Bindle: Some Chapters in the Life of Joseph Bindle, Herbert George Jenkins [love letters to the dead TXT] 📗

The Bindles were late. The invitation had been for seven o'clock, and it was fully half-past seven when they arrived. They were admitted by the maid-of-all-work, resplendent in a befrilled cap and apron. Bindle winked at her, the girl giggled, and Mrs. Bindle glared.

When Mr. and Mrs. Bindle were announced, a hush fell upon the fifteen or twenty guests who sat in rigid attitudes round the Heartys' drawing-room. Conversation had been carried on in constrained and self-conscious undertones. Milly, looking very pretty in a simple white frock with an orange sash, ran across to greet the newcomers, kissing her uncle heartily and Mrs. Bindle dutifully.

"My!" said Bindle, "ain't we pretty to-night. You an' me'll go off with the biscuit, Millikins." Then he added, after surveying the circle of vacant faces, "Looks to me as if they want a bit o' ginger.

"'Ullo, 'Earty," said Bindle, advancing towards his brother-in-law, "sorry we're late, but the coachman was drunk."

Mr. Hearty shuddered.

As he led the Bindles round the room, introducing them with great elaboration to each and every guest, he marvelled at Bindle's clothes. He himself wore a black frock-coat, very shiny at the edges, with trousers that seemed far too long and hung in folds over his boots.

"'Ullo, Martha," Bindle cried, regarding Mrs. Hearty, whose ample person was clothed in a black skirt and a pale yellow bodice, the neck of which was cut in a puritan "V." "You looks like a little canary-bird." Then bending down and regarding her earnestly: "Yes, I'm blowed! why, there's two chins wot I ain't seen before."

Whereat Mrs. Hearty collapsed into ripples and wheezes. Bindle was the only self-possessed person in the room. He regarded his fellow-guests with keen interest, noted the odour of camphor and mustiness and the obvious creases in the men's coats. "Smells like a pawn-shop," he muttered. Then he came to the Rev. Mr. Sopley, a gaunt, elderly man, with ragged beard that covered his entire face, save the cheeks which, like two little hillocks of flesh, peeped out from a riot of whiskered undergrowth.

"'Ow are yer, sir?" asked Bindle.

Mr. Sopley raised a pair of agonised eyes. Before he had time to reply Mr. Hearty had dragged Bindle on to the next guest.

"Who's 'e?" enquired Bindle in a hoarse whisper, easily heard by everyone in the room. "'E seems to 'ave sort o' let his face grow wild."

Mr. Hearty, who had completed the introductions, coughed loudly.

"Won't you have an orange, Joseph?" he enquired.

Bindle came to a dead stop.

"'Ave a wot?" he asked with great emphasis. "'Ave a wot?"

"An—an—orange, or—or—perhaps you'd sooner have an apple?" Mr. Hearty was painfully nervous.

"Now look 'ere, 'Earty," said Bindle, taking his brother-in-law by the lapel of his coat, "do I look like oranges? Me wot 'asn't got a bib wi' me."

Mr. Hearty looked about him. Everybody seemed to be looking at Bindle with marked disapproval. Bindle, on the other hand, gazed about him with manifest appreciation.

Mrs. Hearty's drawing-room was in its gala attire. From the gasolier in the centre chains of coloured paper were festooned to the corners of the room. Two large bunches of artificial flowers had been carefully dusted and renovated and placed in ornaments on the mantel-piece, at each corner of which stood a rather insignificant-looking lustre containing a large pink candle. In the fireplace were white shavings through which ran threads of gold tinsel. On a mahogany sideboard was the first-aid equipment, the preliminary to the more elaborate refreshments to be served in the dining-room.

There were oranges and apples cut into halves, a pineapple, uncut, and which it was Mr. Hearty's intention never should be cut, a large plate of bananas, another of almonds and raisins, several plates of sweets, which seemed anxious to challenge their hardness against the teeth of those courageous enough to attack them, three different kinds of nuts, some syphons, and two large jugs of home-made lemonade. There were also plates of figs and oval boxes of dates, looking ashamed of their own stickiness, and two high piles of blue and white plates.

As Bindle surveyed the refreshments he gave vent to an involuntary sigh.

"There are times," he muttered, "when I wishes I was the brother-in-law of a bloomin' drunkard."

Mr. Hearty was anxious. He moved from one guest to another, to some merely baring his teeth, to others uttering a few meaningless phrases. Mrs. Hearty sat still, breathing heavily. Her favourite topic of conversation was her breath, vast quantities of which were expended in explaining how little of it she possessed.

Millie flitted about like a disappointed butterfly, finding no place where she might rest and fold her wings.

At the suggestion of Mr. Hearty two maiden ladies essayed a pianoforte duet, but with marked unsuccess. They seemed unable to get off together. After several unsuccessful attempts Bindle walked over to the piano.

"Look 'ere," he remarked, "I'll be starter. When I say 'three,' off yer go like giddy-o."

Without a word the duettists rose from the piano and returned to their seats, their heads held high. Bindle looked at them in wonderment. A silence had fallen over the whole room. Mr. Sopley looked at the culprit with an agonised expression, or, as Bindle afterwards expressed it, "Like a calf wot's lost 'is mother and found a nanny-goat, an' wonders wot 'e'll do at tea-time."

After a whispered conversation between Millie and Mr. Hearty, they both bore down upon Mr. Flinders, a small man seated next to a very large wife, and began an animated conversation with him in undertones. Mr. Hearty was genial, Millie pleading, and Mr. Flinders protesting and shrinking. Mrs. Flinders eventually terminated the discussion by giving his arm an upward push, accompanied by a whispered, "Yes, George, do," whereat George did. He walked towards the piano, looking back at his wife and protesting all the while.

Bindle started clapping loudly, which still further embarrassed the victim. After much preparation and searching for music, Millie played the opening chords of "Queen of the Earth," peering anxiously forward at the music, praying that she should make no mistake. Mr. Flinders was an excellent grocer, but a bad singer. His voice was weak and erratic. Each time he reached the chorus, in which everybody joined in various keys, Bindle in no key at all, it was as if a drowning man were making a last despairing effort to reach the shore.

At the conclusion of the song things seemed to sink back again into the slough from which Mr. Flinders had valiantly rescued them.

Unconsciously Mr. Hearty was defeating his object and infecting his guests with his own nervousness. Every time he moved across the room he was followed by the eyes of the whole assembly. It seemed that only one thing was capable of happening at a time. When Millie brought in her Persian kitten, "Tibbins," everyone became absorbed in it. Those who were not near enough to stroke and caress it turned to each other almost eagerly and said how pretty it was, and what a beautiful tail it had.

When Tibbins showed with voice and claw that it had exhausted any capacity for interest that the company may have possessed for it, and had been let out, another terrible silence fell upon the room. In desperation Mr. Hearty seized a plate of figs and another of half-oranges and handed them round to everyone in turn. Again interest centred in him. Those who had refused watched with the keenest interest those who were about to refuse, and Mr. Hearty returned the plates to the sideboard without having disembarrassed them of a single fig or half-orange.

In desperation he took a fig himself and began to eat it. Suddenly he became conscious that all eyes were upon him, watching each bite and every movement of the curiously large adam's-apple in his throat, which always jumped about so when he ate. Nervously he picked up a plate and placed the remains of the fig upon it, wishing he had not taken it.

Suddenly he had an inspiration. "We must have a game," he said with ponderous geniality, putting down the plate containing the half-eaten fig. "We'll play 'Here We Go Looping, Looping.'" With unaccustomed energy and much labour and persuasion he marshalled all his guests in a ring, all save Mrs. Hearty and Mr. Sopley.

After much persuasion, arrangement, and explanation, the ring was got into joyless motion, the guests droning:

"Here we go looping, looping.
Here we go looping light.
Here we go looping, looping.
Looping all the night.
Put your noses in,
Put your noses out,
Shake them a little, a little, a little.
And then turn round about."

When they had shaken "a little, a little, a little" such portions of their anatomy as Mr. Hearty thought it quite proper to mention, the game ended with the same mirthlessness with which it had begun, and the players resumed their seats with an air that seemed to say, "We are our host's guests and must do as he bids us."

"They none of 'em seems to know wot to do wi' their 'ands," whispered Bindle to Millie. "They're a rummy crowd. 'Earty must 'ave 'ad a rare job to pick up such a little lot."

An awkward silence fell over the room.

"'Ave you ever played Kiss-in-the-ring, or Postman's-knock, sir?" enquired Bindle of Mr. Sopley, at a moment when all attempts at conversation seemed to have languished.

Mr. Sopley raised his eyes, and Mr. Hearty moved swiftly to his assistance. At that moment the door opened and a fair-haired young man, wearing the turndown collar and white tie of nonconformity, entered. For a moment Mr. Hearty hesitated between his desire to save Mr. Sopley and his duties as host, then with sudden decision threw his pastor overboard, and turned to welcome the new arrival.

At the Alton Road Chapel a week's mission had been held by a young missionary, whose remarkable preaching had been the sensation of the hour. Mr. Hearty had summoned up sufficient courage to invite him to the party, and the Rev. Edward Winch had accepted with a cordiality which still further increased Mr. Hearty's embarrassment.

When the ceremony of introduction and greeting was over, Mr. Winch seated himself between Mr. Sopley and Bindle, who had been much interested to hear that the new arrival was a missionary.

"Do yer live in the jungle, sir?" enquired Bindle of Mr. Winch.

"Well, I live in the interior, miles away from any other white men," replied Mr. Winch. "Why do you ask?"

Bindle was thoughtful for a moment.

"Did yer 'appen to take a double-bed with yer, sir?" enquired Bindle.

"A double-bed?" Mr. Winch looked surprised. "Why, no."

Mr. Hearty coughed, Mr. Sopley lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if seeking explanation from heaven. Mrs. Hearty wheezed, and Mrs. Bindle's lips entirely disappeared. Bindle looked round at the embarrassed faces.

"I only knew one missionary," he remarked, "an' 'e wanted to take a double-bed into the jungle. Seemed a bit funny like——"

"You must have some lemonade," interrupted Mr. Hearty with forced geniality.

Mr. Winch smilingly declined, then turning to Bindle, he said:

"No, I have a camp-bedstead, which does not err on the side of luxury or comfort."

Bindle liked this young man with the blue eyes and ready laugh. After watching him for some time, he remarked:

"Yer seem sort of 'appy, sir, if I may say so."

"I am," replied Mr. Winch with a smile.

"Funny," murmured Bindle, half to himself, "an' you a parson, leastwise a missionary."

"But what has that got to do with it?" Mr. Winch looked at Bindle in surprise.

Bindle cast his eyes round the room. "They don't look wot yer'd call a jolly crowd, do they? Look at ole Woe an' Whiskers." Bindle's glance left no doubt in Mr. Winch's mind as to whom he referred.

The missionary bit his lip to hide a smile.

"Mr. Sopley has had a lot of trouble," he said quietly.

"It seems to 'ave gone to 'is face," was Bindle's comment. "'E might be a bigamist from the look of 'im."

Mr. Winch laughed aloud. "Why?" he asked.

"You married?" enquired Bindle.

"No."

"Yer'll know when yer are," was the laconic reply.

The arrival of Mr. Winch seemed to transform the whole assembly. He and Bindle quickly became the leaders of the revels. Faces that had hitherto been shrouded in gloom broke into slow and hesitant smiles. Several of the men laughed, arguing that if so devout a man as Mr. Winch could find it in him to laugh, as he very frequently did, then surely they, being merely laymen, might allow themselves the same privilege.

It was Mr. Winch who