Mr. Bingle Part 15

"Well, why do you hesitate? Go on. Do you mean to say you don't want to hear it again?"

"G.o.d knows, sor, I'm willing to give up wan evenin' to society. We all are, for that matter. But it takes an hour an' a half to read the blissed story. If we could only sit down during the recital, sor, it--it wouldn't be so bad. But as it is, sor, we have to stand and only our legs and feet can go to sleep. If--"

"I see!" cried Mr. Bingle. "You put me to shame, Delia. I never thought of it in that light. You must have chairs. We will delay the reading while you go to the dining-room and--"

"It's all right, sor. We've got the dining-room chairs in the hall. It was me as thought of thim, sor. Go wan wid yez now, lads, and rush thim in."

Mrs. Bingle took advantage of this unusual delay--or respite--and explained to Mrs. Force that she would never go back to Madame Marie for another gown. All one had to do was to look at the dress she was wearing to-night for the first time. "It has just come and it cost--well, you know what a gown like that would cost at Marie's! And just look at it!" Mrs. Force did look at it--commiseratingly--and said she would be pleased to take Mrs. Bingle in to see her dressmaker, and so on and so forth. Mrs. Bingle expressed some doubt as to any modiste's ability to make her look like Mrs. Force and Mrs. Force pooh-poohed graciously.

Mr. Force bit off the end of a cigar and glumly watched the revivified servants arranging the chairs. Occasionally he sent a puzzled glance at little Kathleen.

Mr. Bingle rubbed his spectacles, while Mr. Flanders confined his attention solely to the slim, graceful head and neck of the new governess. He wore the look of one who has much to do to contain himself in patience. As for Miss Fairweather, a warm glow had settled upon her fair cheek and her eyes were bright.

"I always cry when any one reads aloud about Tiny Tim," she said to Mr.

Force, who, for obvious reasons, failed to hear her above the chattering of the children. But Flanders heard.

"Tiny Tim always makes me cry too," he said, very distinctly. He was rewarded by a slightly increased colour in the young lady's cheek.

"I cry my eyes out over Tiny Tim," Miss Quinlan was saying to Miss Stokes, and at the same instant Miss Brown was telling Miss Wright that Tiny Tim was always good for a bucketful, so far as she was concerned.

Imogene was sound asleep, and there were faint sobs in her breathing.

"Before we begin, Swanson," said Mr. Bingle, addressing the furnace-man, "you might put a couple of fresh Yule logs on the fire.

Pick out good, big ones while you're about it."

"Will dose har fance-post do, Mast' Bingle?" whispered Swanson hoa.r.s.ely, as he held up a chunk of firewood for approval.

The fire was crackling merrily by the time the servants were seated and Diggs had turned out the ceiling and wall lights from the switch, leaving the big room in semi-darkness. The blazing logs sent a bright, nickering glow into the faces of Mr. Bingle's auditors. He bowed gravely and took up the cherished well-worn book.

"My dear friends, we have once more reached a milestone in the march of Christendom. As you know, children, it comes but once a year, like New Year's and Fourth of July."

"Hear! Hear!" volunteered three or four of the men-servants diffidently.

"We are all servants of the Lord whose anniversary we celebrate. We gather here about a warm fireside, with the historic yule log blazing--er--figuratively speaking, of course. These logs, naturally, are not historic. They--er--ahem! Ahem!" He floundered. "Still, we gather about them, just the same, warm and snug and full of good cheer.

Outside, the night is cold and bl.u.s.tery. The wind howls around the--"

The door-bell jangled in the distance. Mr. Bingle hesitated for an instant and then went on:

"Howls around the corners with the fury of the wintry--ahem!--blast.

And it snows. 'It snows, cries the schoolboy!' You remember the verses, children. You--See who's there, Diggs. Perhaps it is some neighbour come to wish us--and, Diggs, no matter who it is, ask him--or them--to come right in here. I'll--I'll wait a few minutes. Hurry along, please." Resuming his address he beamed upon the row of wriggling children. "We have before us eleven little ladies and gentlemen, all eager for the Christmas dawn. See the stockings? To-morrow morning you will find that Santy has filled them to the top. Next year Santy will come provided with gifts for twelve, an even dozen. How many are eleven and one, Reginald? Speak up. Eleven and one. Good! That's right, my lad. The year after he will bring gifts for fourteen. We shall avoid the unlucky number thirteen. Remember, children, that next Christmas you are to have a little brother. You--"

"I want a sister," shouted Wilberforce.

"s.h.!.+" said four nurses at once.

"As for you, my faithful servitors, it will not be necessary for you to hang up your little stockings. Santy will find a way to--What is it, Diggs?"

"If you please, sir, may I speak with you for a moment?" said Diggs mysteriously, from the doorway. He appeared to be under the strain of a not inconsiderable excitement.

Mr. Bingle hesitated. "If it's your grandmother who is ill, Diggs, I'm afraid--"

"It's a man, sir, who says he must see you at once," said Diggs, lowering his voice and sending a cautious glance over his shoulder.

"If he is seeking food or shelter, do not turn him away. Give freely from my purse and larder. It is Christmas Eve. We--"

"I'll step out and see him, Bingle," volunteered Mr. Force, with some alacrity. "Go ahead with the reading."

"He says he must see you, Mr. Bingle," said Diggs. "He isn't after halms, sir."

"Ask him to come in and hear the story. I've no doubt he would be benefitted--"

"Go and see what he wants, Thomas," said Mrs. Bingle. "It may be important. I am sure Mr. and Mrs. Force will not mind the delay. Will you?"

"Not at all," said Mrs. Force resignedly.

"I shan't mind, if the rest don't," added Mr. Force, turning an ironic eye upon the row of servants.

"Well, I'll just step out and see what it's all about," said Mr. Bingle reluctantly.

"Better see that the chap isn't a bomb-thrower, come to demand money of you, Bingle," said Force. Mr. Bingle waved his hand airily as he threaded his way among the chairs. "Does he look like a black-hander, Diggs?"

"No, sir," replied Diggs. Then he let the truth slip out. "He says he is from a detective agency, but I couldn't catch the name of it."

Mr. Bingle halted. "Detective agency, Diggs?"

"So he said, sir."

Flanders arose. "Perhaps you'd like to have me go with you, Mr. Bingle.

I know most of these fellows. If I can be of any a.s.sistance--"

"Thank you, no," said Mr. Bingle nervously. "I--I think I'd better see him alone. Now, Mary, don't look frightened. I haven't the remotest idea what he wants, but as I haven't been up to anything--ahem! Keep your seat, Frederick!"

"I want to see a detective," pleaded Frederick. "Is he disguised, Diggs? Has he got on false whiskers? Please, daddy--"

"Maybe it's old Santy," cried Wilberforce in a voice that thrilled.

Mr. Bingle left a pleasant atmosphere of excitement behind him when he disappeared between the portieres. At once the company broke into eager, speculative whispers that soon grew to a perfect storm of shrill inquiry. Every one was guessing, and every one was guessing as loudly as possible in order to be heard above the clamour. It might have been observed that at least three or four of the servants shot furtive glances in the direction of the hall, and appeared to be anxious and uncomfortable.

While the excitement was at its height, Flanders deliberately planted himself at Miss Fairweather's elbow. She looked up into his face. Every vestige of colour had left her own. Her eyes were wide with alarm.

"Come with me, Amy," he said in a low tone. "I must have a word with you. Make believe that you are showing me the--the pictures. We can talk safely in that corner over there."

She arose without a word and followed him to a far corner of the room, where they would be quite free from interruption.

"Oh, d.i.c.k!" she murmured, in great distress.

"Do you know anything? Who is this detective? Has he come to--"