Mrs. Bindle Part 47

"They said," she paused as if hesitating to repeat what the youth of Fenton Street had called after her. Then, as if determined to convict Bindle of all the sins possible, she continued, "They called after me all the way up Fenton Street----" again she paused.

"Yes, Aunt Lizzie."

"They called 'Mrs. Bindle turns a spindle.'"

Millie bent quickly forward that her involuntary smile might not be detected.

"They never call out after him," Mrs. Bindle added, as if that in itself were conclusive proof of Bindle's guilt. "And now I must be going, Millie," and she rose and once more bent down to gaze where Joseph the Second slept the sleep of an easy conscience and a good digestion.

"Bless his little heart," she murmured, for the moment forgetting her own troubles in the contemplation of the sleeping babe. "I hope he doesn't grow up like his uncle," she added, her thoughts rushing back precipitately to their customary channel.

"I'm going to have a talk with Uncle Joe," said Millie, as she followed her aunt along the pa.s.sage, "and then----" she paused.

"You'd talk the hind leg off a donkey before you'd make any impression on him," was the ungracious retort. "Good night, Millie, I'm glad you're getting on with your cooking," and Mrs. Bindle pa.s.sed out into the night to the solitude of her own thoughts, populated exclusively by Bindle and his shortcomings.

II

"I haven't told Charley, Uncle Joe, so be careful," whispered Millie, as Bindle hung up his hat in the hall.

"'Aven't told 'im wot, Millie?"

"That--that----" she hesitated.

"I get you Steve," he cried, with a knowing wink, "you ain't told 'im 'ow you're goin' to make yer Aunt Lizzie the silent wife of Fulham."

"Now, Uncle Joe," she admonished with pouting lips, "you promised. You will be careful, won't you?" She had spent two hours the previous night coaching Bindle in the part he was to play.

"Reg'lar dove I am to-night," he said cheerily. "I could lay an egg, only I don't know wot colour it ought to be."

Millie gazed at him for a few seconds in quizzical doubt, then, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, and a pout that was very popular with Charley, she turned and led the way into the drawing-room.

Charley Dixon was doing his best to make conversation with his aunt-in-law; but Mrs. Bindle's monosyllabic methods proved a serious obstacle.

"Now we'll have supper," cried Millie, after Bindle had greeted Charley and gazed a little doubtfully at Mrs. Bindle. He seemed on the point of making some remark; but apparently thought better of it, instead he turned to admire an ornament on the mantelpiece. He had remembered just in time.

Millie had spread herself upon the supper. There was a small cold chicken that seemed desirous of shrinking within itself; a salad in a gla.s.s bowl, with a nickel-silver fork and spoon adorned with blue china handles; a plate of ham well garnished with parsley; a beef-steak and kidney pie, cold, also garnished with parsley; some pressed beef and tongue, of a thinness that advertised the professional hand which had cut it.

On the sideboard was an infinity of tarts, blanc-mange, stewed fruit and custard. With all the recklessness of a young housewife, Millie had prepared for four what would have been ample for fourteen.

It was this fact that first attracted Mrs. Bindle's attention. Her keen eyes missed nothing. She examined the knives and spoons, identifying them as wedding presents. She lifted the silver pepper-castor, a trifle, light as air, examined the texture of the tablecloth and felt the napkins with an appraising thumb and forefinger, and mentally deprecated the lighting of the two pink candles, in silver candlesticks with yellow shades, in the centre of the table.

Millie fluttered about, acutely conscious of her responsibilities and flushed with anxiety.

"I hope--I hope," she began, addressing her aunt. "I--I hope you will like it."

"You must have worked very hard, Millie," said Mrs. Bindle, an unusual gentleness in her voice, whereat Millie flushed.

Bindle and Charley were soon at work upon the beef-steak and kidney pie, hot potatoes and beans. Bindle had nearly fallen at the first hurdle. In the heat of an argument with Charley as to what was the matter with the Chelsea football team, he had indiscreetly put a large piece of potato into his mouth without realising its temperature. A look of agony overspread his features. He was just in the act of making a preliminary forward motion to return the potato from whence it came, when Charley, with a presence of mind that would have brought tears to Bindle's eyes, had they not already been there, indicated the gla.s.s of beer in front of him.

With a swoop Bindle seized it, raised it to his lips, and cooled the heated tuber. Pulling his red silk handkerchief from his breast-pocket, he mopped up the tears just as Mrs. Bindle turned her gaze upon him.

"Don't make me laugh, Charley," he cried with inspiration, "or I'll choke," at which Charley laughed in a way that proved him entirely devoid of histrionic talent.

"I'll do as much for you one o' these days, Charley," Bindle whispered, looking reproachfully at the remains of the potato that had betrayed him. "My Gawd! It was 'ot," he muttered under his breath. "Look out for yourself an' 'ave beer 'andy."

He turned suddenly to Mrs. Bindle. In his heart there was an uncharitable hope that she too might be caught in the toils from which he had just escaped; but Mrs. Bindle ate like a book on etiquette. She held her knife and fork at the extreme end of the handles, her elbows pressed well into her sides, and literally toyed with her food.

After each mouthful, she raised her napkin to her lips, giving the impression that it was in constant movement, either to or from her lips.

She took no table risks. She saw to it that every piece of food was carefully attached to the fork before she raised it from the plate, and never did fork carry a lighter load than hers. After each journey, both knife and fork were laid on her plate, the napkin--Mrs. Bindle referred to it as a serviette--raised to her unsoiled lips, and she touched neither knife nor fork again until her jaws had entirely ceased working.

Between her visits to the kitchen, Millie laboured desperately to inveigle her aunt into conversation; but although Mrs. Bindle possessed much religious and domestic currency, she had no verbal small change.

During the afternoon, Millie had exhausted domesticity and herself alike--and there had been Joseph the Second. Mrs. Bindle did not read, they had no common friends, she avoided the pictures, and what she did see in the newspapers she so disapproved of as to close that as a possible channel of conversation.

"Aunt Lizzie," cried Millie in desperation for something to say, "you aren't making a good supper."

"I'm doing very nicely, thank you, Millie," said Mrs. Bindle, who in a quarter of an hour had managed to envelop about two square inches of ham and three shreds of lettuce.

"You don't like the ham, Aunt Lizzie," protested the hospitable Millie; "have some pie."

"It's very nice, thank you, Millie," was the prim reply. "I'm enjoying it," and she proceeded to dissect a piece of lettuce to a size that even a "prunes and prisms" mouth might have taken without inconvenience.

"Charley," cried Millie presently. "I won't have you talking football with Uncle Joe. Talk to Aunt Lizzie."

A moment later she realized her mistake. Bindle returned to his plate, Charley looked at his aunt doubtfully, and conversation lay slain.

"Listen," cried Millie who, at the end of five minutes, thought she must either say something, or scream. "That's Joey, run up and see, Charley, there's a dear"--she knew it was not Joey.

Charley rose dutifully, and once more silence descended upon the table.

"Aunt Lizzie, you _are_ making a poor meal," cried Millie, genuinely distressed, as Mrs. Bindle placed her knife and fork at the "all clear"

angle, although she had eaten less than half what her plate contained.

"I've done very nicely, thank you, Millie, and I've enjoyed it."

Millie sighed. Her eyes wandered from the heavily-laden table to the sideboard, and she groaned in spirit. In spite of what Bindle and Charley had done, and were doing, there seemed such a lot that required to be eaten, and she wondered whether Charley would very much mind having cold meat, blanc-mange and jam tarts for the rest of the week.

"It wasn't him, Millie," said Charley, re-entering the room, and returning to his plate with the air of one determined to make up for the time he had lost in parental solicitude, whilst Bindle pushed his own plate from him as a sign that, so far as the first round was concerned, he had nothing more to say.

"You're very quiet to-night, Uncle Joe," said Millie, the soul of hospitality within her already weeping bitter tears.

"Me?" cried Bindle, starting and looking about him. "I ain't quiet, Millie," and then he relapsed once more into silence.

Charley did not seem to notice anything unusual. In his gentle, good-natured way he hoped that Millie would not again ask him to talk to Aunt Lizzie.

Mrs. Bindle partook, no other word adequately describes the action, of an open jam tart with the aid of a spoon and fork, from time to time sipping daintily from her gla.s.s of lemonade; but she refused all else.

She had made an excellent meal, she repeatedly a.s.sured Millie, and had enjoyed it.