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

She made another dive at him; but, by a swift movement, he once more placed the diminutive evergreen between them.

"Mother! – mother!" The girl rushed forward and clung convulsively to her mother's arm. "Mother, don't!"

"You wait, my lady," cried Mrs. Brunger, shaking off her daughter's hand. "I'll settle with you when I've finished with him, the beauty. I'll show him!"

The front door of the house on the right slowly opened, and a curl-papered head peeped out. Two doors away on the other side a window was raised, and a man's bald head appeared. The hounds of scandal scented blood.

"Mother!" The girl shook her mother's arm desperately. "Mother, don't! This gentleman came home with me because I was afraid."

"What's that?" Mrs. Brunger turned to her daughter, who stood with pleading eyes clutching her arm, her own fears momentarily forgotten.

"He saw me crying and said he'd come home with me because – Oh, mother, don't! – don't!"

Two windows on the opposite side of the way were noisily pushed up, and heads appeared.

"'Ere, look 'ere, missis," cried Bindle, seizing his opportunity. "It's no use a-chasin' me round this 'ere gooseberry bush. I told you I ain't no lion. I come to smooth things over. A sort o' dove, you know."

"Mother! – mother!" Again the girl clutched her mother's arm, shaking it in her excitement. "I was afraid to come home, honestly I was, and – and he saw me crying and – and said – " Sobs choked her further utterance.

"Come inside, the pair of you." Mrs. Brunger had at length become conscious of the interest of her neighbours. "Some folks never can mind their own business," she added, as a thrust at the inquisitive. Turning her back on the delinquent pair, she marched in at the door, along the short passage to the kitchen at the farther end, where the gas was burning.

Bindle followed her confidently, and stood, cap in hand, by the kitchen-table, looking about him with interest. The girl, however, remained flattened against the side of the passage, as if anxious to efface herself.

"Elsie, if you don't come in, I'll fetch you," announced the mother threateningly.

Elsie slid along the wall and round the door-post, making for the corner of the room farthest from her mother. There she stood with terrified eyes fixed upon her parent.

"Now, then, what have you two got to say for yourselves?" Mrs. Brunger looked from Bindle to her daughter, with the air of one who is quite prepared to assume the responsibilities of Providence.

"Well, it was like this 'ere," said Bindle easily. "I see 'er," he jerked his thumb in the direction of the girl, "cryin' under a lamp-post down the street, so I asks 'er wot's up."

Bindle paused, and Mrs. Brunger turned to her daughter with a look of interrogation.

"I – I – " began the girl, then she, too, stopped abruptly.

"You've been with that hussy Mabel Warnes again." There was accusation and conviction in Mrs. Brunger's tone. "Don't you deny it," she continued, although the girl made no sign of doing so. "I warned you what I'd do to you if you went out with that fast little baggage again, and I'll do it, so help me God, I will." Her voice was rising angrily.

"'Ere, look 'ere, missis – " began Bindle.

"My name's Brunger – Mrs. Brunger," she added, to prevent any possibility of misconception. "I thought I told you once."

"You did," said Bindle cheerfully. "Now, look 'ere," he continued persuasively, "we're only young once."

Mrs. Brunger snorted disdainfully; and the look she gave her daughter caused the girl to shrink closer to the wall.

"Rare cove I was for gettin' 'ome late," remarked Bindle reminiscently.

"More shame you," was the uncompromising retort.

"Shouldn't wonder if you was a bit late now an' again when you was a gal," he continued, looking up at Mrs. Brunger with critical appreciation – "or else the chaps didn't know wot was wot," he added.

"Two blacks don't make a white," was Mrs. Brunger's obscure comment.

"Yes; but a gal can't 'elp bein' pretty," continued Bindle, following the line of his reasoning. "Now, if you'd been like some ma's, no one wouldn't 'ave wanted to keep 'er out."

"Who are you getting at?" demanded Mrs. Brunger; but there was no displeasure in her voice.

"It's only the pretty ones wot gets kept out late," continued Bindle imperturbably, his confidence rising at the signs of a weakening defence. "Now, with a ma like you," he paused eloquently, "it was bound to 'appen. You didn't ought to be too 'ard on the gal, although, mind you," he said, turning to the culprit, "she didn't ought to go out with gals against her ma's wishes, an' she's goin' to be a good gal in future – ain't that so, my dear?"

The girl nodded her head vigorously.

"There, you see," continued Bindle, turning once more to Mrs. Brunger, whose face was showing marked signs of relaxation. "Now, if I was a young chap again," he continued, looking from mother to daughter, "well, anythink might 'appen."

"Go on with you, do." Mrs. Brunger's good humour was returning.

"Well, I suppose I must," said Bindle, with a grin. "It's about time I was 'opping it."

His announcement seemed to arouse the girl. Hitherto she had stood a silent witness, puzzled at the strange turn events were taking; but now she realised that her protector was about to leave her to the enemy. She started forward, and clutched Bindle by the arm.

"Don't go! – oh, don't go! I – " She stopped suddenly, and looked across at her mother.

"You ain't a-goin' to be too 'ard on 'er?" said Bindle, interpreting the look.

Mrs. Brunger looked irresolute. Her anger found its source in the mother-instinct of protection rather than in bad temper. Bindle was quick to take advantage of her indecision. With inspiration he turned to the girl.

"Now, you mustn't worry yer ma, my dear. She's got quite enough to see to without bein' bothered by a pretty little 'ead like yours. Now, if she forgives you, will you promise 'er not to be late again, an' not to go with that gal wot she don't like?"

"Oh, yes, yes! I won't, mums, honestly." She looked appealingly at her mother, and saw something in her face that was reassuring, for a moment later she was clinging almost fiercely to her mother's arm.

"You must come in one Saturday evening and see my husband," said Mrs. Brunger a few minutes later, as Bindle fumbled with the latch of the hall door. "He's on The Daily Age, and is only home a-Saturday nights."

"Oh, do, please!" cried the girl, smiles having chased all but the marks of tears from her face, and Bindle promised that he would.

"Now, if Mrs. B. was to 'ear of these little goin's on," he muttered, as he walked towards Fenton Street, "there'd be an 'ell of a row. Mrs. B.'s a good woman an', bein' a good woman, she's bound to think the worst," and he swung open the gate that led to his "Little Bit of 'Eaven."

II

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Stitchley."

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Bindle. I 'ope I 'aven't come at a inconvenient time."

"No, please come in," said Mrs. Bindle, with almost geniality, as she stood aside to admit her caller, then, closing the front-door behind her, she opened that leading to the parlour.

"Will you just wait here a minute, Mrs. Stitchley, and I'll pull up the blind?" she said.

Mrs. Stitchley smirked and smiled, whilst Mrs. Bindle made her way, with amazing dexterity, through the maze of things with which the room was crammed, in the direction of the window.

A moment later, she pulled up the dark-green blind, which was always kept drawn so that the carpet might not fade, and the sunlight shuddered into the room. It revealed a grievous medley of antimacassared chairs, stools, photograph-frames, pictures and ornaments, all of which were very dear to Mrs. Bindle's heart.

"Won't you sit down, Mrs. Stitchley?" enquired Mrs. Bindle primly. Mrs. Stitchley was inveterate in her attendance at the Alton Road Chapel; Bindle had once referred to her as "a chapel 'og."

"Thank you, my dear, thank you," said Mrs. Stitchley, whose manner exuded friendliness.

She looked about her dubiously, and it was Mrs. Bindle who settled matters by indicating a chair of stamped-plush, the seat of which rose hard and high in the centre. Over the back was an ecru antimacassar, tied with a pale-blue ribbon. After a moment's hesitation, Mrs. Stitchley entrusted it with her person.

"It's a long time since I see you, Mrs. Bindle." They had met three evenings previously at chapel.

Mrs. Bindle smiled feebly. She always suspected Mrs. Stitchley of surreptitious drinking, in spite of the fact that she belonged to the chapel Temperance Society. Mrs. Stitchley's red nose, coupled with the passion she possessed for chewing cloves, had made her fellow-worshipper suspicious.

"Wot a nice room," Mrs. Stitchley looked about her appreciatively, "so genteel, and 'ow refined."

Mrs. Bindle smirked.

"I was sayin' to Stitchley only yesterday mornin' at breakfast – he was 'avin' sausages, 'e bein' so fond of 'em – 'Mrs. Bindle 'as taste,' I says, 'and refinement.'"

Mrs. Bindle, who had seated herself opposite her visitor, drew in her chin and folded her hands before her, with the air of one who is receiving only what she knows to be her due.

There was a slight pause.

"Yes," said Mrs. Stitchley, with a sigh, "I was always one for refinement and respectability."

Mrs. Bindle said nothing. She was wondering why Mrs. Stitchley had called. Although she would not have put it into words, or even allow it to find form in her thoughts, she knew Mrs. Stitchley to be a woman to whom gossip was the breath of life.

"Now you're wonderin' why I've come, my dear," continued Mrs. Stitchley, who always grew more friendly as her calls lengthened, "but it's a dooty. I says to Stitchley this mornin', 'There's that poor, dear Mrs. Bindle a-livin' in innocence of the way in which she's bein' vilated.'" Mrs. Stitchley was sometimes a little loose in the way she constructed her sentences and the words she selected.

Mrs. Bindle's lips began to assume a hard line.

"I don't understand, Mrs. Stitchley," she said.

"Jest wot I says to Stitchley, 'She don't know, the poor lamb,' I says, ''ow she's bein' deceived, 'ow she's – '" Mrs. Stitchley paused, not from any sense of the dramatic; but because of a violent hiccough that had assailed her.

"Excuse me, mum – Mrs. Bindle," she corrected herself; "but I always was a one for 'iccups, an' when it ain't 'iccups it's spasms. Stitchley was sayin' to me only yesterday, no it wasn't, it was the day before, that – "

"Won't you tell me what you were going to?" said Mrs. Bindle. She knew of old how rambling were Mrs. Stitchley's methods of narration.

"To be sure, to be sure," and she nodded until the jet ornament in her black bonnet seemed to have become palsied. "Well, my dear, it's like this. As I was sayin' to Stitchley this mornin', 'I can't see poor Mrs. Bindle deceived by that monster.' I see through 'im that evenin', a-turnin' your 'appy party into – " she paused for a simile – "into wot 'e turned it into," she added with inspiration.

"Oh! the wickedness of this world, Mrs. Bindle. Oh! the sin and error." She cast up her bleary, watery blue eyes, and gazed at the yellow paper flycatcher, and once more the jet ornament began to shiver.

"Please tell me what it is, Mrs. Stitchley," said Mrs. Bindle, conscious of a sense of impending disaster.

"The wicked man, the cruel, heartless creature; but they're all the same, as I tell Stitchley, and him with a wife like you, Mrs. Bindle, to carry on with a young Jezebel like that, to – "

"Carry on with a young Jezebel!"

Mrs. Bindle's whole manner had changed. Her uprightness seemed to have become emphasised, and the grim look about her mouth had hardened into one of menace. Her eyes, hard as two pieces of steel, seemed to pierce through her visitor's brain. "What do you mean?" she demanded.

Instinctively Mrs. Stitchley recoiled.

"As I says to Stitchley – " she began, when Mrs. Bindle broke in.

"Never mind Mr. Stitchley," she snapped. "Tell me what you mean."

Mrs. Stitchley looked hurt. Things were not going exactly as she had planned. In the retailing of scandal, she was an artist, and she constructed her periods with a view to their dramatic effect upon her listener.

"Yes," she continued reminiscently, "'e's been a good 'usbindt 'as Stitchley. Never no gallivanting with other females. 'E's always said: 'Matilda, my dear, there won't never be another woman for me.' His very words, Mrs. Bindle, I assure you," and Mrs. Stitchley preened herself like a moth-eaten peacock.

"You were saying – " began Mrs. Bindle.

"To be sure, to be sure," said Mrs. Stitchley; "but we all 'ave our crosses to bear. The Lord will give you strength, Mrs. Bindle, just as He gave me strength when Stitchley lorst 'is leg. 'The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,'" she added enigmatically.

"Mrs. Stitchley," said Mrs. Bindle, rising with an air of decision, "I insist on your telling me what you mean."

"Ah! my dear," said Mrs. Stitchley, with an emotion in her voice that she usually kept for funerals, "I knew 'ow it would be. I says to Stitchley, 'Stitchley,' I says, 'that poor, dear woman will suffer. She was made for sufferin'. She's one of them gentle, tender lambs, that's trodden underfoot by the serpent's tooth of man's lust; but she will bear 'er cross.' Them was my very words, Mrs. Bindle," she added, indifferent to the mixture of metaphor.

Mrs. Bindle looked at her visitor helplessly. Her face was very white; but she realised Mrs. Stitchley's loquacity was undammable.

"A-takin' 'ome a young gal at two o'clock in the mornin', and then bein' asked in by 'er mother – and 'er father away at 'is work every night – and 'er not mor'n seventeen, and all the neighbours with their 'eads out of the windows, and 'er a-screechin' and askin' of 'er mother not to 'it 'er, and 'er sayin' 'Wait 'till I get you, my gal,' and callin' 'im an ole villain. 'E ought to be took up. I says to Stitchley, 'Stitchley,' I says, 'that man ought to be took up, an' it's only because of Lord George that 'e ain't.'"

"What do you mean?" Mrs. Bindle made an effort to control herself. "Who was it that took some one home at two o'clock in the morning?"

"You poor lamb," croaked Mrs. Stitchley, gazing up at Mrs. Bindle, whose unlamblike qualities were never more marked than at that moment. "You poor lamb. You're being deceived, Mrs. Bindle, cruelly and wickedly vilated. Your 'usbindt's carrying on with a young gal wot might 'ave been 'is daughter. Oh! the wickedness of this world, the – "

"I don't believe it."

Mrs. Stitchley started back. The words seemed almost to hit her in the face. She blinked her eyes uncertainly, as she looked at Mrs. Bindle, the embodiment of an outraged wife and a vengeful fury.

"I'm afraid I must be going, my dear," said Mrs. Stitchley; "but I felt I ought to tell you."

"Not until you've told me everything," said Mrs. Bindle, with decision, as she moved towards the door, "and you don't leave this room until you've explained what you mean."

Mrs. Stitchley turned round in her chair as Mrs. Bindle passed across the room, surprise and fear in her eyes.

"Lord a mercy me!" she cried. "Don't ee take on like that, Mrs. Bindle. 'E ain't worth it."

Then Mrs. Bindle proceeded to make it abundantly clear to Mrs. Stitchley that she required the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, without unnecessary circumlocution, verbiage, or obscuring metaphor.

At the end of five minutes she had reduced her visitor to a state of tearful compliance.

At first her periods halted; but she soon got into her stride and swung along with obvious enjoyment.

"My sister-in-law, not as she is my sister-in-law regler, Stitchley's father 'avin' married twice, 'is second bein' a widow with five of 'er own, an' 'er not twenty-nine at the time, reckless, I calls it. As I was sayin', Mrs. Coggles, 'er name's enough to give you a pain, an' the state of 'er 'ome, my dear – " Mrs. Stitchley raised her eyes to the ceiling as if words failed her.

"Well," she continued after a momentary pause, during which Mrs. Bindle looked at her without moving a muscle, "as I was sayin', Mrs. Coggles" – she shuddered slightly as she pronounced the name – "she lives in Arloes Road, No. 9, pink tie-ups to 'er curtains she 'as, an' that flashy in 'er dress. Well, well!" she concluded, as if Christian charity had come to her aid.

"She told me all about it. She was jest a-goin' to bed, bein' late on account of 'Ector, that's 'er seventh, ten months old an' still at the breast, disgustin' I calls it, 'avin' wot she thought was convulsions, an' 'earin' the row an' 'ubbub, she goes to the door an' sees everythink, an' that's the gospel truth, Mrs. Bindle, if I was to be struck down like Sulphira."

She then proceeded to give a highly elaborated and ornate account of Bindle's adventure of some six weeks previously. She accompanied her story with a wealth of detail, most of which was inaccurate, coupled with the assurance that the Lord and Mrs. Stitchley would undoubtedly do all in their power to help Mrs. Bindle in her hour of trial.

Finally, Mrs. Stitchley found herself walking down the little tiled path that led to the Bindles' outer gate, in her heart a sense of great injustice.

"Never so much as bite or sup," she mumbled, as she turned out of the gate, taking care to leave it open, "and me a-tellin' 'er all wot I told 'er. I've come across meanness in my time; but I never been refused a cup-o'-tea, an' me fatiguing myself something cruel to go an' tell 'er. I don't wonder he took up with that bit of a gal."

That night she confided in her husband. "Stitchley," she said, "there ain't never smoke without fire, you mark my words," and Stitchley, glancing up from his newspaper, enquired what the 'ell she was gassing about; but she made no comment beyond emphasising, once more, that he was to mark her words.

That afternoon, Mrs. Bindle worked with a vigour unusual even in her. She attacked the kitchen fire, hurled into the sink a flat-iron that had the temerity to get too hot, scrubbed boards that required no scrubbing, washed linoleum that was spotless, blackleaded where to blacklead was like painting the lily. In short, she seemed determined to exhaust her energies and her anger upon the helpless and inanimate things about her.

From time to time there burst from her closed lips a sound as of one who has difficulty in holding back her pent-up feelings.

At length, having cleaned everything that was cleanable, she prepared a cup-of-tea, which she drank standing. Then, removing her apron and taking her bonnet from the dresser-drawer, she placed it upon her head and adjusted the strings beneath her chin.

Without waiting for any other garment, she left the house and made direct for Arloes Road.

Twice she walked its length, subjecting to a careful scrutiny the house occupied by the Brungers, noting the windows with great care, and finding in them little to criticise. Then she returned to Fenton Street.

The fact of having viewed the actual scene of Bindle's perfidy seemed to corroborate Mrs. Stitchley's story. Before the storm was to be permitted to burst, however, Mrs. Bindle intended to make assurance doubly sure by, as she regarded it in her own mind, "catching him at it."

That night, she selected for her evening reading the chapter in the Bible which tells of the plagues of Egypt. Temporarily she saw herself in the roll of an outraged Providence, whilst for the part of Pharaoh she had cast Bindle, who, unaware of his impending doom, was explaining to Ginger at The Yellow Ostrich that a bigamist ought to be let off because "'e must be mad to 'ave done it."

III

Mrs. Bindle awaited the coming of Saturday evening with a grimness that caused Bindle more than once to regard her curiously. "There's somethink on the 'andle," he muttered prophetically; but as Mrs. Bindle made no sign and, furthermore, as she set before him his favourite dishes, he allowed speculation to become absorbed in appetite and enjoyment.

It was characteristic of Mrs. Bindle that, Bindle being more than usually under a cloud, she should take extra care in the preparation of his meals. It was her way of emphasising the difference between them; he the erring husband, she the perfect wife.

"I shan't be in to supper to-night, Lizzie," Bindle announced casually on the evening of what Mrs. Bindle had already decided was to be her day of wrath. He picked up his bowler-hat preparatory to making one of his lightning exits.

"Where are you going?" she demanded, hoping to trap him in a lie.

"When you gets yerself up dossy an' says you're goin' to chapel," he remarked, edging towards the door, "I says nothink at all, bein' a trustin' 'usband; so when I gets myself up ditto an' says I ain't goin' to chapel, you didn't ought to say nothink either, Mrs. B. Wot's sauce for the goose is – "

"You're a bad, black-hearted man, Bindle, and you know it."

The intensity of feeling with which the words were uttered surprised him.

"Don't you think you can throw dust – " She stopped suddenly, then concluded, "You'd better be careful."

"I am, Mrs. B.," he replied cheerily, "careful as careful."

Bindle had fallen into a habit of "dropping in" upon the Brungers on Saturday evenings, and for this purpose he had what he described as "a wash an' brush-up." This resolved itself into an entire change of raiment, as well as the customary "rinse" at the kitchen sink. This in itself confirmed Mrs. Stitchley's story.

"Well, s'long," said Bindle, as he opened the kitchen door. "Keep the 'ome fires burnin'," and with that he was gone.

Bindle had learned from past experience that the more dramatic his exit the less likelihood there was of Mrs. Bindle scoring the final dialectical point.

This evening, however, she had other and weightier matters for thought – and action. No sooner had the kitchen door closed than, moving swiftly across to the dresser, she pulled open a drawer, and drew out her dark brown mackintosh and bonnet. With swift, deft movements she drew on the one, and tied the strings of the other beneath her chin. Then, without waiting to look in the mirror over the mantelpiece, she passed into the passage and out of the hall door.

She was just in time to see Bindle disappear round the corner. Without a moment's hesitation she followed.

Unconscious that Mrs. Bindle, like Nemesis, was dogging his steps, Bindle continued his way until finally he turned into Arloes Road. On reaching the second lamp-post he gave vent to a peculiarly shrill whistle. As he opened the gate that led to a neat little house, the front door opened, and a young girl ran down the path and clasped his arm. It was obvious that she had been listening for the signal. A moment later they entered the house together.

For a few seconds Mrs. Bindle stood at the end of the road, staring at the door that had closed behind them. Her face was white and set, and a grey line of grimness marked the spot where her lips had disappeared. She had noted that the girl was pretty, with fair hair that clung about her head in wanton little tendrils and, furthermore, that it was bound with a broad band of light green ribbon.

"The villain!" she muttered between set teeth, as she turned and proceeded to retrace her steps. "I'll show him."

Arrived back at Fenton Street, she went straight upstairs and proceeded to make an elaborate toilet. A little more than an hour later the front door once more closed behind her, and Mrs. Bindle proceeded upon her way, buttoning her painfully tight gloves, conscious that sartorially she was a triumph of completeness.

IV

"An' 'as 'er Nibs been a good gal all the week?" Bindle paused in the act of raising a glass of ale to his lips.

"I have, mums, haven't I?" Elsie Brunger broke in, without giving her mother a chance to reply.

Mrs. Brunger nodded. The question had caught her at a moment when her mouth was overfull of fried plaice and potatoes.

"That's the ticket," said Bindle approvingly. "No bein' out late an' gettin' 'ome with the milk, or" – he paused impressively – "I gets another gal, see?"

By this time Mrs. Brunger had reduced the plaice and potatoes to conversational proportions.

"She's been helping me a lot in the house, too," she said from above a white silk blouse that seemed determined to show how much there really was of Mrs. Brunger.