Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles, Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  MRS. BINDLE ENTERTAINS

  I

  "Bindle!" Mrs. Bindle stepped down from a chair, protected by herironing-blanket, on which she had been standing to replace a piece ofholly that had fallen from a picture.

  She gazed at the mid-Victorian riot about her with obvious pride; itconstituted her holy of holies. Upon it she had laboured for days withsoap-and-water and furniture-polish, with evergreen and colouredcandles, to render it worthy of the approaching festivity. She hadsucceeded only in emphasising its uncompromising atmosphere of coldnessand angularity.

  Antimacassars seemed to shiver self-consciously upon the backs ofstamped-plush chairs, photo-frames, and what she called "knick-knacks,"stared at one another in wide-eyed desolation; whilst chains of colouredpaper, pale green and yellow predominating, stretched in biliousfestoons from picture-nail to picture-nail.

  On the mantelpiece, in wine-coloured lustres, which were Mrs. Bindle'sespecial glory, two long candles reared aloft their pink nakedness. Theywere never to be lit and they knew it; chilly, pink and naked theywould remain, eventually to be packed away once more in thecardboard-box, from which for years they had been taken to grace eachsuccessive festivity.

  It had always been Bindle's ambition to light these candles, which wereprobably the most ancient pieces of petroleum-wax in the kingdom; but helacked the moral courage.

  "Funny thing you can't be clean without stinkin' like this," he hadmumbled that morning, as he sniffed the air, reeking of turpentine withan underlying motif of yellow-soap. "I suppose 'appiness is like drink,"he added, "it takes people different ways."

  Passing over to the sideboard, Mrs. Bindle gazed down at therefreshments: sausage-rolls, sandwiches, rock-cakes, blanc-mange,jellies, three-cornered tarts, exuding their contents at every joint,chocolate-shape, and other delicacies.

  In the centre stood a large open jam-tart made on a meat-dish. It wasMrs. Bindle's masterpiece, a tribute alike to earth and to heaven. Onthe jam, in letters contrived out of strips of pastry, appeared theexhortation, "Prepare to Meet Thy God."

  Bindle had gasped at the sight of this superlative work of art andreligion. "That's a funny sort o' way to give a cove a appetite," he hadmurmured. "If it 'adn't been Mrs. B., I'd 'ave said it was a joke."

  It was with obvious satisfaction that Mrs. Bindle viewed her handiwork.At the sight of an iced-cake, sheltering itself behind a plate ofbananas, she smiled. Here again her devotional instincts had triumphed.On the uneven white surface, in irregular letters of an uncertain blue,was the statement, "The Wages of Sin is Death."

  "Well, well, it ain't my idea of 'appiness."

  She span round to find Bindle, who had entered unheard, gazing dubiouslyat the tart bearing the disconcerting legend.

  "What's not your idea of happiness?" she demanded.

  He grinned genially across at her.

  "You'd like beer-bottles on the mantelpiece, I suppose," she continued,"and clay pipes and spittoons and----"

  "Not for me, Mrs. B.," he retorted; "no one ain't never known me missthe fire-place yet."

  Mrs. Bindle's lips tightened, as if she were striving to restrain theangry words that were eager to leap out.

  She had planned a musical evening, with the object of assisting herbrother-in-law in his aspirations as trainer of the choir at the AltonRoad Chapel, a post which had recently fallen vacant.

  By inviting some of the more humble members of the choir, those on ahigher social plane than her own would scarcely be likely to accept,Mrs. Bindle had thought to further Mr. Hearty's candidature.

  She recognised that their influence would be indirect in its action; buteven that, she decided, would be an asset.

  Mr. Hearty had readily consented to lend his harmonium, and had sent itround by his van. It took two men and a boy, together with Mr. Heartyand Mrs. Bindle, a long time to persuade it along the narrow passage.Here it had incontinently stuck for nearly an hour. It was not untilBindle returned, to bring his professional experience to bear, that ithad been coaxed into the parlour.

  Christmas was near at hand, and for weeks past the choir had beenworking under forced-draught, practising carols. That had given Mrs.Bindle the idea of devoting her evening entirely to seasonable music.

  "Wot jer call me for?" demanded Bindle presently, remembering the reasonof his presence.

  "Don't forget to get a pail of coals and put it in the kitchen," sheordered.

  "We shan't want no coals, Mrs. B., with all that 'ot stuff we gota-comin'," he muttered lugubriously. "Why ain't we got a bit o'mistletoe?" he demanded.

  "Don't be disgusting," she retorted.

  "Disgustin'!" he cried innocently. "There ain't nothink disgustin' in abit o' mistletoe."

  "I won't have such things in my house," she announced with decision."You've got a lewd mind."

  "There ain't nothink lood in kissin' a gal under the mistletoe," hedemurred, "or under anythink else," he added as an after-thought.

  "You're nasty-minded, Bindle, and you know it."

  "Well, wot are we goin' to do at a party if there ain't goin' to be nokissin'?" he persisted, looking about him with unwonted despondency.

  "Mr. Hearty has lent us his harmonium!" she said with unction, gazingreverently across at the instrument, which was the pride of herbrother-in-law's heart.

  "But wot's the use of an 'armonium," he complained. "You can't play 'untthe slipper, or postman's knock with an 'armonium."

  "We're going to sing."

  "Wot, 'ymns?" he groaned.

  "No, carols," was the retort. "It's Christmas," she added as if by wayof explanation.

  "Well, it don't look like it, and it don't smell like it." He sniffedthe atmosphere with obvious disgust. "Puts me in mind of 'orse-oils," headded.

  "That's right, go on," she retorted tartly. "You're not hurting me, ifyou think it." She drew in her lips and crossed her hands in front ofher, with Mrs. Bindle a manifestation of Christian resignation.

  "I don't want to 'urt you, Lizzie; but I ask you, can you see mea-singin' carols?" He turned towards her a despondent eye ofinterrogation. "Me, at my age?"

  "You're not asked to sing. You can go out and spend the evening swearingand drinking with your low companions." She moved over to themantelpiece, and adjusted one of her beloved pink candles. "You'd onlyspoil the music," she added.

  "If there wasn't no music there wouldn't be no religion," he grumbled."It's 'armoniums in this world and 'arps in the next. I'd sooner be apussyfoot than play an 'arp."

  Mrs. Bindle ignored the remark, and proceeded to re-pile a plate ofsausage-rolls to a greater symmetry, flicking an imaginary speck ofdust from a glass-jug of lemonade.

  "Now mind," she cried, as he walked towards the door, "I won't have youspoiling my evening, you'd better go out."

  "An 'usband's cross-roads, or why Bindle left 'ome," he grinned as heturned, winked at the right-hand pink candle and disappeared, leavingMrs. Bindle to gaze admiringly at her handiwork. She had laboured veryhard in preparing for the evening's festivities.

  II

  Half-way down the stairs, Mrs. Bindle paused to listen. Her quick earshad detected the sound of voices at the back-door, and what wasundoubtedly the clink of bottles. Continuing her descent, she enteredthe kitchen, pausing just inside the door.

  "That's all right, 'Op-o'-my-thumb. A dozen it is," she heard Bindleremark to someone in the outer darkness. There was a shrill"Good-night," and Bindle entered the kitchen from the scullery, carryinga beer-bottle under each arm and one in either hand.

  "Who was that?" she demanded, her eyes fixed upon the bottles.

  "Oh! jest a nipper wot 'ad brought somethink for me," he said withassumed unconcern.

  "What did he bring?" she demanded, her eyes still fixed on the bottles.

  "Some beer wot I ordered."

  "What for?"

  "To drink." He looked at her as if surprised at the question.

  "I didn't suppose you'd bought it to wash in," was the
angry retort."There are four bottles in the cupboard. They'll last till Saturday. Whydid you order more?" Mrs. Bindle was obviously suspicious.

  "P'raps somebody'll get dry to-night," he temporised.

  "Don't you tell me any of your wicked lies, Bindle," she cried angrily."You know they're all temperance. How many did you order?"

  "Oh, jest a few," he said, depositing the bottles on the lower shelf ofthe dresser. "Nothink like 'avin' a bottle or two up yer sleeve."

  "Why have you got your best suit on?" She regarded with disapproval theblue suit and red necktie Bindle was wearing. Her eyes dropped to thewhite cuffs that only a careful manipulation of his thumbs preventedfrom slipping off altogether.

  "Ain't it the night of the party?" he enquired innocently.

  "I told you that I won't have you come in, you with your common ways andlow talk."

  "That's all right," he replied cheerfully. "I'm a-goin' to sit in thekitchen."

  "And what good will that do you?" she demanded suspiciously. "Anothertime, when I'm alone, you can go out fast enough. Now because I've got afew friends coming, nothing will move you."

  "But I want to 'ear the music," he protested. "P'raps I'll get to likecarols if I 'ear enough of 'em," he added, with the air of one whoannounces that some day he hopes to acquire a taste for castor-oil.

  "You're enough to try the patience of a saint," she cried, still eyeingthe bottles of beer. "I suppose you're up to some devilment. It wouldn'tbe you to let me enjoy myself."

  "I likes to see you enjoyin' yerself, Lizzie," he protested. "'Ow'd youlike ole Ginger to run in an'----?"

  "If that man enters my house I'll insult him!" she cried, her eyesglinting angrily.

  "That ain't easy," he replied cheerfully, "unless you was to drink 'isbeer. That always gets 'is rag out."

  "I won't have that man in my house," she stormed. "You shall not pollutemy home with your foul-mouthed, public-house companions. I----"

  "Ole Ging is all right," Bindle assured her, as he proceeded to fetchfour more bottles from the scullery. "All you got to do is to give 'imsome beer, play 'All is Forgiven Wot 'Appened on Peace Night,' an' let'im stamp 'is feet to the chorus, an' 'e's one of the cheerfullest coveswot you'll find."

  "Well, you bring him here and see what I'll do," she announced darkly.

  "That's all right, Mrs. B., don't you worry. I jest asked 'Uggles to runround an' keep me company, and Wilkie may drop in if 'e ain't too busycoughin'; but they shan't get mixed up with the canaries--they won'twant to after wot I'm goin' to tell 'em, an' we'll all be as quiet asmice."

  "If you bring any of your friends into the parlour, Bindle," she cried,"I'll turn the gas out."

  "Naughty!" he admonished, wagging at her a playful forefinger. "I ain'ta-goin' to allow----"

  "Stop it!" and with that she bounced out of the kitchen and dashedupstairs to the bedroom, banging the door behind her.

  "Ain't women funny," he grumbled, as he fetched the remaining fourbottles of beer from the scullery, and placed them upon the shelf of thedresser. "Nice ole row there'd 'ave been if I'd said anythink aboutturnin' out the gas. That's why ole 'Earty's so keen on them choirpractices. I bet they got a penny-in-the-slot meter, an' everybody takesbloomin' good care to leave all their coppers at 'ome."

  Overhead, Mrs. Bindle could be heard giving expression to her feelingsin the opening and shutting of drawers.

  "Well, well!" he sighed philosophically, "I suppose you can't 'aveeverythink, as the cove said when 'e found the lodger 'ad gone orf with'is trousers on Bank 'Oliday," and he proceeded to gather together twocracked tumblers, which had been censored by Mrs. Bindle as unfit forher guests, a large white mug, with a pink band and the remains of aview of Margate, and a pint jug with a pink butterfly on the spout.

  "We're a-goin' to enjoy ourselves, any-old-'ow," he murmured as, pickingup a meat-dish from the dresser, he slipped into the parlour, returninga moment later with it piled with rock-cakes, sandwiches andsausage-rolls. These he hid on the bottom shelf of the dresser, placinga pair of boots in front of them.

  "Jest in time," he muttered, as Mrs. Bindle was heard descending thestairs. "It's--'Ullo!" he broke off, "'ere's the first appetite," as aknock was heard at the front door.

  For the next ten minutes, Mrs. Bindle was busy conducting her guestsupstairs to "take off their things." Their escorts waited in thepassage, clearing their throats, or stroking their chins. Conventiondemanded that they should wait to make a formal entry into the parlourwith their wives.

  With his ear pressed against the kitchen door, Bindle listened withinterest, endeavouring to identify from their voices the arrivals asthey passed.

  By ten minutes past seven, the sounds in the passage had ceased--theguests had all come. In Mrs. Bindle's circle it was customary to takeliterally the time mentioned in the invitation, and to apologise foreven a few minutes' lateness.

  In order that the Montagues should not become confused with theCapulets, Bindle had taken the precaution of asking his own friends tocome to the back door. He had added that the beer would be in thekitchen.

  Mrs. Bindle had always been immovable in her determination that Bindle's"low public-house companions" should not have an opportunity of"insulting" her friends from the Alton Road Chapel.

  With Mrs. Bindle the first quarter-of-an-hour of her rare socialgatherings was always a period of anguish and uncertainty. Althougheverybody knew everybody else, all were constrained and ill-at-ease.

  Miss Lamb kept twirling her rolled-gold bracelet round her lace-mittenedwrist, smiling vacantly the while. Miss Death seemed unable to keep herhard grey eyes, set far too closely together, from the refreshmentsideboard, whilst Mrs. Dykes, a tiny woman in a fawn skirt and acoral-pink blouse, was continually feeling the back of her head, as ifanticipating some catastrophe to her hair.

  Mrs. Hearty, who began in a bright blue satin blouse, and ended incanary-coloured stockings thrust into cloth shoes with paste buckles,beat her breast and struggled for breath. Mr. Hearty was negative,conversationally he was a bankrupt, whilst Mrs. Stitchley was garrulousand with a purpose. She was bent upon talking down the consciousnessthat she had not been invited.

  Her excuse for coming, at least the excuse she made to herself, was thatof chaperoning her daughter, a near-sighted, shapeless girl, with nochest and a muddy complexion, who never had and never would require suchan attention.

  The others were just neuter, except Mr. Thimbell, whose acutenervousness and length of limb rendered him a nuisance.

  Mrs. Bindle was conscious that she was looking her best in a dark bluealpaca dress, with a cream-coloured lace yoke, which modesty hadprompted her to have lined with the material of the dress. To her, thedisplay of any portion of her person above the instep, or below thefeminine equivalent of the "Adam's apple," was a tribute to the Mammonof Unrighteousness, and her dressmaker was instructed accordingly.

  She moved about the room, trying to make everyone feel at home, andsucceeding only in emphasising the fact that they were all out.

  Everybody was anxious to get down to the serious business of theevening; still the social amenities had to be observed. There must be apreliminary period devoted to conversation.

  After a quarter-of-an-hour's endeavour to exchange the ideas which noneof them possessed, Mrs. Bindle moved over to Mr. Hearty and whisperedsomething, at the same time glancing across at the harmonium. There wasan immediate look of interest and expectancy on faces which, a momentbefore, had been blank and apathetic.

  Mr. Goslett, a little man with high cheekbones and a criminal taste inneckwear, cleared his throat; Mr. Hearty surreptitiously slipped intohis mouth an acid drop, which he had just taken from his waistcoatpocket; Mr. Dykes, a long, thin man, who in his youth had been known tohis contemporaries as "Razor," drew his handkerchief with a flourish,and tested Mrs. Bindle's walls as if he were a priest before Jericho.

  Some difficulty arose as to who should play Mr. Hearty's belovedinstrument. Mrs. Stitchley made it clear that she ex
pected her daughter,Mabel, to be asked. Mrs. Bindle, however, decided that Mrs. Snarch, acolourless woman who sang contralto (her own contralto) and sniffed whenshe was not singing contralto, should preside; her influence with herfellow-members of the choir was likely to be greater. Thus in the firstten minutes Mrs. Bindle scored two implacable enemies and one dubiousfriend.

  Mrs. Snarch took her seat at the harmonium, fidgetted about with herskirts and blinked near-sightedly at the book of carols, which seemeddisinclined to remain open. The others grouped themselves about her.

  There was a medley of strange sounds, as each member of the party tookthe necessary steps to ensure purity of vocal tone. Added to this, Mr.Dykes pulled his collar away from his throat and stretched his neckupwards, as if to clear a passage for the sound he intended to sendforth. Mr. Goslett pushed his sandy moustache up from his full lips withthe back of his right forefinger, whilst Miss Stitchley moistened andremoistened her thin, colourless lips.

  Then they joined together in song.

  After a preliminary carol, in which no one seemed to take any particularinterest, they got off well together with "Good King Wenceslas," a primefavourite at the Alton Road Chapel.

  This evening it proved an enormous success.

  Miss Stitchley's shrillness clashed with Mrs. Bindle's sharpness morethan in the preceding carol. Mr. Hearty shut his eyes more tightly andwas woollier, Mr. Dykes got more breath behind his boom, and Mrs. Dykesmade more mistakes in her "harmony." Mr. Goslett raised his head higher,looking more than ever like a chicken drinking, whilst Miss Death'sthin, upper notes seemed to pierce even Mr. Dykes's boom, just as theyput Miss Lamb, always uncertain as to pitch, even further off herstroke.

  Still, everyone enjoyed it immensely. Even Mrs. Stitchley, who confessedthat she was "no 'and at singin'," croaked a few husky notes, as she satacutely upright, due to a six-and-elevenpenny pair of stays she hadbought that afternoon, nodding her head and beating time.

  Mrs. Stitchley never lost an opportunity of making clear her position inregard to music.

  "I'm musical, my dear," she would say. "It's in the fambly; but I don'tsing, I 'as spasms, you know." She volunteered this information much asa man might seek to excuse his inability to play the French horn byexplaining that he is addicted to bass viol.

  "Now that's what I call a carol," said Mrs. Stitchley, endeavouring toprevent the upper portion of her stay-busk from burying itself in herflesh. Then, with sudden inspiration, she cried, "Encore! Encore!" andmade a motion to clap her hands; but the stay-busk took the opportunityof getting in a vicious dig. With a little yelp of pain, Mrs.Stitchley's hands flew to her rescue.

  Everybody was too pleased with "Good King Wenceslas" to trouble aboutMrs. Stitchley's stay-busk. The word "encore," however, had given theman idea. Mr. Hearty looked interrogatingly at Mrs. Bindle.

  "Do you think----" he began.

  "Shall we have it again?" she queried, and there was a chorus of pleasedacquiescence. Everybody was determined to put a little bit more into theencore than into the original rendering. There was only one dissentientvoice, that of Mr. Dykes, who was eager for "The First Noel," which gavehim such a chance for individual effort. When out with the ChapelChristmas singers, Mr. Dykes had been known to awaken as many as sixstreets with a single verse of that popular carol.

  Mrs. Bindle almost smiled. Her party was proving a success.

  Mrs. Stitchley, still holding the top of her stay-busk in her left hand,nodded approval, her beady little eyes fixed upon the singers. She wasawaiting an opportunity to bring from her pocket a half-quartern bottlecontaining what, if she had been caught drinking it, she would havedescribed as clove-water, taken medicinally.

  To give colour to her assertion, she always chewed a clove after eachreference to the bottle.

  At The Golden Horse, Mrs. Stitchley's clove-water was known as Old TomSpecial.

  For an hour Mrs. Bindle's guests sang, encoring themselves withenthusiasm. Mr. Dykes got in his famous "Noel," he pronounced it"No-ho-hell," and everyone else seemed satisfied, if a little sore ofthroat.

  It was half-past eight when Mrs. Bindle decided that the time had comefor refreshments.

  Throughout the evening her ears had been keenly alert for sounds fromthe kitchen; but beyond a suppressed hum of voices, she could detectnothing; still she was ill-at-ease. If Mrs. Hearty, for instance, knewthat Bindle was in the house, she would certainly go over to the enemy.

  In the matter of catering for her guests Mrs. Bindle had nothing tolearn. She was a good cook and delighted in providing well for those sheentertained. Her sausage-rolls, straightforward affairs in which thesausage had something more than a walking-on part, were famous among herfriends. Her blanc-mange, jam puffs, rock-cakes, and sandwiches hadalready established her reputation with those who had been privileged totaste them. She basked in the sunshine of the praise lavished on whatshe provided. Without it she would have felt that her party was afailure.

  This evening there was no lack of approval, cordially expressed. Mrs.Stitchley, who purposely had partaken of a light luncheon and no tea,was particularly loud in her encomiums, preluding each sausage-roll shetook, from the sixth onwards, with some fresh adjective.

  Mrs. Bindle was almost happy.

  She was in the act of pouring out a glass of lemonade for Miss Lamb,when suddenly she paused. An unaccustomed sound from the kitchen hadarrested her hand. Others heard it too, and the hum of conversationdied away into silence, broken only by Mr. Hearty's mastication of asausage-roll.

  Through the dividing wall came the sound of a concertina. Mrs. Bindleput down the jug and turned towards the door. As she did so a thin,nasal voice broke into song:

  For 'e was oiled in every joint, A bobby came up who was standin' point. He blew 'is whistle to summon more, Bill got 'ome on the point of 'is jaw. Then 'e screamed, an' kicked, an' bit their knees, As each grabbed a leg or an arm by degrees. An' that's 'ow Bill Morgan was taken 'ome On the night of 'is first wife's funeral.

  The verse was followed by a full-throated chorus, accompanied by apounding as if someone were hurling bricks about.

  After that came silence; but for the hum of conversation, above whichrose Bindle's voice forbidding further singing until "them next door'ave 'ad a go."

  The guests looked at one another in amazement. The set expression ofMrs. Bindle's face hardened, and the lines of her mouth became grim. Herfirst instinct had been to rush to the kitchen; but she decided to wait.She did not want a scene whilst her guests were there.

  Gradually the carol-singers returned to their plates and glasses, andMr. Hearty's mastication was once more heard in their midst. Mr. Heartyalways ate with relish.

  Unobserved by Mrs. Bindle, Mrs. Hearty stole out of the parlour on herway to investigate; a minute later Mrs. Stitchley followed. The solitudeof the passage gave her an admirable opportunity of finishing the"clove-water" she had brought with her.

  When everyone had assured Mrs. Bindle, in answer to her pressinginvitation to refresh themselves still further, that they "reallycouldn't, not if she were to pay them," she turned once more to Mr.Hearty for the necessary encouragement to start another carol.

  Their first effort, however, clearly showed that Mrs. Bindle'srefreshments had taken the edge off their singing. Miss Stitchley hadlost much of her shrillness, Mrs. Bindle was less sharp and Mr. Heartymore woolly. Mr. Dykes's boom was but a wraith of its former self,proving the truth of Mrs. Dykes's laughing remark that if he ate so manyof Mrs. Bindle's sausage-rolls he wouldn't be able to sing at all. OnlyMiss Death was up to form, her shrill soprano still cleaving theatmosphere like a javelin.

  As the last chords of the carol died away, the concertina in the kitchentook up the running, followed a minute later by the same voice asbefore, singing nasally about the adventures of a particularlyrollicking set of boon-companions who knew neither care nor curfew.

  At the first sound, Mrs. Bindle moved swiftly to the door, where shepaused uncertainly. She was
in a quandary. Her conception of goodmanners did not admit of a hostess leaving her guests; still somethinghad to be done.

  At the conclusion of the verse the voice ceased; but the concertinawailed on. Mrs. Bindle drew breath. Her guests gazed at one another in adazed sort of way. Then with a crash came the chorus, rendered withenthusiasm:

  We'll all roll 'ome, we'll all roll 'ome, For 'ome's the only place for weary men like us, We'll all roll 'ome, we'll all roll 'ome, For we 'aven't got the money to pay for a bus. For it's only 'alf-past two, An' it won't be three just yet. So we'll all roll 'ome, we'll all roll 'ome, An' lay down in the passage to be out of the wet.

  The applause that followed was annihilating. Accompanying it again wasthe curious banging sound which Mrs. Bindle had noticed before. She wassure she recognised amid the cries of approval, the sound of a woman'svoice. That decided her. She had already noted the absence of Mrs.Hearty and Mrs. Stitchley.

  Without so much as an apology to her guests, who stood still gazingblankly at one another, Mrs. Bindle slipped out into the passage,closing the door behind her, much to the disappointment of the others.

  A moment later she threw open the kitchen door, conscious that one ofthe most dramatic moments of her life was at hand.

  Through a grey film of tobacco smoke she saw half-a-dozen men, oneseated on the floor, another on the fender, and two on the table. Allwere smoking.

  About the room were dotted bottles and various drinking vessels, mostlycups, whilst on the mantelpiece were Bindle's white cuffs, discarded onaccount of their inconvenient habit of slipping off at every movement ofhis hands.

  Mrs. Hearty was seated in front of the dresser, holding a glass of beerin one hand and beating her breast with the other, whilst opposite toher sat Mrs. Stitchley, one hand still clutching the top of herstay-busk, an idiotic smirk upon her moist face.

  As Mrs. Bindle gazed upon the scene, she was conscious of a feeling ofdisappointment; no one seemed to regard her presence as any deviationfrom the normal. Mrs. Stitchley looked up and nodded. Bindledeliberately avoided her eye.

  Mrs. Bindle's attention became focussed upon the man seated on herfender. In his hands he grasped a concertina, before him were stretcheda pair of thin legs in tight blue trousers. Above a violent blue necktiethere rose a pasty face, terminating in a quiff of amazing dimensions,which glistened greasily in the gaslight. His heavy-lidded eyes werehalf-closed, whilst in his mouth he held a cigarette, the end of whichwas most unwholesomely chewed. His whole demeanour was that of a man whohad not yet realised that the curtain had risen upon a new act in thedrama.

  As Mrs. Bindle appeared at the kitchen door, the concertina once morebegan to speak. A moment later the musician threw back his head and gavetongue, like a hound baying at the moon:

  For I love my mother, love 'er with all my 'eart, I can see 'er now on the doorstep, the day we 'ad to part. A man that's got a tanner, can always get a wife, But a mother is just a treasure that comes once in a life.

  "Now then, ladies and gents, chorus if _you_ please," he cried.

  They did please, and soon Mrs. Bindle's kitchen echoed with afull-throated rendering of:

  We all love mother, love her all the time, For there ain't no other who seems to us the same. From babyhood to manhood, she watches o'er our lives, For it's mother, mother, mother, bless the dear old name.

  It was a doleful refrain, charged with cockney melancholy; yet therecould be no doubt about the enthusiasm of the singers. Mrs. Heartyspilled beer over her blue satin bosom, as a result of the energy withwhich she beat time; Mrs. Stitchley's hand, the one not grasping herstay-busk, was also beating time, different time from Mrs. Hearty's,whilst two light-coloured knees rose and fell with the regularity ofpiston-rods, solving for Mrs. Bindle the mystery of the sounds like thetossing about of bricks she had heard in the parlour.

  Ginger was joining in the chorus!

  As the singer started the second verse, Mrs. Bindle was conscious thatsomeone was behind her. She turned to find Miss Stitchley standing ather shoulder. A moment later she realised that the little passage wasoverflowing with carol-singers.

  Still she made no sign, not even when Miss Stitchley slipped past herand took up a position behind her mother's chair. Mrs. Bindle realisedthat she was faced with a delicate situation.

  The second chorus still further complicated matters. Mrs. Bindle wassure she heard the haunting refrain mumbled from behind her. She turnedquickly; but treason came from the other direction. Suddenly MissStitchley burst into song, and the passage, throwing aside itshesitation, joined in, softly it is true, still it joined in.

  "Come in, everybody!" cried Mrs. Stitchley, when the chorus ceased,momentarily forgetful that it was Mrs. Bindle's kitchen.

  "Ain't 'e clever," she added, looking admiringly at the musician, whoglanced up casually at the mistress of the house. Art Wiggins wasaccustomed to feminine worship and unlimited beer; he regarded them asthe natural tributes to his genius.

  "Come in, the 'ole lot," cried Bindle cheerily, as he proceeded tounscrew the stopper of a bottle. "'Ave a wet, Art," he cried, addressingthe vocalist. "You deserves it."

  The remainder of the parlour-party filtered into the kitchen, and Mrs.Bindle realised the anguish of a Louis XVIII. Her legions had gone overto the enemy.

  "Now this," remarked Mrs. Stitchley to Ginger a quarter-of-an-hourlater, "is wot I calls a cosy evenin'."

  To which Ginger grumbled something about not "'oldin' wiv women."

  Art Wiggins was the hero of the occasion. He smoked halves of endlesscigarettes, chewing the remainder; he drank beer like a personifiedSahara, and a continuous stream of song flowed from his lips.

  When at length he paused to eat, Mrs. Stitchley took up the running,urged on by Bindle, to whom she had confided that, as a girl, she hadachieved what was almost fame with, "I Heard the Mavis Singing."

  Art Wiggins did not know the tune; but was not to be deterred.

  "Carry on, mother," he cried through a mouthful of ham-sandwich, "I'llpick it up."

  The result was that Art played something strongly reminiscent of"Bubbles," whilst Mrs. Stitchley was telling how she had heard the mavissinging, to the tune of "Swanee." It was a great success until Art,weary of being so long out of the picture, threw "Bubbles," "Swanee,"Mrs. Stitchley and the mavis overboard, and broke into a narrative abouta young man of the name of Bert, who had become enamoured of a ladywhose abbreviated petticoats made an excellent rhyme for the hero'sname.

  Mrs. Stitchley continued singing; but Art and Bert and the young lady ofhis choice, plus the concertina, left her little or no chance.

  Like a figure of retribution Mrs. Bindle stood in the doorway, hard ofeye and grim of lip, whilst just behind her Mr. Hearty picked nervouslyat the quicks of his fingers.

  The other guests had proved opportunists. They had thrown over thesacred for the profane.

  They came out particularly strong in the choruses.

  III

  "I never remember sich a evenin', my dear," was Mrs. Stitchley'svalediction. "Stitchley'll be sorry 'e missed it," she added,indifferent to the fact that he had not been invited.

  She was the last to go, just as she had been the first to arrive.Throughout the evening she had applauded every effort of Art Wiggins toadd to what Bindle called "the 'armony of the evenin'."

  "I have enjoyed it, Mrs. Bindle," said Miss Stitchley. "It was lovely."

  With these encomiums ringing in her ears, and confirmed by what sheherself had seen and heard, Mrs. Bindle closed the door and returned tothe kitchen.

  Bindle watched her uncertainly as she tidied up the place, whilst heproceeded to arrange upon the dresser the beer-bottles, sixteen innumber and all empty.

  As a rule he could anticipate Mrs. Bindle's mood; but to-night he wasfrankly puzzled. When he had asked Huggles and Wilkes to drop in "for ajaw," he had not foreseen that on the way they would encounter Ginger,his cousin Art Wiggins and two bosom friends
of Art, nor could he beexpected to foresee that Art went nowhere without his concertina. It wasas much part of him as his elaborate quiff.

  Their arrival had inspired Bindle with something akin to panic. For along time he had striven to mute Art's musical restiveness. At length hehad been over-ruled by the others, and Art had burst into song aboutBill Morgan and his first wife's funeral. After that, as well try to damNiagara as seal those lips of song.

  Mrs. Bindle's grim silence as she moved about the kitchen disconcertedBindle. He was busy speculating as to what was behind it all.

  "Been a 'appy sort of evenin'," he remarked at length, as he proceededto knock the ashes out of his pipe.

  Mrs. Bindle made no response; but continued to gather together theplates and glasses and place them in two separate bowls in the sink.

  "Seemed to enjoy theirselves," he ventured a few minutes later. "Joinedin the choruses too."

  Bindle's remark was like a shot fired at a waterspout, Mrs. Bindle'swrath burst its bounds and engulfed him.

  "One of these days you'll kill me," she shrilled, dropping into a chair,"and then p'raps you'll be 'appy."

  "Wot 'ave I done now?" he enquired.

  "You've made me ashamed of you," she stormed. "You've humiliated mebefore all those people. What must they think, seein' me married to onewho will suffer unto the third and fourth generation and----"

  "But I can't----"

  "You will and you know it," she cried. "Look at the men you 'ad 'ereto-night. You never been a proper 'usband to me. Here have I beentoiling and moiling, inching and pinching, working my fingers to thebone for you, and then you treat me like this."

  Bindle began to edge almost imperceptibly towards the door.

  "See how you've humiliated me," her voice began to quaver. "What willthey say at the Chapel? They know all about you, whistling on Sundaysand spending your time in public-houses, while your wife is workingherself to skin an' bone to cook your meals and mend your clothes.What'll they say now they've seen the low companions you invite to yourhome? They'll see how you respect your wife."

  Still Bindle made no retort; but in a subdued murmur hummed "GospelBells," Mrs. Bindle's favourite hymn, which he used as a snake-charmeruses a flute.

  "You're glad, I know it," she continued, exasperated by his silence."Glad to see your wife humiliated. Look at you now! You're glad." Hervoice was rising hysterically. "One of these days I shall go out andnever return, and then you'll be----"

  Like a tornado the emotional super-storm burst, and Mrs. Bindle was inthe grip of screaming hysterics.

  She laughed, she cried, she exhorted, she reproached. Everything evilthat had ever happened to her, or to the universe, was directly due tothe blackness of Bindle's heart and the guiltiness of his conscience. Hewas the one barrier between her and earthly heaven. He had failed whereMr. Hearty had succeeded. She poured upon him a withering stream ofinvective,--and she did it at the top of her voice.

  At first Bindle stared; then he gazed vaguely about him. He made asudden dive for the cupboard, rummaged about until he found thevinegar-bottle. Pouring some out into a saucer, he filled it up withwater and returned to where Mrs. Bindle sat, slopping the liquid as hewent.

  Mrs. Bindle was now engaged in linking him up with Sodom and Gomorrah,the fate that befell Lot's wife and Dr. Crippen. Then, with a finalscream, she slipped from her chair to the floor, where she lay moaningand sobbing.

  With an earnest, anxious look in his eyes, Bindle knelt beside her andfrom the saucer proceeded to sprinkle her generously with vinegar andwater, until in odour she resembled a freshly-made salad.

  When he had sprinkled the greater part of the contents of the saucer onto her person, he sat back on his heels and, with grave and anxiouseyes, regarded her as a boy might who has lighted the end of a rocketand waits expectantly to see the result.

  Gradually the storm of emotion died down and finally ceased. He stillcontinued to gaze fixedly at Mrs. Bindle, convinced thatvinegar-and-water was the one and only cure for hysterics.

  Presently, she straightened herself. She moved, then struggling up intoa sitting position, she looked about her. The unaccustomed smellassailed her nostrils she sniffed sharply two or three times.

  "What have you been doing?" she demanded.

  "I been bringin' you to," he said, his forehead still ribbed withanxiety.

  "Oh! you beast, you!" she moaned, as she struggled to her feet. "Youdone it on purpose."

  "Done wot on purpose?" he enquired.

  "Poured vinegar all over me and soaked me to the skin. You've spoilt mydress. You----" and with a characteristically sudden movement, sheturned and fled from the room and upstairs, banging the door with aferocity that shook the whole house.

  "Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered. "An' me thinkin' she'd like me to bring'er round," and he slipped out into the parlour, which wore a veryobvious morning-after-the-party aspect. His object was to give Mrs.Bindle an opportunity of returning. He knew her to be incapable of goingto bed with her kitchen untidy.

  He ate a sausage-roll and a piece of the admonitory jam-tart, listeningkeenly for sounds of Mrs. Bindle descending the stairs. Finally heseated himself on the stamped-plush couch and absent-mindedly lightedhis pipe.

  Presently he heard a soft tread upon the stairs, as if someone wereendeavouring to descend without noise. He sighed his relief.

  Ten minutes later he rose and stretched himself sleepily. There wereobvious sounds of movement in the kitchen.

  "Now if I wasn't the bloomin' coward wot I am," he remarked, as he tooka final look round, "I'd light them two candles; but I ain't got thepluck."

  With that he turned out the gas and closed the door.

  "You take those bottles into the scullery and be quick about it," wasMrs. Bindle's greeting as he entered the kitchen.

  She fixed her eye on the platoon of empty beer-bottles that Bindle hadassembled upon the dresser.

  He paused in the act of digging into his pipe with a match-stick. He hadbeen prepared for the tail-end of a tornado, and this slight admonitorypuff surprised him.

  "Well! did you hear?"

  Without a word the pipe was slipped into his pocket, and picking up abrace of bottles in either hand he passed into the scullery.

  As he did so a strange glint sprang into Mrs. Bindle's eyes. With apanther-like movement she dashed across to the scullery door, slammed itto and turned the key. A second later the kitchen was in darkness, andMrs. Bindle was on her way upstairs to bed.

  The continuous banging upon the scullery door as she proceeded leisurelyto undress was as sweet music to her ears.

  That night Bindle slept indifferently well.