Mr. Bingle Part 38

"Watson, give him some more of that chicken--the white meat, do you understand? And where's the dressing? Mr. Diggs, get those rolls over here--lively! Did he have any soup and fish? Did he--"

"Melissa, what are you trying to do?" demanded Mr. Bingle. "Stuff me so full I'll die in the night?"

"And him lookin' that thin and pale and peaked," went on Melissa, glaring at the unhappy butler and footman. "What have you got them b.u.t.tons and that striped vest for, Watson? Are you here as a spectator?

Get a move on now, both of you. And as for you, Mr. Bingle, I'm going to stand right here and SEE that you eat. Do you suppose I got up this meal for a joke on myself? Not much! The mashed potatoes, Watson! Never mind, Freddy, you can have some more after your daddy's had all he wants. Gee whiz, I'm glad I happened to come in when I did!"

Presently the door-bell rang--a feeble, broken tinkle reminiscent of an original economy--and Mr. Bingle laid down his salad fork with a sigh.

The children started violently and a scared, uneasy look went around the table.

"The Society's agents," said Mr. Bingle, closing his lips tightly to prevent their trembling. "Freddy, will you please go to the door?"

"Beg pardon, sir," said Watson, almost reproachfully despite his lordly air. Then, with stately tread, he pa.s.sed into the little hallway and threw open the outer door.

"I don't want to go," Henrietta was crying, and even Frederic looked intently at his plate with eyes that were preparing to fill. The rest of them were ready to whimper. After all, a bountiful meal and a full stomach go a long way toward producing a reaction. They were not so keen to leave Mr. Bingle as they were before the meal began.

"Mrs. Flanders! Mr. Flanders!" announced the high-chinned Watson.

First of all, the new arrivals paused to stare in astonishment at the liveried footman, and then for an instant at the imperious Diggs, after which they turned their gaze upon the table.

"Great Scott!" gasped Flanders. "Is this a dream?"

"Not on your life," said Watson, completely forgetting himself in an ecstasy of delight.

There was a tremendous hub-bub, during which Diggs and Watson had a great deal of difficulty in keeping their places as old and well-trained servants. They were frequently on the verge of becoming prosperous green-grocers and joining in the jollification.

First, the gorgeous Miss Colgate kissed Mr. Bingle, almost smothering the poor gentleman in the wealth of furs which enveloped and adorned her. Then she kissed nine smart little cheeks in rapid succession, all the while crying "Merry Christmas" and "bless your heart," in chorus with every one else and her cheery-voiced husband.

"Just had to run down, Mr. Bingle," Flanders was shouting as he pumped the little man's arm violently up and down. "A year ago to-night it all happened, you remember. Celebrating the greatest of all anniversaries.

How are you? Couldn't let THIS night go by without seeing you, sir--couldn't possibly. Can't stay but a minute, though. Due at the theatre at half-past seven. Amy goes on early in the first, you know--of course, you know, having ordered her on when I had her entering when the act was half over. How are you?"

"Fine! Fine!" gasped Mr. Bingle, almost speechless.

"And now," cried Amy Colgate, throwing open her fur coat, revealing a dazzling gown of black and silver, "now for the fun! Mr. Footman, will you admit the messengers from Humpty Dumpty land?"

In came four sprightly clowns, chalked and patched, clad in spots and spangles, dancing like mad and grinning from ear to ear. Whirling around the table, dodging the stove, vaulting the empty chairs, they stopped at last to deposit in a heap upon the floor a whopping pile of parcels and bundles, the topmost being a huge box of American Beauty roses. Almost before the wide-eyed, gaping youngsters could realise what had happened, the motley quartette vanished into the outer hall, the door banged to behind them and Mr. Flanders was shouting:

"How's that for high? Eh? That's the way we do things up at Forty-second Street. What have you got to say now, Mr. Bingle, on this Merry Christmas Eve?"

Mr. Bingle, quite as excited as any of the shouting children, sat down very suddenly in his chair at the head of the table.

"Sit down, d.i.c.k, and you, Amy, and--and have something to eat. I--I--"

He stopped short, realising that he did not know what he was saying, but vaguely hospitable in spite of himself. Then his arm went up to cover his eyes.

"We haven't time," began Flanders, but caught a warning look from his pretty wife.

"We will have dessert and coffee with you, Mr. Bingle," she said, coming over to lay her hand upon his arm.

"Tha--that's fine," gulped Mr. Bingle with a mighty and partially successful effort to regain control of his flitting senses. And it was some time after that before he could trust himself to join in the merry, excited chatter. He kept on repeating "G.o.d bless my soul," in response to nearly every remark that was directed to him.

"You are not to open a single package until after we are gone,"

commanded Amy Colgate later on, confronting the eager, covetous children as she arose from the trunk which served as a chair for both herself and Mr. Bingle in Diggs's hasty readjustment of the seats at table. "The roses are for you, dear Mr. Bingle, with my love--my real love. I know that you will take them to Mrs. Bingle to-morrow, but they are for you to-night. Give her my love and wish her a Merry, Merry Christmas from d.i.c.k and me. Please G.o.d she may soon come back to you and be as she used to be." She peered intently, questioningly into his glistening eyes, and then put her arm suddenly around his neck and cried softly in his ear: "Oh, you dear, dear old goose!"

"Where is Melissa?" whispered Flanders to Diggs as that functionary was helping him into his greatcoat.

"Almost on your very 'eels, sir," said Diggs, as nervous as any one else.

"I say, Melissa," said Flanders, turning upon the beaming hand-maiden, who stood in the kitchen door with Watson's wife, "let me have a look at your kitchen." He fairly pushed his way into the kitchen, dragging her after him. "Hus.h.!.+ Don't interrupt me, my girl. He may suspect something and come hustling out here after us. Now, Melissa, I trust you as I would trust the Government of the United States. You are as honest as the sun, so I'm taking no chances in handing you this little package to be delivered to Mr. Bingle when he sits down to his lonely breakfast on Christmas morning. The kids will be all gone and he'll--well, he'll need something to brace him up a bit. Now, pay attention: this is a copy of the first edition of 'The Christmas Carol,' and stuck between the leaves is something that would cause this flat to be robbed to-night if the news got down to the Bowery. Are you listening?"

"I--I am, sir," gasped Melissa, gripping the small package tightly and shooting a look of apprehension at the kitchen window as if expecting to see a thief pop into the fifth story window.

"Well, there is a thousand dollar bill concealed in that book. Don't drop it! It won't bite you. Put it under your pillow to-night, and be sure he gets it for breakfast. The little note will explain everything."

"Goodness, Mr. Flanders, it's a dreadful thing to have in bed with a person. I won't sleep a wink."

"So much the better," said Flanders cheerfully. "Now, you'll not forget to have it at his place in the morning, will you?"

"If I live through the night, sir, it will be served with his coffee. I shan't even tell Mr. Diggs." She did not mean this as a reflection upon the integrity of her suitor, but, fearing that it might be taken as such, she made haste to add: "So if I'm found murdered in my bed, you needn't accuse him of doing it."

In the meantime, Amy Colgate had kissed all of the children again and was standing guard over the heap of presents, talking so gaily and so incessantly that, despite Mr. Bingle's glances in the direction of the kitchen, he was unable to satisfy his curiosity.

"You really are quite cosy here, Mr. Bingle," she was saying. "Have you anything new to show me?"

He pondered. "I think there's a new hole in the carpet over there, Mrs.

Flanders. And I've taken a new lease on life. Dr. Fiddler dropped in at the bank yesterday to tell me that Mrs. Bingle may be able to come home before long, so you see I shall have to get busy fixing the place up a bit. She likes to have everything neat and tidy, you know."

"Is she still with her mother?"

"Certainly. Fiddler says she may have to go to the hospital for a while before coming here, but it's nothing to be worried about. A trifling operation, he says. He's like all doctors. You never can get 'em to commit themselves. I shall go up to see her to-morrow. I've got a little present for her, you know. I've sort of been expecting something from her to-night--a pair of slippers or a half dozen handkerchiefs or something like that--but perhaps they will come in the morning. She never forgets me. Of course, being sick and discouraged may have kept her from--and then again, on the other hand, she may have crochetted me a dressing gown or a fancy waistcoat and prefers to give it to me when I go out to see her to-morrow, not wanting to trust it to the Express Company, don't you know. Well, d.i.c.k, how do you like our kitchen?"

"Bully! Come along, Amy. We mustn't be late. See you soon, Mr. Bingle.

You must bring Mrs. Bingle up to see the piece as soon as she's able.

By George, we ARE doing business, though. Sixteen thousand dollars last week. Turning 'em away every night. Seventeen hundred dollars last night and--"

"Hush, d.i.c.k! Mr. Bingle knows you are an author. You don't have to act the part, you know."

"Right you are. It's getting to be a habit. I can't help contrasting this Christmas Eve with the one a year ago. I didn't have ten dollars to my name when I went out to hear you read 'The Christmas Carol,' Mr.

Bingle."

"And now I haven't ten dollars to my name," said Mr. Bingle cheerily.

"Luck is like the sun, d.i.c.k. It doesn't stay up all the time. Sometimes I look back upon the past ten years and wonder if they don't belong to the fellow who wrote the 'Arabian Nights' and not to me. They were not real, not a bit of it. And yet I can't remember ever having found a queer old jar at the seash.o.r.e, nor having released a good geni from its smoky insides. So I suppose I really must have lived them."

"Don't let yourself get lonely, Mr. Bingle," said Flanders, gripping the other's hand. "Don't allow yourself to mope over the loss of these--ahem! They will all have nice, happy homes and grow up to be splendid--"

"Come on, d.i.c.k," called his wife from the little hall, where she was surrounded by a suddenly repressed group of children. She had been whispering something to them, and they were ashamed.

The door-bell gave forth its stuttering tinkle once more, and again the impa.s.sive Watson stalked to the entry. The next instant a white-furred figure bounded through the door, rushed across the room and precipitated itself forcibly into the arms of Mr. Bingle, who barely had time to prepare himself for the onslaught.

It was Kathleen. Behind her stalked the elegant Mr. and Mrs. Sydney Force.