Books: Mr. Bingle

G >> George Barr McCutcheon >> Mr. Bingle

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After that, ambition revived and worked smoothly, rapidly. In the
middle of the second act, however, the play failed--that is to say,
the play in which Miss Colgate was appearing on Broadway. (It failed
in the middle of Mr. Flanders' second act, lest I appear ambiguous.)
The young actress found herself out of employment and without much
prospect of getting an engagement at that season of the year--a bad
year it was, too, if you will remember what theatrical people had to
say about it. Now, she was not obliged to work for a living. She could
have gone back to her family in Connecticut. But she was not made of
that sort of stuff. She could have gone back home and married the most
desirable young or old man in the town. She could have given up the
stage and devoted herself to the teaching of music, French or wood-
carving, in which pursuits she was far less of an amateur than at
play-acting. But she was a valiant, undaunted little warrior. She
announced that she was ready to do anything that offered, even chorus-
work.

And one evening she told him that she had found a place in the chorus
of a "road show." She tried to hide her mortification under a somewhat
quivering jauntiness, but Mr. Flanders went rudely to the bottom of
the matter. She argued that she could change her name and no one would
be the wiser. She would positively refuse to appear in tights. Then
came the episode. Mr. Flanders flew into a scornful rage. He said a
great many things that he was afterwards ashamed to recall. Among
other things, he said he'd be hanged if he'd marry a chorus-girl; as
for tights, she wouldn't have any choice in the matter, once the
manager set his mind to it. She had not been in love with him long
enough to submit to bullying, so she sent him about his business.
Moreover, she coldly informed him that their engagement was over and
that she never wanted to see his face again.

Inasmuch as it would be quite impossible to remain in the same
boarding-house without seeing his face once in a while, she moved out
the very next day.

The "road" was not what she had expected, nor was the life of a
chorus-girl as simple as it had seemed from her virtuous point of
view. Before the first two weeks were over, she deserted the company,
disillusioned, mortified. It HAD come to a matter of tights.

She returned to New York and bravely resumed her visits to managerial
offices and to the lairs of agents, in quest of an engagement not
quite so incompatible with her sense of delicacy and refinement as the
one she had just abandoned. But there was nothing to be had. More than
once she was tempted to write to Flanders, begging him to forgive her
and to forget, if he could, the silly mistake she had made. But love
and loneliness were no match for the pride that was a part of her
nature. She resolutely put away the temptation to do the perfectly
sensible thing, and, woman-like, fortified herself against surrender
by running away from danger.

She had heard of the Bingles through a woman playwright who wanted to
dramatize the Bingle enterprise. Nothing, said this enthusiastic
person, could be more adorable than a play based on the Bingle methods
of acquiring a family.

One day, in Central Park, she saw Mr. Bingle and seven of the
children. He looked happy but inadequate. A grinning park policeman
enlightened her as to the identity of the bewildered little man. A
single glance was all that was necessary to convince her that Mr.
Bingle was having his hands full.

He had lost all control of the little ruffians. (The park policeman
was the first to call them ruffians, so I may be pardoned.) They
insisted on playing games that Mr. Bingle couldn't play, and he was
beginning to look worried. Time and again he tried to herd them into
the big station 'bus in which he had brought them over from Seafood
(the Bingle estate), and always with so little success that he was
getting hot and tired--and farther away from the conveyance all the
time. Still he smiled cheerfully and gave no sign of losing his
temper.

They were frolicking in the neighbourhood of the lake at the north end
of the park, and Miss Colgate was sitting on one of the benches not
far removed from the scene of activity. She began to feel sorry for
the little foster-father. He was having a time of it! The first thing
he knew, one of the little insurgents would tumble into the lake and--
well, she couldn't imagine anything more droll than Mr. Bingle
venturing into the water as a rescuer. At last, moved by an impulse
that afterwards took its place as the psychic capstone in her career,
she arose and resolutely went to his relief. He was panting and
perspiring, for the spring day was warm.

"May I help you to gather them up?" she inquired.

Now, Mr. Bingle was not accustomed to seeing girls as pretty as the
one who accosted him so amiably. At first, he said no, he was very
much obliged, he guessed he could manage 'em, thank you. He wasn't
quite sure that it was right for him to "take up" with a strange and
beautiful young woman in a public park. One never could tell about
these well-dressed women who sit on park benches, and yet appear to be
perfectly free from tuberculosis. But Miss Colgate insisted, and Mr.
Bingle, taking a second look at her, said he would be grateful if
she'd stay and watch the littlest ones while he rounded up the big
ones. She shook her head, smiling, and gently ordered him to sit down
and cool off a bit while she gathered in the recalcitrants.

"You look so hot and tired," she said, and her smile was so frankly
sympathetic, so commanding in its sweetness, that Mr. Bingle promptly
sat down and said that it beat all how hot the weather was for early
May. Perhaps they WOULD come for her, he went on shyly; if she didn't
mind calling Frederick, that would be sufficient. Frederick was the
rebel leader. He ought to be spanked. She smiled again, and Mr. Bingle
said to himself that he'd never seen anything so nice. As she walked
away, bent on rounding-up the three boys and Kathleen, he was
impressed by the slim, graceful figure and the manner in which she
carried herself. Nothing ordinary or common about THAT girl, said he;
nothing bold or immodest. Out of the goodness of her heart she had
proffered assistance, as any gently born person would have done. His
heart warmed toward her. It wasn't often that one encountered a pretty
girl who was considerate, sweet-natured and polite to her elders,
especially in New York City. He almost forgot Henrietta and Guinevere
in his contemplation of this extraordinary phenomenon. Indeed,
Henrietta's blubberings went quite unnoticed for some little time, and
it was not until Guinevere sent up a sympathetic howl that he
remembered the "littlest ones" and hastily took them upon his knees,
dropping his hat in his haste.

He was considerably amazed by the swiftness with which his ally
"rounded-up" the five roisterers. She went about it sweetly, even
gaily, yet with a certain authority that had an instant effect on the
youngsters. Almost before he knew what had happened, she was
approaching him with the flushed, mischievous "kiddies" in tow. They
were staring at the strange, beautiful young lady with wide-open,
fascinated eyes. They were abashed, puzzled; meek with wonder. When
she extended her hands to Kathleen and Marie Louise, they came to her
shyly and then, without so much as a glance at the three boys, she
calmly led them back to the marvelling little millionaire. It was a
crafty way of bringing the boys, to time. Their curiosity, cupidity,
envy--what you will--brought them scurrying up to the group, and not a
face was missing from the ranks when she stopped before Mr. Bingle and
said:

"And now that we have them, bound hand and foot, what are we to do
with them? Put them in a dungeon and feed them on bread and water?"

"I don't see how you did it," said Mr. Bingle. "It was really quite
wonderful. Perhaps it was because you are so very pretty. I think, if
you don't object, I'll put 'em in the 'bus, take 'em home and feed
them on milk and honey and jam. Thank you, thank you ever so much."

"I love children and I believe that children like me," said she, her
fingers gently caressing Kathleen's brown, tumbled locks. "That
explains it, I am sure. Now, boys, run on ahead and tell the chauffeur
your father is coming. And, listen to me: your father is tired and
very, very warm. You must not cause him any more distress. I am sure
you won't, will you?"

Then she wiped the tears from the cheeks of the "littlest ones,"
straightened their bonnets, and, in the end, proposed that she should
carry one of them to the 'bus.

Down in her heart, she was coddling the wild, improbable hope that Mr.
Richard Flanders might be somewhere in the neighbourhood, watching her
with proud, but remorseful eyes!

Mr. Bingle turned to her after the children were safely stowed away in
the 'bus and ready for the long ride home. He had his hat in his hand
and he bowed very low, with the old-fashioned courtesy that time and
environment had failed to modify.

"My dear young lady, you remind me of the fairy princess that I knew
so well as a boy. You spring up out of the ground and--Whist! you
perform deeds of magic and enchantment. I am sorry that we cannot have
you hovering about us forevermore. We are all enchanted."

"Thank you," she said, with her gay smile. "Do you still believe in
fairies?"

"I do," said he.

"And witches?"

"Absolutely," said he, with boyish enthusiasm. "And wizards, too--and,
I'm ashamed to admit it--ghosts. Good-bye. Thank you for the spell
you've cast upon us. I think it has done all of us a lot of good. I
undertook a task that was beyond me, bringing these youngsters here
for a lark. But you see, I had promised them the trip, and I don't
believe in going back on a promise. The governess left us yesterday,
most unexpectedly. She said her sister was ill, but--well, I shouldn't
say anything unkind. Perhaps her sister really is ill. So, then, I
brought them all by myself. Mrs. Bingle is in the city looking for a
new governess. She--"

"Would you consider--" began Miss Colgate eagerly, and then flushed to
the roots of her hair, What had come over her? Was she on the point of
applying for a position as governess in a family of--But why not? Why
not? She was tired, discouraged, and a failure at the work she had
tried so hard to perform.

"Yes?"

She laughed confusedly. "It was nothing, Mr. Bingle, nothing at all.
Good-bye. I hope you'll get them home safe, sound and--intact. They
are dears."

Mr. Bingle surveyed his brood. Every eye was riveted on the face of
the strange, lovely lady, and in each was the look of complete
subjugation.

"You've hypnotised them," said he, wonderingly.

She looked away. After a moment's hesitation, she cast the die--urged
by the queerest impulse that had ever come over her.

"Would you consider me, Mr. Bingle, for the position that has just
been given up by the--the woman whose sister is ill?"

He heard, but he could not believe his ears. "I--I beg pardon?" he
said.

She faced him, now resolute and eager. "I am not a fairy princess, I
am not a witch. As a matter of fact, I am a very commonplace person
who is obliged to earn a living one way or another, and it isn't
always a simple thing to do. Tip to this instant, I hadn't the
remotest thought of becoming a governess. I don't know what came over
me unless it was loneliness, thinking of my little brothers and
sisters at home. When I first saw you and the children nothing was
farther from my mind than the thought that has just come into it. I DO
love children. I want work, Mr. Bingle. I am self-supporting. No
matter what may have been my ambition up to five minutes ago, I am
content to put it aside, I am willing to undertake--"

"My dear young lady," broke in Mr. Bingle, who had been slow to grasp
her meaning and even slower to recover from his stupefaction; "you--
you really have knocked me silly. I hadn't the faintest idea--"

"May I apply to Mrs. Bingle to-morrow?" she asked nervously,
interrupting him with unintentional rudeness. "I have no references to
give as a governess, but I--I think I can convince Mrs. Bingle that I
would be quite capable. Do you think there would be a chance for me if
I--"

Mr. Bingle broke in once more, this time with acute enthusiasm. "Don't
wait till to-morrow," he exclaimed. "Do it to-day! To-morrow may be
too late. Harkins, drive to the nearest public telephone. We will call
up the intelligence office and see if Mrs. Bingle has been there yet.
If she hasn't--"

"Is she looking for a governess in an intelligence office?" cried Miss
Colgate, in dismay.

"Certainly! Where else? Oh, I see," he made haste to add, sensing her
expression; "it isn't the place to find high-grade governesses, eh?
Well, all the better for us! We'll head her off. Climb in, Miss--Miss--"

"Fairweather, Mr. Bingle," said she, and it was the first time in two
years that she had called herself by that name. Of all the millions of
human beings in New York, but one knew that her name was Fairweather--
and she had quarrelled with him. She had told Dick Flanders. He was
the kind of man that women tell things to without reserve or without
considering the consequences.

"Move up, Frederick," commanded Mr. Bingle. "Make room for Miss
Fairweather. She's going to be the new governess. Lively, Harkins! The
nearest telephone. No! Not that saloon over there. Tackle an apartment
house. Well, well, Miss Fairweather, this is just like a fairy story
after all. I told you that I believed in fairies, didn't I?"

And that is how Miss Fairweather came to be governess in the Bingle
family, a position for which she was suited by nature but for which
she was utterly unqualified when it came to experience. And that is
how she managed to disappear so completely that Richard Flanders,
love-sick and repentant, could find no trace of her. There were days--
and long, long nights--when she ate her heart out in the hunger for
him, but she could not bring herself to the point where starvation
made it imperative for her to go begging. There was always before her
the distressing fear that he might have ceased, to care for her--ay,
that he might have gone so far as to transfer his affections to some
one else as the result of her stupid notions concerning independence.

No doubt he was going his way without a thought of her, pleasantly
forgetting her or, at best, merely remembering her as one who had
proved a brief but satisfactory blessing, as many a passing sweetheart
has been to a man in his flight through time. No, she argued in
conflict with her inclinations, it was not to be thought of, this
senseless desire to go back and begin all over again. Everything was
over between them. She had made her choice on that never-to-be-
forgotten night and she had gone out of his life. There was no use
bewailing the fact that she was in the wrong and that his contentions
had been justified. She had made her bed, and she would lie in it. The
fault was with her, not with him--and yet she could never quite
forgive him for being right! She couldn't forget how angry she was
before she realised that his judgment was better than hers. As a
matter of fact, she couldn't help being a perfectly normal woman: she
enjoyed misery.

It must be recorded that she imposed upon the Bingles in one respect:
she did not mention the fact that she was or had been an actress. On
the other hand, she did not deceive them as to her lack of experience
as a teacher of young children. She confessed that the work was new to
her, but she confessed it so naively, so frankly, that they were
charmed into overlooking the most important detail in the matter of
engaging a governess. In fact, Mr. Bingle very properly said to his
wife that as she was expected to devote her time to children who had
no pedigree, "it wouldn't be along the line of common sense to exact
references from her." Besides, said he, she was so sure to be
satisfactory. It was only necessary to look into her honest eyes to
feel sure about that. And Mrs. Bingle, who was just then in the throes
of adopting Imogene, agreed to everything that Imogene's prospective
father had to say.

In the meantime, Mr. Flanders had remained doggedly constant. He had
surrendered, as a man will, to reason, and had set about to find the
girl of his choice, determined to make his peace with her. But nowhere
was she to be found. He laid aside the unfinished play. What was the
sense of writing a play if there was no one to play the principal
part? He was disconsolate. He cursed himself for the stupid thing he
had done. He had wrecked his life, that's what he had done--poor fool!

And then came the unexpected meeting in the home of Thomas Singleton
Bingle, and the detached scene in the shelter of the window-nook.

Mr. Bingle experienced a second shock just before Flanders darted out
of the house to jump into the waiting automobile which was to take him
to the station for the 10:17 train.

"Well, good night, Mr. Bingle," cried the tall young reporter,
sticking his head through the library door in response to the host's
invitation to "come in." "Thank you for the greatest evening of my
life. It's just like a fairy story. Oh, yes, before I forget it: I
want to tell you how much I enjoyed 'The Chimes.' I never knew that
Dickens could write anything so--"

"'The Chimes'?" cried Mr. Bingle, abruptly leaving the little group at
the fireplace and bearing down upon the unconscious offender. "What do
you mean? It wasn't 'The Chimes' that I--"

"Certainly not," exclaimed Mr. Flanders, glibly. "Of course, it
wasn't. I never think of 'The Christmas Carol' without first thinking
of 'The Chimes.' Thank you for getting the automobile out to take me
to--"

"No trouble at all, my dear fellow," cried Mr. Bingle, shaking hands
with the departing guest. "I wish you a Merry Christmas."

Flanders' face was glowing. "It will be the merriest Christmas I've
ever known, Mr. Bingle," he said, his voice husky with emotion. "I owe
it to you, too. By Jove, sir, I believe I am the happiest man in all
the world." He almost shook the little man's arm out of its socket.

Mr. Bingle's smile was meant to be beaming. He made a valiant effort
to rise above the catastrophe that was to make his Christmas the most
miserable he had ever known.

"Come to see us every Christmas Eve, my boy, if it puts you in such
good spirits to see the--the kiddies--" his voice quavered a little--
"and to hear the 'Carol.' You will always find the latchstring out."

"No other Christmas Eve will be as glorious as this one, sir," said
Dick, gently dragging his host into the hall and lowering his voice to
a thrilling undertone. "Not in a million years. Why, it is positively
bewildering. I wonder if I'm awake. Is it really true? I--I can't
believe that it really happened. Take a good, long look at me, please.
You DO see me, don't you? I am really standing here in your house--"

"What in the world are you talking about?" gasped Mr. Bingle, drawing
back a step or two. Mr. Flanders grabbed him by the arm. "Ouch!"

"I beg pardon, sir--I didn't mean to be rough," cried Flanders. "I'm
so excited I don't know what I'm doing, that's all. A man may be
excused for a lot of brainstorm antics when he's going to be married
again. It--"

"Married again? I thought you said you'd never--"

"What I mean is this: I was going to be married once and now I'm going
to be married again. See? Oh, you know what I mean. I'm just
driveling--simply driveling with joy. We fixed it all up fifteen
minutes after we got together. You might congratulate me, Mr. Bingle."

"God bless my soul! Congratulate you on what?"

"I'm going to marry your governess."

CHAPTER IX

THE MAN CALLED HINMAN

Bright and early on Christmas morning, Mr. Sydney Force walked slowly,
even irresolutely up the broad avenue leading to Mr. Bingle's
stupendous door-step. The snow had been cleared off of the narrow
footpath, but the president of the great city bank was so deeply
engrossed that he failed to take advantage of this singular
demonstration of worthiness on the part of Edgecomb and his assistants
so soon after the break of dawn. As a matter of fact, he had forgotten
that it was Christmas morning. He walked in the middle of the roadway,
in four inches of snow, and kept his gaze fixed rather intently on the
big house at the top of the avenue.

Mr. Force had not slept well. Indeed, he had not slept at all. The
shock he had received early in the evening was of the kind that
shatters one's peace of mind to a degree but little short of
calamitous. A plunge into ice-cold water would have failed to produce
the deadly chill that crept over him when he heard the name of Glenn.
How he succeeded in controlling himself so well that his profound
agitation escaped the attention of the others, he could not explain.
He was amazed to find that he had managed it so well. For, it must be
confessed, Mr. Force's habitual equanimity had undergone a strain that
came so near to resulting in a collapse that only a miracle--(it may
have taken the form of stupefaction, or a kindly paralysis)--only a
miracle could have kept him from betraying the one great secret of his
life.

Ordinarily, he would have put off calling on the Bingles for a month
or six weeks, being that scornful of social amenities; but he could
hardly wait for the approach of sunrise to be on his way to Seafood on
this brilliant Christmas morning. It was not a brilliant, shimmering
day for him, however. He saw nothing beautiful in the steel-blue sky:
to him it was a drab, unlovely pall. He saw no beauty in the snow-clad
foliage, no splendour in the bejewelled tree-tops, no purity in the
veil of white that lay upon the face of the earth. He saw only
himself, and he was a drear, bleak thing as viewed introspectively.

Nor is it to be taken for granted that Mr. Bingle slept well on this
night before Christmas. Neither he nor his wife went to bed until far
along in the wee sma' hours. The great house was as still as the
grave, save for the occasional crack of shrinking woodwork and the
rattle of dislodged icicles on the window-ledges outside. The wind had
died away. It seemed that all nature, respecting their mood, had
hushed its every noise in order that they might think, and think, and
think on without hope or a single sign of promise in this time of
despair.

They were to lose Kathleen. The man had been somewhat vague about it,
but the situation was clear to them, even though it was not so to him.
Their claim to the child--the one they loved best of all--was no
longer undivided. A real father had turned up to assert his rights.
They might dispute his claim and make the affair so awkward and so
unpleasant for him that he would withdraw, but what would be their
gain? The man existed. He was the real father. Kathleen was the flesh
and blood of this tardy penitent, this betrayer of women, this coward.
Never again, so long as she lived, could she be looked upon as theirs.
Even though she remained with them, and in perfect contentment, there
would still be the sinister shadow lying across the path--the shadow
of a man hiding, of a man who dared not come out into the open but
whose everlasting presence was a threat.

They did not know this man, they did not know whether he was a
blackguard or a gentleman. He was a destroyer; that much they knew. He
had wrecked a human life. The detective had declared to Mr. Bingle
that his client was a man of means, married, and eminently
respectable, but then a detective's idea of respectability is not
always a safe one to go by. Every man is respectable until some one is
hired to prove that he isn't.

When Mr. Force rang the front door-bell, Mr. and Mrs. Bingle were
seated before the fire in the library. Kathleen sat upon the former's
knee. The rest of the children had been sent off to the huge playroom
on the top floor, and their distant shrieks, muffled by the
thicknesses of many doors and walls, came faintly down to the
fireside. With the subdued, even refined jingle of the door-bell, the
two Bingles straightened up in their chairs and looked into each
other's eyes, suddenly apprehensive. Who could be calling on them at
such an early hour? Was it some one in connection with this unhappy
business? Could it be possible that they had come to take Kathleen
away so soon?

"Better run upstairs, now, Kathie," said Mr. Bingle, abruptly.
"Skedaddle! Go up the back way, dear." He thought of the back-stairs
just in time. It wouldn't do for her to encounter the strange, perhaps
unfeeling emissaries in the main hall. No telling what they might do.
They might even take forcible possession of her and be off before help
could be summoned.

"I want to stay here with you, daddy," protested Kathleen, resolutely
clinging to her perch on his knee--and was not to be dislodged. Before
Mr. Bingle could utter another word, Diggs appeared in the door and
announced Mr. Force. Instantly Kathleen's manner changed. She released
her grip on Mr. Bingle's arm and slid to the floor. "Oh, I hate him! I
don't want to see him."

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