Mr. Bingle Part 39

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 G.o.ddess. 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."

"G.o.d 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, c.u.mbersome pasteboard box in the corner, which Diggs pa.s.sed 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--h.e.l.lo! 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 hoa.r.s.e 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?"

"G.o.d 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 surrept.i.tiously 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 att.i.tude that he affected at times, such as the alert c.o.c.king 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 G.o.d 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--h.e.l.lo! 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.