CHAPTER III

MRS. BINDLE ENTERTAINS

I

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

She gazed at the mid-Victorian riot about her with obvious pride; it constituted her holy of holies. Upon it she had laboured for days with soap-and-water and furniture-polish, with evergreen and coloured candles, to render it worthy of the approaching festivity. She had succeeded only in emphasising its uncompromising atmosphere of coldness and angularity.

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

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

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

"Funny thing you can't be clean without stinkin' like this," he had mumbled that morning, as he sniffed the air, reeking of turpentine with an 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 the refreshments: 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 was Mrs. Bindle's masterpiece, a tribute alike to earth and to heaven. On the jam, in letters contrived out of strips of pastry, appeared the exhortation, "Prepare to Meet Thy God."

Bindle had gasped at the sight of this superlative work of art and religion. "That's a funny sort o' way to give a cove a appetite," he had murmured. "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 of bananas, 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 dubiously at 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 miss the fire-place yet."

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

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

By inviting some of the more humble members of the choir, those on a higher 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; but even that, she decided, would be an asset.

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

Christmas was near at hand, and for weeks past the choir had been working 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 reason of his presence.

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

"We shan't want no coals, Mrs. B., with all that 'ot stuff we got a-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 a bit 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," he demurred, "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 no kissin'?" he persisted, looking about him with unwonted despondency.

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

"But wot's the use of an 'armonium," he complained. "You can't play 'unt the 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 way of explanation.

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

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

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

"You're not asked to sing. You can go out and spend the evening swearing and drinking with your low companions." She moved over to the mantelpiece, and adjusted one of her beloved pink candles. "You'd only spoil 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 a pussyfoot than play an 'arp."

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

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

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

II

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

"That's all right, 'Op-o'-my-thumb. A dozen it is," she heard Bindle remark to someone in the outer darkness. There was a shrill "Good-night," and Bindle entered the kitchen from the scullery, carrying a 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 with assumed 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. Why did 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 of the dresser. "Nothink like 'avin' a bottle or two up yer sleeve."

"Why have you got your best suit on?" She regarded with disapproval the blue suit and red necktie Bindle was wearing. Her eyes dropped to the white cuffs that only a careful manipulation of his thumbs prevented from 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 and low talk."

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

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

"But I want to 'ear the music," he protested. "P'raps I'll get to like carols if I 'ear enough of 'em," he added, with the air of one who announces 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 eyeing the bottles of beer. "I suppose you're up to some devilment. It wouldn't be you to let me enjoy myself."

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

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

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

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

"Ole Ging is all right," Bindle assured her, as he proceeded to fetch four more bottles from the scullery. "All you got to do is to give 'im some 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 coves wot 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 run round an' keep me company, and Wilkie may drop in if 'e ain't too busy coughin'; but they shan't get mixed up with the canaries--they won't want to after wot I'm goin' to tell 'em, an' we'll all be as quiet as mice."

"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't a-goin' to allow----"

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

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

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

"Well, well!" he sighed philosophically, "I suppose you can't 'ave everythink, as the cove said when 'e found the lodger 'ad gone orf with 'is trousers on Bank 'Oliday," and he proceeded to gather together two cracked tumblers, which had been censored by Mrs. Bindle as unfit for her guests, a large white mug, with a pink band and the remains of a view 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, picking up a meat-dish from the dresser, he slipped into the parlour, returning a moment later with it piled with rock-cakes, sandwiches and sausage-rolls. These he hid on the bottom shelf of the dresser, placing a pair of boots in front of them.

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

For the next ten minutes, Mrs. Bindle was busy conducting her guests upstairs to "take off their things." Their escorts waited in the passage, clearing their throats, or stroking their chins. Convention demanded that they should wait to make a formal entry into the parlour with their wives.

With his ear pressed against the kitchen door, Bindle listened with interest, endeavouring to identify from their voices the arrivals as they passed.

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

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

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 social gatherings was always a period of anguish and uncertainty. Although everybody knew everybody else, all were constrained and ill-at-ease.

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

Mrs. Hearty, who began in a bright blue satin blouse, and ended in canary-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 garrulous and with a purpose. She was bent upon talking down the consciousness that she had not been invited.

Her excuse for coming, at least the excuse she made to herself, was that of chaperoning her daughter, a near-sighted, shapeless girl, with no chest and a muddy complexion, who never had and never would require such an attention.

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

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

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

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

After a quarter-of-an-hour's endeavour to exchange the ideas which none of them possessed, Mrs. Bindle moved over to Mr. Hearty and whispered something, at the same time glancing across at the harmonium. There was an immediate look of interest and expectancy on faces which, a moment before, had been blank and apathetic.

Mr. Goslett, a little man with high cheekbones and a criminal taste in neckwear, cleared his throat; Mr. Hearty surreptitiously slipped into his mouth an acid drop, which he had just taken from his waistcoat pocket; Mr. Dykes, a long, thin man, who in his youth had been known to his 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 beloved instrument. Mrs. Stitchley made it clear that she expected her daughter, Mabel, to be asked. Mrs. Bindle, however, decided that Mrs. Snarch, a colourless woman who sang contralto (her own contralto) and sniffed when she was not singing contralto, should preside; her influence with her fellow-members of the choir was likely to be greater. Thus in the first ten minutes Mrs. Bindle scored two implacable enemies and one dubious friend.

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

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

Then they joined together in song.

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

This evening it proved an enormous success.

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

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

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

"I'm musical, my dear," she would say. "It's in the fambly; but I don't sing, I 'as spasms, you know." She volunteered this information much as a man might seek to excuse his inability to play the French horn by explaining that he is addicted to bass viol.

"Now that's what I call a carol," said Mrs. Stitchley, endeavouring to prevent the upper portion of her stay-busk from burying itself in her flesh. Then, with sudden inspiration, she cried, "Encore! Encore!" and made a motion to clap her hands; but the stay-busk took the opportunity of 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 about Mrs. Stitchley's stay-busk. The word "encore," however, had given them an 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 pleased acquiescence. Everybody was determined to put a little bit more into the encore than into the original rendering. There was only one dissentient voice, that of Mr. Dykes, who was eager for "The First Noël," which gave him such a chance for individual effort. When out with the Chapel Christmas singers, Mr. Dykes had been known to awaken as many as six streets 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 was awaiting an opportunity to bring from her pocket a half-quartern bottle containing what, if she had been caught drinking it, she would have described as clove-water, taken medicinally.

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

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

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

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

Throughout the evening her ears had been keenly alert for sounds from the kitchen; but beyond a suppressed hum of voices, she could detect nothing; still she was ill-at-ease. If Mrs. Hearty, for instance, knew that 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 to learn. She was a good cook and delighted in providing well for those she entertained. Her sausage-rolls, straightforward affairs in which the sausage had something more than a walking-on part, were famous among her friends. Her blanc-mange, jam puffs, rock-cakes, and sandwiches had already established her reputation with those who had been privileged to taste them. She basked in the sunshine of the praise lavished on what she provided. Without it she would have felt that her party was a failure.

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 she took, 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 had arrested her hand. Others heard it too, and the hum of conversation died away into silence, broken only by Mr. Hearty's mastication of a sausage-roll.

Through the dividing wall came the sound of a concertina. Mrs. Bindle put 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 a pounding as if someone were hurling bricks about.

After that came silence; but for the hum of conversation, above which rose 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 of Mrs. Bindle's face hardened, and the lines of her mouth became grim. Her first 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, and Mr. Hearty's mastication was once more heard in their midst. Mr. Hearty always ate with relish.

Unobserved by Mrs. Bindle, Mrs. Hearty stole out of the parlour on her way to investigate; a minute later Mrs. Stitchley followed. The solitude of 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 pressing invitation to refresh themselves still further, that they "really couldn'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's refreshments had taken the edge off their singing. Miss Stitchley had lost much of her shrillness, Mrs. Bindle was less sharp and Mr. Hearty more 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 many of Mrs. Bindle's sausage-rolls he wouldn't be able to sing at all. Only Miss Death was up to form, her shrill soprano still cleaving the atmosphere like a javelin.

As the last chords of the carol died away, the concertina in the kitchen took up the running, followed a minute later by the same voice as before, singing nasally about the adventures of a particularly rollicking set of boon-companions who knew neither care nor curfew.

At the first sound, Mrs. Bindle moved swiftly to the door, where she paused uncertainly. She was in a quandary. Her conception of good manners did not admit of a hostess leaving her guests; still something had to be done.

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

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 was the curious banging sound which Mrs. Bindle had noticed before. She was sure she recognised amid the cries of approval, the sound of a woman's voice. 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 gazing blankly 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 of the most dramatic moments of her life was at hand.

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

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

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

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

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

As Mrs. Bindle appeared at the kitchen door, the concertina once more began to speak. A moment later the musician threw back his head and gave tongue, 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 a full-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 there could be no doubt about the enthusiasm of the singers. Mrs. Hearty spilled beer over her blue satin bosom, as a result of the energy with which she beat time; Mrs. Stitchley's hand, the one not grasping her stay-busk, was also beating time, different time from Mrs. Hearty's, whilst two light-coloured knees rose and fell with the regularity of piston-rods, solving for Mrs. Bindle the mystery of the sounds like the tossing 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 that someone was behind her. She turned to find Miss Stitchley standing at her shoulder. A moment later she realised that the little passage was overflowing with carol-singers.

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

The second chorus still further complicated matters. Mrs. Bindle was sure she heard the haunting refrain mumbled from behind her. She turned quickly; but treason came from the other direction. Suddenly Miss Stitchley burst into song, and the passage, throwing aside its hesitation, 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, who glanced up casually at the mistress of the house. Art Wiggins was accustomed to feminine worship and unlimited beer; he regarded them as the natural tributes to his genius.

"Come in, the 'ole lot," cried Bindle cheerily, as he proceeded to unscrew the stopper of a bottle. "'Ave a wet, Art," he cried, addressing the 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 over to the enemy.

"Now this," remarked Mrs. Stitchley to Ginger a quarter-of-an-hour later, "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 endless cigarettes, chewing the remainder; he drank beer like a personified Sahara, 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 had achieved 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'll pick it up."

The result was that Art played something strongly reminiscent of "Bubbles," whilst Mrs. Stitchley was telling how she had heard the mavis singing, 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 about a young man of the name of Bert, who had become enamoured of a lady whose abbreviated petticoats made an excellent rhyme for the hero's name.

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

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

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

They came out particularly strong in the choruses.

III

"I never remember sich a evenin', my dear," was Mrs. Stitchley's valediction. "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 to add 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 she herself had seen and heard, Mrs. Bindle closed the door and returned to the kitchen.

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

As a rule he could anticipate Mrs. Bindle's mood; but to-night he was frankly puzzled. When he had asked Huggles and Wilkes to drop in "for a jaw," 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 be expected to foresee that Art went nowhere without his concertina. It was as much part of him as his elaborate quiff.

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

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

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

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

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

Bindle's remark was like a shot fired at a waterspout, Mrs. Bindle's wrath 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 me before all those people. What must they think, seein' me married to one who 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 'ere to-night. You never been a proper 'usband to me. Here have I been toiling and moiling, inching and pinching, working my fingers to the bone 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 will they say at the Chapel? They know all about you, whistling on Sundays and spending your time in public-houses, while your wife is working herself 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 your home? They'll see how you respect your wife."

Still Bindle made no retort; but in a subdued murmur hummed "Gospel Bells," Mrs. Bindle's favourite hymn, which he used as a snake-charmer uses 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." Her voice was rising hysterically. "One of these days I shall go out and never return, and then you'll be----"

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

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

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

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 final scream, she slipped from her chair to the floor, where she lay moaning and sobbing.

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

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

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

Presently, she straightened herself. She moved, then struggling up into a sitting position, she looked about her. The unaccustomed smell assailed 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 with anxiety.

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

"Done wot on purpose?" he enquired.

"Poured vinegar all over me and soaked me to the skin. You've spoilt my dress. You----" and with a characteristically sudden movement, she turned and fled from the room and upstairs, banging the door with a ferocity 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 very obvious morning-after-the-party aspect. His object was to give Mrs. Bindle an opportunity of returning. He knew her to be incapable of going to bed with her kitchen untidy.

He ate a sausage-roll and a piece of the admonitory jam-tart, listening keenly for sounds of Mrs. Bindle descending the stairs. Finally he seated himself on the stamped-plush couch and absent-mindedly lighted his pipe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well! did you hear?"

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

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

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

That night Bindle slept indifferently well.