CHAPTER XX
MILLIE LEAVES HOME
Bindle's visits to "the pictures" with Millie had become a weeklyinstitution. Mr. Hearty had made several tentative attempts tointerfere. He had mentioned more than once the evil influence of thecinema, and had called attention to paragraphs in the newspapers andthe remarks of magistrates in support of his view. Bindle had,however, been firm, inspired by the fear and appeal he saw in Millie'seyes.
"Look 'ere, 'Earty," he would say, "I'm an ole warrior. You an' myLittle Rosebud at 'ome 'ave 'elped me, an' there ain't a known sin thatI can't dodge. Millie's all right wi' me. When they kiss I 'olds me'at over 'er eyes."
Millie would blush, and Mr. Hearty, who was never equal to Bindle'spersistent good-humour and racy speech, would allow the matter to drop.
A great change had come over Millie. She was gayer and brighter, herlaugh was more frequently heard, and she seemed to be developingopinions of her own. In her dress she was more extravagant, althoughalways neat and refined.
Mr. Hearty became conscious of the change. His eyes were often uponhis daughter, and his slow-moving brain at work seeking for someexplanation of this new phenomenon.
Had he been told of the happiness that had come into her life, he wouldhave been unable to understand it working so great a change. He wouldalso have disapproved, for to his narrow faith any happiness thatsprang from association of the opposite sexes, however innocent, wasthe happiness of sin.
In a passive way Mrs. Hearty also had noticed the change. She had evengone to the length of remarking upon it to Bindle.
"She's growin' into a woman, Martha," had been Bindle's diagnosis; "an'an uncommon pretty woman, too. I s'pose she gets it from 'Earty," headded, whereat Mrs. Hearty had subsided into waves of mirth.
At first Bindle had been in some doubt as to the wisdom of his actionin encouraging the romance between the young lovers; but as itprogressed and he saw their devotion and Millie's happiness, allscruples vanished.
"I may be a silly ole fool," he muttered to himself one night as heleft the radiant Milly at her door, "but I'm 'elpin' them two kids tobe 'appy, an' after all, 'appiness is the thing wot matters. If yercan get it through lookin' into a gal's eyes, it's better'n gettin' itthrough lookin' into a beer-glass. I'd sooner be 'appy than drunk anyday."
Unconsciously Bindle had stumbled upon a great truth.
At first Millie's "evenin' out," as Bindle called it, was spent at alocal cinema, Bindle conveniently disappearing until ten o'clock, whenhe would take Millie home. Later, however, walks and rides onomnibuses took the place of "the pictures" in the evening'sentertainment.
Several times Millie and Charlie Dixon begged Bindle to accompany them,but he had always resolutely refused.
"Look 'ere, young feller, yer wouldn't 'ave a look in wi' Millie if Iwas there. Ain't that so, Millikins?" And Millie would hang on toBindle's arm with both hands and give a little jump of joy.
One evening when Bindle arrived at the cinema at a few minutes to ten,he saw Charlie Dixon there alone, obviously in a state of greatexcitement.
"'Ullo, Charlie!" said Bindle, "wot's up? Where's Millikins?" Therewas alarm in Bindle's voice.
"We met Mr. Hearty in Putney High Street and he's taken her home. Idon't know what to do. I'm----"
Bindle whistled. "'Oly Angels, 'ere's a go," he exclaimed. "'Ere,come along, young feller, we mustn't stop a-jawin' 'ere." Hurriedlythey left the cinema together.
"'Ow long ago was this?" enquired Bindle, as they hurried along in thedirection of Fulham High Street.
"About ten minutes. What shall we do?" Charlie Dixon's voice shookwith anxiety.
"Well," said Bindle, "yer'd better go 'ome. I'm goin' to 'ave it outwith 'Earty." There was a grim note in Bindle's voice. "I ain'ta-goin' to leave our little Millikins to 'im."
Charlie Dixon felt that at that moment he could have hugged Bindle.All he could do was to grip his arm. His voice had deserted him.
"'E learnt that from Millikins," murmured Bindle to himself as theysped along. Outside the Grand Theatre they parted, Charlie Dixonvowing that he would wait there until Bindle came to him.
"There's goin' to be an 'ell of a row," muttered Bindle, as he rang theHeartys' bell.
He was admitted by a tearful Mrs. Hearty.
"Oh, Joe, I'm so glad," she wheezed. "Go up; I'll----"
Bindle raced up the stairs to the Heartys' sitting-room. As he openedthe door Mr. Hearty was standing by the mantelpiece, his face white andset and his lips slightly drawn from his discoloured teeth. Facing himstood Millie, with flushed face and rebellious eyes. At the sight ofBindle she uttered a cry and ran to him, threw her arms round his neck,choking with sobs.
Bindle soothed her as if she had been a child.
"Oh, don't leave me, Uncle Joe, promise, promise!" She looked at Bindlewith fear in her eyes. "Promise, darling Uncle Joe."
"I won't leave the little Millikins," said Bindle reassuringly. "Iwon't leave yer until yer say I can go, see?"
Disengaging Millie's arms from his neck, Bindle placed her gently onthe sofa, and Mrs. Hearty, who had just entered the room breathinglaboriously, sat down beside the half-fainting girl, looking at herhelplessly.
"Don't cry, Millie dear," Mrs. Hearty wheezed, although there were nosigns of tears, as she stroked one of Millie's hands.
All this time Mr. Hearty had been looking on in a dazed way, consciousthat the control of the situation was slipping from his grasp. He wasroused by Bindle's voice.
"Now then, 'Earty, wot the 'ell do yer mean by this?"
It was a new Bindle that Mr. Hearty saw before him. The humorous twisthad gone from his mouth, the light of fun was no longer in his eyes.Mr. Hearty saw a stern, resolute man who was demanding of him anexplanation.
During the last quarter of an hour he had pictured a scene vastlydifferent from this. He was to be the outraged father indignantlydemanding an explanation from a crestfallen and humbled Bindle.Through his mind there had passed the thought that the enemy had beendelivered into his hands. He had felt like a righteous and triumphantIsrael; and now everything had turned out so differently.
"Ain't you got nothink to say?" Mr. Hearty was awakened from hismeditation by Bindle's angry enquiry. Even Mrs. Hearty looked up,mildly surprised at the unaccustomed note in Bindle's voice.
"I have a lot to say," replied Mr. Hearty with an obvious effort, "andI want an explanation from you, Joseph." Instinctively Mr. Hearty feltthat his tone was too mild for that of the outraged father, and headded in what he meant to be a stern voice, "and I--I demand anexplanation before you leave this house to-night."
"There ain't no fear o' my leavin' before yer want me to," repliedBindle grimly. "Don't you worry yer saintly soul about that, 'Earty.Now, what is it yer want to know?"
Mr. Hearty stroked his chin. "I--I----" How he disliked scenes!"I--I want to know why Millie was alone with a strange young man inPutney High Street this evening, when she was supposed to be with you?"
Mr. Hearty strove to be dignified and at the same time appropriatelystern and uncompromising; but always with a dash of Christianforbearance.
"That all?" enquired Bindle contemptuously. "That won't take long.She was there 'cause she wants to be 'appy, wot she's got a right tobe. If yer was a man, 'Earty, instead of an 'oly greengrocer, yer'dunderstan' wi'out tellin'. If yer was to listen to the 'ymns o' thebirds instead o' them 'ungry-lookin' young women in the choir" (Mr.Hearty flushed) "yer'd know why Millie was wi' Charlie Dixon to-night.
"She wants love, 'Earty, an' she don't get it at 'ome. She wants'appiness, an' you never even smile at 'er--not as that 'ud 'elp 'ermuch," he added, with a flash of the old Bindle. "Yer want to shoveGawd down 'er throat all the time, and it ain't the real Gawd 'oo waskind to children."
"She's my daughter and must obey me." There was determination in Mr.Hearty's voice. He felt he must assert his parental authority.
"Now, listen," said Bindle; and h
e proceeded to tell the whole story ofMillie's romance and the part he had played in it. "Now, 'ave yer anythink to complain about?" he enquired in conclusion.
"I forbid her ever to see him again," almost shouted Mr. Hearty. Thestory he had just listened to had roused him to anger. It had outragedhis sense of the proprieties that his daughter should be walking thestreets alone with a young man she had met casually in a train! Thathis own brother-in-law should be a party to such a disgraceful andsordid intrigue made matters worse. Being a religious man Mr. Heartythought the worst.
He looked at Bindle. There was no suggestion of shame or contrition inhis bearing.
"I will have no such goings-on in my family," fumed Mr. Hearty, "and infuture I'll thank you, Joseph, not to interfere." Mr. Hearty's facewas very set and hard. "What would Mr. Sopley say if he knew?"
"That," remarked Bindle calmly, "would depend on 'ow long ago it wassince 'is mind was cleaned."
"Anyhow, I won't have it." And Mr. Hearty drew himself up to his fullheight.
"Wot jer goin' to do then?" enquired Bindle with ominous calm.
Mr. Hearty was nonplussed. What was he going to do? What could he do?To gain time he asked a question.
"Does Elizabeth know about this?" he demanded.
"Not 'er," replied Bindle contemptuously. "She'd like to stop thebirds a-matin', if she could." Suddenly he grinned. "An' therewouldn't be no lamb to go wi' your mint, 'Earty, if she 'ad 'er way."
"I won't have it," fumed Mr. Hearty again. "I've been very patient,but--but--I won't have it."
"Yer can't stop a runaway 'orse with a notice-board," remarked Bindlewith unconscious philosophy.
"I'll thank you not to interfere in my affairs, Joseph. As I say, I'vebeen very patient and, and----" Mr. Hearty, whose face was deathlywhite, broke off. "If," he continued, "if this--er--fellow has ruinedMillie, it's your fault."
Bindle made a movement towards his brother-in-law; his hand was raisedand there was murder smouldering in his eyes, when something seemed torush between them. Both men fell back a step and Mr. Hearty foundhimself looking into a pair of blazing eyes that he failed to recogniseas those of his daughter.
"How dare you, father!" she panted, her young breast heaving, her faceflaming, and her eyes burning with suppressed fury. Bindle regardedher with amazement and awe.
"How dare you say that of Charlie and me? I hope God will punish youfor it. You have always made me unhappy. You have never allowed methe pleasures other girls have. If it hadn't been for mother I shouldhave run away long ago. It is fathers like you that make girls bad. Iwon't have you blame Uncle Joe. I--I wish he was my father."
Mr. Hearty watched her as if fascinated. Her tempest of passion hadoverwhelmed him. Bindle looked from Hearty to Mrs. Hearty, who wassitting crying softly and comfortably to herself.
Millie looked round her in a dazed way, then produced from somewhere ahandkerchief, with which she proceeded to wipe her eyes. With greatdeliberation she walked over to where her hat and jacket lay upon achair and proceeded to put them on.
"Millie, I forbid you to go out." Mr. Hearty was making a lastdespairing effort.
Millie flashed a look of scorn at him.
"I am going away," she said quietly; "and I will never speak to youagain until you take back those words."
Bindle looked from father to daughter. He felt helpless, as if he werethe onlooker at some impending tragedy which he was powerless to avert.
"You are not of age, Millie, and you must obey your father." There wasa more persuasive note in Mr. Hearty's voice.
"I am going away, father," said Millie in the same colourless voice;"and if you try and prevent me----" She did not finish.
"Good-night, mother." Millie went over to her mother and kissed hertenderly. Mrs. Hearty continued to cry. She looked appealingly atBindle, who nodded reassuringly.
"Look 'ere, 'Earty," whispered Bindle, "you're up agin' somethin' yerdon't understand, I don't rightly understand it meself. Better let metake Millie 'ome to Lizzie, she'll look after 'er all right."
For a moment Mr. Hearty hesitated; then with a glance at Millie'sresolute face, he said:
"Millie, your uncle will take you to your Aunt Elizabeth."
"That is where I was going, father," she replied quietly, and Mr.Hearty felt that he had been badly beaten, and by his own daughter,who, until this evening, he had always regarded as a child.
Millie leant heavily on Bindle's arm as they walked down the HighStreet. She did not notice that they were going in the oppositedirection from the Bindles' house. Suddenly her eyes grew wide withwonder; coming towards them was Charlie Dixon, whose half-hour had beenspent in torture.
"Millie!"
She smiled up into his face wearily.
"Now, young feller," said Bindle with forced cheerfulness, "don't arstquestions. Millie's comin' 'ome wi' me. It'll be all right, but," andhe whispered to Charlie Dixon, "it's been----" Bindle completed hissentence with a look. "Now then, Millikins, say good-night to Charliean' we'll be off."
Like a tired child she lifted her face to be kissed, a flicker of asmile playing round her moist lips.
"Good-night, Charlie," she whispered. "I'm so tired."
"I shall always be grateful, Mr. Bindle," said Charlie Dixon, graspingBindle's hand.
"Leggo, you young fool," yelled Bindle. Charlie Dixon dropped his handas if it had been electrified. "Next time you're grateful," remarkedBindle, as he ruefully examined his hand, "you put it down on paper; itwon't 'urt so much."
And they parted.
"That you, Bindle?" Bindle recognised the familiar tones as he gropedalong the passage of his house with Millie.
Mrs. Bindle looked up from the supper table as they entered the kitchen.
"I brought Millie 'ome, Lizzie," said Bindle simply. "There's beentrouble. 'Earty's gone mad. I'll tell yer all about it later."
One look told Mrs. Bindle everything she wanted to know. All thebaulked motherhood in her nature rose up as she took the girl in herarms, and led her upstairs.
Bindle sat down to his supper. Several times Mrs. Bindle entered theroom to fetch various things, but no word passed between them. Bindlehad been taken by surprise. He would have been even more surprised hadhe seen the expression on Mrs. Bindle's face as she coaxed and croonedover the girl lying on the bed upstairs.
When she finally returned to the kitchen, Bindle, his supper finished,had made up his mind to a great sacrifice. For a few seconds theystood regarding each other. It was Bindle who broke the silence.
"Lizzie," he said awkwardly, "I'll go to chapel on Sunday if you like."
And then for no reason at all Mrs. Bindle sat down at the table, buriedher face in her arms and sobbed convulsively.
"I wonder wot I done now," muttered Bindle, as he regarded Mrs.Bindle's heaving shoulders with a puzzled expression on his face."Funny things, women."