Mr. Bingle Part 9

The new will was read in the offices of Bradlee, Sigsbee & Oppenheim on the day following Mr. Bingle's first ride in a taxi-cab. The heir was too bewildered to attend the meeting arranged for the same afternoon, and it had to be postponed. As a matter of fact, he sent word to the lawyers that his wife was too ill to come down that afternoon but would doubtless be better on the following day. When informed that his wife's presence was unnecessary and that his cousins were even then on their way down town and that there was no way to head them off, he blandly inquired if it wouldn't be possible to postpone the whole matter for a week or two, a.s.suring the gentlemen that he wouldn't, for all the world, disturb Mrs. Bingle, who appeared to be sleeping comfortably for the first time in twenty-four hours. In fact, he informed them that he thought it would be a mistake to break the news to her while her cold was so bad; as for himself, he didn't mind waiting a week or two--not in the least--if it was all the same to Mr. Sigsbee.

It was Melissa who broke the news to Mrs. Bingle, and it was at once apparent that it was not a mistake to do so. The good lady improved so rapidly that she sent for the expensive Dr. Fiddler, dismissing the cheap Dr. Smith, and by seven o'clock that evening declared that she had never felt better in all of her life.

"I suppose you'll fire me now, Mr. Bingle," Melissa had said dejectedly. "With all that money, you'll be wanting high-priced servants."

"Quite so," said Mr. Bingle magnificently. "Much higher-priced, Melissa."

"You'll never find any one that loves you more than I do," began Melissa, on the verge of tears.

"Allow me," interrupted Mr. Bingle, with a sweep of the hand. "The highest priced servant in our employ is to be Melissa Taylor, which is you, my girl. We shall probably keep two or three servants--if we can find anything for them to do--but none of 'em shall receive as much as you, Melissa. Put that in your pipe and smoke it."

"I--I wasn't asking for a raise, sir," murmured Melissa, in considerable distress.

"You get it without asking," said Mr. Bingle. It should be remembered that he was still very much dazed and bewildered.

"Maybe you'll be having a butler and a regular chef. They come pretty high, sir," advised Melissa, spilling a little of Mrs. Bingle's tea on the counterpane. "Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Bingle."

"Never mind, Melissa," said Mr. Bingle. "I guess we can afford to spill a little tea if we like. I've no doubt that a butler would spill a great deal. It doesn't matter what we have to pay him--if we have him--you shall have five dollars a month more than he gets. That's settled."

The least important person at the "reading of the will" was the little man who sat hunched up in a chair and gazed about him with perplexed eyes, occasionally touching his sore ears with tender fingers, and always regretting the act for the reason that it called the attention of his cousins to something that appeared to gratify them a great deal more than the actual business at hand. In fact, he never quite got over that miserable hour of inspection on their part. He never ceased to regret the condition of his ears on that stupendous occasion. What might have been a really impressive hour in his life was spoiled by the certainty that every one was paying more attention to his misfortune than to his fortune.

Of course, the conditions of the will were pretty well known to the three children of Joseph Hooper, hours before they were read to them.

They knew that their detestable father had practically disinherited them, but they were not prepared for the staggering baseness employed by the old man in giving his reasons for cutting them off. To their chagrin, mortification, even shame, they were compelled to listen to at least a dozen letters that they had written to their father during the period covered by his supposed degeneracy. The originals of these letters, stained, dirty, frazzled but incontrovertibly genuine, were attached to the instrument, and were referred to in certain specific recommendations incorporated in the body of the will itself.

Old Joseph had preserved the letters of his children. They were emphatic evidences of their att.i.tude toward him from first to last.

There was no such thing as going behind them. It might be possible to produce proof that the testator was unsound of mind, but it would never be possible to wipe out the written declarations of his mentally perfect son and daughters. In these delectable missives they completely disowned him as a father; they raked him fore and aft; they riddled him with a hundred shafts of scorn; they repeatedly said that they never wanted to see his face again; they put him out of their lives and urgently requested him to put them out of his; they expected nothing of him and they certainly did not want him to expect anything of them; and so on and so forth. And in spite of all these bitter rebukings, old Joseph had come back to New York ready and willing to let bygones be bygones if they would only meet him half way.

Geoffrey declared in so many words that his father had played a scurvy trick on all of them. He managed to give utterance to this violent opinion before his attorney could check his unnecessary eloquence.

After that, Geoffrey, subdued and desolate, kept extremely quiet and suffered considerably under the convicting gaze of his sisters and their husbands, all of whom were inclined to disown him there and then as a brother for his reckless implication that their father was as sane as any of them.

Thomas Singleton Bingle was to receive, in round figures, fifteen million dollars under the will of his uncle, after the funeral expenses and all just debts had been paid. It was really quite staggering. If Thomas Singleton Bingle had not been so completely wrapped up in his ears, it is certain that he would have acted as any other intelligent human being would have acted at a time like this. He would have gone stark, staring mad.

But wait! After all, he DID become a bit daffy. Observing the desolated, crushed att.i.tude of his three cousins, his honest heart smote him sorely. He piped up from the depths of his chair and announced that all he wanted out of the estate was the amount that he had actually expended in caring for Uncle Joe during the past few months. He would be satisfied with that and--But he got no farther. Mr.

Sigsbee hastened to remind him that he hadn't anything to say about it.

He didn't have a voice in the matter. And then Angela and Elizabeth scornfully observed that it was a pretty time to talk about that sort of thing, after he had so skilfully succeeded in influencing their poor, mentally unbalanced father to make a will like this one.

Right heroically, Mr. Bingle declared that he was willing to give all of his inheritance to any deserving charity, or charities, reserving, if no one objected, a sufficient amount to enable him to purchase a little farm on which he could spend the rest of his days and not have to go on forever as a bookkeeper in a bank.

"Bos.h.!.+" said Geoffrey Hooper, glaring at his rich cousin.

"Ridiculous!" cried Angela and Elizabeth, transfixing Mr. Bingle with glittering eyes.

"Very well," said Mr. Bingle, arising hastily. "Let it be bosh and ridiculous, just as you like. I would have been willing to take this small amount, just as I have said, and, what's more, I might have been willing to divide the estate into four equal parts--if Mr. Sigsbee would let me do it--but now I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'll do anything for either of you. You don't deserve a nickel, not one of you. You had your chance and you didn't take it. I fed and clothed and housed your father and I stood ready to spend my last dollar to make his last few days on earth comfortable and easy. I buried him. I went to his funeral. I took the chance of losing my job by doing so. I froze my ears--oh, look at 'em! I don't care. And now you--you three! You can go to the devil, with my compliments as well as Uncle Joe's. Come along, Mary! Let's get out of this. We've got fifteen million dollars coming to us, and we don't have to sit here and be insulted by people to whom we have offered charity. Good day, Mr. Sigsbee. If you want me for anything, you'll find me at the bank. Now, be sure you wrap your throat up carefully, Mary. Don't take any chances. You look as though you were overheated."

Mr. Sigsbee followed them into the corridor, where he shook hands with the indignant heir.

"Your troubles have just begun, Mr. Bingle," he said, with a genial smile.

"How's that?"

"We'll have a long, bitter fight on our hands, but--we'll win. There will be a contest, you see."

"All right," said Mr. Bingle, his eyes snapping. "I'm ready. I stood by Uncle Joe when he was alive, you can bet your last dollar I'm not going back on him now that he's dead."

That evening, sitting over the crackling grate fire, Mr. Bingle broke a long period of silence by remarking to his wife:

"I dare say we can afford to adopt one or two, Mary, with all this money we're going to have."

CHAPTER VI

THE HONOURABLE THOMAS SINGLETON BINGLE

Time flies.

It is another Christmas Eve, ten years later than the one described in the opening chapter of this narrative. The Honourable Thomas Singleton Bingle is preparing for his annual reading of "The Christmas Carol."

The sentiment which influences him on this occasion is the same that inspired the habit in his days of long ago, but the surroundings have changed. Now the vast drawing-room in the home of Mr. Bingle provides the setting for an elaborate observance of a custom that has become almost historic to those who have studied the life and habits of Mr.

Bingle. An imposing English butler, a.s.sisted by two able footmen and the head gardener of the estate, are employed in the final decoration of the huge room. For seven or eight years they have performed these Christmas Eve duties in the mansion on the Sound. Melissa, a trifle more buxom than in the days of the lower West Side apartment but quite as capable despite her secret knowledge that she receives a greater salary than the mighty Diggs, is superintending the hanging of a row of stockings along the mantel-ledge, stockings of variegated hues and distinguis.h.i.+ng sizes.

There are eleven children in the family now. They range from one year up to twelve. Kathleen and Frederick divide the distinction of seniority, both being twelve. There is some doubt as to the actual age of Henrietta and Guinevere, but for the sake of policy, Henrietta, who came first, is down in the family records as six, Guinevere as five, although Mrs. Bingle herself confesses that they came but six weeks apart, and at a time when a few weeks, either way, make little or no difference in the computation. This was the nearest that Mr. and Mrs.

Bingle ever came to being blessed with twins. For awhile they hoped that they could make twins out of these infants, but, as the children grew older, the impracticability of such a thought--or ambition--became clear to them, and they reluctantly abandoned the project. Henrietta revealed all the characteristics of being of Italian extraction, while Guinevere was unmistakably Irish.

If you were to take a motor-ride along the North Sh.o.r.e of Long Island Sound and feel your way back into private lanes that appear to lead nowhere in particular, they are so deviously circuitous, you would pa.s.s by the lodge gates of two magnificent estates. One of them belonged to Mr. Bingle, the other to Sydney Force--or, more strictly speaking, to Mrs. Sydney Force. It is worthy of mention that Mr. Force lived up to his theory of regeneration by selling to Mr. Bingle, at a tremendous profit, one hundred acres off of the least desirable end of his late father-in-law's estate, thereby proving to himself that the early bird is a much smarter creation than the one which is satisfied to possess a mere nest-egg. Of course, the selling of that "parcel" of land was provocative of most acrimonious disputes between Mr. and Mrs. Force.

Mrs. Force, while not averse to the sale of the land, was frightfully cut up by the fact that she was to have the impossible Bingles as neighbours, and Mr. Force, who was the prince of sn.o.bs, berated her soundly for petty sn.o.bbishness.

"Bingle is such a hopelessly common name," she said.

"It happens to be a proper name," remarked Mr. Force, resorting to a rather lame sort of wit.

"If it only had been Mrs. Bransone or Mrs. Mortimer," she sighed. "They are awfully smart, don't you know. One meets them everywhere."

"We couldn't have sold that piece of land to either one of 'em," said he. "They are much too smart for that."

Mr. Bingle erected a very costly and magnificent house, much against his will, and spent a great deal of time thereafter in wis.h.i.+ng that he was back in the five-room apartment where he could put his hand on anything he wanted without having to call for a servant to tell him where to find it. He was so stupendously rich and so completely awed by the importance of being acquainted with Mrs. Force that he became a most desirable neighbour, from that lady's point of view. She experienced a great deal of pleasure in a.s.sociation with a man who could be made to feel as small as he gave every sign of being when in her august presence. It was really a joy to her. With all his money, he could not induce his wife's gowns to hang as Mrs. Force's hung; he could not make her boots fit as neatly, nor her hats sit as naturally; he could not buy style or majesty for Mrs. Bingle. So he was the kind of neighbour to have. Any woman will tell you that.

Diggs was telling Watson, the footman, just where to put the mistletoe.

Watson's position was precarious. He was at the top of a step-ladder, struggling to reach the lowest crystal pendant on the enormous chandelier, and the ladder was wobbling.

"It's all tommy-rot," muttered Watson, apropos of nothing that had gone before.

"Wot's all tommy-rot?" demanded Mr. Diggs severely.

"Christmas Eve," said Watson. "I have no objection to Christmas morning, but 'ang me if I can see any sense in Christmas Eve. What's it good for, anyway?"