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

by Herbert George Jenkins

  CHAPTER V

  MRS. BINDLE BURNS INCENSE

  "I wonder you allow that girl to wear such disgusting clothes."

  For the last five minutes Mrs. Bindle had been watching Alice, Mrs.Hearty's maid, as she moved about the room, tidying-up. The girl hadjust returned from her evening out, and her first act had been to bringMrs. Hearty her nightly glass of Guinness and "snack ofbread-and-cheese," an enormous crust torn from a new cottage loaf andplentifully spread with butter, flanked by about a quarter-of-a-pound ofcheese. Now that the girl had left the room, Mrs. Bindle could containherself no longer.

  Mrs. Hearty was a woman upon whom fat had descended as a disguise. Hermanifold chins rippled downwards until they became absorbed in thegigantic wave of her bust. She had a generous appetite, and was damnedwith a liking for fat-forming foods.

  With her sister she had nothing in common; but in Bindle she had found akindred spirit. The very sight of him would invariably set her heavingand pulsating with laughter and protestations of "Oh, Joe, don't!"

  For response to her sister's comment, Mrs. Hearty took a deep draughtof Guinness and then, with a film of froth still upon her upper lip, sheretorted, "It's 'er night out," and relapsed into wheezes and endeavoursto regain her breath.

  Mrs. Bindle was not in a good humour. She had called hoping to find Mr.Hearty returned from choir-practice, after which was to be announced thedeacons' decision as to who was to succeed Mr. Smithers in training thechoir.

  Her brother-in-law's success was with her something between aninspiration and a hobby. It became the absorbing interest in life,outside the chapel and her home. No wife, or mother, ever watched theprogress of a husband, or son, with keener interest, or greateradmiration, than Mrs. Bindle that of Mr. Hearty.

  As a girl, she had been pleasure-loving. There were those who even wentto the extent of regarding her as flighty. She attended theatres andmusic-halls, which she had not then regarded as "places of sin," and hercontemporaries classified her as something of a flirt; butdisillusionment had come with marriage. She soon realised that she hadmade the great and unforgivable mistake of marrying the wrong man. Itturned her from the "carnal," and was the cause of her joining the AltonRoad Chapel, at which Mr. Hearty worshipped.

  From that date she began a careful and elaborate preparation for thenext world.

  Although she nightly sought the Almighty to forgive her her trespasses,volunteering the information that she in turn would forgive those whotrespassed against her, she never forgave Bindle for his glib and readytongue, which had obscured her judgment to the extent of allowing toescape from the matrimonial noose, a potential master-greengrocer withthree shops.

  There was nothing in her attitude towards Mr. Hearty suggestive ofsentiment. She was a woman, and she bowed the knee at an altar wherewomen love to worship.

  "I call it----" Mrs. Bindle stopped short as Alice re-entered the roomwith a small dish of pickled onions, without which Mrs. Hearty wouldhave found it impossible to sleep.

  With a woman's instinct, Alice realised that Mrs. Bindle disapproved ofher low-cut, pale blue blouse, and the short skirt that exposed to theworld's gaze so much of the nether Alice.

  "You ain't been lonely, mum?" she queried solicitously, as she took afinal look round before going to bed, to see that everything was inorder.

  Mrs. Hearty shook her head and undulated violently.

  "It's my breath," she panted, and proceeded to hit her chest with theflat of her doubled-up fist. "'Ad a nice time?" she managed to gasp inthe tone of a mistress who knows and understands, and is known andunderstood by, her maid.

  "Oh! it was lovely," cried Alice ecstatically. "I went to the pictureswith"--she hesitated and blushed--"a friend," then, pride getting thebetter of self-consciousness, she added, "a gentleman friend, mum.There was a filum about a young girl running away with 'er boy on ahorse who turned out to be a millionaire and she looked lovely in herveil and orange-blossom and 'im that 'andsome."

  "And when's it to be, Alice?" enquired Mrs. Hearty, between the assaultsupon her chest.

  "Oh, mum!" giggled Alice, and a moment later she had disappeared roundthe door, with a "Good night, mum, mind you sleeps well."

  "I'm surprised the way you let that girl talk to you, Martha," snappedMrs. Bindle, almost before the door had closed behind the retreatingAlice. "You allow her to be too familiar. If you give them an inch,they'll take an ell," she added.

  "She's a good gal," gasped Mrs. Hearty, as she lifted the glass ofGuinness to her lips. "It's gone orf," she added a moment later. "Itain't wot it used to be," and she shook a despondent head as shereplaced the almost empty glass upon the table.

  "You'd be better without it," was the unsympathetic rejoinder, then, notto be diverted from the topic of Alice and her scanty attire, Mrs.Bindle added, "Her blouse was disgusting, and as for her skirt, I shouldbe ashamed for her to be seen entering my house."

  Mrs. Bindle believed in appearances as she believed in "the Lord," andit is open to question, if the two had at any time clashed, whetherappearances would have been sacrificed.

  "She's all right," wheezed Mrs. Hearty comfortably, through a mouthfulof bread-and-cheese.

  "The way girls dress now makes me hot all over," snapped Mrs. Bindle."The police ought to stop it."

  "They,"--with a gigantic swallow Mrs. Hearty reduced thebread-and-cheese to conversational proportions,--"they like it," shegasped at length, and broke into ripples and wheezes.

  "Don't be disgusting, Martha. You make me ashamed. You ought to speak toAlice. It's not respectable, her going about like that."

  Mrs. Hearty made an effort to speak; but the words failed to penetratethe barrage of bread-and-cheese--Mrs. Hearty did everything with gusto.

  "Supposing I was to go out in a short skirt like that. What would yousay then?"

  "You--you ain't got the legs, Lizzie," and Mrs. Hearty was off into aparoxysm of gasps and undulations.

  "Oh don't, don't," she gasped, as if Mrs. Bindle were responsible forher agony. "You'll be the death of me," she cried, as she wiped her eyeswith a soiled pocket-handkerchief.

  To Mrs. Hearty, laughter came as an impulse and an agony. She wouldimplore the world at large not to make her laugh, heaving and shaking asshe protested. She was good-natured, easy-going, and popular with herfriends, who marvelled at what it was she had seen in the sedate anddecorous Mr. Hearty to prompt her to marry him.

  During her sister's paroxysm, Mrs. Bindle preserved a dignifiedsilence. She always deplored Mrs. Hearty's lack of self-control.

  "There are the neighbours to consider," she continued at length. Mrs.Bindle's thoughts were always with her brother-in-law. "Look how low herblouse was."

  "It's 'ealthy," puffed Mrs. Hearty, who could always be depended upon tofind excuses for a black sheep's blackness.

  "I call it disgusting." Mrs. Bindle's mouth shut with a snap.

  "You----" Mrs. Hearty's reply was stifled in a sudden fit of coughing.She heaved and struggled for breath, while her face took on a deeppurple hue.

  Mrs. Bindle rose and proceeded to bestow a series of resounding smackswith the flat of her hand upon Mrs. Hearty's ample back. There was aheartiness in the blows that savoured of the Old rather than the NewTestament.

  Nearly five minutes elapsed before Mrs. Hearty was sufficientlyrecovered to explain that a crumb had gone the wrong way.

  "Serves you right for encouraging that girl in her wickedness," was Mrs.Bindle's unsympathetic comment as she returned to her chair. Vaguely shesaw in her sister's paroxysm, the rebuke of a frowning Providence.

  "You wasn't always like wot you are now," complained Mrs. Hearty atlength.

  "I never dressed anything like that girl." There was a note offierceness in Mrs. Bindle's voice, "and I defy you to say I did, MarthaHearty, so there."

  "Didn't I 'ave to speak to you once about your stockings?" Mrs. Hearty'srecent attack seemed to have rendered speech easier.

  "No wonder you choke," snapped Mrs. Bindle angrily, "
saying things likethat."

  "Didn't the boys shout after you 'yaller legs'?" she gasped, determinedto get the full flavour out of the incident. "They wasn't worn colouredthen."

  "I wonder you aren't afraid of being struck dead," cried Mrs. Bindlefuriously.

  "And you goin' out in muslin and a thin petticoat, and yer legs showin'through and the lace on----"

  "Don't you dare----" Mrs. Bindle stopped, her utterance strangled. Herface was scarlet, and in her eyes was murder. She was conscious that herpast was a past of vanity; but those were days she had put behind her,days when she would spend every penny she could scrape together upon herperson.

  But Mrs. Hearty was oblivious to the storm of anger that her words hadaroused in her sister's heart. The recollection of the yellow stockingsand the transparent muslin frock was too much for her, and she was offinto splutters and wheezes of mirth, among which an occasional "Ohdon't!" was distinguishable.

  "I don't know what's coming to girls, I'm sure," cried Mrs. Bindle atlength. She had to some extent regained her composure, and was desirousof turning the conversation from herself. She lived in fear of hersister's frankness; Mrs. Hearty never censored a wardrobe beforespeaking of it.

  "They're a lot of brazen hussies," continued Mrs. Bindle, "displayingthemselves like they do. I can't think why they do it."

  "Men!" grunted Mrs. Hearty.

  "Don't be disgusting, Martha."

  "You always was a fool, Lizzie," said Mrs. Hearty good-humouredly.

  Mrs. Bindle was determined not to allow the subject of Alice'sindelicate display of her person to escape her. She had merely beenwaiting her opportunity to return to the charge.

  "You should think of Mr. Hearty," she said unctuously; "he's got aposition to keep up, and people will talk, seeing that girl going outlike that."

  At this, Mrs. Hearty once more became helpless with suppressed laughter.Her manifold chins vibrated, tears streamed down her cheeks, and shewheezed and gasped and struck her chest, fierce, resounding blows.

  "Oh, my God!" she gasped at length. "You'll be the death of me, Lizzie,"and then another wave of laughter assailed her, and she was off again.

  Presently, as the result of an obvious effort, she spluttered, "'E likesit, too," she ended in a little scream of laughter. "You watch him. Oh,oh, I shall die!" she gasped.

  "Martha, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," she cried angrily."You're as bad as Bindle."

  For fully a minute, Mrs. Hearty rocked and heaved, as she strove tofind utterance for something that seemed to be stifling her.

  "You don't know Alf!" she gasped at length, as she mopped her face withthe dingy pocket-handkerchief. "Alice gives notice," she managed togasp. "Alf tries to kiss----" and speech once more forsook her.

  The look in Mrs. Bindle's eyes was that she usually kept forblasphemers. Mr. Hearty was the god of her idolatry, impeccable, austereand unimpeachable. The mere suggestion that he should behave in a wayshe would not expect even Bindle to behave, filled her with loathing,and she determined that her sister would eventually share the fate ofSapphira.

  "Martha, you're a disgrace," she cried, rising. "You might at least havethe decency not to drag Mr. Hearty's name into your uncleanconversation. I think you owe him an apology for----"

  At that moment the door opened, and Mr. Hearty entered.

  "Didn't you, Alf?" demanded Mrs. Hearty.

  "Didn't I what, Martha?" asked Mr. Hearty in a thin, woolly voice. "Goodevening, Elizabeth," he added, turning to Mrs. Bindle.

  "Didn't you try to kiss Alice, and she slapped your face?" Mrs. Heartyonce more proceeded to mop her streaming eyes with her handkerchief. Thecomedy was good; but it was painful.

  For one fleeting moment Mr. Hearty was unmasked. His whole expressionunderwent a change. There was fear in his eyes. He looked about him likea hunted animal seeking escape. Then, by a great effort, he seemed tore-assert control over himself.

  "I--I've forgotten to post a letter," he muttered, and a second laterthe door closed behind him.

  "'E's always like that when I remind him," cried Mrs. Hearty, "alwaysforgotten to post a letter."

  "Martha," said Mrs. Bindle solemnly, as she resumed her seat, "you're awicked woman, and to-night I shall ask God to forgive you."

  "Make it Alf instead," cried Mrs. Hearty.

  Five minutes later, Mr. Hearty re-entered the parlour, looking furtivelyfrom his wife to Mrs. Bindle. He was a spare man of medium height, withan iron-grey moustache and what Bindle described as "'alleluiawhiskers"; but which the world knows as mutton-chops. He was a man towhom all violence, be it physical or verbal, was distasteful. Hepreferred diplomacy to the sword.

  "Oo's got it, Alf?" enquired Mrs. Hearty, suddenly remembering thechapel choir and her husband's aspirations.

  "Mr. Coplestone." The natural woolliness of Mr. Hearty's voice wasemphasised by the dejection of disappointment; but his eyes told of therelief he felt that Alice was no longer to be the topic of conversation.

  "It's a shame, Mr. Hearty, that it is."

  Mrs. Bindle folded her hands in her lap and drew in her chin, with theair of one who scents a great injustice. The injustice of theappointment quite blotted-out from her mind all thought of Alice.

  "You got quite enough to do, Alf," wheezed Mrs. Hearty as, after manyineffectual bounces, she struggled to her feet, and stood swayingslightly as she beat her breast reproachfully.

  "I could have found time," said Mr. Hearty, as he picked nervously atthe quicks of his finger-nails.

  "Of course you could," agreed Mrs. Bindle, looking up at her sisterdisapprovingly.

  "I've never once missed a choir-practice," he continued, with the air ofa man who is advancing a definite claim.

  "Trust you," gasped Mrs. Hearty, as she rolled towards the door. "It'sthem gals," she added. "Good-night, Lizzie. Don't be long, Alf. Youalways wake me getting into bed," and, with a final wheeze, she passedout of the room.

  Mr. Hearty coughed nervously behind his hand; whilst Mrs. Bindle drew inher lips and chin still further. The indelicacy of Mrs. Hearty's remarkembarrassed them both.

  It had always been Mr. Hearty's wish to train the choir at the AltonRoad Chapel, and when Mr. Smithers had resigned, owing to chronicbronchitis and the approach of winter, Mr. Hearty felt that the time hadcome when yet another of his ambitions was to be realised. There hadproved, however, to be another Richmond in the field, in the shape ofMr. Coplestone, who kept an oil-shop in the New King's Road.

  By some means unknown to Mr. Hearty, his rival had managed to invest theinterest of the minister and several of the deacons, with the resultthat Mr. Hearty had come out a very bad second.

  Now, in the hour of defeat, he yearned for sympathy, and there was onlyone to whom he could turn, his sister-in-law, who shared so many of hisearthly views and heavenly hopes. Would his sister-in-law believe----

  "I call it a shame," she said for the second time, as Mr. Hearty drew adeep sigh of relief. In spite of herself, Mrs. Bindle was irritated atthe way in which he picked at the quicks of his finger-nails, "and youso musical, too," she added.

  "I have always been interested in music," said Mr. Hearty, with the airof one who knows that he is receiving nothing but his due. Alice and heralluring clothing were forgotten. "I had learned the Tonic Sol-fanotation by heart before I was twenty," he added.

  "You would have done so much to improve the singing." Mrs. Bindle wasintent only on applying balm to her hero's wounds. She too had forgottenAlice and all her ways.

  "It isn't what it might be," he remarked. "It has been very indifferentlately. Several have noticed it. Last Sunday, they nearly broke down in'The Half Was Never Told.'"

  Mrs. Bindle nodded.

  "They always find it difficult to get high 'f'," he continued. "I shouldhave made a point of cultivating their upper registers," he added, withthe melancholy retrospection of a man who, after a fire, states that ithad been his intention to insure on the morrow.

  "Perhaps----" began Mrs. Bindl
e, then she stopped. It seemed unchristianto say that perhaps Mr. Coplestone would have to relinquish his newlyacquired honour.

  "I should also have tried to have the American organ tuned, I don'tthink the bellows is very sound, either."

  For some minutes there was silence. Mr. Hearty was preoccupied with thequicks of his finger-nails. He had just succeeded in drawing blood, andhe glanced covertly at Mrs. Bindle to see if she had noticed it.

  "Er----" he paused. He had been seeking an opportunity of clearing hischaracter with his sister-in-law. Suddenly inspiration gripped him.

  "I--we----" he paused. "I'm afraid Martha will have to get rid ofAlice."

  "And about time, with clothes like she wears," was Mrs. Bindle'suncompromising comment.

  "And she tells--she's most untruthful," he continued eagerly; he wassmarting under the recollection that Alice had on one occasion pushedaside the half-crown he had tendered, and it had required a ten shillingnote to remove from her memory the thought of her "friend" with whom shehad threatened him.

  "I've been speaking about her to Martha this evening." The line of Mrs.Bindle's lips was still grim.

  "I'm afraid she's a bad--not a good girl," amended Mr. Hearty. "I----"

  "You don't push yourself forward enough," said Mrs. Bindle, her thoughtsstill on Mr. Coplestone's victory. "Look at Bindle. He knows a lord,and look what he is." She precipitated into the last two words all thevenom of years of disappointment. "And you've got three shops," sheadded inconsequently.

  "I--I never had time to go out and about," stuttered Mr. Hearty, as ifthat explained the fact of his not possessing a lord among hisacquaintance. His thoughts were still preoccupied with the Aliceepisode.

  "You ought to, Mr. Hearty," said Mrs. Bindle with conviction. "You oweit to yourself and to what you've done."

  "You see, Joseph is different," said Mr. Hearty, pursuing his own lineof thought. "He----"

  "Talks too much," said Mrs. Bindle with decision, filling in the blankinaccurately. "I tell him his fine friends only laugh up their sleevesat him. They should see him in his own home," she added.

  For some moments there was silence, during which Mrs. Bindle sat,immobile as an Assyrian goddess, her eyes smouldering balefully.

  "I should have liked to have trained the choir," he said, his mindreturning to the cause of his disappointment.

  "It's that Mr. Coplestone," said Mrs. Bindle with conviction. "I neverliked him, with his foxy little ways. I never deal with him."

  "I have always done what I could for the chapel, too," continued Mr.Hearty, not to be diverted from his main theme by reference to Mr.Coplestone's shortcomings.

  "You've done too much, Mr. Hearty, that's what's the matter," she criedwith conviction, loyalty to her brother-in-law triumphing over all senseof Christian charity. "It's always the same. Look at Bindle," she added,unable to forget entirely her own domestic cross. "Think what I've donefor him, and look at him."

  "Last year I let them have all the fruit at cost price for thechoir-outing," said Mr. Hearty; "but I'll never do it again," he added,the man in him triumphing over the martyr, "and I picked it all outmyself."

  "The more you do, the more you may do," said Mrs. Bindle oracularly.

  Mr. Hearty's reference was to a custom prevailing among the worshippersat the Alton Road Chapel. It was an understood thing that, in placingorders, preference should always be given to members of the flock, who,on their part, undertook to supply their respective commodities at costprice. The object of this was to bring all festivities "within reach ofour poorer brethren," as Mr. Sopley, a one-time minister, had expressedit when advocating the principle.

  The result was hours of heart-searching for those entrusted with thefeeding of the Faithful. Mr. Hearty, for instance, spent much time andthought in wrestling with figures and his conscience. He argued that"cost price" must allow for rent, rates and taxes; salaries, a knowledgeof the cheapest markets (which he possessed) and interest on capital(his own).

  By a curious coincidence, the actual figures came out very little abovethe ordinary retail price he was charging in his shops, which proved tohim conclusively that he was in no sense of the term a profiteer. As amatter of fact, it showed that he was under-charging.

  Other members of the chapel seemed to arrive at practically the sameresult as Mr. Hearty, and by similar means.

  As the "poorer brethren" had no voice in the fixing of these prices, andas everyone was too interested in his own figures to think ofcriticising those of others, the "poorer brethren" either paid, orstayed away.

  "You ought to join the choir, Elizabeth." It was Mr. Hearty'sthank-offering for sympathy.

  "Oh, Mr. Hearty!" she simpered. "I'm sure I couldn't sing well enough."

  "You sing very nicely, Elizabeth. I have noticed it on Sunday eveningswhen you come round. You have a very good high soprano."

  A quiver passed through Mrs. Bindle. She drew herself up, and her lipsseemed to take on a softer line.

  "I'm sure it's very good of you to say so," she responded gratefully.

  "I shall still sing in the choir," said Mr. Hearty; "but----"

  A heavy pounding overhead caused him to start violently. It was Mrs.Hearty's curfew.

  Mrs. Bindle rose and Mr. Hearty accompanied her to the street-door.Alice was in the passage, apparently on her way to bed.

  "Good night, Mr. Hearty," said Mrs. Bindle.

  "Good night, Elizabeth," and Mr. Hearty closed the door behind her.

  She paused to open her umbrella, it was spotting with rain and Mrs.Bindle was careful of her clothes.

  Suddenly through the open transom she heard a surprised scream and thesound of scuffling.

  "You beast," cried a feminine voice. "I'll tell missis, that I will."

  And Mrs. Bindle turned and ran full-tilt into a policeman.