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

"Where's your Uncle gone?" she enquired, lifting her eyes from their absorbed contemplation of the flaming features of her nephew.

"He's – he's gone to fetch something," lied Millie. Instinctively she felt that this was an occasion that called for anything but the truth. She had seen the unusual brightness of Bindle's eyes.

From the passage he was heard vigorously blowing his nose.

"It's them toys he's after," said Mrs. Bindle, with scornful conviction.

"Toys?" Millie looked up enquiringly.

"He bought a lot of hideous things for this little precious," and her eyes fell upon the bundle in her arms, her lips breaking into a curve that Bindle had never seen.

"You see, Millie," she continued, "he doesn't know. We've neither chick nor child of – " She broke off suddenly, and bowed her head low over the baby.

In a second Millie was on her feet, her arm round Mrs. Bindle's shoulders.

"Dear Aunt Lizzie!" she cried, her voice a little unsteady. "Darling Aunt Lizzie. I – I know – I – "

At this point Joseph the Second, objecting to the pressure to which he was being subjected between the two emotional bosoms, raised his voice in protest, just as Bindle entered, his arms full of the toys he had bought.

He stood in the doorway, gaping with amazement.

As Mrs. Bindle caught sight of him, she blinked rapidly.

"Don't bring that rubbish in here," she cried with a return to her normal manner. "You'll frighten the child out of its life."

"Oh! Uncle Joe," cried Millie, as Bindle deposited the toys on the table. "I think you're the darlingest uncle in all the world."

There were tears in the eyes she turned on him.

Mrs. Bindle swung her back on the pair, as Bindle proceeded to explain the virtues and mechanism of his purchases. She was convinced that such monstrosities would produce in little Joseph nothing less than convulsions, probably resulting in permanent injury to his mind.

Whilst they were thus engaged, Mrs. Bindle walked up and down the kitchen, absorbed in the baby.

"Auntie Lizzie," cried Millie presently, "please bring Little Joe here."

Mrs. Bindle hesitated. "They'll frighten him, Millie," she said, with a gentleness in her voice that caused Bindle to look quickly up at her.

To disprove the statement, and with all the assurance of a young mother, Millie seized the rag-doll and a diminutive golliwog, and held them over the recumbent form of Joseph the Second.

In an instant a pudgy little hand was thrust up, followed immediately after by another, and Joseph the Second demonstrated with all his fragile might that, as far as toys were concerned, he was at one with his uncle.

Bindle beamed with delight. Seizing the monkey-on-a-stick he proceeded vigorously to work it up and down. The pudgy hands raised themselves again.

"Oh! let Uncle Joe hold him," cried Millie, in ecstasy at the sight of the dawning intelligence on the baby's face.

"Me!" cried Bindle in horror, stepping back as if he had been asked to foster-mother a vigorous young rattlesnake. "Me 'old It?" He looked uncertainly at Mrs. Bindle and then again at Millie. "Not for an old-age pension."

"He'll make him cry," said Mrs. Bindle with conviction, hugging Little Joe closer and increasing the swaying movement.

"Oh yes, you must!" cried Millie gaily. "I'll take him, Auntie Lizzie," she said, turning to Mrs. Bindle, who manifested reluctance to relinquish the bundle.

"I might 'urt 'im," protested Bindle, retreating a step further, his forehead lined with anxiety.

"Now, Uncle Joe," commanded Millie, extending the bundle, "put your arms out."

Bindle extended his hands as might a child who is expecting to be caned. There was reluctance in the movement, and a suggestion that at any moment he was prepared to withdraw them suddenly.

"Not that way," snapped Mrs. Bindle, with all the scorn of a woman's superior knowledge.

Millie settled the matter by thrusting the bundle into Bindle's arms and he had, perforce, to clasp it.

He looked about him wildly, then, his eyes happening to catch those of Joseph the Second, he forgot his responsibilities, and began winking rapidly and in a manner that seemed entirely to Little Joe's satisfaction.

"Oh, Auntie Lizzie, look," cried Millie. "Little Joe loves Uncle Joe already." The inspiration of motherhood had enabled her to interpret a certain slobbering movement about Little Joe's lips as affection.

"Oh, look!" she cried again, as one chubby little hand was raised as if in salutation. "Auntie Lizzie – " She suddenly broke off. She had caught sight of the tense look on Mrs. Bindle's face as she gazed at the baby, and the hunger in her eyes.

Without a word she seized the bundle from Bindle's arms and placed it in those of her aunt, which instinctively curved themselves to receive the precious burden.

"There, darling Joeykins," she crooned as she bent over her baby's face, as if to shield from Mrs. Bindle any momentary disappointment it might manifest. "Go to Auntie Lizzie."

"'Ere, wot 'ave I – ?" began Bindle, when he was interrupted by a knock at the outer door.

"That's Charley," cried Millie, dancing towards the door in a most unmatronly manner. "Come along, Uncle Joe, he's going to mend the musical-box," and with that she tripped down the passage, had opened the door and was greeting her husband almost before Bindle had left the kitchen.

"Come in here," she cried, opening the parlour door, and hardly giving Bindle time to greet Charley.

"'Ere," cried Bindle, "why – ?"

"Never mind, Uncle Joe, Charley's going to mend the musical-box."

"But wot about it – 'im," Bindle corrected himself, indicating the kitchen with a jerk of his thumb.

"Charley's-going-to-mend-the-musical-box," she repeated with great distinctness. And again Bindle marvelled at the grown-upness of her.

He looked across at his nephew, a puzzled expression creasing his forehead.

"Better do as she says, Uncle Joe," laughed Charley. "It saves time."

"But – " began Bindle.

"There it is, Charley," cried Millie, indicating a mahogany object, with glass top and sides that gave an indelicate view of its internal organism. Being a dutiful husband, Charley lifted down the box and placed it on to the table.

"For Gawd's sake be careful of Ole Dumb Abraham," cried Bindle. "If – "

"Of who?" cried Millie, her pretty brows puckered.

Bindle explained, watching with anxious eyes as Charley lifted the treasure from the small table on which it habitually rested, and placed it upon the centre table, where Millie had cleared a space.

Charley's apparent unconcern gave Bindle an unpleasant feeling at the base of his spine. He had been disciplined to regard the parlour as holy ground, and the musical-box as the holiest thing it contained.

For the next three-quarters of an hour Bindle and Millie watched Charley, as, with deft fingers, he took the affair to pieces and put it together again.

Finally, with much coaxing and a little oil, he got it to give forth an anæmic interpretation of "The Keel Row." Then it gurgled, slowed down and gave up the struggle, in consequence of which Charley made further incursions into its interior.

Becoming accustomed to the thought of Aunt Anne's legacy being subjected to the profanation of screw-driver and oil-bottle, Bindle sat down by the window, and proceeded to exchange confidences with Millie, who had made it clear to him that her aunt and son were to be left to their tête-à-tête undisturbed.

The conversation between uncle and niece was punctuated by snatches from "The Keel Row," as Charley was successful in getting the sluggish mechanism of Dumb Abraham into temporary motion.

Occasionally he would give expression to a hiss or murmur of impatience, and Millie would smile across at him an intimate little smile of sympathy.

Suddenly, gaunt tragedy stalked into the room.

Crash!

"My Gawd!"

"Oh, Charley!"

"Damn!"

And Poor Aunt Anne's musical-box lay on the floor, a ruin of splintered glass.

Charley Dixon sucked a damaged thumb, Millie clung to his arm, solicitous and enquiring, whilst Bindle gazed down at the broken mass, fear in his eyes, and a sense of irretrievable disaster clutching at his heart.

Charley began to explain, Millie demanded to see the damaged thumb – but Bindle continued to gaze at the sacred relic.

Five minutes later, the trio left the parlour. As noiselessly as conspirators they tip-toed along the passage to the kitchen door, which stood ajar.

Through the aperture Mrs. Bindle could be seen seated at the table, Joseph the Second reposing in the crook of her left arm, whilst she, with her right hand, was endeavouring to work the monkey-on-a-stick.

In her eyes was a strange softness, a smile broke the hard lines of her mouth, whilst from her lips came an incessant flow of baby language.

For several minutes they watched. They saw Mrs. Bindle lay aside the monkey-on-a-stick, and bend over the babe, murmuring the sounds that come by instinct to every woman's lips.

At a sign from Millie, they entered. Mrs. Bindle glanced over her shoulder in their direction; but other and weightier matters claimed her attention.

"Lizzie," began Bindle, who had stipulated that he should break the awful news, urging as his reason that it had to be done with "tack." He paused. Mrs. Bindle took no notice; but continued to bend over Little Joe, making strange sounds.

"Lizzie – " he began, paused, then in a rush the words came. "We broken the musical-box."

He stopped, that the heavens might have an opportunity of falling.

"Did-he-love-his-Auntie-Lizzie-blossom-um-um-um-um."

Charley and Millie exchanged glances; but Bindle was too intent upon his disastrous mission to be conscious of anything but the storm he knew was about to break.

"Did you 'ear, Lizzie," he continued. "We broken the musical-box. Smashed it all to smithereens. Done for it," he added, as if to leave no loophole for misconception as to the appalling nature of the tragedy.

He held his breath, as one who has just tugged at the cord of a shower-bath.

"Oh! go away do!" she cried. "Um-um-um-um-prettyums."

"Pore Aunt Anne's musical-box," he repeated dully. "It's smashed."

"Oh, bother the musical-box! Um-um-um-per-weshus-um-um-um."

Mrs. Bindle had not even looked up.

It was Millie who shepherded the others back into the parlour, where Bindle mopped his brow, with the air of a man who, having met death face to face, has survived.

"Well, I'm blowed!" was all he said.

And Millie smiled across at Charley, a smile of superior understanding.

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 had just returned from her evening out, and her first act had been to bring Mrs. Hearty her nightly glass of Guinness and "snack of bread-and-cheese," an enormous crust torn from a new cottage loaf and plentifully spread with butter, flanked by about a quarter-of-a-pound of cheese. Now that the girl had left the room, Mrs. Bindle could contain herself no longer.

Mrs. Hearty was a woman upon whom fat had descended as a disguise. Her manifold chins rippled downwards until they became absorbed in the gigantic wave of her bust. She had a generous appetite, and was damned with a liking for fat-forming foods.

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

For response to her sister's comment, Mrs. Hearty took a deep draught of Guinness and then, with a film of froth still upon her upper lip, she retorted, "It's 'er night out," and relapsed into wheezes and endeavours to 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 the deacons' decision as to who was to succeed Mr. Smithers in training the choir.

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

As a girl, she had been pleasure-loving. There were those who even went to the extent of regarding her as flighty. She attended theatres and music-halls, which she had not then regarded as "places of sin," and her contemporaries classified her as something of a flirt; but disillusionment had come with marriage. She soon realised that she had made the great and unforgivable mistake of marrying the wrong man. It turned her from the "carnal," and was the cause of her joining the Alton Road Chapel, at which Mr. Hearty worshipped.

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

Although she nightly sought the Almighty to forgive her her trespasses, volunteering the information that she in turn would forgive those who trespassed against her, she never forgave Bindle for his glib and ready tongue, which had obscured her judgment to the extent of allowing to escape from the matrimonial noose, a potential master-greengrocer with three shops.

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Hearty shook her head and undulated violently.

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

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

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

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

"I'm surprised the way you let that girl talk to you, Martha," snapped Mrs. Bindle, almost before the door had closed behind the retreating Alice. "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 of Guinness to her lips. "It's gone orf," she added a moment later. "It ain't wot it used to be," and she shook a despondent head as she replaced the almost empty glass upon the table.

"You'd be better without it," was the unsympathetic rejoinder, then, not to be diverted from the topic of Alice and her scanty attire, Mrs. Bindle added, "Her blouse was disgusting, and as for her skirt, I should be ashamed for her to be seen entering my house."

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

"She's all right," wheezed Mrs. Hearty comfortably, through a mouthful of 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 the bread-and-cheese to conversational proportions, – "they like it," she gasped at length, and broke into ripples and wheezes.

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

Mrs. Hearty made an effort to speak; but the words failed to penetrate the 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 you say then?"

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

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

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

During her sister's paroxysm, Mrs. Bindle preserved a dignified silence. 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 her blouse was."

"It's 'ealthy," puffed Mrs. Hearty, who could always be depended upon to find 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 deep purple hue.

Mrs. Bindle rose and proceeded to bestow a series of resounding smacks with the flat of her hand upon Mrs. Hearty's ample back. There was a heartiness in the blows that savoured of the Old rather than the New Testament.

Nearly five minutes elapsed before Mrs. Hearty was sufficiently recovered 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 she saw in her sister's paroxysm, the rebuke of a frowning Providence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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. Her face was scarlet, and in her eyes was murder. She was conscious that her past 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 her person.

But Mrs. Hearty was oblivious to the storm of anger that her words had aroused in her sister's heart. The recollection of the yellow stockings and the transparent muslin frock was too much for her, and she was off into splutters and wheezes of mirth, among which an occasional "Oh don't!" was distinguishable.

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

"They're a lot of brazen hussies," continued Mrs. Bindle, "displaying themselves 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's indelicate display of her person to escape her. She had merely been waiting her opportunity to return to the charge.

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

At this, Mrs. Hearty once more became helpless with suppressed laughter. Her manifold chins vibrated, tears streamed down her cheeks, and she wheezed 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 likes it, 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 to find utterance for something that seemed to be stifling her.

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

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

"Martha, you're a disgrace," she cried, rising. "You might at least have the decency not to drag Mr. Hearty's name into your unclean conversation. 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. "Good evening, Elizabeth," he added, turning to Mrs. Bindle.

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

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

"I – I've forgotten to post a letter," he muttered, and a second later the door closed behind him.

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

"Martha," said Mrs. Bindle solemnly, as she resumed her seat, "you're a wicked 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 furtively from his wife to Mrs. Bindle. He was a spare man of medium height, with an iron-grey moustache and what Bindle described as "'alleluia whiskers"; but which the world knows as mutton-chops. He was a man to whom all violence, be it physical or verbal, was distasteful. He preferred diplomacy to the sword.

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

"Mr. Coplestone." The natural woolliness of Mr. Hearty's voice was emphasised by the dejection of disappointment; but his eyes told of the relief 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 the air of one who scents a great injustice. The injustice of the appointment quite blotted-out from her mind all thought of Alice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It had always been Mr. Hearty's wish to train the choir at the Alton Road Chapel, and when Mr. Smithers had resigned, owing to chronic bronchitis and the approach of winter, Mr. Hearty felt that the time had come when yet another of his ambitions was to be realised. There had proved, however, to be another Richmond in the field, in the shape of Mr. 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 the interest of the minister and several of the deacons, with the result that Mr. Hearty had come out a very bad second.

Now, in the hour of defeat, he yearned for sympathy, and there was only one to whom he could turn, his sister-in-law, who shared so many of his earthly 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 a deep sigh of relief. In spite of herself, Mrs. Bindle was irritated at the way in which he picked at the quicks of his finger-nails, "and you so musical, too," she added.

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

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

"It isn't what it might be," he remarked. "It has been very indifferent lately. 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 should have made a point of cultivating their upper registers," he added, with the melancholy retrospection of a man who, after a fire, states that it had been his intention to insure on the morrow.

"Perhaps – " began Mrs. Bindle, then she stopped. It seemed unchristian to say that perhaps Mr. Coplestone would have to relinquish his newly acquired honour.

"I should also have tried to have the American organ tuned, I don't think the bellows is very sound, either."

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

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

"I – we – " he paused. "I'm afraid Martha will have to get rid of Alice."

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

"And she tells – she's most untruthful," he continued eagerly; he was smarting under the recollection that Alice had on one occasion pushed aside the half-crown he had tendered, and it had required a ten shilling note to remove from her memory the thought of her "friend" with whom she had 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 thoughts still 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 the venom of years of disappointment. "And you've got three shops," she added inconsequently.

"I – I never had time to go out and about," stuttered Mr. Hearty, as if that explained the fact of his not possessing a lord among his acquaintance. His thoughts were still preoccupied with the Alice episode.

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

"You see, Joseph is different," said Mr. Hearty, pursuing his own line of thought. "He – "

"Talks too much," said Mrs. Bindle with decision, filling in the blank inaccurately. "I tell him his fine friends only laugh up their sleeves at 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 mind returning to the cause of his disappointment.

"It's that Mr. Coplestone," said Mrs. Bindle with conviction. "I never liked 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 cried with conviction, loyalty to her brother-in-law triumphing over all sense of Christian charity. "It's always the same. Look at Bindle," she added, unable to forget entirely her own domestic cross. "Think what I've done for him, and look at him."

"Last year I let them have all the fruit at cost price for the choir-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 out myself."

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