceeded
to make an elaborate toilet. A little more than an hour later the front
door once more closed behind her, and Mrs. Bindle proceeded upon her
way, buttoning her painfully tight gloves, conscious that sartorially
she was a triumph of completeness.
IV
"An' 'as 'er Nibs been a good gal all the week?" Bindle paused in the
act of raising a glass of ale to his lips.
"I have, mums, haven't I?" Elsie Brunger broke in, without giving her
mother a chance to reply.
Mrs. Brunger nodded. The question had caught her at a moment when her
mouth was overfull of fried plaice and potatoes.
"That's the ticket," said Bindle approvingly. "No bein' out late an'
gettin' 'ome with the milk, or"--he paused impressively--"I gets another
gal, see?"
By this time Mrs. Brunger had reduced the plaice and potatoes to
conversational proportions.
"She's been helping me a lot in the house, too," she said from above a
white silk blouse that seemed determined to show how much there really
was of Mrs. Brunger.
Elsie looked triumphantly across the supper-table at Bindle.
"That's a good gal," said Bindle approvingly.
"You've done her a lot of good, Mr. Bindle," said Mrs. Brunger, "and me
and George are grateful, ain't we, George?"
Mr. Brunger, a heavy-faced man with sad, lustreless eyes and a sallow
skin, nodded. He was a man to whom speech came with difficulty, but on
this occasion his utterance was constricted by a fish-bone lodged
somewhere in the neighbourhood of the root of his tongue.
"Wonderful 'ow all the gals take to me," remarked Bindle. "Chase me
round gooseberry bushes, they do; anythink to get me."
"You go on with you, do," laughed Mrs. Brunger. "How was I to know?"
"I said I was a dove. You 'eard me, didn't you, Fluffy?" he demanded,
turning to Elsie.
"I won't be called Fluffy," she cried, in mock indignation. "You know I
don't like it."
"The man who goes about doin' wot a woman says she likes ain't goin' to
get much jam," remarked Bindle oracularly.
"Now, let's get cleared away, mother," remarked Mr. Brunger, speaking
for the first time.
"Oh, dad! don't you love your dominoes?" cried Elsie, jumping up and
giving him a hug. "All right, mums and I will soon sound the 'All
clear.' Come along, uncle, you butle." This to Bindle.
Amidst much chatter and laughter the table was cleared, the red cloth
spread in place of the white, and the domino-box reached down from the
kitchen mantelpiece. The serious business of the evening had begun.
Mr. Brunger had only one evening a week at home, and this he liked to
divide between his family and his favourite game, giving the major part
of his attention to the game.
At one time he had been in the habit of asking in some friend or
acquaintance to join him; but, since the arrival of Bindle, it had
become an understood thing that the same quartette should meet each
Saturday evening.
Mrs. Brunger would make a pretence of crocheting. The product possessed
one thing in common with the weaving of Penelope, in that it never
seemed to make any appreciable progress towards completion.
Mr. Brunger devoted himself to the rigours of the game, and Elsie would
flutter between the two players, bursting, but never daring, to give the
advice that her superior knowledge made valuable.
Bindle kept the party amused, that is, except Mr. Brunger, who was too
wrapped up in the bone parallelograms before him to be conscious of
anything else.
Elsie would as soon have thought of missing her Sunday dinner as those
Saturday evenings, and Mrs. Brunger soon found that a new and powerful
weapon had been thrust into her hand.
"Very well, you go to bed at seven on Saturday," she would say, which
was inevitably followed by an "Oh, mums!" of contrition and docility.
"Out! You're beaten, uncle," cried Elsie, clapping her hands, and
enjoying the look of mock mortification with which Bindle regarded the
dominoes before him.
Mr. Brunger leaned back in his chair, an expression of mild triumph
modifying his heavily-jowled countenance. It was remarkable how
consistently Mr. Brunger was victor.
At that moment a loud and peremptory rat-tat-tat sounded down the
passage.
"Now, I wonder who that is." Mrs. Brunger put down her crochet upon the
table and rose.
"Don't you bring anyone in here, mother," ordered Mr. Brunger, fearful
that his evening was to be spoiled, as he began to mix the dominoes.
There was no music so dear to his soul as their click-clack, as they
brushed shoulders with one another.
Mrs. Brunger left the room and, carefully closing the door behind her,
passed along the short passage and opened the door.
"I've come for my husband!"
On the doorstep stood Mrs. Bindle, grim as Fate. Her face was white, her
eyes hard, and her mouth little more than indicated by a line of shadow
between her closely pressed lips. The words seemed to strike Mrs.
Brunger dumb.
"Your--your husband?" she repeated at length.
"Yes, my 'usband." Mrs. Bindle's diction was losing its purity and
precision under the stress of great emotion. "I know 'e's here. Don't
you deny it. I saw 'im come. Oh, you wicked woman!"
Mrs. Brunger blinked in her bewilderment. She was taken by surprise at
the suddenness of the assault; but her temper was rising under this
insulting and unprovoked attack.
"What's that you call me?" she demanded.
"Taking a woman's lawful wedded 'usband----" began Mrs. Bindle, when she
was interrupted by Mrs. Brunger.
"Here, come in," she cried, mindful that inside the house only those on
either side could hear, whereas on the doorstep their conversation would
be the property of the whole street.
Mrs. Bindle followed Mrs. Brunger into the parlour. For a moment the two
women were silent, whilst Mrs. Brunger found the matches, lighted the
gas, and lowered the blind.
"Now, what's the matter with you? What's your trouble?" demanded Mrs.
Brunger, with suppressed passion. "Out with it."
"I want my 'usband," repeated Mrs. Bindle, a little taken aback by the
fierceness of the onslaught.
"An' what have I got to do with your husband, I should like to know?"
"He's here. You're encouraging him, leading him away from----" Mrs.
Bindle paused.
"Leadin' him away from what?" demanded Mrs. Brunger.
"From me!"
"Leadin' him away, am I?--leadin' him away, I think you said?" Mrs.
Brunger placed a hand on either hip and thrust her face forward, causing
Mrs. Bindle involuntarily to start back.
"Oh! you needn't be afraid. I'm not goin' to hit you. Leadin' him away
was what you said." Mrs. Brunger paused dramatically, and leaned back
slightly, as if to get a more comprehensive view of her antagonist.
"Well, he must be a pretty damn short-sighted fool to want leadin' away
from a thing like you. I'd run hell-hard if I was him."
The biting scorn of the words, the insultingly contemptuous tone in
which they were uttered, for a moment seemed to daze Mrs. Bindle; but
only for a breathing space.
Making a swift recovery, she turned upon her antagonist a stream of
accusation and reproach.
She told how a fellow-worshipper at the Alton Road Chapel had witnessed
the return of Bindle the night of the altercation in the front garden.
She accused mother and daughter of unthinkable crimes, bringing
Scriptural quotation to her aid.
She confused Fulham and Hammersmith with Sodom and Gomorrah. She called
upon an all-seeing Providence to purge the district in general, and
Arloes Road in particular, of its pestilential populace.
She traced the descent of Mrs. Brunger down generations of infamy and
sin. She threatened her with punishment in this world and the next. She
told of Bindle's neglect and wickedness, and cast him out into the
tooth-gnashing darkness. She trampled him under foot, arranged that
Providence should spurn him and his associates, and consign them all to
eternal and fiery damnation.
Gradually she worked herself up into a frenzy of hysterical invective.
Little points of foam formed at the corners of her mouth. Her bonnet
had slipped off backwards, and hung by its strings round her neck. Her
right-hand glove of biscuit brown had split across the palm.
Mrs. Bindle had lost all control of herself.
"He's here! He's here! I saw him come! You Jezebel! You're hiding him;
but I'll find him. I'll find him. You--you----"
With a wild, hysterical scream, she darted to the door, tore it open,
dashed along the passage, and burst into the kitchen.
"So I've caught you with the Jez----" She stopped as if petrified.
Mr. Brunger had just played his last domino, and was sitting back in his
chair in triumph. Elsie, one arm round her father's neck, was laughing
derisively at Bindle, who sat gazing with comical concern at five
dominoes standing on their sides facing him.
All three heads jerked round, and three pairs of widened eyes gazed at
the dishevelled, white-faced figure, standing looking down at them with
the light of madness in its eyes.
"Oo-er!" gasped Elsie, as her arms tightened round her father's neck,
almost strangling him.
"Grrrrmp," choked Mr. Brunger, dropping his pipe on to his knees.
Bindle started up, overturning his chair in the movement. His eyes were
blazing, his lips were set in a firm line, and his hands were clenched
convulsively at his sides.
"You--you get out of 'ere!" the words seemed to burst from him
involuntarily, "or----"
For one bewildered moment, Mrs. Bindle stared at him, in her eyes a look
in which surprise and fear seemed to strive for mastery. Her gaze
wandered on to the frightened girl clutching her father round the neck,
and then back to Bindle. She turned as suddenly as she had entered,
cannoned off Mrs. Brunger, who stood behind her, and stumbled blindly
along the passage out into the street.
Mrs. Brunger followed, and closed the front-door behind her. When she
returned to the kitchen, Bindle had picked up his chair and resumed his
seat. His hands were trembling slightly, and he was very white.
"She--she ain't been well lately," he muttered huskily. "I----"
"Now, mother, where's the beer? I'm feeling a bit thirsty;" and after
this unusually lengthy speech, Mr. Brunger proceeded to shuffle the
dominoes with an almost alarming vigour, whilst Elsie, wonder-eyed and a
little pale, sat on the arm of her father's chair glancing covertly at
Bindle.
That night, when he returned home, Bindle found laid out on the kitchen
table, a bottle of beer, a glass, two pieces of bread and butter, a
piece of cheese and a small dish of pickled onions.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered, at the sight of this unusual attention.
"Wonders'll never cease," and he proceeded to unscrew the stopper of the
beer-bottle.
The incident of the Brungers was never subsequently referred to between
them; but Mrs. Bindle gave herself no rest until she had unmasked the
cause of all the trouble.
Mrs. Stitchley was persuaded to see the reason why she should withdraw
from the Alton Road Chapel Temperance Society, the reason being a
half-quartern bottle of gin, from which she was caught imbibing at a
magic-lantern entertainment,--and it was Mrs. Bindle who caught her.
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note: Punctuation has been normalized. On page 245, the
word "mumured" in the original text has been changed to "murmured".