Books: Mr. Bingle

G >> George Barr McCutcheon >> Mr. Bingle

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"Kathie!" cried Mrs. Bingle, distressed. "You should not say such
things. Mr. Force is very nice to you. He likes you--"

"He gives me a pain," said Kathleen succinctly.

"Good heavens!" gasped Mr. Bingle. "Where did you learn such language
as that?"

"It isn't language, daddy," said Kathie. "It's just slang. Everybody
uses it. Don't people give you a pain sometimes?"

"Never!" said he. "I don't believe in slang," he added, as if to
fortify himself against a conviction. "You needn't go, deary. Stay and
see Mr. Force."

"I don't want to see him. I want to see Fairy. Oh, daddy, what are you
going to let her get married for? I know Freddie will commit suicide
if she marries that old Flanders."

"Freddie? What business is it of his?"

"I mustn't tell," she said, suddenly realising that she had been on
the point of betraying a grave secret. An instant later she was off
like the wind, whisking out of one door as Mr. Force entered by the
other.

"Dear me, dear me," sighed Mr. Bingle, staring at his wife helplessly;
"what do you suppose has happened to Frederick? A boy of his age
talking of suicide is--Oh, good morning, Mr. Force. Merry Christmas!
'Pon my word, you're an early bird. Come up to the fire. You look half
frozen. Why, by George, your teeth are chattering. Diggs! Throw on a
couple of logs, will you, and get the whiskey. We keep it for
medicinal purposes and--"

"Not for me," broke in Mr. Force hastily. "Not a thing to drink, old
man. I'm quite all right. It is a bit snappy outside. Good morning,
Mrs. Bingle. How are you feeling since the--I beg your pardon, Bingle,
I really don't want a drink. Silly of me to shiver like this. You'd
think I had a chill, wouldn't you? But I'll be all right in a minute
or two."

He stood with his back to the blazing logs. His teeth were chattering,
but not because of the cold. Every nerve in his body was on edge; his
physical being was merely responding to the turmoil that filled his
brain. Could they have seen his hands, clasped behind his back, they
might have wondered why the fingers were locked together in a grip so
fierce that the cords stood out in ridges on his wrists.

"You don't know what you miss, not having children about you on
Christmas morning," said Mr. Bingle, planting his small figure
alongside that of the tall man and attempting to spread his coat
tails, an utter impossibility in view of the fact that he had no tails
to spread, being incased in a dressing gown that reached almost to his
heels when he stood erect but unmistakably touched the floor if he
permitted his dignity to sag in the least--and he was having some
difficulty in maintaining his dignity on this doleful morning, it may
be said. "It would have done your heart good, Force, if you could have
been here this morning--say at half-past six--and seen the circus we
had. Well, sir, it was--"

"Half-past six? My dear man, you don't mean to say those little
rascals got you out of bed at that ungodly hour. Why, I would have--"

"Just the other way 'round," said Mr. Bingle, sheepishly. "We had to
fairly yank 'em out of bed. We are the rascals, Force--Mary and I. We
couldn't wait, don't you see? But, of course, you don't see. You
couldn't see unless you'd been counting on Christmas morning for
months. You--But, what's the matter, Force? 'Pon my word, you DO need
a bracer. Mary, dear, won't you see if--"

"See here, Bingle," blurted out Mr. Force, in desperation, "I want a
few words with you alone. It is--imperative. Hope you will excuse me,
Mrs. Bingle. I'm a bit upset--yes, considerably upset--over something
that has come up in the--er--that is to say, quite recently. I--I want
your husband's advice on--on a matter of grave importance."

The Bingles stared at him for a moment in speechless concern. Then Mr.
Bingle managed to give expression to the fear that entered his heart
as Force concluded his amazing remarks.

"Anything--anything wrong at the bank?" he inquired, swallowing hard.
Was the man about to tell him that the bank--the great bank--was going
under, that there had been defalcations, that--but even as he pictured
the collapse of the bank there shot into his brain another and still
more ghastly thought: had the Supreme Court decided against him in the
long-fought case of Hooper et al vs. Bingle?

"Certainly NOT," exclaimed Mr. Force, with sudden irascibility. His
nerves WERE at a high tension, there was no denying that. "Nothing
whatever to do with the bank, sir. What the dev--what could have put
such a thought into your head, Bingle?"

"You looked so--so blasted serious," said Mr. Bingle, with surprising
heat.

"Thomas!" cried his wife, aghast.

"Beg pardon, Force," muttered Mr. Bingle, very much ashamed of
himself. "I didn't mean to be profane. I guess I'm a little nervous
myself."

"Can't I look serious without putting the bank on its last legs?"
demanded Mr. Force, glaring.

"Certainly," Mr. Bingle made haste to assure him. "Look as serious as
you please, Force. I know it can't hurt the bank. Don't go, Mary. Mr.
Force and I will slip up to my study. We are less likely to be
interrupted there."

"I trust Mrs. Force is well," said the lady of Seawood, and there was
a note of anxiety in her voice. There HAD been a queer taste to the
lobster a la Newburg. She remembered mentioning it to Mr. Bingle after
the company had gone.

Mr. Force was guilty of an uneasy start. What was the woman driving
at? What put it into her head to mention his wife? Why SHOULDN'T his
wife be well?

"Quite well, thank you," he said at the end of a deep exhalation.
Indeed he was quite without breath when he came to the "thank you." It
would have been better if he hadn't tried to be so courteous. "Quite
well," would have been sufficient. He realised, as he wheezily filled
his lungs, that the "thank you" was entirely superfluous. In any
event, it wasn't so important that he should have gone to the pains of
upsetting his dignity in order to say it, no matter if it was the
proper thing to say. He always hated anything that caused him to
become red in the face.

"It's quite a relief," said Mrs. Bingle, brightening. It would have
been dreadful if anything HAD been the matter with the lobster.

But Mr. Force knew nothing whatever about the suspected lobster and
being in considerable doubt as to just how much of Miss Glenn's story
the Bingles had learned, very naturally believed that the good lady
was concerned about Mrs. Force's peace of mind rather than her state
of health. He grew perfectly scarlet and mumbled something about his
wife sleeping like a log, and then hastily followed Mr. Bingle out of
the room.

"Troubles never come singly, do they, Force?" said Bingle as they
mounted the stairs. He sighed deeply.

"So they say," said Force, also sighing. He was thinking of the
interview that was to come. He was wondering just how he was going to
explain things to Mr. Bingle.

"She isn't to be married till spring, but--Oh, well, I suppose I
shouldn't complain." Mr. Force stopped stock-still on the stairs.
"Mar-married?" he gasped. "Are you crazy?"

"Almost," said Mr. Bingle promptly. "If anything more happens, I'll be
wholly so. Come in, Force. Now, old chap, what's on YOUR mind?" They
had entered the study. Mr. Bingle faced his visitor after closing the
door carefully behind him. "Out with it? Don't keep me in suspense.
Has--has the case finally gone against me?"

"Who is going to be married in the spring?" demanded Force, wiping his
brow.

"Miss Fairweather. I thought you knew."

"Oh, the devil! Of course not! What do I know about Miss Fairweather's
affairs?"

"Flanders is the man. He's the lucky dog. An old affair, Force.
Tremendously romantic story back of--"

"Needn't mind, Bingle. I don't care to hear it at present. I've got
something a great deal more important to think about--dammit." He sat
down heavily, and began fumbling for his cigar case. His forehead was
dripping wet.

"It must be serious," said Mr. Bingle slowly, "or you wouldn't be
swearing as you do, Force. I've never heard you swear before."

"It is serious. Of all the improbable, dime novel, hellish--But tell
me, Bingle: how much do you know?"

"How much do I know about what?"

"Didn't that fellow blab anything to you last night?"

"Bla--blab?"

Force pointed to a chair. "Sit down. Are you sure no one can hear what
I'm saying?"

"No one but yours truly," said Mr. Bingle, assuming a jauntiness he
did not feel. He sat down, his back as stiff as a board.

His visitor leaned forward, his hands grasping the arms of the chair.
"Well, I'll tell you something, Bingle, that will paralyse you. I--I
didn't sleep a wink last night."

"That doesn't paralyse me. Neither did I--"

"This is no time to be funny, Bingle," said the other roughly. "Do you
want to know what kept me awake all night, suffering the torments of
the damned?"

"I do," responded Mr. Bingle, casting a quick glance at Mr. Force's
jaw. He knew what it was to have a toothache.

"Well, it was that miserable business about--about Kathleen," said
Force, a querulous note creeping into his voice. Mr. Bingle did not
think it worth while to tell him that it was the same miserable
business that kept him awake. "Now, I want the truth, Bingle. I want
to be sure before I go ahead. It means a great deal to both of us. Was
Kathleen's mother named Agnes Glenn?"

"It was," said Mr. Bingle, his eyes narrowing with the dawn of
comprehension.

"Did you ever see her?"

"Once, just before she died."

"Describe her, Bingle."

"I can't. Good Lord, man, my eyes were blind with tears all the time I
was--"

"Never mind," broke in Force. "We won't go into that, after all. Did
she tell you anything about herself, her past life, her--her trouble?"

"Not a word. She was just about to enter the future life, Force. She
hadn't much to say. Simply said that she hoped I'd be good to her
little baby, that's all. Go on, man."

Mr. Force appeared to be lost in bleak abstraction. The curt command
brought him out of it with a start.

"She went by the name of Mrs. Hinman, you say. No other name was
mentioned, then or afterwards?"

"No."

"I can tell you something about her, Bingle. She lived for three years
as the wife of a man who called himself Hinman. She wasn't his wife
and that wasn't his name. She'd been on the stage. She went to live
with this man as his wife. She was a good girl up to the time she met
this man and fell in love with him. Her home was in the West. Her
parents were respected, God-fearing people. They never knew that she--
that she took up the life she led with--Hinman. Don't interrupt me,
Bingle. If I don't get it out now, I'll never have the courage to try
it again. No man was ever in such a desperate plight as I find myself
in to-day. I'll come straight to the point. I am the man called Hinman
and--this child you've got here with you is--mine."

He might have had the grace to exhibit some sign of shame or
compunction, but he did nothing of the kind. He merely looked defiant,
as if expecting Mr. Bingle to say something that he could resent.

But Mr. Bingle sank deeper into his chair, his chin buried, his eyes
fastened in a sort of horror upon the face of the President of the
great bank. He was incapable of uttering a word.

After a little while Force went on: "Blood will tell. All this
accounts for the peculiar, inexplicable attraction that Kathleen has
held for me. It is like a chapter out of an impossible novel. It--"

"And perhaps it accounts for the antipathy the poor child has for
you," said Mr. Bingle, his voice a trifle shrill and uncertain. He did
not take his gaze from the face of his visitor. "It now seems quite
natural to me."

"Nonsense! The child had no means of knowing or even suspecting that
I--"

"She had a birthright, Force. You can't take that away from her. The
hatred for her father was born in her. God wouldn't let her hate the
wrong man, you know."

Force got up from the chair, tremendously moved all of a sudden. A
piteous, pleading look came into his eyes, and his face, once
arrogant, was now haggard with despair.

"Bingle, I--I want you to help me. For God's sake, do what you can for
me. Put into practice your beautiful Christmas Carol teachings. I--I
want her. She must be made to understand that I love her, she must be
made to feel that she is everything in the world to me. She looks like
her mother. I thought it was fancy on my part, but now I know. Good
God, little did I know where fate was going to lead me when I employed
those fellows to find the child of Agnes Glenn. Little did I know that
it would lead me to your door, Bingle."

Mr. Bingle arose. He was very pale and shaken, but he managed to
control himself with remarkable fortitude.

"I have not told you that Agnes Glenn died of starvation--and carbolic
acid," he said slowly. "Have your detectives told you that?"

"Carbolic acid?" whispered Force, with staring eyes. "Starvation? Good
God, man--not that!"

"Yes--THAT! The Society found her when she was about gone. I was
notified. We were looking for a child. This baby of hers was then
about two years old. Mrs. Bingle and I went to the poor little flat
where they had found her, after the neighbours had told the police of
her plight. She was sick unto death. I said that we would care for her
baby as if it were our own. Then I made arrangements to have her
removed to a hospital at once. While we were out of the room, she took
the carbolic acid. That's the way it happened, Force. That was the end
of Agnes Glenn. She was a splendid character, Force. She did not
betray you. She stuck by you to the very end. She protected you a
great deal better than you protected her."

"See here, Bingle, I don't like your tone. It sounds preachy. You
don't know anything about life, so you can't understand. That sort of
thing is--well, it happens to a good many men and no one thinks much
about it. I daresay that half the men you know have had just such an
experience. It's part of the game here in New York. The girls
understand it. They have no illusions. They know that these men
cannot--or will not marry them. So, as you don't know anything about
life as it's practised now-a-days, I'd advise you to go slow with your
platitudes."

"All right, Force," said Mr. Bingle quietly. "If that's the way you
feel about it, there's no use wasting time over nothing. I can't
resist saying, however, that I didn't think it was in you to be so
damned cold-blooded."

"Cold-blooded over what? The Glenn girl? Why, my dear man, that was
nearly thirteen years ago. I am sorry that she had to go the way she
did, but, good Lord, I can't go through life in sackcloth and ashes
because she died--as a lot of people do, every year, you know. Hers
was not an uncommon case. There are thousands just like it happening
every year. It's the price we all pay, men and women. There's no use
being sentimental about a perfectly commonplace--I might even say
legitimate--transaction. Agnes Glenn was like the rest of her kind:
she had a very sharp pair of eyes open all of the time, you may be
quite sure of that. I will say this for her, poor little devil: she
was no blackmailer. She got down and out when the time came and she
never squealed. That's more than most of 'em do, Bingle. 'Pon my soul,
old man, I came here to see you this morning fairly trembling in my
boots. I had an idea it was going to be a hard, nasty business talking
it over with you, but--by George, it isn't. Now, we can get down to
rock-bottom, Bingle. My plan was to--"

"Just a minute, please," interrupted Mr. Bingle, quite steadily. "Did
you know that she was going to become a mother?"

"Certainly. You don't suppose I'd be looking for the child if I hadn't
known she was to be born, do you? I'd be a nice fool, hiring
detectives to unearth some other man's child, wouldn't I?"

"I must agree with you in one particular, Force; you are not finding
it as hard as you thought it would be. I've never seen a man change
more than you have in the past four minutes. You were shaking like a
leaf when you came up here, and now--well, 'pon my soul, you are as
brave as a lion. That certainly proves one thing."

"What's that?"

"That your conscience is clearing."

"Now, don't get it into your head, Bingle, that I'm not dreadfully
sorry for the way that poor girl came to her end. She was really a
brick. She deserved something better."

"Knowing that she was going to bear your child, Force, you have every
reason, I am sure, to say that she was a brick. I, too, say that she
deserved something better than being the mother of your child. What
happened? Did she leave you of her own accord?"

"In a way, yes," said Mr. Force coolly. "In the customary way, of
course. You see, I was about to be married, Bingle. When I explained
the situation to her, she understood. She knew that I couldn't go on
leading the sort of life I'd led before--"

"You hesitate, Force. Why couldn't you go on leading the life you'd
led before? I should say it was quite as decent at one time as
another."

"By Jove, Single, I hadn't the remotest idea you were so simple. I
thought you at least knew SOMETHING about life. You amaze me. You are
positively refreshing. Let me ask you, Bingle, would you have gone on
leading the old life as--now, man to man, Bingle--would you?"

"Yes," said Mr. Bingle simply. A queer unexpected little smile flitted
across his face--a wry smile, perhaps, but still a sign of humour.
"You see, Force, I love children."

Mr. Force stared at him without comprehension. What the DEUCE had that
to do with it?

"Oh, well, you can't understand, of course. To make it short, she was
extremely reasonable. As a matter of fact, when I went up to see her
the day after I had told her that I was to be married, hang me if she
hadn't cleared out. No scene, no tears, no maledictions--just good,
hard sense, Bingle, that's what it was. Not many of them would have
been so decent about it. They usually make a bluff or something of the
sort--money, you know, regular blackmail. But she didn't. She got out
as quietly as a mouse, left no trace behind, no regrets, no
complaints. Just a note saying she understood and wishing me luck.
Rather fine, eh?"

"And you married right after that?"

"Six weeks afterward."

"And, of course, the present Mrs. Hinman knows that she's got a step-
daughter?"

"The present Mrs. Hinman? Step-daughter? Good Lord, Bingle, I didn't
know you had that much sarcasm in you. But that delicate remark of
yours brings me back to the main issue--the matter I really came over
to see you about. Naturally Mrs. Force knows nothing of--of this story
I've been telling you. Now, what I want to get at is just this: how
can we manage it about Kathleen without causing my wife to suspect?
Put your mind to it, Bingle. How am I going to take the child under my
wing, so to speak--take her into my home, without--" "Wait! We'll look
at it from another point of view. Suppose this detective of yours had
found your child in the slums of New York, a street waif, a beggar--
what then? Was it your intention to take her into your home in that
case? Wasn't it your idea to provide a home for her in some
respectable family, educate her, give her a secret allowance--and let
it go at that? Can you honestly say to me, Force, that you intended to
adopt her--as you are now thinking of doing?"

"Confound you, Bingle, isn't it only reasonable that I should have
wanted to see the child before I made any definite plans for her
future?"

"And now that you've seen her, and found her to be an adorable,
lovely, even high-bred little creature, you think it's all right to
take her into your own home--into her father's home?"

"Don't be hard on me, Bingle. Can't you understand that I've got a
father's feelings after all? Can't you credit me with--"

"I'll go back a dozen years, Force, and ask you this question: did you
make any effort to find this child and provide for her when she was a
tiny baby? Did you do anything toward helping the mother in her time
of trouble?"

"I tried to help her, Bingle, before God I did," cried Force
earnestly. "I'm not such a rotter as all that. Agnes wrote me a brief
note when the baby was born. I happened to be off on my wedding-
journey at the time. She said she merely wanted me to know that she
had a little girl baby, and she went on to say that she'd starve
before she'd take a penny from me for its support. That's the truth,
Bingle, I swear it. When I got back from California, I tried to find
Agnes. I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to make the rest of
her life easy and comfortable. But I couldn't find her."

"Did you hunt very long?"

"Long enough. A year or so later I heard that she was dead and that
the child had been taken into a good home. There was nothing more for
me to do. I dropped the matter. Then, recently, I began to think about
the child. I began to want her. I engaged detectives to--"

"We know all about that," interrupted Mr. Bingle crisply. "And now I
think we understand each other clearly, Force. You want Kathleen. So
do I. There's only one way for you to get her, and that is to have
Mrs. Force intercede for you. If your wife comes to me and says that
SHE wants Kathleen, I'll give her up, even though it breaks my heart.
What have you to say, Force?"

Force had lost all his lofty confidence. He was shaking again, as with
the ague. This was not at all what he had bargained for. Who would
have dreamed it of Bingle?

"Come now, Bingle, let us get together--"

Mr. Bingle interrupted him in no uncertain manner. He planted himself
squarely in front of the big man--in fact, almost under his nose--and
snarled:

"There's only one way for you to get Kathleen away from me, Force,
and, darn you, I don't believe you'll undertake it. I shall give her
up to you only on condition that you acknowledge her to be your
daughter."

Force's jaw dropped. "Are you crazy, Bingle?" he gasped. He lifted his
head the next instant in order to avoid the agitated finger that was
being shaken under his nose.

"I don't intend that you shall say to the world that she is a child of
shame. Not at all, sir! That would be the height of cruelty. But
you've got to tell your wife the story you've told me if you want to
take Kathleen away from me. She has got to know that the child is
yours. You can't come any adoption dodge over me, Force. She's already
adopted. She--"

"But, great heaven, man, my wife wouldn't have her in the house if--if
she knew the truth about her," exploded the wretched Force. "No woman
would stand for that."

"Then, by the eternal Moses," shouted Mr. Bingle, "she'll stay right
here with Daddy and Mammy Bingle."

"But she's mine! If, as you say, she is the daughter of Agnes Glenn
there isn't the slightest doubt that she belongs to me. I want to do
the right thing by the child. I want to--"

"No use talking, Force. There's but one way."

"But, damn it all, I CAN'T go to my wife with all this! I can't--"

"Then Kathleen stays where she is," said Mr. Bingle firmly.

"Great Scott, man, what difference can it make to you? You can adopt
another child to-morrow and fill her place. It isn't as if she were
your own child. You don't know what it is to have a child of your own
--your own flesh and blood. You CAN'T have a father's feeling for--"

"That will do, Force! You've said enough. The matter stands as it is.
I'll tell you something else though before we part: I don't want you
coming to this house annoying Agnes Glenn's child. I shall tell my
wife all that you have told me and I'd advise you to tell yours,
because I don't want you to put your foot inside my door until you can
come here with Mrs. Force and humbly--you notice I say humbly?--
implore us to give up that which belongs to us by virtue of that old
law of salvage. I have already wished you a Merry Christmas, Mr.
Force. Now permit me to bid you good morning."

He strode to the study door and opened it. His chin was high and his
eyes were uncommonly bright. The hem of the dressing gown was farther
from the floor than it had ever been during his ownership.

"I'll think it over, Bingle," muttered Mr. Force, very red in the face
as he stalked past the little man and started down the stairs. "Good
morning!"

"Good morning!"

CHAPTER X

MR. BINGLE THINKS OF BECOMING AN ANGEL

Flanders was a constant visitor at Seawood. In the fortnight
immediately following the all-important Christmas Eve, he appeared at
the Bingle home on no less than ten separate occasions.

"I see that Mr. and Mrs. Force are sailing for Europe to-morrow," said
he on his most recent visit.

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle. "It's news to me."

There was every reason in the world why it should be news to him. He
had neither seen nor heard from Force since that Christmas morning
ultimatum. Purposely Mr. Bingle had stayed away from the bank, where,
as its first vice-president, he was wont to spend much of his time
looking after the comfort and advancement of the bookkeepers and
clerks. He never overlooked an opportunity to help his old comrades in
the "galleys." The board of directors were compelled to fight him
constantly in order to keep him from putting through his plan to raise
all wages, and there came near to being a catastrophe when they voted
down his ridiculous scheme for providing fresh air for the lungs of
the workers in the "pen." He made certain comparisons in which Russia
was frequently mentioned and three or four of the directors afterwards
referred to him as an "undignified little ass."

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