Lucy Maud Montgomery - "Kilmeny of the Orchard"

Geoffrey de Villehardouin - "Memoirs or Chronicle of The Fourth Crusade and The Conquest of Constantinople"

Ludovic Halevy - "L'Abbe Constantin, v3"

Eliza Lee Follen - "Little Songs"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Mr. Bingle

G >> George Barr McCutcheon >> Mr. Bingle




"Good!" cried Mr. Bingle. Then he turned to the silent, glowering
Jean. "And you, my good man. Will you also take oath that Napoleon is
your son and that you, as his lawful father--"

"I say, Rouquin," began Jean in a far from amiable tone. Rouquin at
once took him by the arm and led him into the bedroom, whispering
fiercely all the way.

"My Jean is very proud," explained Madame Rousseau, dabbing her nose
and eyes with a bit of a powder rag. "He is so obstinate, too. But
M'sieur Rouquin will talk sense into his head, never fear."

There was an awkward silence. Finally Mrs. Bingle spoke.

"Is your husband a descendant of the painter?"

Madame Rousseau looked surprised.

"He IS the painter, Madame."

"The--impossible! I refer to the great Rousseau of the 1880 school."

"Oh, I see. No, no--he is not that one. Jean was not yet born. Mon
dieu, was there another Rousseau?"

"There was," said Mrs. Bingle tartly. "Jean is the painter of to-day.
He is great, he is splendid, he is magnificent. But, la la! he is so
poor!"

"That seems to establish him all right," said Mr. Bingle.

Rouquin and Jean reappeared. Both were smiling cheerfully. Jean
affected a somewhat degage manner and a perceptible swagger.

"Very well, M'sieur," he said. "I'll swear to it."

"Then I shall leave the details to my attorney, who, you will
discover, is a most conscientious, dependable person. In the meantime,
when will it be convenient for Dr. Fiddler to examine Napoleon?"

Rouquin explained at some length in rapid French, and Madame Rousseau
was once more consoled. Jean appeared to be somewhat bored. He yawned,
in fact.

"And now," cried Monsieur Rouquin in a great voice, "I have a plan.
Let us celebrate the birth of Monsieur Napoleon Bingle by dining
together at Pierre's. This day he is born again--or, at least,
prospectively born. Life for him really begins to-day--the sixth of
March. It is my treat! I shall be the host on this memorable occasion.
Pierre shall give to us the best duckling in his larder and the rarest
bottle of--"

"But my dear Rouquin," began Mr. Bingle.

"I implore you, kind friend, to honour me with your presence this
evening. The greatest day of my life shall be this one if you but
consent to grace my board with your lovely lady. And poor Madame
Rousseau and her amiable husband shall not be the ghosts at the feast,
as one might suspect, but joyful spirits. To them we will drink a
toast of good will and better luck next time, and they may drink to
you, madame and sir, the health of one grand Napoleon Bingle, in whose
past they both shared but whose future can only be a--"

"Oh, I say, Rouquin," broke in Monsieur Jean languidly, "why not make
it 'many happy returns of the day'? That's the real issue."

Rouquin coughed violently, and, upon recovering himself, went on with
a slight modification of his rapture: "Whatever should come of this
day's work, we should all drink deeply to the health, prosperity and
fame of a future president of the United States--Napoleon Bingle!
Come, Madame Bingle, you cannot refuse to join your humble servant and
petitioner in one jolly, epoch-making--though absolutely respectable--
celebration in honour of our little Napoleon. And you, M'sieur--Ah,
you, sir! Have you not in prospect the alliance of your own honoured
name with that of the most notable Frenchman of recent times?
Napoleon! Bingle! Ah, think of it! Bingle--Napoleon! We can afford to
overlook the fact that Napoleon was a Corsican and not a--real
Frenchman. We can--"

"Just as we must overlook the fact that little Napoleon is a Rousseau
and not a Bingle," said Mr. Bingle drily.

"Quite so, quite so," agreed Rouquin hastily. "Napoleon Bonaparte was
the adopted son of France, and Napoleon Rousseau is the adopted son of
the great Thomas Bingleton Single--" "Singleton Bingle," corrected Mr.
Bingle, as Rouquin hesitated in evident appreciation of his mixed
consonants.

"I am sure Madame Rousseau will not feel like joining in a feast at
this time," said Mrs. Bingle. "It is hardly an occasion for
jollification--"

"Ah, Madame," cried Madame Rousseau, with sparkling eyes, "it is not
for myself that I would jollify, but for the adored Napoleon. It is
for him that I would rejoice. Is he not to become rich and honoured,
and is he not to be given by law a name that he can never be ashamed
of as long as he--"

Rouquin broke in again, hastily and somewhat apprehensively. "Let us
save our fine phrases for the banquet board. Ah, I can see it in
M'sieur Bingle's face! He will accept my little hospitality. He will
come with Madame to Pierre's. He will make me to be forever honoured
among men. He--"

"I'll come on one condition only, Rouquin."

"And what is that, M'sieur?"

"That I may settle the bill."

Rouquin was amiable. He shrugged his shoulders and beamed. "I should
be the last to say no to any demand of my guests. If it would give you
pleasure, sir, to pay for my dinner, I shall not protest. I am the
most courteous of hosts. The smallest wish of my guests must be
gratified. However, sir, I reserve the right to order the dinner which
I am giving. You will not deny me that, I am sure."

"By no means," cried Bingle. "Order whatever you like, Rouquin. I've
never been able to order anything from a French bill-of-fare but pate-
de-foi-gras. It's your dinner, Rouquin, not mine. But, we are going
ahead too fast. We have not yet heard from Monsieur Rousseau. Will he
be willing to join us?"

"Sure," said Monsieur Jean.

"And what about the baby? Is it right for us to take a small child to
a public cafe where there may be drinking and--"

"My dear Mrs. Bingle," cried Rouquin, "pray have no thought of
Napoleon's comfort on this occasion. I shall insist upon Madame
Rousseau leaving him here--in my humble dwelling--until called for.
That is to say, in charge of my wonderful Fifi, who will care for him
completely during her absence. He shall have a stupendous supper and
he shall be put to bed happy. For once in his poor little life he
shall have abundance of food and the joy of a warm nest to lie in. Ah,
it is a great day for Napoleon!"

Needless to say, Mr. and Mrs. Bingle stepped into a new and hitherto
unsuspected world the instant they entered Pierre's. They stepped out
of it at ten o'clock that night and into a very commonplace, humdrum
sort of automobile and were whisked homeward by an astonished,
unbelieving chauffeur. They had drunk the health of Napoleon the
present, Napoleon the past, and Napoleon the future, and they had done
it from cobwebby, mouldy bottles out of the uttermost depths of
Pierre's cellars. They were pleasantly, agreeably conscious of going
home, and they talked a great deal of the vivacious, though
heartbroken mother of little Napoleon, who, despite her shabby frock,
was the life of the party. And Monsieur Jean--he, the great artist and
stricken father--he too was gay and amusing. He sang a wonderful
little French song that was applauded violently by people at the
nearby tables, and he drew wonderful caricatures of the musicians, the
head waiter, the shockingly bad soprano, and of Mr. Bingle himself.
Rouquin alone was nervous and uneasy, but of course only on account of
his illustrious guests. He was constantly imploring both Madame and
Monsieur Rousseau to reflect before speaking, and they obeyed him by
reflecting in a thoroughly audible manner so that he might not be left
in the dark as to their intentions.

Mr. and Mrs. Bingle said good night on the sidewalk in front of the
restaurant. As the latter shook hands with little Madame Rousseau, the
mother of Napoleon suddenly fell to shivering. All of the gaiety fell
from her like a discarded mantle. Her piquant face became drawn and
pinched and her fingers clasped those of Mrs. Bingle in a fierce,
almost painful grip. She drew the elder woman apart from the group.

"Oh, Madame, you will be good to my little boy," she whispered,
beating her breast with her free hand. "I am not gay. I am unhappy. I
would not give him up but his father insists it is for the best. I may
see him some time, may I not? I love him. He is my joy, my everything.
To-night I sing and laugh, but my heart is not light. Non, non! It is
like a stone, like ice. Oh, Madame, I implore you to be good to my
little boy!"

She was crying softly. Mrs. Bingle put her arm about the bent
shoulders and drew the young mother close to her side.

"Don't you worry, my dear. We'll make a fine man of your little
Napoleon. Some day you will look with pride upon him and say: 'I'm
glad I brought that man into the world, even though he doesn't know
it.' And I am glad that you have cried. It makes another woman of you.
I would say 'God bless you,' Madame Rousseau, if it were not that he
has already blessed you."

Later on in the night, Rouquin and his two companions paused at the
foot of a Sixth Avenue Elevated station.

"Good night, old fellow," said Rouquin, giving Jean's hand a mighty
grip. "You are a true friend."

Then Jean said good night cheerily and walked off down the street,
whistling gaily, as one who has completed an honest day's work.

I think I have neglected to mention that Rouquin was an exceedingly
good-looking, fascinating chap of twenty-eight or thirty, and
unmarried.




CHAPTER XIII

TROUBLE, TROUBLE, TROUBLE!


Chapter thirteen is an unlucky one for Mr. Bingle. Many unpleasant
things are crowded into the space devoted to this division of the
narrative, although in the matter of time we leap from early March to
the fifth of July with all the swiftness of one who races at break-
neck speed to get away from consequences, or to put a disagreeable
task as far behind as possible.

In the first place, Kathleen was permitted to remain with the Bingles
far beyond the date set for her departure in the custody of a new set
of parents. It so happened that on the very day selected for her
departure, which was early in March, Rutherford and Imogene came down
with a fever and a rash. Dr. Fiddler was summoned from the city. Just
as he entered the broad portals at the front of the house, two of the
nurse-maids, Stokes and Brown, walked swiftly down the back stairs
with their suitcases and bandboxes in their hands.

Mr. Bingle was notified that they wanted to see him at once in the
library. They appeared to be in a great hurry to catch a train for the
city. From time to time, while they waited for the master of the
house, they cast nervous, apprehensive looks in the direction of the
door through which they had entered the room. Their apprehensions
apparently were justified by the abrupt arrival upon the scene of
Wright and Quinlan, the other nurse-maids, both of whom were hot and
flushed and still in a state of frowsy preparation for a journey. They
too had their suitcases and bundles and they too were trying to
balance unfastened hats upon the top of agitated heads.

Mr. Bingle came into the room just in time to hear each of the four
accusing all of the others of trying to sneak off and leave her with
the bag to hold, or words to that effect. With his entrance, however,
each of the hasty nurse-maids was reminded of a dreadfully sick
relative in town and of the necessity for instant departure. What they
wanted of Mr. Bingle was their pay--and a reference.

The poor gentleman was flabbergasted. He wanted to know what had
happened. They told him in one voice that it was nearly train-time and
that nothing had happened, and would he please hurry. When he
suggested that they should wait and see Mrs. Bingle, they asked him to
say good-bye for them, and made for the door, crowding one another
rudely in their eagerness to be off. Brown saved the situation for
herself and her companions by shrilly declaring that she would drop
him a line from New York, advising him where to send her money and the
reference, and for him not to bother now, she would trust him, of
course. And then they all trooped out of the library and rushed for
the front door. Three of them reached the outer air and were gone
forever, but one of them, Miss Stokes, was turned back by the
determined Watson, who clutched her by the arm and whispered a few
sharp, convincing sentences into her ear. She set down her suitcase
and began to cry, whereupon the footman kissed her and said that he'd
despise her if she didn't stand by Mr. Bingle now that he needed her
so much; and Stokes said that she was crying because she hated herself
for even thinking of leaving and that the other girls were the scum of
the earth, take it from her.

Well, it turned out that the two children had scarlet fever. Brown
happened to know that Imogene had been exposed to the disease during a
surreptitious visit to the cottage of the station agent, whose wife it
appears was a close friend of the nursemaid, and whose baby thrived
immensely on the rich foods from the Bingle establishment. So the
instant the rash appeared, Brown began packing her suitcase and trunk.
She tried to get away without letting the other girls into the secret,
but they suspected. What might have been a dignified resignation on
Brown's part, became a stampede.

That afternoon the Force automobile came for Kathleen. Mr. and Mrs.
Force were confronted by Diggs as they came up the steps. He gave them
the news.

"The deuce you say," said Force, backing down the steps. "Has she been
exposed?"

Mr. Bingle appeared in the doorway. "Come in, please," he said,
covering his bare head with a newspaper. "Got some bad news for you."

"What the devil do you mean, Bingle, by running around among the riff-
raff of all New York, picking up germs and bringing 'em out here to a
house full of children? See what you've done, gallivanting around with
Rouquin's cheap--"

"Oh, come now, Force! Don't blame poor little Napoleon. It takes ten
days or so for a case to develop and I saw Napoleon only two days ago.
Come in, won't you? I can't stand here in the--"

"No, thank you," exploded Mr. Force. "I've never had the infernal
thing, and it's usually fatal in adults. I wouldn't expose myself to
it for a million dollars. Shut the door, Diggs, confound you! Do you
want to have the microbes blowing out here into my very face? Get back
in the car, dear! Lord, what a nice mess it is. Hang it all, Bingle,
didn't I tell you in so many words not to let Kathleen play around
with all those little--"

"Kathleen hasn't got it--yet," said Mr. Bingle hotly. "Only two of 'em
have shown--"

"We cannot consider taking her away with us now," said Mrs. Force,
with decision. "You can't expect us to expose ourselves to--"

"No, you can't, Bingle," broke in Mr. Force. "It's not to be thought
of. She's got to stay here until--until the thing's over."

"That is to say, until she gets well or dies," said Mr. Bingle,
raising his voice.

"Oh, I'll send out a good doctor and a couple of nurses. And, see
here, I don't want this child cooped up with all the rest of 'em. I
want her placed in a separate room, as far as possible from the--"

"By jingo!" cried Mr. Bingle. "I believe it would be a good thing for
the child if she caught it and died. Good day, Mrs. Force. Better move
rapidly, Force. You see, I've been exposed--and so has Diggs. We're
alive with microbes."

And that is why Kathleen did not go South early in March--not until
late in April, for that matter, when she had completely recovered from
a particularly stubborn illness, and long after all of the others,
except little Imogene, were up and about. Imogene died.

Miss Fairweather was the angel in this season of tribulation. She was
true blue. Day and night she gave up to the care of the sick ones, and
when it was all over the roses in her cheeks were missing, but the
light in her eyes was bright.

Then Kathleen went away. Mr. Force, considerably humbled, apologised
to Mr. Bingle for as many things as he could remember, and Mrs. Force,
after all, did condescend to introduce Mrs. Bingle to her own
exclusive dressmaker. Napoleon came. Mr. Bingle watched the newspapers
for an account of the suicide of Monsieur and Madame Rousseau, but no
such event was reported. No doubt the approach of spring deterred
them. They would probably wait until cold weather set in again.

In order to encourage the struggling Rousseau, he bought, through
Rouquin, a rather startling painting by the young artist, in which a
herd of red cattle partook placidly of the skyline and a pallid
windmill dominated the foreground. Later on, an expert informed him
that the red cattle were rocks on the edge of a pool and the windmill
was a lady making ready to dive into the water for a lonely swim. The
painting was signed, but the name was not Rousseau. It was Fauret.
Rouquin explained the discrepancy. He said that young Rousseau
preferred to paint under an assumed name--in truth, it was his
maternal grandmother's name--rather than to have his canvases confused
with those of the academic, old-school Barbizon painter. He was above
trading on a name that was fast becoming obsolete!

Then there came the astonishing disappearance of young Frederick. The
third day after Kathleen's departure, Frederick turned up missing. A
week passed before the detectives found him in Washington, penniless,
half-starved but valiant. He had run away from home to find Kathleen,
for, in his fickle heart, he had come to realise that it was she whom
he loved and not old Miss Fairweather at all. Extreme hunger and an
acute attack of home-sickness dampened his ardent regard for the
distant Kathleen, for the time being at least, and he was quite
content to return to Seawood, where, after all, he could have all he
wanted to eat and at the same time reflect audibly on the fact that he
was a real hero.

Envy induced Wilberforce to run away a few days after Frederick
returned with his great tales of adventure, privation and gallantry.
He got no farther from home than White Plains, and was back at Seawood
before nine o'clock at night on the day of his flight, yet he had
enjoyed so many hair-raising experiences, rescued so many lovely girls
from all manner of perils, and soundly thrashed so many unprincipled
varlets, that even Melissa's narratives became weak and puerile when
put up against the tales he told to his pop-eyed brothers and sisters.
He did not mention the sound thrashing that he sustained at the hands
of Mrs. Bingle, however, nor did he attempt to account for the bitter
howls that began to issue from behind the closed library doors almost
simultaneously with his return to Seawood. These howls, it may be
added, had a great deal to do with the decline of enthusiasm among the
other boys. Wilberforce's adventure in the library was the one that
made the deepest impression on them.

And this summary paddling of young Wilberforce, in direct opposition
to the wishes of his foster-father, who would have punished him in a
less drastic fashion, brings us to the gravest of Mr. Bingle's
worries: the curious change in Mrs. Bingle's attitude toward the
children.

From being a loving, kind, sympathetic mother she lapsed into the
opposite in every particular. Her querulousness, impatience, even
antipathy became more and more marked as the summer advanced and Mr.
Bingle, in dire distress, consulted Dr. Fiddler. She scolded
incessantly, spanked frequently, complained from morning till night,
and suffered headaches, neuritis and kindred ailments to such an
extent that the good doctor might well have been pardoned for looking
a bit wiser than ever before and suggesting a change of scene and
environment for the lady, whose nerves undoubtedly had been affected
by the troubles of the past few weeks.

Every one about the place observed and secretly commented on the
amazing change in the mistress of the house. The calm, serene, level-
headed manager of Mr. Bingle's household had developed into a cranky,
dyspeptic tyrant whose pleasure it was to be unfailingly displeased
with everything, and who, despite the fact that she was not yet forty-
three, declared that she was a broken old woman without the remotest
hope of ever seeing a well day again in her life. She was quite
positive that she suffered from a dreadful and incurable malady. She
knew the symptoms, she had every one of them, and no doctor in the
world could convince her to the contrary--so she said. Her greatest
desire was to go to Peekskill, where she could find peace and quiet
and unutterable relief from the annoyances caused by the little
nuisances that Mr. Bingle had taken under his wing. In Peekskill her
mother and sister still lived the simple life, and that was what she
wanted more than anything else.

Mr. Bingle's gentle argument that he could not go to Peekskill with
her met with a petulant response. She made it plain to him that she
realised his preference for the children and that she was no longer of
any use to him as a companion or helpmate. For her own part, she'd
like to see them all in Jericho--meaning the children, of course. All
of which shocked and distressed poor Mr. Bingle beyond expression.

"What is it, Doctor? Physically she seems to be all right. Can it be
that she is going to pieces mentally? Why, she's always been the most
loving, gentle--"

"Nerves, Bingle--plain nerves. She'll be all right in a little while,
I'm sure. I'll have a look at her again next week. In the meantime,
don't pull such a long face. She is as sound as a dollar physically,
as you say. Leave her to me, old fellow. Don't cross her, don't let
her see too much of the children, and don't object to her going to
visit her mother in--where is it?--if she wants to do so. By the way,
Bingle, I wouldn't adopt any more children at present, if I were you.
Wait for a year or two and see how she feels about it."

"Would you advise a trip to Europe? We've been contemplating it for
the past ten years, but--I'm ashamed to admit it--we're both scared
out of our boots when we think of being out there on the Atlantic with
two or three miles of water under our beds every night and icebergs
floating all around us. We want to see Paris and London, of course.
Every one ought to see 'em if he can afford it. If you think it
advisable, I'll take her across this summer. Maybe if she got to Paris
she'd forget she ever wanted to go to Peekskill."

"I'll let you know what I think of it later on, Bingle. We'll see.
I've never seen your garden looking better than it looks this summer.
You have a treasure in that man Edgecomb. Come, let's stroll down to
the Italian--"

"Not just now, Doctor," said Mr. Bingle hastily. "I think Miss
Fairweather and Flanders are down there enjoying the shade and the
music of the fountain."

The servant question was another bothersome thing for him to contend
with. They were dissatisfied and on the point of leaving, especially
the new nursemaids. A general increase in wages served as a temporary
restraint, and a second increase was plainly in sight. For the first
time in his life Mr. Bingle possessed a secret unshared with his wife:
he did not tell her of the raise in wages.

Flanders announced that rehearsals for the play would be started early
in July. The company had been chosen and a theatre taken in his own
name. Mr. Bingle preferred to remain a silent and unrecognised
instrument in the enterprise. He remembered in time that he was a
deacon in the church hard by, and was sorely afraid that while his own
conscience might be perfectly clear in the matter it wasn't by any
means certain that the congregation possessed the same kind of a
conscience.

It became necessary, therefore, for Miss Fairweather to give up her
place and prepare for the task ahead of her, especially as her role
called for a bit of dancing in the second act, demanding considerable
preliminary work under the instruction of a teacher. Mrs. Bingle was
rather glad to see her go. Secretly she was beginning to mistrust the
young lady's intentions where Mr. Bingle was concerned. It was her
recently formed opinion that one can never trust an actress, no matter
how closely she is watched or how frankly she looks you in the eye
while you are watching.

Mr. Bingle called Miss Fairweather and the good-looking Flanders into
his study a few days before the time set for her departure. He closed
the door carefully behind them and then crossed over to glance out of
the window into the garden, where Mrs. Bingle was chatting earnestly
with Dr. Fiddler in the shade of a glorious oak. Mr. Bingle had had
something on his mind for a long, long time. The fate of Agnes Glenn
was at the back of it.

"When do you two expect to be married?" he asked bluntly, taking them
both by surprise. They turned quite red and looked at each other in
evident dismay.

"Why, we--er--really, Mr. Bingle," began Flanders, "we thought we'd
wait until we see how the piece gets over and then--" He looked to the
embarrassed Miss Fairweather for help.

"If everything goes well, Mr. Bingle," she said, nervously, "we
sha'n't hesitate an instant. Of course, if it is a failure, we'll--
well, it really would be wise to wait for a little while until--"

"That's just the thing I want to get at," said Mr. Bingle. "Don't put
it off, my friends. Get married here, Miss Fairweather, to-morrow,
next day. I am your friend, and yours, Dick. My wedding present shall
be--well, I must ask you to leave it to me. I love you both. You have
meant a great deal to me. There is nothing I would not do for you,
nothing I would not shield you from if it lay in my power to do so.
So, I ask you, my friends, to be married here in my house before--"
Emotion choked him. He had been standing near the window at the
beginning of his disjointed remarks. As they progressed, he approached
them with his hands extended.