Books: Mr. Bingle
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George Barr McCutcheon >> Mr. Bingle
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"Something stranger than fiction, eh?" mused Mr. Bingle. "But, my dear
sir, it's such an old story, this yarn about me. The newspapers have
worn it to shreds. Suppose we leave out all reference to the Hooper
millions. If the public is as tired of those millions as I am at
times, Mr. Flanders, we'll be doing an act of charity if we leave 'em
out. You will get your best story, as you call it, by observing what
happens here to-night. No one else has ever done it for a newspaper.
You are the first, my dear sir. I am a simple man. I don't like to be
in the newspapers. The long and tiresome litigation over my poor
uncle's estate has kept me more or less in the limelight, as you
fellows would say, and there have been times when I willingly would
have given up the fight if my lawyers had allowed me to do so. But a
lawyer is something you can't get rid of, once you've got him--or he's
got you, strictly speaking. My lawyers won't allow ME to quit, and I
have every reason to suspect that they won't allow the other side to
quit. However, I believe the matter is nearing an end. The United
States Supreme Court will pass on the issue just as soon as the
lawyers on both sides reach a verdict--that is to say, a verdict
acknowledging that it won't pay them to delay the business any longer.
The case of Hooper et al vs. Bingle has been going on like the
Jarndyce matter for nearly nine years. We've licked them in every
court and in three separate hearings, and my lawyers are confident the
Supreme Court will sustain the findings of the lower courts. I am a
tender-hearted lunatic, Mr. Flanders. I have made an arrangement
whereby the son and two daughters of Joseph Hooper are to be paid one
million dollars each out of the estate, just as soon as I know
definitely that I have beaten them in the court of last resort. I
guess that will surprise 'em, eh?"
Flanders' eyes glittered. "Don't forget, Mr. Bingle, that you are
speaking to a newspaper man. That last statement of yours would make a
sensation, sir."
Mr. Bingle sighed. "I am sure you will not take advantage of me, Mr.
Flanders. I have made a similar statement to every newspaper man who
has interviewed me, and every one of them has promised not to use it
in his paper. So far not one of them has violated his promise. I am
sure, sir, that you are no less honourable than the rest of the boys."
"I have given no promise, sir."
"Nevertheless I shall trust you not to use the statement, Mr.
Flanders. And now, let us get back to the important part of the
interview."
Flanders stared hard for a few seconds, unable to comprehend the
serene faith that this little but exceedingly important man reposed in
his fellow-man. He appeared to take it for granted that this startling
piece of confidence would not be betrayed, no matter to whom it was
extended. There was something actually pathetic in his guilelessness.
Mr. Richard Flanders admittedly was staggered, and yet somewhere down
in his soul he knew there was a spark of fairness that would become a
stupendous obstacle in the path of his news-getting avarice. Of
course, he was no less honourable than the rest of the boys!
"You would be more generous toward your cousins, I fear, than they
could be toward you," said the reporter, twisting his pencil
nervously. After all, it WOULD create a sensation, this remarkable
statement of Mr. Bingle.
"Oh, they would cheerfully see me rot in the poorhouse," assented Mr.
Bingle composedly. "I am not deceiving myself in regard to Geoffrey
and Angela and Lizzie--I mean Elizabeth. You won't mention what I have
just confided to you, will you, Mr. Flanders?"
Flanders sighed. He had hoped that the petition would not be put into
definite form.
"Certainly not, sir--if you--er--if you'd rather I wouldn't," he
managed to say with a fair show of alacrity. "But, gee!" The half-
muttered ejaculation spoke volumes of regret.
His host smiled complacently. It was settled, so far as he was
concerned. Mr. Flanders was to be depended upon.
"Still snowing when you came in?" he asked, quite irrelevantly but
with interest.
"Yes, sir--hard."
"Good! We'll have bob-sledding on the terrace for the kiddies to-
morrow. I suppose you'd like to know how we happen to have such a
large and growing family. Well, it's all very simple. It is our
practice to acquire a new baby at least once a year. On occasions we
have felt called upon to make it two, and even three, but of late it
seems the more sensible plan to limit ourselves to one. It is our idea
to keep up the practice until I am seventy-five, if God permits me to
live to that age. So, you see, we will have reared a family of thirty-
three children by that time, and we will never be without little
toddlers and prattlers. I am fifty-three now, Mr. Flanders. We are
reasonably sure to have twenty-two additions to the family. The
pitiful part of getting old and decrepit lies in the fact that one's
children grow up, get married, leave home--or die--and that is just
what we are trying to guard against. On my seventy-fifth birthday,
there will be a fine, healthy two-year-old babe crying and goo-gooing
for my especial benefit, and by working backwards in your figuring you
can also credit us with a three-year-old, a four-year-old, and so on
up the line. Naturally we will have lost a goodly number of the first-
comers, but we provide against a deficit, so to speak, by this little
plan of ours. Some of the girls may not turn out as well as we expect,
however, so there is the possibility that they may remain with us to
the end, enjoying single-blessedness. The boys, of course, will
marry."
"It is splendid, Mr. Bingle," said Flanders enthusiastically. "You are
a wonder."
"Not at all, not at all," protested Mr. Bingle, with a deprecatory
gesture. "I'm a selfish, conniving old rascal, that's what I am. We've
always wanted children, Mrs. Bingle and I, and we never--er--never
seemed to have 'em as other people do, so we began to look for
children that needed parents as much as we needed children. That's the
whole thing in a nut-shell. We are a bit high-handed about it, too. We
never have a child until it is past the teething age and can walk a
little bit and talk a little bit. So, you see, we manage to have 'em
without the drawbacks. That's where we are selfish and--"
"I think you're quite sensible about it, Mr. Bingle," interrupted
Flanders politely." They say teething is awful."
"That's what they say," said Mr. Bingle, a slight frown of regret on
his brow. "Still, I should have preferred--ahem! Yes, yes! Most
annoying, I'm told. The nurses seem to know. We began adopting our
children as soon as we came into possession of my Uncle Joseph's
money. Up to that time, we had hesitated about having other people's
children on our hands and minds. Of course you'll understand that
poverty could never have stood in the way of our having children of
our own. God simply did not choose to give them to us. The old saying,
'a poor man for children,' did not work very well in my case. Mrs.
Bingle is ten years younger than I. She is a strong, normal woman. I
never could understand why--er--and neither could she, for that
matter. As soon as we came into this fortune, or, more accurately
speaking, after we had returned from our first trip to California and
a short visit to Chicago, we adopted Kathleen. She was the daughter of
a young woman who--but, never mind. We sha'n't go into that. She was
about two years old. At once it occurred to both of us that it would
be a fine idea to have a boy to grow up with her. So we called in the
stork. He happened to have a splendid, left-over, unclaimed two-year-
old boy in stock, so we took him. That was Frederick. Then, a friend
of mine--a widower who worked as a bookkeeper alongside of me, chap
named Jenkins--died very suddenly, leaving a little girl just under
eighteen months of age. That's how we got Marie Louise. And so it
goes, Mr. Flanders, right up to date. Henrietta and Guinevere are
almost twins. Six weeks between 'em. They--"
"You mean in respect to age or--"
"In respect to their arrival. Guinevere came much sooner than was
anticipated, you might say. Little Imogene came the twenty-sixth of
last September. She cries a good deal. I am inclined to think she's
getting her wisdom teeth."
"Naturally, Mrs. Bingle is keen about the idea. Saves a lot of
bother."
"It's got to be such a joy having children in this way, when we
please, as often as we like, and being able to determine sex to our
own satisfaction, that we really look forward to the arrival of a new
one. There's always the pleasure of picking out blondes or brunettes.
We try to equalize as much as possible. I am--or was--a blonde, Mr.
Flanders--quite a decided blonde. Mrs. Bingle is still a brunette."
"And now, may I inquire, do they all regard you as their real father?"
"In a measure. There are times when they look upon me as a sort of
truck-horse. But real fathers have told me that that is customary.
They call me daddy, if that's what you mean. Once in a while they seem
to recollect that there was another man and woman in their lives, but
not often. Generally people who used to beat them, I gather. I will
say this for our children: they were all thoroughly spanked before
they came to us. It takes 'em a long time to get used to not being
spanked."
"Do you never punish them?"
"Frequently. If they're bad I have them locked in a closet. We've got
a very large closet with windows and other comforts. Usually there are
three or four of 'em in at the same time, so they don't mind."
"God will surely reward you, sir, for being kind to all these poor
little kiddies. May I--ahem!--May I express the hope, sir, that some
day you may me blessed with--er--"
"No use, sir. Thank you, just the same. It will never happen."
"How many nurses have you in your employ?"
"Four at present. We also have a school-teacher--I mean, a governess.
Excellent young woman. Teaches 'em French and German. Curiously enough
some of the children take to foreign languages quicker than the
others. Force says that Reginald is a Hebrew. He was supposed to be
Irish."
"Very interesting. All of them strong and healthy?"
"Absolutely. You'd think so if you could see 'em fight occasionally.
They've had the whooping cough and chicken-pox. My doctor is the
renowned Dr. Fiddler. You know of him?"
Mr. Bingle proceeded to dilate upon the activities and achievements of
Dr. Fiddler. There had been broken arms and prodigious bruises, cuts
and gashes of every conceivable character, and in every instance Dr.
Fiddler had performed with heroic fidelity. In the middle of a
particularly enthusiastic tribute to the doctor's skill as a fish-bone
extractor, Diggs appeared in the doorway, coughed indulgently, and
then advanced.
"Beg pardon, sir. Mrs. Bingle says the children are getting nervous.
They happear to be--"
A series of shrill screeches descended the stairway, followed by the
sudden slamming of a distant doorway and the instantaneous suppression
of bedlam.
"Quite so, quite so," exclaimed Mr. Bingle, springing to his feet.
"Dear me, it is past the hour. Forgive me, Mr. Flanders, but--but I
really can't delay the--er--Yes, yes, Diggs, tell Mrs. Bingle that we
are all ready. Keep your seat, Mr. Flanders. Don't mind me. I must run
upstairs and see if--Quite so, Diggs. They MUST be nervous. Where is
Miss Fairweather?"
"She has a 'eadache, sir, and says she can't come down--"
"Stuff and nonsense! It will cure her headache. Send for her, Diggs.
She's our new governess, Mr. Flan--"
"What was the name?" demanded the reporter, pricking up his ears. He
leaned forward with a new interest in his lively grey eyes. But Mr.
Bingle was gone, his coat-tails fairly whisking around the heavy
portieres.
"Fairweather, sir," supplied Diggs. "Miss Hamy--I mean to say, Amy--
Fairweather."
"Good Lord!" fell from the lips of Richard Flanders. Then he proceeded
to behave in the most astonishing manner. He sprang to his feet and
grasped the retreating Diggs by the arm, literally jerking that
dignified individual back upon his heels. His eyes were gleaming.
"Dark brown hair and soft grey eyes? Fairly tall and slend--" The sly
grin on the butler's face served to check the outburst. He abruptly
subdued his emotions. "Excuse me for grabbing you like that. I--I was
just wondering if--"
Diggs had recovered his urbanity. "She is the same Miss Fairweather,
sir. I recognise her from your description. It may interest you to
hear, sir, that she acted just as queerly as you when I told her that
you--"
"What did you tell her?" demanded Flanders, seeing that Diggs
hesitated.
"That you had a scar on your thumb, sir. By the way, HAVE you?"
"I have!" exclaimed the young man. "Well, by George! Will wonders
never cease? Where is she? You say she isn't coming down--but, of
course, not! She couldn't think of it, knowing that I am here. I say,
will you--will you see that she gets a message from me? Wait a second.
I'll write it now. Just slip a note to her--Great Scott! What's that?"
The house seemed to be clattering down about his head.
"That, sir," responded Diggs, drawing a deep breath, "is the charge of
the light brigade. Hinfants in arms, you might say. There's no
stopping them now. 'Ere they come."
And down the wide stairway streamed the shrieking vanguard of the
Christmas revellers--seven or eight unrestrained youngsters who had
snatched liberty from the nurses the instant Mr. Bingle opened the
play-room door at the top of the house. Down the steps they came,
regardless of stumbles and tumbles--an avalanche of joy.
Diggs, from the doorway, raked the stairway and its squirming horde
with an exploring eye.
"She is coming, sir. Fairly tall and slender, sir, and--"
"Good Lord!" gasped Flanders, helplessly. "This is more than I can
stand. Diggs, do--do men ever faint?"
There was no reply. Three sturdy youngsters collided with Diggs. There
was nothing he could say--with lucidity.
CHAPTER VII
SEARCHERS REWARDED
Miss Fairweather bowed gravely to Flanders as she passed. Diggs
observed her closely. He was conscious of a sensation of
disappointment. He had counted on a scene--an interesting scene.
Circumstances justified something more thrilling than a mere nod of
the head, his intelligence argued, and it was really too bad to have
it turn out so tamely.
Mr. Flanders, looking a trifle dazed and bewildered, contrived to hide
his emotions in a most commendable manner. A keener observer than
Diggs, however, would have detected a strange pallor in the young
woman's smooth cheek and an ominous shadow between her finely
pencilled brows. Even Diggs might have observed these symptoms but for
the fact that she kept her face rigidly averted. Mr. Flanders, from
his position near the door--he seemed to have taken root there--was
favoured with no more than a glimpse of the tip of a small ear and the
faintest suggestion of a cheek's outline. His own face, entirely
visible to Diggs, was scarlet--quite frankly so.
Four nurses appeared, carrying infants. Miss Fairweather assisted in
the task of placing the sleepy-heads in their high-chairs and in the
subsequent occupation of entertaining them by means of sundry grimaces
and motions, keeping them awake--and quiet--against the arrival of Mr.
Bingle, who, it appears, had gone to his room to substitute a pair of
far from fashionable carpet slippers for the smart pumps he had been
wearing. There was a great deal of excitement attending the placing of
the children, but it passed unnoticed by Mr. Flanders. He was staring
hungrily, pleadingly at the unfriendly back of the new governess.
Once she gave him a swift, perhaps unintentional look. It was too
brief to be described as significant, but it served to revive his
interest in the proceedings. He sprang forward and offered his aid to
the nurses. If he was clumsy in his attempt to jiggle a chair into
position, an explanation may be instantly provided. Miss Fairweather,
after a brief stare of indecision, favoured him with an almost
imperceptible smile. He happened to be in the act of pushing a high-
chair under the wriggling person of Imogene. That smile caused the
momentary paralysis of his whole being, with the result that the nurse
came near to depositing Imogene on the floor. Every one--except
Imogene--squealed. Mr. Flanders was reminded of his own existence. The
arrested chair shot into position and Imogene came down rather soundly
on the seat of it, and then every one giggled--except Imogene.
"Amy!" he whispered, as she turned away from the little group. He was
at her side in an instant. She faced him, and there was no trace of
the departed smile in her eyes.
"How dare you speak to me?" she said in low, intense tones. Her eyes
were cold, unfriendly.
"I've been searching for you--" he began, eagerly, but her disdainful
laugh cut him short.
"Go away, please. I don't want to see you. There is nothing more to be
said between us. It's all over, Dick. Don't speak to me again. I--I
don't want the Bingles to know that I--"
"I must see you, Amy," he persisted. "It isn't all over. Now that I've
found you, I'll see that I don't lose track of you again. We can't
talk here. Where can I see you alone--"
"Sh!" she cautioned, and he respected the appeal in her dark,
distressed eyes. Mr. Bingle had entered the room, and was greeted by a
shout of delight from the children. The governess moved swiftly away
from the young man's side, mingling with the nurses by the fireplace.
Mr. Bingle, hurrying toward the semi-circle of youngsters was
surprised by a genial slap on the back from the visibly excited
Flanders.
"Wonderful!" exclaimed the young man, his face radiant. "Wonderful!"
"Aren't they?" cried Mr. Bingle, pleased.
"I don't mean the--Ahem! They certainly are, Mr. Bingle. I expect this
to be the most beautiful Christmas Eve in all my life, sir. I shall
never be able to thank you for--"
"Tush, tush! Now come along. I want to introduce you to the young
ladies and gentlemen. Imogene, my dear, this is Mr. Flanders.
Kathleen, shake hands with--oh, I beg pardon, I ought to have
presented you to the Fairy Princess. Miss Fairweather, just a moment,
please. I want you to meet my friend, Mr. Flanders, of the Banner.
Well, well, are we all here? Let me see: one, two, three--no, hold up
your hands as I call the roll. Strict attention, Mr. Flanders, and
you'll know which is which--I say, Flanders, would you mind looking
this way, please? Children first, on an occasion like this, sir.
Grown-ups don't count. How is your headache, Miss Fairweather? Now,
speak up, children. Answer to your names--and how to Mr. Flanders,
while you're about it."
Planting himself in front of the row of eager children, grasping
Flanders's arm with one hand, and employing the other in a sort of
counting-off process, he called the roll.
Kathleen, exquisitely dressed and radiant with joy, a dainty miss who
looked to be fourteen but was said to be twelve, curtsied to Flanders,
who bowed low, his roving eye unwilling to relax its interest in the
flushed face of the governess. Then came Frederick, a sturdy
youngster; Marie Louise, a solemn-eyed ten-year-old; Wilberforce,
Reginald, Henrietta, Guinevere, Harold, Rosemary, Rutherford, and last
of all Imogene, who whimpered.
"There!" said Mr. Bingle proudly. "They did it very nicely, didn't
they, nurse?" He addressed the four nurses, who beamed as one. "Diggs,
you may summon the servants. I hear Mrs. Bingle and our guests in the
hall--or is it the--er--ahem!"
"The servants 'ave congregated in the 'all, sir. It is them that is
whispering," said Diggs, who had been scowling in the direction of the
door. "I shall speak to them, sir. They should be made to understand--
"
"Don't lecture them to-night, Diggs," broke in Mr. Bingle hastily.
"Not on Christmas Eve. Let 'em whisper. Tell 'em to come right in. You
see, Mr. Flanders, we have the servants in to hear the Christmas
Carol. It's my rule. They enjoy it. They--Ah, my dear! Here we are!
This is Mr. Flanders, Mary--my wife, sir. Come right in, Mrs. Forced.
Permit me to introduce my old friend Flanders of the Banner. Mr.
Force, shake hands with Mr. Flanders. Now--er--ahem! All right, Diggs--
call 'em in."
The servants--a horde of them--stalked into the room, each one being
formally, but perfunctorily announced by the butler, and each one
flushing painfully in return for the attention. There was Delia, the
cook, and Christine, her assistant; Swanson, the furnace man;
Lockhart, the chauffeur, and Boyles, the washer; Cora, the laundress;
Georgia, the scullery-maid; Edgecomb, the gardener, and his four
helpers; Beulah and Emma, the upstairs-maids; Bliss, the lodge-keeper,
and Jane, his daughter; Frank, the pony-cart driver, and Joe, the
coachman; Matson, the stable-boy; Fannie, the seamstress; Rudolph, the
carpenter; Miss McLeish, the stenographer and telephone operator;
Throckinorton, the dairy-man; Scott, the stockman; John Butts, the
handy-man; Melissa, Watson and Hughes. The four nurses escaped
official announcement because they had been clever enough to
anticipate the formality.
Awkward, ill-at-ease in Sunday garments, and almost sullen in their
efforts to appear impressed, they formed an amazing group as they
clumsily ranged themselves in a compact fringe outside the more
favoured guests of the evening, who occupied what may be described as
the "orchestra." They remained standing.
"Ever see the play called 'The Admirable Crichton'?" whispered Mr.
Bingle to Flanders while the servants were crowding into their places.
"Yes," said Flanders. "I recognise the setting, but I miss the grown-
up daughters. Diggs is shorn of his opportunities, sir."
"That play gave me an idea. It was written by a fellow named Barrie.
He also wrote 'Peter Pan.' That is the greatest play ever written."
"If one believes in fairies, Mr. Bingle."
"Well, I do," said Mr. Bingle.
"So do I," said Flanders, his gaze wandering. Miss Fairweather was
caught in the act of staring at him. She lowered her eyes.
Mr. Force arbitrarily had settled into the chair next to little
Kathleen. His hard, impassive face wore a softer expression than was
usually to be observed there, and his voice, ordinarily brusque and
domineering, became ludicrously soft and wheedling.
"Come here, Kathleen. Sit on my knee. I've--I've got something pretty
for you."
Kathleen instantly lost her joyous, happy expression. Her eyes fell
and her manner betrayed unmistakable aversion to the august
petitioner.
"Thank you, Mr. Force," she muttered, and was guiltily conscious of
impoliteness. Frederick snickered. "I--I don't want to," she went on,
spurred to defiance by her brother's action.
"Why not?" demanded Mr. Force coaxingly.
"Oh--because," said Kathleen, almost surlily.
"Don't you like me, Kathleen?"
"Yes, sir," said she, but without enthusiasm.
"Would you like to see what I've got for you? All for yourself alone,
you know."
Kathleen couldn't resist. She betrayed the greediness that overcomes
all feminine antipathy. "What is it?" she asked guardedly.
"Sit on my knee and I'll put it around your neck," said he, fumbling
in his waistcoat pocket.
The child flushed painfully and her eyes fell again. "I don't want
to," she repeated.
Force got up from his chair, muttered something under his breath, and
moved away. He almost collided with Bingle.
"What's the matter with these kids of yours, Bingle?" he began
irascibly. "Why don't you bring them up properly? Teach 'em
politeness. Teach them how to behave toward--"
"My dear Force, has--has Kathleen been rude?" said Mr. Bingle in
distress.
"You are not to reprimand her," said Force hastily. "I wouldn't have
you do that for the world. She'd always have it in for me if she knew
that I--but, what nonsense I'm talking. They are little ingrates
anyhow--all of them. Good Lord, Bingle, I can't understand what you
see in the brats."
"I know you can't," said Mr. Bingle mildly. "That's just the
difference between us."
"There's only one in the whole lot that I'd have as a gift," said
Force, with a sidelong glance at Kathleen, who was joyous once more.
"That girl has got some class to her. Why is it, Bingle, that she
dislikes me? All the rest of 'em are friendly enough--too friendly, if
anything--but she won't even look at me."
"That's the woman of it," said Mr. Bingle.
"What's the woman of it?" demanded Force gruffly. "What do you mean by
'woman of it'? Don't be silly, Bingle. She's a mere child."
"She'll come around all right," said Mr. Bingle gaily. "Give her time,
old fellow, give her time."
"Good heavens, what a racket they're making," growled Force. "Have you
no control over them, Bingle? I'd send the whole lot of them to bed,
hang me if I wouldn't."
"On Christmas Eve? Oh, no, you wouldn't, old--Where are you going?"
"I'm going into the library to smoke," said Force. "I can't stand the
row."
"Now, don't do that," pleaded Mr. Bingle, grasping his arm. "Wait a
minute. I'll speak to Kathie. She--"
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