Books: Mr. Bingle
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George Barr McCutcheon >> Mr. Bingle
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"As a matter of fact, Diggs, this flat isn't so bad as might appear,
and the location is excellent. Quite handy for the Elevated, and not
far from the river in case one wants to take a sail in pleasant
weather. The view from the kitchen windows is capital. You could see
East River quite plainly if it were not for the buildings. My idea is
to put some plants in the room over there--the conservatory, I mean--
and I expect to get a dog later on. Mrs. Bingle is very fond of dogs.
See that window over there? Well, by sticking your head out of it a
little way you can see clear to heaven."
"THAT window, sir?"
"Yes, sir, that very one."
"Why, it opens into the airshaft, sir."
"To be sure it does. You have to look straight upward, of course, if
you want to see heaven, you know. And speaking of the airshaft, I am
reminded that it is really quite a picturesque one at times. The
windows across the way are sometimes very interesting, provided the
shades are up. Usually, however, when the shades over yonder are up, I
see to it that ours are down."
"May I fill your glass again, sir?"
"Is it empty?"
"Quite, sir."
"If you don't mind, Diggs, I think I shall save the rest of the wine
until after the children have gone," said Mr. Bingle, slowly.
Diggs reflected. "Very good, sir. A splendid idea, sir."
"And then I shall ask you and Watson and Melissa and Mrs. Watson to
drink with me to Mrs. Bingle."
"Thank you, sir."
"It does my heart good to see the way these young rascals eat, Diggs.
They haven't had a dinner like this in a long time. Have a little more
chicken, Wilberforce--and some Brussels sprouts. And how about you,
Rutherford? Anything more?"
"I'll have some more soup, daddy," said Rutherford from his high
chair. He was just ending the third course.
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle.
Melissa had come in to see that everything was going along in proper
order. She looked hard at Mr. Bingle's plate and then at the gentleman
himself. He met her reproachful gaze with one of mild apology.
"I'm saving my appetite for to-morrow, Melissa," he explained.
"You're not eating a thing," said Melissa sternly. "Mr. Diggs, what
kind of a lummix are you? Can't you see that he's stinting himself
so's them--"
"Now, Melissa," implored Mr. Bingle, "don't say anything on Christmas
Eve that you'll be sorry for afterwards. It's all right, I assure you.
I'm not very hungry and--"
"But there's more than enough to go 'round," burst out Melissa
wrathfully. "There's no sense in your acting like this, Mr. Bingle."
"Sh!"
"Watson, give him some more of that chicken--the white meat, do you
understand? And where's the dressing? Mr. Diggs, get those rolls over
here--lively! Did he have any soup and fish? Did he--"
"Melissa, what are you trying to do?" demanded Mr. Bingle. "Stuff me
so full I'll die in the night?"
"And him lookin' that thin and pale and peaked," went on Melissa,
glaring at the unhappy butler and footman. "What have you got them
buttons and that striped vest for, Watson? Are you here as a
spectator? Get a move on now, both of you. And as for you, Mr. Bingle,
I'm going to stand right here and SEE that you eat. Do you suppose I
got up this meal for a joke on myself? Not much! The mashed potatoes,
Watson! Never mind, Freddy, you can have some more after your daddy's
had all he wants. Gee whiz, I'm glad I happened to come in when I
did!"
Presently the door-bell rang--a feeble, broken tinkle reminiscent of
an original economy--and Mr. Bingle laid down his salad fork with a
sigh. The children started violently and a scared, uneasy look went
around the table.
"The Society's agents," said Mr. Bingle, closing his lips tightly to
prevent their trembling. "Freddy, will you please go to the door?"
"Beg pardon, sir," said Watson, almost reproachfully despite his
lordly air. Then, with stately tread, he passed into the little
hallway and threw open the outer door.
"I don't want to go," Henrietta was crying, and even Frederic looked
intently at his plate with eyes that were preparing to fill. The rest
of them were ready to whimper. After all, a bountiful meal and a full
stomach go a long way toward producing a reaction. They were not so
keen to leave Mr. Bingle as they were before the meal began.
"Mrs. Flanders! Mr. Flanders!" announced the high-chinned Watson.
First of all, the new arrivals paused to stare in astonishment at the
liveried footman, and then for an instant at the imperious Diggs,
after which they turned their gaze upon the table.
"Great Scott!" gasped Flanders. "Is this a dream?"
"Not on your life," said Watson, completely forgetting himself in an
ecstasy of delight.
There was a tremendous hub-bub, during which Diggs and Watson had a
great deal of difficulty in keeping their places as old and well-
trained servants. They were frequently on the verge of becoming
prosperous green-grocers and joining in the jollification.
First, the gorgeous Miss Colgate kissed Mr. Bingle, almost smothering
the poor gentleman in the wealth of furs which enveloped and adorned
her. Then she kissed nine smart little cheeks in rapid succession, all
the while crying "Merry Christmas" and "bless your heart," in chorus
with every one else and her cheery-voiced husband.
"Just had to run down, Mr. Bingle," Flanders was shouting as he pumped
the little man's arm violently up and down. "A year ago to-night it
all happened, you remember. Celebrating the greatest of all
anniversaries. How are you? Couldn't let THIS night go by without
seeing you, sir--couldn't possibly. Can't stay but a minute, though.
Due at the theatre at half-past seven. Amy goes on early in the first,
you know--of course, you know, having ordered her on when I had her
entering when the act was half over. How are you?"
"Fine! Fine!" gasped Mr. Bingle, almost speechless.
"And now," cried Amy Colgate, throwing open her fur coat, revealing a
dazzling gown of black and silver, "now for the fun! Mr. Footman, will
you admit the messengers from Humpty Dumpty land?"
In came four sprightly clowns, chalked and patched, clad in spots and
spangles, dancing like mad and grinning from ear to ear. Whirling
around the table, dodging the stove, vaulting the empty chairs, they
stopped at last to deposit in a heap upon the floor a whopping pile of
parcels and bundles, the topmost being a huge box of American Beauty
roses. Almost before the wide-eyed, gaping youngsters could realise
what had happened, the motley quartette vanished into the outer hall,
the door banged to behind them and Mr. Flanders was shouting:
"How's that for high? Eh? That's the way we do things up at Forty-
second Street. What have you got to say now, Mr. Bingle, on this Merry
Christmas Eve?"
Mr. Bingle, quite as excited as any of the shouting children, sat down
very suddenly in his chair at the head of the table.
"Sit down, Dick, and you, Amy, and--and have something to eat. I--I--"
He stopped short, realising that he did not know what he was saying,
but vaguely hospitable in spite of himself. Then his arm went up to
cover his eyes.
"We haven't time," began Flanders, but caught a warning look from his
pretty wife.
"We will have dessert and coffee with you, Mr. Bingle," she said,
coming over to lay her hand upon his arm.
"Tha--that's fine," gulped Mr. Bingle with a mighty and partially
successful effort to regain control of his flitting senses. And it was
some time after that before he could trust himself to join in the
merry, excited chatter. He kept on repeating "God bless my soul," in
response to nearly every remark that was directed to him.
"You are not to open a single package until after we are gone,"
commanded Amy Colgate later on, confronting the eager, covetous
children as she arose from the trunk which served as a chair for both
herself and Mr. Bingle in Diggs's hasty readjustment of the seats at
table. "The roses are for you, dear Mr. Bingle, with my love--my real
love. I know that you will take them to Mrs. Bingle to-morrow, but
they are for you to-night. Give her my love and wish her a Merry,
Merry Christmas from Dick and me. Please God she may soon come back to
you and be as she used to be." She peered intently, questioningly into
his glistening eyes, and then put her arm suddenly around his neck and
cried softly in his ear: "Oh, you dear, dear old goose!"
"Where is Melissa?" whispered Flanders to Diggs as that functionary
was helping him into his greatcoat.
"Almost on your very 'eels, sir," said Diggs, as nervous as any one
else.
"I say, Melissa," said Flanders, turning upon the beaming hand-maiden,
who stood in the kitchen door with Watson's wife, "let me have a look
at your kitchen." He fairly pushed his way into the kitchen, dragging
her after him. "Hush! Don't interrupt me, my girl. He may suspect
something and come hustling out here after us. Now, Melissa, I trust
you as I would trust the Government of the United States. You are as
honest as the sun, so I'm taking no chances in handing you this little
package to be delivered to Mr. Bingle when he sits down to his lonely
breakfast on Christmas morning. The kids will be all gone and he'll--
well, he'll need something to brace him up a bit. Now, pay attention:
this is a copy of the first edition of 'The Christmas Carol,' and
stuck between the leaves is something that would cause this flat to be
robbed to-night if the news got down to the Bowery. Are you
listening?"
"I--I am, sir," gasped Melissa, gripping the small package tightly and
shooting a look of apprehension at the kitchen window as if expecting
to see a thief pop into the fifth story window.
"Well, there is a thousand dollar bill concealed in that book. Don't
drop it! It won't bite you. Put it under your pillow to-night, and be
sure he gets it for breakfast. The little note will explain
everything."
"Goodness, Mr. Flanders, it's a dreadful thing to have in bed with a
person. I won't sleep a wink."
"So much the better," said Flanders cheerfully. "Now, you'll not
forget to have it at his place in the morning, will you?"
"If I live through the night, sir, it will be served with his coffee.
I shan't even tell Mr. Diggs." She did not mean this as a reflection
upon the integrity of her suitor, but, fearing that it might be taken
as such, she made haste to add: "So if I'm found murdered in my bed,
you needn't accuse him of doing it."
In the meantime, Amy Colgate had kissed all of the children again and
was standing guard over the heap of presents, talking so gaily and so
incessantly that, despite Mr. Bingle's glances in the direction of the
kitchen, he was unable to satisfy his curiosity.
"You really are quite cosy here, Mr. Bingle," she was saying. "Have
you anything new to show me?"
He pondered. "I think there's a new hole in the carpet over there,
Mrs. Flanders. And I've taken a new lease on life. Dr. Fiddler dropped
in at the bank yesterday to tell me that Mrs. Bingle may be able to
come home before long, so you see I shall have to get busy fixing the
place up a bit. She likes to have everything neat and tidy, you know."
"Is she still with her mother?"
"Certainly. Fiddler says she may have to go to the hospital for a
while before coming here, but it's nothing to be worried about. A
trifling operation, he says. He's like all doctors. You never can get
'em to commit themselves. I shall go up to see her to-morrow. I've got
a little present for her, you know. I've sort of been expecting
something from her to-night--a pair of slippers or a half dozen
handkerchiefs or something like that--but perhaps they will come in
the morning. She never forgets me. Of course, being sick and
discouraged may have kept her from--and then again, on the other hand,
she may have crochetted me a dressing gown or a fancy waistcoat and
prefers to give it to me when I go out to see her to-morrow, not
wanting to trust it to the Express Company, don't you know. Well,
Dick, how do you like our kitchen?"
"Bully! Come along, Amy. We mustn't be late. See you soon, Mr. Bingle.
You must bring Mrs. Bingle up to see the piece as soon as she's able.
By George, we ARE doing business, though. Sixteen thousand dollars
last week. Turning 'em away every night. Seventeen hundred dollars
last night and--"
"Hush, Dick! Mr. Bingle knows you are an author. You don't have to act
the part, you know."
"Right you are. It's getting to be a habit. I can't help contrasting
this Christmas Eve with the one a year ago. I didn't have ten dollars
to my name when I went out to hear you read 'The Christmas Carol,' Mr.
Bingle."
"And now I haven't ten dollars to my name," said Mr. Bingle cheerily.
"Luck is like the sun, Dick. It doesn't stay up all the time.
Sometimes I look back upon the past ten years and wonder if they don't
belong to the fellow who wrote the 'Arabian Nights' and not to me.
They were not real, not a bit of it. And yet I can't remember ever
having found a queer old jar at the seashore, nor having released a
good geni from its smoky insides. So I suppose I really must have
lived them."
"Don't let yourself get lonely, Mr. Bingle," said Flanders, gripping
the other's hand. "Don't allow yourself to mope over the loss of
these--ahem! They will all have nice, happy homes and grow up to be
splendid--"
"Come on, Dick," called his wife from the little hall, where she was
surrounded by a suddenly repressed group of children. She had been
whispering something to them, and they were ashamed.
The door-bell gave forth its stuttering tinkle once more, and again
the impassive Watson stalked to the entry. The next instant a white-
furred figure bounded through the door, rushed across the room and
precipitated itself forcibly into the arms of Mr. Bingle, who barely
had time to prepare himself for the onslaught.
It was Kathleen. Behind her stalked the elegant Mr. and Mrs. Sydney
Force.
There had been a time when Mrs. Force scarcely deigned to notice Miss
Amy Fairweather. But there is a great difference between a poor
governess and a popular goddess. The bright and shining star of
Broadway, with a suite of rooms at the Plaza, a fascinating and much-
courted husband, and a firm grasp on the shifting attention of the
idle rich, was a person to be recognised even by the charitably
inclined. And so Mrs. Force neglected to employ her lorgnon in
scrutinising Miss Colgate, and made the most of an opportunity to
release a long-suppressed effusiveness.
Later on, in a moment of quiet obtained by a somewhat imperative
command to the noisy children, she announced to Mr. Bingle that she
must be running along to a dinner and the opera, and that she hoped he
would have everything ready when the agents for the Society called at
half-past eight, so that there would be no delay in getting the
youngsters off in a specially chartered Fifth Avenue stage. Then she
turned sweetly to Miss Amy Colgate and said:
"May I take you up town in my car, Mrs. Flanders?"
Mrs. Flanders replied just as sweetly. "No, thank you, Mrs. Force. Our
own limousine is waiting."
"We've come to hear the 'Christmas Carol,' Bingle," said Mr. Force
after his wife and Mr. and Mrs. Flanders had gone. "Kathleen and I
expect to come to see you on every Christmas Eve, if you'll have us.
You've got us on your hands, old man, and you can't shake us off."
"God bless my soul," said Mr. Bingle, visibly moved. "I remember that
you DID use it as an argument when you took Kathleen away from me.
Still, I bear it no grudge."
"I love the 'Christmas Carol,' Daddy," cried Kathleen, snuggling close
to him.
"Sh! You must not call me Daddy now, dear."
"I shall! You'll always be my daddy."
"And how about--" he pointed to Mr. Force.
"Oh," she said easily, "I call him father."
Then came the distribution of presents. A footman brought up numerous
gifts from the rich Kathleen to her one time foster brothers and
sisters. They had nothing to give to her in return, and Mr. Bingle
afterwards said that it was greatly to their credit that they were
able to look at him with an accusation in their eyes, for, said he, it
went to prove that they were mortified over not being in a position to
observe the old rule about giving and receiving. As a matter of fact,
several of them tried to transfer to Kathleen the simple, inexpensive
presents he had just given to them out of his own humble pile, all of
which, he argued, went far toward establishing his point,
notwithstanding the fact that they manifestly despised the very things
they were so ready to give away. He overheard Frederick whispering to
Kathleen that he hoped he was going to a place where he could have
enough money to buy her the right kind of a present for her next
Christmas, and that it was rotten luck to be as poor as all this. Mr.
Bingle strained his ears to catch Kathleen's reply, and it was such
that his face brightened; he afterwards sidled up to her and stroked
her hair with loving, gentle fingers.
There was one rather large, cumbersome pasteboard box in the corner,
which Diggs passed up to him the last of all.
"Don't open it till to-morrow, Mr. Bingle," said Melissa in a panic,
whereupon Diggs jerked it away from him with more haste than good
manners. It was marked quite plainly: "To Mr. Bingle from Melissa,"
and bright and early the next morning it turned out to be a fur lined
overcoat.
Once more Melissa was dragged into the kitchen, this time by the
furtive, uneasy Mr. Force. While they were out of the room a messenger
boy came to the front door with a small package for Mr. Bingle.
"Ah, at last, something from Mary. I was sure she wouldn't forget me
on Christmas Eve. She never has and I'm sure--Hello! This isn't her
writing. 'Monsieur Thomas Singleton Bingle.' Now what can--"
"Open it, Daddy," cried Kathleen.
"Stand back! Maybe it's an infernal machine. These anarchists are
blowing up all the rich men in town nowadays. This may be the end of
me. Ah!" He had cut the string with a carving knife and now exposed to
view a box of cigars. There was a card attached. With some difficulty
he made out: "From your life-long friend, with best wishes for a Merry
Christmas and a Happy New Year." It was signed by "Napoleon."
Mr. Force had closed the door behind him. He spoke in a hoarse
whisper, after a curt nod of the head to Mrs. Watson, who was vainly
trying to wash the dishes and at the same time see all that was going
on in the outer room.
"See here, young woman, I want you to give these two envelopes to Mr.
Bingle when he comes in to breakfast in the morning." He produced two
long blue envelopes and thrust them into her hand. "Not a word to him
to-night, d'you hear? Put them under your pillow and sleep on 'em--
with one eye open if possible."
"Good gracious," she said, with her broadest grin, I shan't sleep for
a week. They look terribly important."
"I'll tell you what they contain," said Mr. Force, after a moment.
"You ought to know what you are guarding, my girl. This one contains
Kathleen's present. Do you remember that pretty little cottage and
farm just above my place in the country? The cottage with the ivy and
the maples and the old stone wall? Well, this is a deed to that
property. It is my daughter's present to her 'daddy,' the gentleman
who made her the lady she is and who has just made a new man of Sydney
Force. This--"
"Gee!" exclaimed Melissa, pop-eyed and trembling with joy. "What next?
Now, I've got to sleep on a house and lot, besides--" She caught
herself up in time.
"This envelope contains my present to him. It is an appointment as
manager and superintendent of my estates in Westchester County and in
Connecticut--for life, Melissa. You won't fail to give them to him for
breakfast, will you?"
"God bless my soul!" gasped Melissa, unconsciously falling into a
life-long habit of the man who loved everybody.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The agents came at eight o'clock, a gloomy man in uniform and two
kind-looking, sweet-faced women in brown.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Mr. Bingle's voice broke occasionally as he read "The Christmas Carol"
to a silent, attentive audience made up of Kathleen and Sydney Force,
Melissa, Diggs and the two Watsons. Fortunately, he knew the story so
well that he was not called upon to perform the impossible. It was
seldom that he could see the print on account of the mist that lay in
his tired, forlorn grey eyes.
Far below in the street outside, a half-frozen clarinetist was sending
up a mournful carol from the mouth of his reed. Somewhere in the
distance a high-voiced child was singing. And the wind played a dirge
as it marched past the windows of the candle-lighted flat.
At last he came to the end. He laid the book upon the table, fumbled
for his spectacle case, and contrived to smile as he held out a hand
to Kathleen.
"You will come every Christmas Eve, won't you, Deary?" he said.
"Yes, Daddy," murmured Kathleen, between the sobs that Tiny Tim had
drawn from her soft little heart. "Every Christmas Eve, Daddy?"
"Then it won't be so bad as it seems now," he said gently. Not a word
said he of the nine children who had gone away.
Mr. Force had glanced surreptitiously at his watch at least a dozen
times during the reading of the story. An anxious frown settled on his
brow and an observer might have remarked the strange, listening
attitude that he affected at times, such as the alert cocking of his
head and an intense squinting of the eyes.
"Now, if my dear Mary could only pop in on us and--" but Mr. Bingle
choked up suddenly and turned his attention to the stirring of the
coals in the stove.
The door-bell pealed again, this time with surprising authority and
decision. Mr. Bingle started as if shot. As he faced the little hall,
his eyes were wide with an incredulous stare of wonder.
"Good God in heaven," he murmured, "can it be possible that--but no!
It cannot be Mary. That would be too wonderful. Watson--Melissa, will
you please see who's--who's there?"
As rigid as a post he stood over the stove, holding the poker in his
hand, his eyes fastened upon the door as Watson sprang to open it. The
cheerful voice of old Dr. Fiddler--the GREAT Dr. Fiddler--came roaring
into the room ahead of its owner.
"By the Lord Harry, it's a cold night--Hello! What's this? Liveried
servants again? Well, upon my soul, I--Ah, there you are, Bingle! How
are you, Force?"
The next instant he was wringing Mr. Bingle's hand and booming
Christmas greetings to every one in hearing--and out of it, for that
matter, such a voice he had!
"Mary? What--how is she, Doctor?" cried Mr. Bingle, peering beyond the
bulky form of the doctor as if expecting to see his wife in the little
hallway.
"Fine as a fiddle," said Dr. Fiddler, using a pet and somewhat
personal phrase.
"No--no bad news?" stammered Mr. Bingle. "You're not trying to break
anything gently to me, are you?"
"Gently?" roared the doctor. "Does a rhinoceros break things gently?"
He threw off his great ulster and began jerking at his gloves. "Just
thought I'd run down to see you, Bingle. Christmas Eve comes but once
a year. Hope I'm not too late for the Carol. I missed hearing it last
year, and--"
"If you'll swear to me that Mary is all right, I'll--I'll read it over
again," cried Mr. Bingle.
"I swear it on my word as a gentleman," said Fiddler, "but for
heaven's sake don't read it over again. I'll take it for granted.
Besides I always cry when we get to the Tiny Tim part, so--I say
Force, don't you cry?"
"I did to-night," said Sydney Force, his face beaming.
"And you, Diggs?"
"Like a blooming baby, sir," said Diggs, and Watson blew his nose
violently.
"Doctor, I thought for a moment that it was Mary at the door," said
Mr. Bingle slowly. He was still trembling.
"Oh, she won't be here for a couple of weeks, Bingle--perhaps three.
But she's coming, old man--coming with banners flying and bells on her
toes. 'Gad, you won't know her when you see her to-morrow." He sent a
quick, frowning glance around the room. "They're gone, eh? All of 'em?
Good! I must tell you in advance, Bingle, that Mrs. Bingle will have
to bring a nurse with her--for a while, at least. So, you see, we'll
need all the room--"
"A nurse? Oh, my Lord!" gasped Mr. Bingle, dropping into a chair as
his knees gave way beneath him. "Is--is it as bad as that?"
"Cheer up!" cried the doctor, laying a hand upon his shoulder, and
suddenly giving him a violent shake. "Nothing to be alarmed over, I
give you my word. She's as fine as a fiddle, I tell you. And now, give
me a full glass of that amazing egg-nogg you make, Bingle. I'm frozen
to the bone."
"Egg-nogg?" murmured Mr. Bingle, helplessly. "Why, God bless my soul,
I--I never thought of it. Melissa, have we any whiskey in the house?
No, of course not--and we have no cream, I fear, so--"
"Beg pardon, sir," interrupted Diggs, "we 'ave all of the
hingredients. Watson 'appened to think of the cold trip 'ome, sir."
"Sit down, then," cried Mr. Bingle. "I'll mix the grog for you,
Doctor, in two shakes of a lamb's tail."
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