Bindle stopped dead on his way to the door and, turning round, exclaimed, "Mustn't wot?"

"You mustn't see a bride before she appears at the chapel or church.

It isn't proper."

"Well, I'm blowed!" cried Bindle. "You mean to tell me that Charlie Dixon ain't goin' to nip round and 'ave a look at 'er this mornin'?"

"Certainly not," said Mrs. Bindle.

"But why?" persisted Bindle.

"Because it's not proper; it's not the right thing to do," replied Mrs. Bindle, as she struggled into her bodice.

"Now ain't that funny," said Bindle. "I suppose it all come about because they was afraid the chap might sort o' funk it and do a bunk, not likin' the looks o' the gal. Any'ow that ain't likely to 'appen with Millikins. The cove wot gets 'er, 'as got a winner."

"Thought you didn't believe in marriage," said Mrs. Bindle acidly.

"I don't, Mrs. B.," replied Bindle. "Leastways the marriages wot are made in the place where they don't play billiards; but this little one was made in the Putney Cinema Pavilion. I made it myself, and when J.B. takes a thing in 'and, it's goin' to be top 'ole. Then," he proceeded after a pause, "Millikins 'as got me to look after 'er. If 'er man didn't make 'er 'appy, I'd skin 'im; yes, and rub salt in afterwards."

There was a grimness in Bindle's voice that caused Mrs. Bindle to pause in the process of pinning a brooch in her bodice.

"Yes, Mrs. B.," continued Bindle, "that little gal means an 'ell of a lot to me, I----"

Mrs. Bindle looked round, a little startled at a huskiness in Bindle's voice. She was just in time to see him disappear through the bedroom-door. When she returned to the looking-gla.s.s, the face that was reflected back to her was that of a woman in whose eyes there was something of disappointment and cheated longing.

Mrs. Bindle proceeded with her toilet. Everything seemed to go wrong, and each article she required appeared to have hidden itself away.

Finally she a.s.sumed her bonnet, a study in two tints of green, constructed according to the inevitable plan upon which all her bonnets were built, narrow of gauge with a lofty superstructure. She gave a final glance at herself in the gla.s.s, and sighed her satisfaction at the sight of the maroon-coloured dress with the bright green bonnet.

When Mrs. Bindle emerged into Fenton Street, working on her white kid gloves with feverish movement, she found Bindle engaged in chatting with a group of neighbours.

"'Ere comes my little beetroot," remarked Bindle; at which Mrs. Rogers went off into a shriek of laughter and told him to "Go hon, do!"

Mrs. Bindle acknowledged the salutations of her neighbours with a frigid inclination of her head. She strongly objected to Bindle's "holding any truck" with the occupants of other houses in Fenton Street.

"Well, well, s'long, all of you!" said Bindle. "It ain't my weddin', that's one thing."

There were cheery responses to Bindle's remarks, and sotto voce references to Mrs. Bindle as "a stuck-up cat."

"Mind you throw that cigar away before we get to the chapel," said Mrs. Bindle, still working at her gloves.

"Right-o!" said Bindle, as they turned into the New King's Road. He waved the hand containing the cigar in salutation to the driver of a pa.s.sing motor-bus with whom he was acquainted.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," said Mrs. Bindle snappishly.

"Wouldn't do wot?" enquired Bindle innocently.

"Recognising common people when you're with me," was the response.

"But that was 'Arry Sales," said Bindle, puzzled at Mrs. Bindle's att.i.tude. "'E ain't common, 'e drives a motor-bus."

"What will people think?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.

"Oh! they're used to 'Arry drivin' a bus," replied Bindle. "They might think it funny if he was to drive an 'ea.r.s.e."

"You know what I mean," said Mrs. Bindle. "Why can't you remember that you're goin' to a wedding."

"n.o.body wouldn't know it from your looks, Mrs. B.," commented Bindle.

"You look about as 'appy as 'Earty does when 'e 'ears there's goin' to be an air-raid."

"Oh, don't talk to me!" snapped Mrs. Bindle; and they continued on their way in silence. When about a hundred yards from the Alton Road Chapel, Mrs. Bindle demanded of Bindle that he throw away his cigar, which he did with great reluctance.

There was a small collection of women and children outside the chapel doors.

"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Bindle suddenly.

"Where?" enquired Bindle, looking first to the right and left, then on the ground and finally up at the sky.

"I knew we should be late," said Mrs. Bindle. "There's the carriage."

At that moment a two-horse carriage bearing Mr. Hearty and Millie pa.s.sed by, and drew up at the entrance to the chapel. Mr. Hearty's white kid-gloved hand appeared out of the window, fumbling with the handle of the carriage. A moment later his silk hat, adorned with a deep black band, appeared; still the carriage-door refused to open.

Suddenly as if out of sheer mischief it gave way, and Mr. Hearty lurched forward, his hat fell off and rolled under the carriage. A stray dog, that had been watching the proceedings, dashed for the hat, just at the moment that Mr. Hearty hurriedly stepped out to retrieve his headgear. Mr. Hearty's foot came down upon the dog's paw. The animal gave a heart-rending howl, Mr. Hearty jumped, the people laughed, and the dog continued to howl, holding up its wounded paw.

Mr. Hearty, however, was intent upon the recapture of his hat. With his silver-mounted umbrella, he started poking beneath the carriage to try and coax it towards him. An elderly gentleman, seeing the mishap, had approached from the other side of the carriage and, with his stick, was endeavouring to achieve the same object. The result was that, as soon as one drew the hat towards him, the other immediately s.n.a.t.c.hed it away again.

"It's like a game of 'ockey," said Bindle who had come up at this moment. "Go it, 'Earty, you got it!"

Mrs. Bindle tore at Bindle's arm, just as the benevolent gentleman succeeded in securing Mr. Hearty's hat. Mr. Hearty dashed round to the other side of the carriage, s.n.a.t.c.hed his damaged headgear from the hands of the stranger, and stood brushing it upon the sleeve of his coat.

"Excuse me, sir!" said the stranger.

"But it's my hat," said Mr. Hearty, endeavouring to restore something of its lost glossiness.

Mr. Hearty had apparently forgotten all about the bride, and it was Bindle who helped Millie from the carriage, and led her into the chapel. Mrs. Bindle reminded Mr. Hearty of his duty. Putting his hat on his head, he entered the chapel door. It was Mrs. Bindle also who reminded him of his mistake.

"It's a good omen, Uncle Joe," whispered Millie as she clung to Bindle's arm.

"Wot's a good omen, Millikins?" enquired Bindle.

"That you should take me in instead of father," she whispered just as Mr. Hearty bustled up and relieved Bindle.

There was a craning of necks and a hum of voices as Mr. Hearty, intensely nervous, led his daughter up to the altar. Bindle followed, carrying Mr. Hearty's hat and umbrella.

"My! don't 'is Nibs look smart," Bindle muttered to himself, as he caught sight of Charlie Dixon standing at the further end of the chapel.

The Rev. Mr. Sopley had come up from Eastbourne specially for the occasion, Millie refusing to be married by Mr. MacFie. The ceremony dragged its mournful course to the point where Millie and Charlie Dixon had become man and wife. Mr. Sopley then plunged into a lugubrious address full of dreary foreboding. He spoke of orphans, widowhood, plague and famine, the uncertainty of human life and the persistent quality of sin.

"'E ain't much at marrying," whispered Bindle to Mr. Hearty; "but 'e ought to be worth a rare lot for funerals." Mr. Hearty turned and gazed at Bindle uncomprehendingly.

It was Bindle who s.n.a.t.c.hed the first kiss from the bride, and it was he who, in the vestry, lightened the depressing atmosphere by his cheerfulness. Mrs. Hearty in mauve and violet dabbed her eyes and beat her breast with rigid impartiality. Mr. Hearty strove to brush his hat into respectability.