Bright and early on Christmas morning, Mr. Sydney Force walked slowly, even irresolutely up the broad avenue leading to Mr. Bingle's stupendous door-step. The snow had been cleared off of the narrow footpath, but the president of the great city bank was so deeply engrossed that he failed to take advantage of this singular demonstration of worthiness on the part of Edgecomb and his assistants so soon after the break of dawn. As a matter of fact, he had forgotten that it was Christmas morning. He walked in the middle of the roadway, in four inches of snow, and kept his gaze fixed rather intently on the big house at the top of the avenue.
Mr. Force had not slept well. Indeed, he had not slept at all. The shock he had received early in the evening was of the kind that shatters one's peace of mind to a degree but little short of calamitous. A plunge into ice-cold water would have failed to produce the deadly chill that crept over him when he heard the name of Glenn. How he succeeded in controlling himself so well that his profound agitation escaped the attention of the others, he could not explain. He was amazed to find that he had managed it so well. For, it must be confessed, Mr. Force's habitual equanimity had undergone a strain that came so near to resulting in a collapse that only a miracle—(it may have taken the form of stupefaction, or a kindly paralysis)—only a miracle could have kept him from betraying the one great secret of his life.
Ordinarily, he would have put off calling on the Bingles for a month or six weeks, being that scornful of social amenities; but he could hardly wait for the approach of sunrise to be on his way to Seafood on this brilliant Christmas morning. It was not a brilliant, shimmering day for him, however. He saw nothing beautiful in the steel-blue sky: to him it was a drab, unlovely pall. He saw no beauty in the snow-clad foliage, no splendour in the bejewelled tree-tops, no purity in the veil of white that lay upon the face of the earth. He saw only himself, and he was a drear, bleak thing as viewed introspectively.
Nor is it to be taken for granted that Mr. Bingle slept well on this night before Christmas. Neither he nor his wife went to bed until far along in the wee sma' hours. The great house was as still as the grave, save for the occasional crack of shrinking woodwork and the rattle of dislodged icicles on the window-ledges outside. The wind had died away. It seemed that all nature, respecting their mood, had hushed its every noise in order that they might think, and think, and think on without hope or a single sign of promise in this time of despair.
They were to lose Kathleen. The man had been somewhat vague about it, but the situation was clear to them, even though it was not so to him. Their claim to the child—the one they loved best of all—was no longer undivided. A real father had turned up to assert his rights. They might dispute his claim and make the affair so awkward and so unpleasant for him that he would withdraw, but what would be their gain? The man existed. He was the real father. Kathleen was the flesh and blood of this tardy penitent, this betrayer of women, this coward. Never again, so long as she lived, could she be looked upon as theirs. Even though she remained with them, and in perfect contentment, there would still be the sinister shadow lying across the path—the shadow of a man hiding, of a man who dared not come out into the open but whose everlasting presence was a threat.
They did not know this man, they did not know whether he was a blackguard or a gentleman. He was a destroyer; that much they knew. He had wrecked a human life. The detective had declared to Mr. Bingle that his client was a man of means, married, and eminently respectable, but then a detective's idea of respectability is not always a safe one to go by. Every man is respectable until some one is hired to prove that he isn't.
When Mr. Force rang the front door-bell, Mr. and Mrs. Bingle were seated before the fire in the library. Kathleen sat upon the former's knee. The rest of the children had been sent off to the huge playroom on the top floor, and their distant shrieks, muffled by the thicknesses of many doors and walls, came faintly down to the fireside. With the subdued, even refined jingle of the door-bell, the two Bingles straightened up in their chairs and looked into each other's eyes, suddenly apprehensive. Who could be calling on them at such an early hour? Was it some one in connection with this unhappy business? Could it be possible that they had come to take Kathleen away so soon?
"Better run upstairs, now, Kathie," said Mr. Bingle, abruptly. "Skedaddle! Go up the back way, dear." He thought of the back-stairs just in time. It wouldn't do for her to encounter the strange, perhaps unfeeling emissaries in the main hall. No telling what they might do. They might even take forcible possession of her and be off before help could be summoned.
"I want to stay here with you, daddy," protested Kathleen, resolutely clinging to her perch on his knee—and was not to be dislodged. Before Mr. Bingle could utter another word, Diggs appeared in the door and announced Mr. Force. Instantly Kathleen's manner changed. She released her grip on Mr. Bingle's arm and slid to the floor. "Oh, I hate him! I don't want to see him."
"Kathie!" cried Mrs. Bingle, distressed. "You should not say such things. Mr. Force is very nice to you. He likes you—"
"He gives me a pain," said Kathleen succinctly.
"Good heavens!" gasped Mr. Bingle. "Where did you learn such language as that?"
"It isn't language, daddy," said Kathie. "It's just slang. Everybody uses it. Don't people give you a pain sometimes?"
"Never!" said he. "I don't believe in slang," he added, as if to fortify himself against a conviction. "You needn't go, deary. Stay and see Mr. Force."
"I don't want to see him. I want to see Fairy. Oh, daddy, what are you going to let her get married for? I know Freddie will commit suicide if she marries that old Flanders."
"Freddie? What business is it of his?"
"I mustn't tell," she said, suddenly realising that she had been on the point of betraying a grave secret. An instant later she was off like the wind, whisking out of one door as Mr. Force entered by the other.
"Dear me, dear me," sighed Mr. Bingle, staring at his wife helplessly; "what do you suppose has happened to Frederick? A boy of his age talking of suicide is—Oh, good morning, Mr. Force. Merry Christmas! 'Pon my word, you're an early bird. Come up to the fire. You look half frozen. Why, by George, your teeth are chattering. Diggs! Throw on a couple of logs, will you, and get the whiskey. We keep it for medicinal purposes and—"
"Not for me," broke in Mr. Force hastily. "Not a thing to drink, old man. I'm quite all right. It is a bit snappy outside. Good morning, Mrs. Bingle. How are you feeling since the—I beg your pardon, Bingle, I really don't want a drink. Silly of me to shiver like this. You'd think I had a chill, wouldn't you? But I'll be all right in a minute or two."
He stood with his back to the blazing logs. His teeth were chattering, but not because of the cold. Every nerve in his body was on edge; his physical being was merely responding to the turmoil that filled his brain. Could they have seen his hands, clasped behind his back, they might have wondered why the fingers were locked together in a grip so fierce that the cords stood out in ridges on his wrists.
"You don't know what you miss, not having children about you on Christmas morning," said Mr. Bingle, planting his small figure alongside that of the tall man and attempting to spread his coat tails, an utter impossibility in view of the fact that he had no tails to spread, being incased in a dressing gown that reached almost to his heels when he stood erect but unmistakably touched the floor if he permitted his dignity to sag in the least—and he was having some difficulty in maintaining his dignity on this doleful morning, it may be said. "It would have done your heart good, Force, if you could have been here this morning—say at half-past six—and seen the circus we had. Well, sir, it was—"
"Half-past six? My dear man, you don't mean to say those little rascals got you out of bed at that ungodly hour. Why, I would have—"
"Just the other way 'round," said Mr. Bingle, sheepishly. "We had to fairly yank 'em out of bed. We are the rascals, Force—Mary and I. We couldn't wait, don't you see? But, of course, you don't see. You couldn't see unless you'd been counting on Christmas morning for months. You—But, what's the matter, Force? 'Pon my word, you DO need a bracer. Mary, dear, won't you see if—"
"See here, Bingle," blurted out Mr. Force, in desperation, "I want a few words with you alone. It is—imperative. Hope you will excuse me, Mrs. Bingle. I'm a bit upset—yes, considerably upset—over something that has come up in the—er—that is to say, quite recently. I—I want your husband's advice on—on a matter of grave importance."
The Bingles stared at him for a moment in speechless concern. Then Mr. Bingle managed to give expression to the fear that entered his heart as Force concluded his amazing remarks.
"Anything—anything wrong at the bank?" he inquired, swallowing hard. Was the man about to tell him that the bank—the great bank—was going under, that there had been defalcations, that—but even as he pictured the collapse of the bank there shot into his brain another and still more ghastly thought: had the Supreme Court decided against him in the long-fought case of Hooper et al vs. Bingle?
"Certainly NOT," exclaimed Mr. Force, with sudden irascibility. His nerves WERE at a high tension, there was no denying that. "Nothing whatever to do with the bank, sir. What the dev—what could have put such a thought into your head, Bingle?"
"You looked so—so blasted serious," said Mr. Bingle, with surprising heat.
"Thomas!" cried his wife, aghast.
"Beg pardon, Force," muttered Mr. Bingle, very much ashamed of himself. "I didn't mean to be profane. I guess I'm a little nervous myself."
"Can't I look serious without putting the bank on its last legs?" demanded Mr. Force, glaring.
"Certainly," Mr. Bingle made haste to assure him. "Look as serious as you please, Force. I know it can't hurt the bank. Don't go, Mary. Mr. Force and I will slip up to my study. We are less likely to be interrupted there."
"I trust Mrs. Force is well," said the lady of Seawood, and there was a note of anxiety in her voice. There HAD been a queer taste to the lobster a la Newburg. She remembered mentioning it to Mr. Bingle after the company had gone.
Mr. Force was guilty of an uneasy start. What was the woman driving at? What put it into her head to mention his wife? Why SHOULDN'T his wife be well?
"Quite well, thank you," he said at the end of a deep exhalation. Indeed he was quite without breath when he came to the "thank you." It would have been better if he hadn't tried to be so courteous. "Quite well," would have been sufficient. He realised, as he wheezily filled his lungs, that the "thank you" was entirely superfluous. In any event, it wasn't so important that he should have gone to the pains of upsetting his dignity in order to say it, no matter if it was the proper thing to say. He always hated anything that caused him to become red in the face.
"It's quite a relief," said Mrs. Bingle, brightening. It would have been dreadful if anything HAD been the matter with the lobster.
But Mr. Force knew nothing whatever about the suspected lobster and being in considerable doubt as to just how much of Miss Glenn's story the Bingles had learned, very naturally believed that the good lady was concerned about Mrs. Force's peace of mind rather than her state of health. He grew perfectly scarlet and mumbled something about his wife sleeping like a log, and then hastily followed Mr. Bingle out of the room.
"Troubles never come singly, do they, Force?" said Bingle as they mounted the stairs. He sighed deeply.
"So they say," said Force, also sighing. He was thinking of the interview that was to come. He was wondering just how he was going to explain things to Mr. Bingle.
"She isn't to be married till spring, but—Oh, well, I suppose I shouldn't complain." Mr. Force stopped stock-still on the stairs. "Mar-married?" he gasped. "Are you crazy?"
"Almost," said Mr. Bingle promptly. "If anything more happens, I'll be wholly so. Come in, Force. Now, old chap, what's on YOUR mind?" They had entered the study. Mr. Bingle faced his visitor after closing the door carefully behind him. "Out with it? Don't keep me in suspense. Has—has the case finally gone against me?"
"Who is going to be married in the spring?" demanded Force, wiping his brow.
"Miss Fairweather. I thought you knew."
"Oh, the devil! Of course not! What do I know about Miss Fairweather's affairs?"
"Flanders is the man. He's the lucky dog. An old affair, Force. Tremendously romantic story back of—"
"Needn't mind, Bingle. I don't care to hear it at present. I've got something a great deal more important to think about—dammit." He sat down heavily, and began fumbling for his cigar case. His forehead was dripping wet.
"It must be serious," said Mr. Bingle slowly, "or you wouldn't be swearing as you do, Force. I've never heard you swear before."
"It is serious. Of all the improbable, dime novel, hellish—But tell me, Bingle: how much do you know?"
"How much do I know about what?"
"Didn't that fellow blab anything to you last night?"
"Bla—blab?"
Force pointed to a chair. "Sit down. Are you sure no one can hear what I'm saying?"
"No one but yours truly," said Mr. Bingle, assuming a jauntiness he did not feel. He sat down, his back as stiff as a board.
His visitor leaned forward, his hands grasping the arms of the chair. "Well, I'll tell you something, Bingle, that will paralyse you. I—I didn't sleep a wink last night."
"That doesn't paralyse me. Neither did I—"
"This is no time to be funny, Bingle," said the other roughly. "Do you want to know what kept me awake all night, suffering the torments of the damned?"
"I do," responded Mr. Bingle, casting a quick glance at Mr. Force's jaw. He knew what it was to have a toothache.
"Well, it was that miserable business about—about Kathleen," said Force, a querulous note creeping into his voice. Mr. Bingle did not think it worth while to tell him that it was the same miserable business that kept him awake. "Now, I want the truth, Bingle. I want to be sure before I go ahead. It means a great deal to both of us. Was Kathleen's mother named Agnes Glenn?"
"It was," said Mr. Bingle, his eyes narrowing with the dawn of comprehension.
"Did you ever see her?"
"Once, just before she died."
"Describe her, Bingle."
"I can't. Good Lord, man, my eyes were blind with tears all the time I was—"
"Never mind," broke in Force. "We won't go into that, after all. Did she tell you anything about herself, her past life, her—her trouble?"
"Not a word. She was just about to enter the future life, Force. She hadn't much to say. Simply said that she hoped I'd be good to her little baby, that's all. Go on, man."
Mr. Force appeared to be lost in bleak abstraction. The curt command brought him out of it with a start.
"She went by the name of Mrs. Hinman, you say. No other name was mentioned, then or afterwards?"
"No."
"I can tell you something about her, Bingle. She lived for three years as the wife of a man who called himself Hinman. She wasn't his wife and that wasn't his name. She'd been on the stage. She went to live with this man as his wife. She was a good girl up to the time she met this man and fell in love with him. Her home was in the West. Her parents were respected, God-fearing people. They never knew that she—that she took up the life she led with—Hinman. Don't interrupt me, Bingle. If I don't get it out now, I'll never have the courage to try it again. No man was ever in such a desperate plight as I find myself in to-day. I'll come straight to the point. I am the man called Hinman and—this child you've got here with you is—mine."
He might have had the grace to exhibit some sign of shame or compunction, but he did nothing of the kind. He merely looked defiant, as if expecting Mr. Bingle to say something that he could resent.
But Mr. Bingle sank deeper into his chair, his chin buried, his eyes fastened in a sort of horror upon the face of the President of the great bank. He was incapable of uttering a word.
After a little while Force went on: "Blood will tell. All this accounts for the peculiar, inexplicable attraction that Kathleen has held for me. It is like a chapter out of an impossible novel. It—"
"And perhaps it accounts for the antipathy the poor child has for you," said Mr. Bingle, his voice a trifle shrill and uncertain. He did not take his gaze from the face of his visitor. "It now seems quite natural to me."
"Nonsense! The child had no means of knowing or even suspecting that I—"
"She had a birthright, Force. You can't take that away from her. The hatred for her father was born in her. God wouldn't let her hate the wrong man, you know."
Force got up from the chair, tremendously moved all of a sudden. A piteous, pleading look came into his eyes, and his face, once arrogant, was now haggard with despair.
"Bingle, I—I want you to help me. For God's sake, do what you can for me. Put into practice your beautiful Christmas Carol teachings. I—I want her. She must be made to understand that I love her, she must be made to feel that she is everything in the world to me. She looks like her mother. I thought it was fancy on my part, but now I know. Good God, little did I know where fate was going to lead me when I employed those fellows to find the child of Agnes Glenn. Little did I know that it would lead me to your door, Bingle."
Mr. Bingle arose. He was very pale and shaken, but he managed to control himself with remarkable fortitude.
"I have not told you that Agnes Glenn died of starvation—and carbolic acid," he said slowly. "Have your detectives told you that?"
"Carbolic acid?" whispered Force, with staring eyes. "Starvation? Good God, man—not that!"
"Yes—THAT! The Society found her when she was about gone. I was notified. We were looking for a child. This baby of hers was then about two years old. Mrs. Bingle and I went to the poor little flat where they had found her, after the neighbours had told the police of her plight. She was sick unto death. I said that we would care for her baby as if it were our own. Then I made arrangements to have her removed to a hospital at once. While we were out of the room, she took the carbolic acid. That's the way it happened, Force. That was the end of Agnes Glenn. She was a splendid character, Force. She did not betray you. She stuck by you to the very end. She protected you a great deal better than you protected her."
"See here, Bingle, I don't like your tone. It sounds preachy. You don't know anything about life, so you can't understand. That sort of thing is—well, it happens to a good many men and no one thinks much about it. I daresay that half the men you know have had just such an experience. It's part of the game here in New York. The girls understand it. They have no illusions. They know that these men cannot—or will not marry them. So, as you don't know anything about life as it's practised now-a-days, I'd advise you to go slow with your platitudes."
"All right, Force," said Mr. Bingle quietly. "If that's the way you feel about it, there's no use wasting time over nothing. I can't resist saying, however, that I didn't think it was in you to be so damned cold-blooded."
"Cold-blooded over what? The Glenn girl? Why, my dear man, that was nearly thirteen years ago. I am sorry that she had to go the way she did, but, good Lord, I can't go through life in sackcloth and ashes because she died—as a lot of people do, every year, you know. Hers was not an uncommon case. There are thousands just like it happening every year. It's the price we all pay, men and women. There's no use being sentimental about a perfectly commonplace—I might even say legitimate—transaction. Agnes Glenn was like the rest of her kind: she had a very sharp pair of eyes open all of the time, you may be quite sure of that. I will say this for her, poor little devil: she was no blackmailer. She got down and out when the time came and she never squealed. That's more than most of 'em do, Bingle. 'Pon my soul, old man, I came here to see you this morning fairly trembling in my boots. I had an idea it was going to be a hard, nasty business talking it over with you, but—by George, it isn't. Now, we can get down to rock-bottom, Bingle. My plan was to—"
"Just a minute, please," interrupted Mr. Bingle, quite steadily. "Did you know that she was going to become a mother?"
"Certainly. You don't suppose I'd be looking for the child if I hadn't known she was to be born, do you? I'd be a nice fool, hiring detectives to unearth some other man's child, wouldn't I?"
"I must agree with you in one particular, Force; you are not finding it as hard as you thought it would be. I've never seen a man change more than you have in the past four minutes. You were shaking like a leaf when you came up here, and now—well, 'pon my soul, you are as brave as a lion. That certainly proves one thing."
"What's that?"
"That your conscience is clearing."
"Now, don't get it into your head, Bingle, that I'm not dreadfully sorry for the way that poor girl came to her end. She was really a brick. She deserved something better."
"Knowing that she was going to bear your child, Force, you have every reason, I am sure, to say that she was a brick. I, too, say that she deserved something better than being the mother of your child. What happened? Did she leave you of her own accord?"
"In a way, yes," said Mr. Force coolly. "In the customary way, of course. You see, I was about to be married, Bingle. When I explained the situation to her, she understood. She knew that I couldn't go on leading the sort of life I'd led before—"
"You hesitate, Force. Why couldn't you go on leading the life you'd led before? I should say it was quite as decent at one time as another."
"By Jove, Single, I hadn't the remotest idea you were so simple. I thought you at least knew SOMETHING about life. You amaze me. You are positively refreshing. Let me ask you, Bingle, would you have gone on leading the old life as—now, man to man, Bingle—would you?"
"Yes," said Mr. Bingle simply. A queer unexpected little smile flitted across his face—a wry smile, perhaps, but still a sign of humour. "You see, Force, I love children."
Mr. Force stared at him without comprehension. What the DEUCE had that to do with it?
"Oh, well, you can't understand, of course. To make it short, she was extremely reasonable. As a matter of fact, when I went up to see her the day after I had told her that I was to be married, hang me if she hadn't cleared out. No scene, no tears, no maledictions—just good, hard sense, Bingle, that's what it was. Not many of them would have been so decent about it. They usually make a bluff or something of the sort—money, you know, regular blackmail. But she didn't. She got out as quietly as a mouse, left no trace behind, no regrets, no complaints. Just a note saying she understood and wishing me luck. Rather fine, eh?"
"And you married right after that?"
"Six weeks afterward."
"And, of course, the present Mrs. Hinman knows that she's got a step-daughter?"
"The present Mrs. Hinman? Step-daughter? Good Lord, Bingle, I didn't know you had that much sarcasm in you. But that delicate remark of yours brings me back to the main issue—the matter I really came over to see you about. Naturally Mrs. Force knows nothing of—of this story I've been telling you. Now, what I want to get at is just this: how can we manage it about Kathleen without causing my wife to suspect? Put your mind to it, Bingle. How am I going to take the child under my wing, so to speak—take her into my home, without—" "Wait! We'll look at it from another point of view. Suppose this detective of yours had found your child in the slums of New York, a street waif, a beggar—what then? Was it your intention to take her into your home in that case? Wasn't it your idea to provide a home for her in some respectable family, educate her, give her a secret allowance—and let it go at that? Can you honestly say to me, Force, that you intended to adopt her—as you are now thinking of doing?"
"Confound you, Bingle, isn't it only reasonable that I should have wanted to see the child before I made any definite plans for her future?"
"And now that you've seen her, and found her to be an adorable, lovely, even high-bred little creature, you think it's all right to take her into your own home—into her father's home?"
"Don't be hard on me, Bingle. Can't you understand that I've got a father's feelings after all? Can't you credit me with—"
"I'll go back a dozen years, Force, and ask you this question: did you make any effort to find this child and provide for her when she was a tiny baby? Did you do anything toward helping the mother in her time of trouble?"
"I tried to help her, Bingle, before God I did," cried Force earnestly. "I'm not such a rotter as all that. Agnes wrote me a brief note when the baby was born. I happened to be off on my wedding-journey at the time. She said she merely wanted me to know that she had a little girl baby, and she went on to say that she'd starve before she'd take a penny from me for its support. That's the truth, Bingle, I swear it. When I got back from California, I tried to find Agnes. I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to make the rest of her life easy and comfortable. But I couldn't find her."
"Did you hunt very long?"
"Long enough. A year or so later I heard that she was dead and that the child had been taken into a good home. There was nothing more for me to do. I dropped the matter. Then, recently, I began to think about the child. I began to want her. I engaged detectives to—"
"We know all about that," interrupted Mr. Bingle crisply. "And now I think we understand each other clearly, Force. You want Kathleen. So do I. There's only one way for you to get her, and that is to have Mrs. Force intercede for you. If your wife comes to me and says that SHE wants Kathleen, I'll give her up, even though it breaks my heart. What have you to say, Force?"
Force had lost all his lofty confidence. He was shaking again, as with the ague. This was not at all what he had bargained for. Who would have dreamed it of Bingle?
"Come now, Bingle, let us get together—"
Mr. Bingle interrupted him in no uncertain manner. He planted himself squarely in front of the big man—in fact, almost under his nose—and snarled:
"There's only one way for you to get Kathleen away from me, Force, and, darn you, I don't believe you'll undertake it. I shall give her up to you only on condition that you acknowledge her to be your daughter."
Force's jaw dropped. "Are you crazy, Bingle?" he gasped. He lifted his head the next instant in order to avoid the agitated finger that was being shaken under his nose.
"I don't intend that you shall say to the world that she is a child of shame. Not at all, sir! That would be the height of cruelty. But you've got to tell your wife the story you've told me if you want to take Kathleen away from me. She has got to know that the child is yours. You can't come any adoption dodge over me, Force. She's already adopted. She—"
"But, great heaven, man, my wife wouldn't have her in the house if—if she knew the truth about her," exploded the wretched Force. "No woman would stand for that."
"Then, by the eternal Moses," shouted Mr. Bingle, "she'll stay right here with Daddy and Mammy Bingle."
"But she's mine! If, as you say, she is the daughter of Agnes Glenn there isn't the slightest doubt that she belongs to me. I want to do the right thing by the child. I want to—"
"No use talking, Force. There's but one way."
"But, damn it all, I CAN'T go to my wife with all this! I can't—"
"Then Kathleen stays where she is," said Mr. Bingle firmly.
"Great Scott, man, what difference can it make to you? You can adopt another child to-morrow and fill her place. It isn't as if she were your own child. You don't know what it is to have a child of your own—your own flesh and blood. You CAN'T have a father's feeling for—"
"That will do, Force! You've said enough. The matter stands as it is. I'll tell you something else though before we part: I don't want you coming to this house annoying Agnes Glenn's child. I shall tell my wife all that you have told me and I'd advise you to tell yours, because I don't want you to put your foot inside my door until you can come here with Mrs. Force and humbly—you notice I say humbly?—implore us to give up that which belongs to us by virtue of that old law of salvage. I have already wished you a Merry Christmas, Mr. Force. Now permit me to bid you good morning."
He strode to the study door and opened it. His chin was high and his eyes were uncommonly bright. The hem of the dressing gown was farther from the floor than it had ever been during his ownership.
"I'll think it over, Bingle," muttered Mr. Force, very red in the face as he stalked past the little man and started down the stairs. "Good morning!"
"Good morning!"
Flanders was a constant visitor at Seawood. In the fortnight immediately following the all-important Christmas Eve, he appeared at the Bingle home on no less than ten separate occasions.
"I see that Mr. and Mrs. Force are sailing for Europe to-morrow," said he on his most recent visit.
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle. "It's news to me."
There was every reason in the world why it should be news to him. He had neither seen nor heard from Force since that Christmas morning ultimatum. Purposely Mr. Bingle had stayed away from the bank, where, as its first vice-president, he was wont to spend much of his time looking after the comfort and advancement of the bookkeepers and clerks. He never overlooked an opportunity to help his old comrades in the "galleys." The board of directors were compelled to fight him constantly in order to keep him from putting through his plan to raise all wages, and there came near to being a catastrophe when they voted down his ridiculous scheme for providing fresh air for the lungs of the workers in the "pen." He made certain comparisons in which Russia was frequently mentioned and three or four of the directors afterwards referred to him as an "undignified little ass."
But now he hesitated about going to the bank. Somehow, he could not quite bring himself to the point of encountering the president of the bank in his capacity as head of the great and reputable concern. Never again would he be able to look upon Sydney Force as the right man for the place. He could only think of him as "a man called Hinman." Being a charitable soul, however, he stood ready to overlook much that was obnoxious in the character of the man if the time ever came when he openly revealed a contrite heart and a disposition to make amends in the proper way.
"To be gone for three months, I hear," said Flanders, looking at his watch. "I say, Mr. Bingle, doesn't it seem to you that the afternoon lessons are a little longer than usual? It's five o'clock. I have to be back in town before half-past six."
Mr. Bingle did not reply. A sudden cause for rejoicing had sprung up, occupying all of his attention. For three months, at least, he would be free to call Kathleen his own, and for three months he could go to the bank without being disturbed by the workings of his own conscience—for after all, a visible Mr. Force would be something of a tax upon his sense of honour.
Flanders waited for a moment and then began winding his watch.
"Ahem!" he coughed.
"News to me," repeated Mr. Bingle, rising above his reflections.
"By the way, sir, it may interest you to know that I'm getting along nicely with the play."
"Good! I'm glad to hear it. They tell me there is a great deal of money to be made out of a good play."
"There's a lot to be made out of a successful play. It doesn't follow that it has to be a good one, you know," said Flanders, didactically. "I am terribly keen on finishing it and getting a production as soon as possible. It means a—well, you know what it means to me, sir. These managers are a rum lot. Four-fifths of them don't know a good play from a bad one. I suppose I'll have a hard time placing it, because I don't believe it will be bad enough at the outset for them to accept it on sight. I understand it is a theory among managers that if a play is unspeakably bad they can hire some one else to rewrite it from beginning to end, and make a success of it. Adversely, if it should happen to be a good play, they don't know what it's all about and will have nothing to do with it."
"I'm sure your play will be a dandy," said Mr. Bingle warmly. "The plot is tip-top. Even a manager ought to be able to tell what it's all about."
"I can't tell you how much I appreciate your kindness in listening to all I've had to say about the piece. I'm afraid I've bored you terribly."
"Not at all, not at all. I've always been interested in the theatre. I'll confess to you that I've always wanted to know a real actor or actress. Now that our dear Miss Fairweather turns out to be—er—to have been on the stage for some time before she came to us, my interest in the profession is intensified. I really am quite thrilled over knowing a real, flesh and blood actress."
"We were a little afraid you wouldn't look at it so generously, Mr. Bingle."
"I know. Miss Fairweather has told us of her sleepless nights, worrying over the supposed deception. She might just as well have slept comfortably, Dick. She may have been a bad actress but she wasn't a bad woman, so no harm has come of it. Do you think she is qualified to play the leading part in your show? It strikes me that it is a very difficult part. I should think it would take some one like Modjeska or Julia Marlowe to play it properly. She is—" "My dear Mr. Bingle, Amy is just the woman for the part of Deborah. I am sure of it—positively. The trouble is that I'm afraid the managers will insist on putting in somebody with a name—like Ethel Barrymore or Nazimova or Maude Adams. That's going to be the rub, you see. Of course, I shall not give in to them. It is Amy Colgate or no one." He looked very rueful despite this firm and dauntless speech.
Mr. Bingle stared at the fire for a few minutes, his lips pursed in an expression that spoke of calculation.
"I have been thinking, Dick," he said at last; "thinking very seriously of taking a little flyer in the—er—theatrical business." Immediately upon uttering this astonishing remark he became very red in the face and shifted his gaze to the remote upper left-hand corner of the room.
Figuratively speaking, Mr. Flanders fell upon his neck. Inside of thirty minutes, Mr. Thomas Singleton Bingle was in a position to regard himself as a producing manager and Miss Amy Colgate, one of America's most promising young leading women, was on her way to become a star, to say nothing of the ascendency of Richard Sheridan Flanders as a playwright. The difficulties were all swept away. A Broadway theatre was no longer a hope; it was a certainty. Mr. Bingle could buy all the "time" he wanted in any house along the Great White Way. It wouldn't be necessary to squabble over the relative drawing powers of Ethel Barrymore or Maude Adams, nor was it anybody's business who Amy Colgate was or where she came from—to use the words of the elated dramatist—and it didn't make a bit of difference whether the second week's "gross" was smaller than the first. Mr. Bingle was back of the play and that settled everything.
"I have great faith in the play," admitted Mr. Flanders, with becoming modesty.
"So have I," agreed Mr. Bingle enthusiastically. He had been dazed, yet vastly impressed by the unintelligible phraseology of the stage as it ran from the glib lips of the eager young man. He was flattered by Dick's assumption that he was perfectly familiar with the theatre from box office to "gridiron."
"And what's more," added the playwright, "I have faith in Amy."
By this time Mr. Bingle had unbounded faith in the young actress, and said so with considerable fervour. Whereupon, the jubilant author suggested that they send for Miss Fairweather at once and acquaint her with the glorious news. But Mr. Bingle shook his head.
"No, we can't do that," he said, looking at his watch. "Lessons are not over yet. Ten minutes left, I see. She's still a governess, Dick. One job at a time. The stage can wait."
Mr. Flanders sighed but smiled. Then, for no especial reason, he slapped Mr. Bingle heartily on the back and laughed aloud. He had no words to express his accumulative joy, so he laughed—and there were tears in his eyes.
"We'll have the best production that money can buy," said Mr. Bingle, swelling ever so slightly, after the manner of practised managers. "An all-star cast, and scenery by Sargent."
Later on, in the privacy of Miss Fairweather's schoolroom, the author and the star discussed the great sensation, and you may be surprised to learn that there were two sides to the discussion. Miss Fairweather was a sensible young woman, although amazingly beautiful, and she took a most extraordinary view of the situation.
"It isn't right, it isn't fair, it isn't playing the game, Dick," she protested, resolutely releasing herself from his embrace after listening for a long time, with throbbing heart, to his song of triumph. "Poor, dear Mr. Bingle! He is doing it out of the goodness of his heart. I am not a 'star' and I am not 'big' enough to be featured on Broadway. It would be a sin to let him put his money into a certain failure. I will not listen to you, Dick. Much as I love you, I still have a conscience and it will not allow me to sacrifice that simple soul. Why, don't you know what would happen? The critics would go into convulsions over the attempt to foist a silly little—"
"But, hang it all, Amy, you've got it in you to surprise New York," he cried earnestly. "I KNOW you can do it. Good Lord, I wouldn't take a nickel of Mr. Bingle's money if I didn't believe you could make good. Why, I've got a conscience too, much as the confession may surprise you."
"You are carried away by excitement, dear," she said softly, patting his cheek. "Just stop and think for a minute. Who am I? What have I ever done? Where have I—"
"But can't you see that the PLAY will be the making of you? The part is a wonder. You can't help creating a sensation with such a role to carry you along. Now, I'm not conceited—not a bit of it—but I do know this much: this play and this part are going to turn Broadway upside down."
"I could agree with you, dear, if you had some one like—oh, well, if you won't allow me to talk, I—please let me say it, Dick." His kisses had played havoc with her ideas. "Now, DO listen to me! It's all very well to SAY that I am qualified to turn Broadway—"
"Of course, we don't have to 'star' you at the outset," he interrupted, suddenly resorting to reason. "We needn't feature any one at the start. If you make good—and I know you will—why, the papers will see to it that your name goes up in electric lights over the little old front door. I daresay you're right in going slow, dear. I am so excited that I don't know whether I'm on my feet or my head. Now, let's talk it over calmly, sensibly, sanely. The upshot of the whole matter is this: my play is to be produced and you are to play the part of Deborah. We don't have to ask any beastly theatrical manager to read the play and we don't have to go down on our knees to get a job for you. Mr. Bingle is going into this thing with his eyes, open. He tells me he has faith in the play and in you, and as he happens to have a great many millions of dollars we ought to have faith in him. He will put the piece on in bang-up style. He realizes that there is a chance for failure, but so does every man who puts his money into a theatrical production. It is part of the game. It is up to you and me, Amy, to see that Mr. Bingle comes out of this thing a winner. He—"
"Wait, dear," she interrupted, her fair brow-clouding. "What of Mrs. Bingle? What will she say to this exploit of his?"
"Isn't he the master in his own house?" demanded Dick loftily. Still, a spark of dismay leaped into his eyes.
"He is a good man, Dick. He never permits himself to forget that she is its mistress. She will have something to say on the subject, you may be sure of that. I am not quite certain that she approves of the stage, and I've heard her say that actresses must be dreadful creatures if one believes all one hears about them smoking cigarettes and stealing young boys out of college. That was before she knew of my late lamented past. She has been perfectly lovely to me since, however, and I believe she is pleasantly excited by my 'gossip of the footlights,' as she calls it. She asked me the other day if it is true that chorus girls are more sinned against than sinning."'
"She did?" he cried, grinning. "And what did you say to that?"
"I said it was quite true," she said flatly.
"Well, it won't hurt her to think that they'd all be angels if they had their way about it. Now, let's get back to facts, dear. I've told Mr. Bingle that the play can be finished in a month or six weeks. He is for putting it on at once, but I don't believe it's good business to risk trying it out at the tail end of a very bad season. Things are bound to be better in the fall. My idea is to begin rehearsals late in the summer, play a couple of weeks in the tank towns to whip the thing into shape, and then go into New York some time in September. I'll begin getting a cast together this spring—none but the best, you understand—and that will give us a fair chance to go into Broadway with a corking production. Who do you consider to be the best leading man in the business to-day?"
Now, Mr. Bingle WAS having quite a time of it with the mistress of the house. In his new-found enthusiasm, he went to her at once with the word that he had decided to make a subrosa invasion of the mimic world to help out poor Flanders and to lay his hand against the prejudice and ignorance that seemed to be throttling the theatre.
She listened to him in speechless amazement, not quite sure of her ears.
"Of course, I sha'n't permit my name to be mentioned in the matter," he explained hastily. "That would be foolish, my dear. I shall have it clearly understood that Dick is backing the thing himself—on borrowed money, if needs be. Now, you see, Miss Colgate is a very clever young leading woman and—"
"Leading woman?" queried Mrs. Bingle, blinking. She had laid down her embroidery.
"Stage expression," said he loftily. "It means one who plays—er—plays leads. Ahem! That is to say, one who takes a principal part in the show. Miss Colgate is regarded as—"
It was then that Mrs. Bingle found her voice. After ten minutes, he succeeded in changing the subject. In all his acquaintance with his wife, he had never known her to be so scathing in the matter of words. She succeeded in causing him to feel extremely small and sheepish, for after all there was a world of justice and common sense in what she had to say concerning his inspired offer to engage in an enterprise that was as far from his understanding as the North Pole is from the South.
"But," he managed to insert, weakly, "it's only to help Dick out, to encourage genius, to—"
"Genius your Granny!" she exclaimed. "Don't you suppose that these regular theatre managers know genius when they see it?"
"Some of the best plays ever written have never seen the light of day," said he.
"Then how does any one know that they were good plays, if they never were played? Tell me that, Thomas Bingle."
"My dear, I am only repeating what history tells—"
"Well, answer this question then: what do you know about a play? Where do you get your wonderful knowledge of dramatic composition?"
"I think you will acknowledge that I know my Shakespeare pretty well," he said stiffly.
"But Richard Flanders isn't Shakespeare, Thomas. He's a reporter on a daily paper. Now, for goodness' sake, be sensible. Don't make a fool of yourself, dear. I know what's best for you. I—"
"I'm merely proposing to FINANCE the thing, Mary," he argued. "I'm doing it because I like Dick and I want him to succeed. I do not set myself up as a real manager. I'm what Dick calls an 'angel.' He says—"
"Well of all the—Do you mean to say that big, strapping fellow called you an angel?"
"Theatrical expression," he said.
"I shouldn't have been surprised if you'd said that Miss Fairweather called you an angel, but when it comes to—Oh, dear, what an awful thing for one man to call another!"
"Now, see here, Mary, you don't under—"
But she interrupted him again and he sat back limply to wait for an opportunity to get in the statement that he wanted most of all to make to her—which, when the time came for him to speak, was this:
"Well, well, dear, we'll let the matter rest for a day or two. I only thought you'd be interested in the experiment—you and I together, you know—something new and thrilling. We could have a lot of fun planning and secretly watching the play grow from day to day, and discussing costumes and scenery, and meeting real actors and actresses, and seeing the inside workings of the stage, and the green room—and the dressing-rooms, and all that, you know. It's something we used to talk about and wonder about, don't you remember? Remember how we used to sit up in the balcony and wonder what was really happening behind the—"
"Indeed I do!" she cried, and her eyes sparkled. "I've always wanted to have a peep behind the scenes and—" She had the good sense to stop before she compromised herself beyond recovery—but she looked extremely guilty.
"We'll talk it over to-morrow," said he. "It might be a relief to us to have something like this to occupy our thoughts in case we—we actually have to give Kathleen up to—By the way, Dick tells me he is sailing for Europe to-morrow. I wonder what it means."
"Mr. Force? Is she going with him?"
"Yes. For three months."
She reflected. "I'll tell you what it means, Tom," she said, leaning forward to lay her hand upon his knee. "He has told her everything."
"I don't believe it!"
"You mark my words, Tom. He has told her. They are going abroad to thrash it all out, that's the long and short of it."
"I wonder," said Mr. Bingle, wide-eyed and sober. Long afterward he came out of his reverie, and said: "I forgot to tell you that Swanson spoke to me yesterday about his sister's latest. I was awfully sorry for the poor chap, my dear. He seemed most anxious to see the child comfortably settled. His sister is a scrub-woman in the Metropolitan Life Building. It appears that she has been supplying families with children for the past ten or twelve years. Her husband is a most unfeeling brute. He says that the babies interfere with her work, and so she has to either give them up altogether or let the charity institutions take care of 'em for her. She goes on faithfully having 'em every year, and he goes on objecting to them. Swanson says she has managed to keep two of the older ones, but the last five or six she has been obliged to dispose of. Now, this new one is a bright little thing, he says—quite the flower of the flock. The woman's husband, it seems, has been out of work for seven years, and curses dreadfully about the child. The poor woman spoke to Swanson last week, asking him to see if we wouldn't take this one to raise. Swanson is sure that if we took it now we could be practically certain that it would never acquire the Swedish dialect. Of course—"
"You did not give him any encouragement, did you, Tom?" she cried sharply.
"Well, not—er—exactly," he said, looking away.
"Well, don't!" she exclaimed. "You know I have my heart set on having a French baby next."
"So you have," he said brightly. "I'll not forget it, my dear. As a matter of fact, I spoke to Rouquin, our foreign exchange manager, about it not long ago. He is quite French, my dear. He says there will be no trouble about it. It will be no trick at all to get a French baby. He says he already knows of a half-dozen actual descendants of the nobility, aged from one year up to ten, any one of which we can call our own by simply saying the word."
"He shall be called Richelieu. Dick for short," mused Mrs. Bingle.
"I thought we contemplated a girl," said he.
"It is always possible for us to change our minds, isn't it, Tom?"
"Certainly, my dear. We'll have a boy if you like. In a pinch, we can always change the gender at the last minute. Let's not give it another thought. I'll take it up with Rouquin the first time I'm in town. As for Swanson's sister's child—well, never mind. We sha'n't have it. He says its name is Ole at present but I suppose it could be called Richelieu if taken in time. Still that's neither here nor there. I've been thinking lately, my dear, that we ought to call our next boy Joseph—after his grand-uncle, don't you see. We owe that much to poor old Uncle Joe. Will you bear it in mind?"
"We COULD call the next one Josephine," she said.
He grinned. "Uncle Joe would turn over in his grave," said he.
That evening Mr. Force telephoned to Seawood.
"That you, Bingle?" came in rather muffled tones over the wire.
"Yes, this is Mr. Bingle."
"This is Force. We are sailing to-morrow for—"
"I can't hear you. Stand a little closer to the 'phone, please."
"I say we are sailing to-morrow for Europe. I'm standing close to it, Bingle. There's some one in the next booth. I can't yell, you know. I—"
"Where are you?"
"At the Plaza. I just wanted to tell you that I've fixed everything up with the detective agency. Not a word of that little matter will ever become public. Their lips have been sealed."
Mr. Bingle's heart swelled. "Do you mean that the matter is—er—permanently closed? Are you going to let me keep her?"
"Certainly NOT! What kind of a father do you think I am? Now I'll tell you what I want you to do. I want you to be particularly careful about that child while I'm away. Don't let anything happen to her. Take the best of care of her, Bingle. I shall hold you personally responsible. And see here, there's another point on which I want to be especially firm. I don't want her to be thrown with the other children any more than can be helped. I—What's that?"
"Nothing. Go on."
"Some of those kids of yours are not precisely what I would call thoroughbred. See what I mean? No reflection, of course, Bingle. I wouldn't say this if they were your own, understand, but—well, they're not, so that's all there is to it. I shall have to ask you to engage a special companion for Kathleen, and I have arranged with a Madame Dufresne to—"
"See here, Force, I—"
"—to call on you this week. She is an excellent woman, refined and a lady of very good family in France. She is a friend of Rouquin's, in the bank. He knew the family in Paris. I took the liberty of telling him that you wanted to engage a French LADY to act as companion to your eldest child. I trust you will see to it that Kathleen is not allowed to romp about with the rest of those—er—the other children. This Madame Dufresne will—What's that?"
Mr. Bingle had recovered his breath. His voice was high and shrill with indignation.
"You will oblige me, Force, by permitting me to run my household as I see fit. If this Madame What's-her-name comes out here to see me, I shall pack her off to town again so quick her head will swim. We have brought Kathleen up as if she was our own child, sir, and I don't care to have any suggestions from you, sir. What's more, I must say—although it's against the rules of the telephone company—you are a damned fine man to be giving advice to me about the raising of your child. You—"
"Sh! For heaven's sake, Bingle, don't shout like that! Be careful, man!"
"Well, you leave Kathleen to me, that's all I've got to say. She shall play with the rest of the children as much as she likes, Force. So far as we are concerned, she's no better than the rest of them, understand that, sir. She isn't going to be contaminated a darned bit more than she was before you discovered that she was yours. And, as for that, she isn't yours until I see fit to give her up. Understand that, too. Now, if—wait a minute! I'm still talking. Now, if you think you can give me any pointers on how to bring up children I want to say to you that you are barking up the wrong tree. Don't you dare to send that woman here, and don't you dare to dictate to me how—"
"Wait a minute, wait a minute, Bingle," came Mr. Force's agitated voice through the transmitter. "For heaven's sake, don't fly off the handle like this. I—I thought I was acting for the best interests of every one. I was only trying to help you out in—"
"I don't need any help," said Mr. Bingle crisply. "Have you told your wife?"
"Yes, I have," said Force. "That's—that's why we are going abroad for a few months. She—"
"Mrs. Bingle was right, then. She usually is. What is her attitude?"
"Devilish bad, Bingle—devilish, that's all I can say. I can't talk to you over the telephone about it. I'll—I'll write you from Paris. I'm—I'm working with her, that's all I can do at present. I believe she'll come around all right in the end. I'm sure she will. I'll—I'll let you know."
"Says she won't have the brat in her house, is that it?" said Mr. Bingle, with a queer rasp in his voice.
"I can't talk to you over the telephone. Didn't you hear me say so a minute ago?"
"You can say yes or no, can't you?"
"She's pretty much upset over the business."
"Speak up! I can't hear you."
"I'll drop you a line in the morning. Now, Bingle, you will take good care of the child, won't you. She—"
"I shall take good care of all of them, Force."
"And now about this Madame Du—"
"She is out of the question, Force. Good night!"
"Just as you say, old man. I sha'n't insist if you are opposed to—"
"Good night!"
"But I will feel a great deal easier in my mind if she isn't allowed to come in contact with the rest—"
Mr. Bingle hung up the receiver.