During the last quarter of an hour he had pictured a scene vastly different from this. He was to be the outraged father indignantly demanding an explanation from a crestfallen and humbled Bindle. Through his mind there had pa.s.sed the thought that the enemy had been delivered into his hands. He had felt like a righteous and triumphant Israel; and now everything had turned out so differently.

"Ain't you got nothink to say?" Mr. Hearty was awakened from his meditation 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, "and I want an explanation from you, Joseph." Instinctively Mr. Hearty felt that his tone was too mild for that of the outraged father, and he added in what he meant to be a stern voice, "and I-I demand an explanation before you leave this house to-night."

"There ain't no fear o' my leavin' before yer want me to," replied Bindle 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 in Putney High Street this evening, when she was supposed to be with you?"

Mr. Hearty strove to be dignified and at the same time appropriately stern and uncompromising; but always with a dash of Christian forbearance.

"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 to be. If yer was a man, 'Earty, instead of an 'oly greengrocer, yer'd understan' wi'out tellin'. If yer was to listen to the 'ymns o' the birds 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 'er much," he added, with a flash of the old Bindle. "Yer want to shove Gawd down 'er throat all the time, and it ain't the real Gawd 'oo was kind to children."

"She's my daughter and must obey me." There was determination in Mr. Hearty's voice. He felt he must a.s.sert his parental authority.

"Now, listen," said Bindle; and he proceeded to tell the whole story of Millie's romance and the part he had played in it. "Now, 'ave yer any think to complain about?" he enquired in conclusion.

"I forbid her ever to see him again," almost shouted Mr. Hearty. The story he had just listened to had roused him to anger. It had outraged his sense of the proprieties that his daughter should be walking the streets alone with a young man she had met casually in a train! That his own brother-in-law should be a party to such a disgraceful and sordid intrigue made matters worse. Being a religious man Mr. Hearty thought the worst.

He looked at Bindle. There was no suggestion of shame or contrition in his bearing.

"I will have no such goings-on in my family," fumed Mr. Hearty, "and in future I'll thank you, Joseph, not to interfere." Mr. Hearty's face was very set and hard. "What would Mr. Sopley say if he knew?"

"That," remarked Bindle calmly, "would depend on 'ow long ago it was since 'is mind was cleaned."

"Anyhow, I won't have it." And Mr. Hearty drew himself up to his full height.

"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 the birds a-matin', if she could." Suddenly he grinned. "An' there wouldn'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 Bindle with unconscious philosophy.

"I'll thank you not to interfere in my affairs, Joseph. As I say, I've been very patient and, and--" Mr. Hearty, whose face was deathly white, broke off. "If," he continued, "if this-er-fellow has ruined Millie, it's your fault."

Bindle made a movement towards his brother-in-law; his hand was raised and there was murder smouldering in his eyes, when something seemed to rush between them. Both men fell back a step and Mr. Hearty found himself looking into a pair of blazing eyes that he failed to recognise as those of his daughter.

"How dare you, father!" she panted, her young breast heaving, her face flaming, and her eyes burning with suppressed fury. Bindle regarded her with amazement and awe.

"How dare you say that of Charlie and me? I hope G.o.d will punish you for it. You have always made me unhappy. You have never allowed me the pleasures other girls have. If it hadn't been for mother I should have run away long ago. It is fathers like you that make girls bad. I won't have you blame Uncle Joe. I-I wish he was my father."

Mr. Hearty watched her as if fascinated. Her tempest of pa.s.sion had overwhelmed him. Bindle looked from Hearty to Mrs. Hearty, who was sitting crying softly and comfortably to herself.

Millie looked round her in a dazed way, then produced from somewhere a handkerchief, with which she proceeded to wipe her eyes. With great deliberation she walked over to where her hat and jacket lay upon a chair and proceeded to put them on.

"Millie, I forbid you to go out." Mr. Hearty was making a last despairing effort.

Millie flashed a look of scorn at him.

"I am going away," she said quietly; "and I will never speak to you again until you take back those words."

Bindle looked from father to daughter. He felt helpless, as if he were the onlooker at some impending tragedy which he was powerless to avert.

"You are not of age, Millie, and you must obey your father." There was a 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 her tenderly. Mrs. Hearty continued to cry. She looked appealingly at Bindle, who nodded rea.s.suringly.

"Look 'ere, 'Earty," whispered Bindle, "you're up agin' somethin' yer don't understand, I don't rightly understand it meself. Better let me take Millie 'ome to Lizzie, she'll look after 'er all right."

For a moment Mr. Hearty hesitated; then with a glance at Millie's resolute 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 High Street. She did not notice that they were going in the opposite direction from the Bindles' house. Suddenly her eyes grew wide with wonder; coming towards them was Charlie Dixon, whose half-hour had been spent in torture.

"Millie!"

She smiled up into his face wearily.

"Now, young feller," said Bindle with forced cheerfulness, "don't arst questions. Millie's comin' 'ome wi' me. It'll be all right, but," and he whispered to Charlie Dixon, "it's been--" Bindle completed his sentence with a look. "Now then, Millikins, say good-night to Charlie an' we'll be off."

Like a tired child she lifted her face to be kissed, a flicker of a smile playing round her moist lips.

"Good-night, Charlie," she whispered. "I'm so tired."

"I shall always be grateful, Mr. Bindle," said Charlie Dixon, grasping Bindle's hand.

"Leggo, you young fool," yelled Bindle. Charlie Dixon dropped his hand as if it had been electrified. "Next time you're grateful," remarked Bindle, as he ruefully examined his hand, "you put it down on paper; it won't 'urt so much."

And they parted.

"That you, Bindle?" Bindle recognised the familiar tones as he groped along the pa.s.sage of his house with Millie.

Mrs. Bindle looked up from the supper table as they entered the kitchen.