"But, Andrew, what can we do? There's all those boys in there, and some of them have found their mothers and some of them haven't. And there's Jane Cooper come all this way to see her son, and it appears he's been sent by mistake to Canada. And there's Louisa Brown been knocking those three poor stammering creatures' heads together, and she says that you've been neglecting them shamefully because you haven't cured their stutter. And there's a woman been thrashing John G. William with her umbrella. And they're all going on at one another, and at their children, and at me. Oh, Andrew, they've made me feel quite ill. That Mr. Bindon must be an awful man!"
"He appears to be, in his way, a character. A character, so far as Duddenham is concerned, almost of an original kind."
"Oh, Andrew, don't talk like that--don't. Think of it. Eleven wives! And I don't know how many more there are at home. To hear those women speak you would think that there were hundreds, and not one of them seems in the least ashamed. There are some of them in Canada looking for their children--for all I know eleven more are coming here. Andrew!" The lady rose. She laid her hand, with a solemn gesture, upon her husband's arm. "I will not have those women and their children in my house. I will not have a Bindon, now that I know all, under my roof, not for a hundred thousand pounds."
Mr. Harland rubbed his chin.
"I think that I had better go and see these ladies, Maria, or they may feel that they are being slighted."
"No half measures! You will turn them out of my house, the mothers and their children, stick and stone, never to return--or else I leave it."
"You're quite right, Maria. I think, if I were you, I'd go upstairs and wash my face and brush my hair. You seem to be excited."
"You'd be excited if you'd gone through what I have."
"Now," said Mr. Harland to himself when his wife had gone, "to interview that very compound noun--the wife of Mr. Bindon." He went out into the passage. "They appear to be employing the shining hour. Unless I am mistaken that is John G. William's howl, and that is John B. David's. The ladies are either thrashing the young gentlemen upon their own account, or else they are setting them on, in what is possibly Salt Lake City style, to thrash each other." Then arose a hubbub of women's voices. "What a peaceful household Jolly Jack's must be." He stood and listened. The din grew greater. "They're at it. Are they scratching each other's eyes out, or are they merely giving their lungs free play? Perhaps on the whole I had better go and see."
He had hardly taken two steps in the direction of the drawing-room when someone twitched his coat-sleeve from behind.