Produced by Charles Franks, Charles Aldarondo, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
MR. BINGLE
BY George Barr McCutcheon
Author of "Graustark," "The Hollow of Her Hand," "The Prince of
Graustark," etc.
With Illustrations by JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I THE FIVE LITTLE SYKESES
II RELATING TO AN ODD RELATION
III THE DEATH OF UNCLE JOE
IV FORTY MINUTES LATE
V THE STORY OF JOSEPH
VI THE HONORABLE THOMAS SINGLETON BINGLE
VII SEARCHERS REWARDED
VIII THE AFFAIRS OF AMY AND DICK
IX THE MAN CALLED HINMAN
X MR. BINGLE THINKS OF BECOMING AN ANGEL
XI A TIMELY LESSON IN LOVE
XII THE BIRTH OF NAPOLEON
XIII TROUBLE, TROUBLE, TROUBLE!
XIV THE LAW'S LAST WORD
XV DECEMBER
XVI ANOTHER CHRISTMAS EVE
XVII THE LAST TO ARRIVE
CHAPTER I
THE FIVE LITTLE SYKESES
A coal fire crackled cheerily in the little open grate that supplied
warmth to the steam-heated living-room in the modest apartment of Mr.
Thomas S. Bingle, lower New York, somewhere to the west of Fifth Avenue
and not far removed from Washington Square--in the wrong direction,
however, if one must be precise in the matter of emphasizing the social
independence of the Bingle family--and be it here recorded that without
the genial aid of that grate of coals the living-room would have been a
cheerless place indeed. Mr. Bingle had spent most of the evening in
trying to coax heat from the lower regions into the pipes of the
seventh heaven wherein he dwelt, and without the slightest sign of
success. The frigid coils in the corner of the room remained obdurate.
If they indicated the slightest symptom of warmth during the evening,
it was due entirely to the expansive generosity of the humble grate and
not because they were moved by inward remorse. They were able, however,
to supply the odour of far-off steam, as of an abandoned laundry; and
sometimes they chortled meanly, revealing signs of an energy that in
anything but a steam pipe might have been mistaken for a promise to do
better.
Mr. Bingle poked the fire and looked at his watch. Then he crossed to
the window, drew the curtains and shade aside and tried to peer through
the frosty panes into the street, seven stories below. A holly wreath
hung suspended in the window, completely obscured from view on one side
by hoar frost, on the other by a lemon-coloured window shade that had
to be handled with patience out of respect for a lapsed spring at the
top. He scraped a peep-hole in the frosty surface, and, after drying
his fingers on his smoking jacket, looked downward with eyes a-squint.
"Do sit down, Tom," said his wife from her chair by the fireplace. "A
watched pot never boils. You can't see them from the window, in any
event."
"I can see the car when it stops at the corner, my dear," said Mr.
Bingle, enlarging the peep-hole with a vigour that appeared to be
aggravated by advice. "Melissa said seven o'clock and it is four
minutes after now."
"You forget that Melissa didn't start until after she had cleared away
the dinner things. She--"
"I know, I know," he interrupted, still peering. "But that was an hour
ago, Mary. I think a car is stopping at the corner now. No! It didn't
stop, so there must have been some one waiting to get on instead of
off."
"Do come and sit down. You are as fidgety as a child."
"Dear me," said Mr. Bingle, turning away from the window with a shiver,
"how I pity the poor unfortunates who haven't a warm fire to sit beside
tonight. It is going to be the coldest night in twenty years, according
to the--there! Did you hear that?" He stepped to the window once more.
The double ring of a street-car bell had reached his ears, and he knew
that a car had stopped at the corner below. "According to the weather
report this afternoon," he concluded, re-crossing the room to sit down
beside the fire, very erect and expectant, a smile on his pinched,
eager face. He was watching the hall door.
It was Christmas Eve. There were signs of the season in every corner of
the plain but cosy little sitting-room. Mistletoe hung from the
chandelier; gay bunting and strands of gold and silver tinsel draped
the bookcase and the writing desk; holly and myrtle covered the wall
brackets, and red tissue paper shaded all of the electric light globes;
big candles and little candles flickered on the mantelpiece, and some
were red and some were white and yet others were green and blue with
the paint that Mr. Bingle had applied with earnest though artless
disregard for subsequent odours; packages done up in white and tied
with red ribbon, neatly double-bowed, formed a significant centrepiece
for the ornate mahogany library table--and one who did not know the
Bingles would have looked about in quest of small fry with popping,
covetous eyes and sleekly brushed hair. The alluring scent of gaudily
painted toys pervaded the Christmas atmosphere, quite offsetting the
hint of steam from more fortunate depths, and one could sniff the odour
of freshly buttered pop-corn. All these signs spoke of children and the
proximity of Kris Kringle, and yet there were no little Bingles, nor
had there ever been so much as one!
Mr. and Mrs. Bingle were childless. The tragedy of life for them lay
not in the loss of a first-born, but in the fact that no babe had ever
come to fill their hungry hearts with the food they most desired and
craved. Nor was there any promise of subsequent concessions in their
behalf. For fifteen years they had longed for the boon that was denied
them, and to the end of their simple, kindly days they probably would
go on longing. Poor as they were, neither would have complained if fate
had given them half-a-dozen healthy mouths to feed, as many wriggling
bodies to clothe, and all the splendid worries that go with colic,
croup, measles, mumps, broken arms and all the other ailments,
peculiar, not so much to childhood as they are paramount to parenthood.
Lonely, incomplete lives they led, with no bitterness in their souls,
loving each other the more as they tried to fill the void with songs of
resignation. Away back in the early days Mr. Bingle had said that
Christmas was a bleak thing without children to lift the pall--or
something of the sort.
Out of that well-worn conclusion--oft expressed by rich and poor
alike--grew the Bingle Foundation, so to speak. No Christmas Eve was
allowed to go by without the presence of alien offspring about their
fire-lit hearth, and no strange little kiddie ever left for his own bed
without treasuring in his soul the belief that he had seen Santa Claus
at last--had been kissed by him, too--albeit the plain-faced, wistful
little man with the funny bald-spot was in no sense up to the
preconceived opinions of what the roly--poly, white-whiskered,
red-cheeked annual visitor from Lapland ought to be in order to make
dreams come true.
The Bingles were singularly nephewless, nieceless, cousinless. There
was no kindly-disposed relative to whom they could look for the loan of
a few children on Christmas Eve, nor would their own sensitiveness
permit them to approach neighbours or friends in the building with a
well-meant request that might have met with a chilly rebuff. One really
cannot go about borrowing children from people on the floor below and
the floor above, especially on Christmas Eve when children are so much
in demand, even in the most fortunate of families. It is quite a
different matter at any other time of the year. One can always borrow a
whole family of children when the mother happens to feel the call of
the matinee or the woman's club, and it is not an uncommon thing to
secure them for a whole day in mid-December. But on Christmas Eve,
never! And so Mr. and Mrs. Bingle, being without the natural comforts
of home, were obliged to go out into the world searching for children
who had an even greater grudge against circumstances. They frequently
found their guests of honour in places where dishonour had left them,
and they gave them a merry Christmas with no questions asked.
The past two Christmas Eves had found them rather providentially
supplied with children about whom no questions had ever been asked: the
progeny of a Mr. and Mrs. Sykes. Mr. Sykes being dead, the care and
support of five lusty youngsters fell upon the devoted but far from
rugged shoulders of a mother who worked as a saleswoman in one of the
big Sixth Avenue shops, and who toiled far into the night before
Christmas in order that forgetful people might be able to remember
without fail on the morning thereafter. She was only too glad to lend
her family to Mr. and Mrs. Bingle. More than that, she was ineffably
glad, on her own account, that it was Christmas Eve; it signified the
close of a diabolical season of torture at the hands of a public that
believes firmly in "peace on earth" but hasn't the faintest conception
of what "good will toward men" means when it comes to shopping at
Christmas-time.
Mrs. Sykes' sister Melissa had been maid-of-all-work in the modest
establishment of Mr. and Mrs. Bingle for a matter of three years and a
half. It was she who suggested the Sykes family as a happy solution to
the annual problem, and Mr. Bingle almost hugged her for being so
thoroughly competent and considerate!
It isn't every servant, said he, who thinks of the comfort of her
employers. Most of 'em, said he, insist on going to a chauffeurs' ball
or something of the sort on Christmas Eve, but here was a jewel-like
daughter of Martha who actually put the interests of her master and
mistress above her own, and complained not! And what made it all the
more incomprehensible to him was the fact that Melissa was quite a
pretty girl. There was no reason in the world why she shouldn't have
gone to the ball and had a good time instead of thinking of them in
their hours of trouble. But here she was, actually going out of her way
to be kind to her employers: supplying a complete family for Christmas
Eve purposes and never uttering a word of complaint!
The more he thought of it, the prettier she became. He mentioned it to
his wife and she agreed with him. Melissa was much too pretty, said
Mrs. Bingle, entirely without animus. And she was really quite a
stylish sort of girl, too, when she dressed up to go out of a Sunday.
Much more so, indeed, than Mrs. Bingle herself, who had to scrimp and
pinch as all good housewives do if they want to succeed to a new dress
once a year.
Melissa had something of an advantage over her mistress in that she
received wages and was entitled to an afternoon off every fortnight.
Mrs. Bingle did quite as much work about the house, ate practically the
same food, slept not half so soundly, had all the worry of making both
ends meet, practised a rigid and necessary economy, took no afternoons
off, and all without pecuniary compensation--wherein rests support for
the contention that Melissa had the better of her mistress when all is
said and done. Obviously, therefore, Mrs. Bingle was not as well off as
her servant. True, she sat in the parlour while Melissa sat in the
kitchen, but to offset this distinction, Melissa could sing over her
pans and dishes.
Mr. Bingle, good soul, insisted on keeping a servant, despite the
strain on his purse, for no other reason than that he couldn't bear the
thought of leaving Mrs. Bingle alone all day while he was at the bank.
(Lest there should be some apprehension, it should be explained that he
was a bookkeeper at a salary of one hundred dollars a month, arrived at
after long and faithful service, and that Melissa had but fifteen
dollars a month, food and bed.) Melissa was company for Mrs. Bingle,
and her unfailing good humour extended to Mr. Bingle when he came home
to dinner, tired as a dog and in need of cheer. She joined in the
table-talk with unresented freedom and she never failed to laugh
heartily over Mr. Bingle's inspired jokes. Altogether, Melissa was well
worth her wage. She was sunshine and air to the stifled bookkeeper and
his wife.
And now, for the third time, she was bringing the five rollicking
Sykeses to the little flat beyond Washington Square, and for the
thousandth time Mr. and Mrs. Bingle wondered how such a treasure as
Melissa had managed to keep out of heaven all these years.
Mr. Bingle opened the front door with a great deal of ceremony the
instant the rickety elevator came to a stop at the seventh floor, and
gave greeting to the five Sykeses on the dark, narrow landing. He
mentioned each by name and very gravely shook their red-mittened paws
as they sidled past him with eager, bulging eyes that saw only the
Christmas trappings in the room beyond.
"Merry Christmas," said the five, not quite in one voice but with
well-rehearsed vehemence, albeit two tiny ones, in rapt contemplation
of things beyond, quite neglected their duty until severely nudged by
Melissa, whereupon they said it in a shrill treble at least six times
without stopping.
"I am very pleased to see you all," said Mr. Bingle, beaming. "Won't
you take off your things and stay awhile?"
It was what he always said to them, and they always said, "Yes, thank
you," following out instructions received on the way down town, and
then, in some desperation, added, "Mr. Bingle," after a sententious
whisper from their aunt.
They were a rosy, clean-scrubbed lot, these little Sykeses. Their
mother may not have fared overly well herself, but she had contrived to
put flesh and fat on the bones of her progeny, and you would go a long
way before you would find a plumper, merrier group of children than
those who came to the Bingle flat on Christmas Eve in their very best
garments and with their very best appetites. The eldest was ten, the
youngest four, and it so happened that the beginning and the end of the
string were boys, the three in between being Mary, Maud, and Kate.
Mrs. Bingle helped them off with their coats and caps and mufflers,
then hugged them and lugged them up to the fire, while Melissa removed
her skunk tippet, her poney coat and a hat that would have created envy
in the soul of a less charitable creature than the mistress of the
house.
"And now," said Mr. Bingle, confronting the group, "who made you?"
"God, Mr. Bingle," said the five Sykeses, very much after the habit of
a dog that is ordered to "speak."
"And who was it that said, 'Suffer little children to come unto me?'"
"Jesus, Mr. Bingle," said the five Sykeses, eyeing the pile on the
table.
"And where do you expect to go when you die?" demanded Mr. Bingle, with
great severity.
"Heaven!" shouted the perfectly healthy Sykeses.
"How is your mother, Mary?" asked Mrs. Bingle, always a rational woman.
Mary bobbed. "She's working, ma'am," said she, and that was all she
knew about her mother's state of health.
"Are you cold?" inquired Mr. Bingle, herding them a little closer to
the grate.
"Yes," said two of the Sykeses.
"Sir," admonished Melissa.
"Sir!" said all of the Sykeses.
"Now, draw up the chairs," said Mr. Bingle, clearing his throat. "Mary,
you'd better take Kate and Georgie on your lap, and suppose you hold
Maud, Melissa. It will be more cosy." This was his way of overcoming
the shortage in chairs.
Now, it was Mr. Bingle's custom to read "The Christmas Carol" on
Christmas Eve. It was his creed, almost his religion, this
heart-breaking tale by Dickens. Not once, but a thousand times, he had
proclaimed that if all men lived up to the teachings of "The Christmas
Carol" the world would be sweeter, happier, nobler, and the churches
could be put to a better use than at present, considering (as he said)
that they now represent assembling places for people who read neither
Dickens nor the Scripture but sing with considerable intelligence. It
was his contention that "The Christmas Carol" teaches a good many
things that the Church overlooks in its study of Christ, and that the
surest way to make good men out of ALL boys is to get at their hearts
while their souls are fresh and simple. Put the New Testament and "The
Christmas Carol" in every boy's hand, said he, and they will create a
religion that has something besides faith for a foundation. One
sometimes forgets that Christ was crucified, but no one ever forgets
what happened to Old Scrooge, and as Mr. Bingle read his Bible quite
assiduously it is only fair to assume that he appreciated the
relativeness of "The Christmas Carol" to the greatest Book in all the
world.
For twenty years or more, he had not once failed to read "The Carol" on
Christmas Eve. He knew the book by heart. Is it any wonder, then, that
he was a gentle, sweet-natured man in whom not the faintest symptom of
guile existed? And, on the other hand, is it any wonder that he
remained a bookkeeper in a bank while other men of his acquaintance
went into business and became rich and arrogant? Of course, it is
necessary to look at the question from both directions, and for that
reason I mention the fact that he remained a bookkeeper while those who
scorned "The Christmas Carol" became drivers of men.
Experience--and some sage conclusions on the part of his wife--had
taught him, after years of unsatisfactory practice, that it was best to
read the story BEFORE giving out presents to the immature guests. On a
great many occasions, the youngsters--in those early days they were
waifs--either went sound asleep before he was half way through or
became so restless and voracious that he couldn't keep his place in the
book, what with watching to see that they didn't choke on the candy,
break the windows or mirrors with their footballs, or put some one's
eye out with a pop-gun.
[Illustration with caption: The "kiddies" kept their eyes and ears open
and sat very still while he read to them of Tiny Tim and his friends]
Of late he had been reading the story first and distributing the
"goodies" and toys afterward. It was a splendid arrangement. The
"kiddies" kept their eyes and ears open and sat very still while he
read to them of Tiny Tim and his friends. And when Mr. Bingle himself
grinned shamefacedly through his tears and choked up so that the words
would not come without being resolutely forced through a tightened
throat, the sympathetic audience, including Mrs. Bingle and
Melissa--and on one occasion an ancient maiden from the floor
above--wept copiously and with the most flattering clamour.
A small reading-lamp stood on the broad arm of his chair, which faced
the expectant group. Mr. Bingle cleared his throat, wiped his
spectacles, and then peered over the rims to see that all were
attending. Five rosy faces glistened with the sheen of health and soap
lately applied with great force by the proud but relentless Melissa.
"Take off your ear-muffs, James," said Mr. Bingle to the eldest Sykes,
who immediately turned a fiery red and shrank down in his chair
bitterly to hate his brothers and sisters for snickering at him.
"There! That's much better."
"They're new, Mr. Bingle," explained Melissa. "He hasn't had 'em off
since yesterday, he likes 'em so much. Put 'em in your pocket, Jimmy.
And now listen to Mr. Bingle. Are you sure they ain't too heavy for
you, ma'am? Georgie's getting pretty big--oh, excuse me, sir."
Mr. Bingle took up the well-worn, cherished book and turned to the
first page of the text. He cleared his throat again--and again.
Hesitation at a time like this was unusual; he was clearly, suddenly
irresolute. His gaze lingered for a moment on the white knob of a door
at the upper end of the room, and then shifted to his wife's face.
"I wonder, my dear, if Uncle Joe couldn't be persuaded to come in and
listen to the reading," he ventured, a wistful gleam in his eyes. "He's
been feeling better the last few days. It might cheer him--"
"Cheer your granny," said Mrs. Bingle scornfully. "It's no use. I asked
him just before dinner and he said he didn't believe in happiness, or
something to that effect."
"He is the limit," said Melissa flatly. "The worst grouch I've ever
seen, Mr. Bingle, even if he is your own flesh and blood uncle. He's
almost as bad as Old Scrooge."
"He is a sick man," explained Mr. Bingle, lowering his voice; "and he
hasn't known very much happiness in his lifetime, so I suppose we ought
to overlook--er, ahem! Let me see, where was I?" He favoured young Mary
Sykes with a genial grin. "Where was I, Mary?"
Mary saw her chance. Without a trace of shame or compunction, she said
page seventy-eight, and then the three grown people coughed in great
embarrassment.
"You sha'n't come next Christmas," whispered Melissa very fiercely into
Mary's ear, so ominously, in fact, that Mary's lip began to tremble.
"Page one," she amended, in a very small voice. James moved uneasily in
his chair, and Mary avoided his gaze.
"I believe I'll step in and ask Uncle Joe if he won't change his mind,"
said Mr. Bingle. "I--I don't believe he has ever read the Christmas
Carol. And he is so lonely, so--er--so at odds with the world that--"
"Don't bother him, Tom," said his wife. "Get on with the reading. The
children are impatient." She completed the sentence in a yawn.
Mr. Bingle began. He read very slowly and very impressively at first,
but gradually warmed up to the two-hour task. In a very few minutes he
was going along rapidly, almost monotonously, with scant regard for
effect save at the end of sentences, the ultimate word being pronounced
with distinct emphasis. Page after page was turned; the droning sound
of his voice went on and on, with its clock-like inflections at the end
of sentences; the revived crackle of coals lent spirit to an otherwise
dreary solo, and always it was Melissa who poked the grate and at the
same time rubbed her leg to renew the circulation that had been checked
by the limp weight of Katie Sykes; the deep sighs of Mrs. Bingle and
the loud yawns of the older children relieved the monotony of sound
from time to time; and the cold wind whistled shrilly round the corners
of the building, causing the youngsters to wonder how Santa was
enduring the frost during his tedious wait at the top of the chimney
pot. Mrs. Bingle shifted the occupants of her lap more and more often
as the tale ran on, and with little attempt to do so noiselessly;
Mary's feet went to sleep, and James fidgeted so violently that twice
Mr. Bingle had to look at him. But eventually he came to the acutely
tearful place in the story, and then he was at his best. Indeed, he
quite thrilled his hearers, who became all attention and blissfully
lachrymose. Mrs. Bingle sobbed, Melissa rubbed her eyes violently, Mr.
Bingle choked up and could scarcely read for the tightening in his
throat, and the children watched him through solemn, dripping eyes and
hung on every word that told of the regeneration of Scrooge and the sad
happiness of Tiny Tim. And finally Mr. Bingle, as hoarse as a crow and
faint with emotion, closed the book and lowered it gently to his knee.
"There!" he said. "There's a lesson for you. Don't you feel better for
it, young ladies and gentlemen?"
"I always cry," said Mary Sykes, with a glance of defiance at her
eldest brother, who made a fine show of glowering.
"Everybody cries over Tiny Tim," said Melissa. "As frequent as I've
heard Mr. Bingle read that story I can't help crying, knowing all the
time it's only a novel. It seems to me I cry a little worse every time
it's read. Don't you think I do, ma'am? Didn't you notice that I cried
a little more this time than I did last year?"
"It touches the heart-strings," said Mr. Bingle, blowing his nose so
fiercely that Georgie whimpered again, coming out of a doze. "I'll bet
my head, dear, that Uncle Joe would sniffle as much as any of us. I
wish--er--I do wish we'd asked him to come in. It would do him a world
of good to shed a few tears."
"He hasn't a tear in the whole hulk of him," said Mrs. Bingle,
sorrowfully.
"Poor old man," said Melissa, relenting a bit.
"I bet I know what he's doing," said James brightly.
"Doing? What is he doing, James?" demanded Mr. Bingle, surprised by the
youngster's declaration.
"You can't fool me. I bet he's out there dressing up to play Santa
Claus."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle, blinking. The thought of crabbed Uncle
Joe taking on the habiliments of the genial saint was too much for his
imagination. It left him without the power to set James straight in the
matter, and Uncle Joe was immediately accepted as Santy by the
expectant Sykeses, all of whom revealed a tremendous interest in the
avuncular absentee. They even appeared to be properly apprehensive, and
crowded a little closer to the knees of the grown-ups, all the while
eyeing the door at the upper end of the room.
Melissa's involuntary snort was not enlightening to the children, but
it served as a spur to Mr. Bingle, who abruptly gave over being
sentimental and set about the pleasant task of distributing the
packages on the table. Hilarity took the place of a necessary reserve,
and before one could say Jack Robinson the little sitting-room was as
boisterous a place as you'd find in a month's journey and no one would
have suspected that Mr. and Mrs. Bingle were eating their hearts out
because the noisy crew belonged to the heaven-blest Mrs. Sykes and not
to them.
Ten o'clock came. Mr. and Mrs. Bingle sat side by side in front of the
fireplace, her hand in his. The floor was littered with white tissue
paper, red ribbons, peanut hulls and other by-products of festivity;
the rugs were scuffled up and hopelessly awry; chairs were out of their
accustomed places--two or three of them no longer stood upon their legs
as upright chairs should do--and the hearth was strewn with coals from
an overturned scuttle. Candle grease solidified on the mantelpiece and
dripped unseen upon the mahogany bookcase--all unnoticed by the dreamy,
desolate Bingles. They were alone with the annual wreck. Melissa and
the five Sykeses were out in the bitter night, on their frolicksome way
to the distant home of the woman who had so many children she didn't
know what to do for them, not with them. They had gone away with their
hands and pockets full, and their stomachs, too, and they had all been
kissed and hugged and invited to come again without fail a year from
that very night.
Mr. Bingle sighed. Neither had spoken for many minutes after the
elevator door slammed behind the excited, shrill-voiced children. Mr.
Bingle always sighed exactly at this moment in his reflections, and
Mrs. Bingle always squeezed his hand fiercely and turned a pair of
darkly regretful eyes upon him.
"I am sorry, dear heart," she murmured, and then he kissed her hand and
said that it was God's will.
"It doesn't seem right, when we want them, need them so much," she
said, huskily.
And then he repeated the thing he always said on Christmas Eve: "One of
these days I am going to adopt a--er--a couple, Mary, sure as I'm
sitting here. We just can't grow old without having some of them about
us. Some day we'll find the right sort of--"
The bedroom door opened with a squeak, slowly and with considerable
caution. The gaunt, bearded face of a tall, stooping old man appeared
in the aperture; sharp, piercing eyes under thick grey eyebrows
searched the room in a swift, almost unfriendly glance.
"The infernal brats gone, Tom?" demanded Uncle Joe harshly.
Mr. and Mrs. Bingle stiffened in their chairs. The tall old man came
down to the fireplace, disgustedly kicking a stray, crumpled sheet of
tissue paper out of his path.
"Oh, they are perfect dears, Uncle Joe," protested Mrs. Bingle, trying
her best not to bristle.
"I wish you had come in for a look at 'em--" began Mr. Bingle, but the
old man cut him off with a snort of anger.
"Cussed little nuisances," he said, holding his thin hands to the blaze.
"I don't see how you can say such things about children you don't know
and can't--" began Mrs. Bingle.
He glared at her. "You can't tell me anything about children, Mary. I'm
the father of three and I know what I'm talking about. Children are the
damnedest curse on earth. You ought to thank God you haven't got any."