Miss Fairweather bowed gravely to Flanders as she passed. Diggs observed her closely. He was conscious of a sensation of disappointment. He had counted on a scene—an interesting scene. Circumstances justified something more thrilling than a mere nod of the head, his intelligence argued, and it was really too bad to have it turn out so tamely.
Mr. Flanders, looking a trifle dazed and bewildered, contrived to hide his emotions in a most commendable manner. A keener observer than Diggs, however, would have detected a strange pallor in the young woman's smooth cheek and an ominous shadow between her finely pencilled brows. Even Diggs might have observed these symptoms but for the fact that she kept her face rigidly averted. Mr. Flanders, from his position near the door—he seemed to have taken root there—was favoured with no more than a glimpse of the tip of a small ear and the faintest suggestion of a cheek's outline. His own face, entirely visible to Diggs, was scarlet—quite frankly so.
Four nurses appeared, carrying infants. Miss Fairweather assisted in the task of placing the sleepy-heads in their high-chairs and in the subsequent occupation of entertaining them by means of sundry grimaces and motions, keeping them awake—and quiet—against the arrival of Mr. Bingle, who, it appears, had gone to his room to substitute a pair of far from fashionable carpet slippers for the smart pumps he had been wearing. There was a great deal of excitement attending the placing of the children, but it passed unnoticed by Mr. Flanders. He was staring hungrily, pleadingly at the unfriendly back of the new governess.
Once she gave him a swift, perhaps unintentional look. It was too brief to be described as significant, but it served to revive his interest in the proceedings. He sprang forward and offered his aid to the nurses. If he was clumsy in his attempt to jiggle a chair into position, an explanation may be instantly provided. Miss Fairweather, after a brief stare of indecision, favoured him with an almost imperceptible smile. He happened to be in the act of pushing a high-chair under the wriggling person of Imogene. That smile caused the momentary paralysis of his whole being, with the result that the nurse came near to depositing Imogene on the floor. Every one—except Imogene—squealed. Mr. Flanders was reminded of his own existence. The arrested chair shot into position and Imogene came down rather soundly on the seat of it, and then every one giggled—except Imogene.
"Amy!" he whispered, as she turned away from the little group. He was at her side in an instant. She faced him, and there was no trace of the departed smile in her eyes.
"How dare you speak to me?" she said in low, intense tones. Her eyes were cold, unfriendly.
"I've been searching for you—" he began, eagerly, but her disdainful laugh cut him short.
"Go away, please. I don't want to see you. There is nothing more to be said between us. It's all over, Dick. Don't speak to me again. I—I don't want the Bingles to know that I—"
"I must see you, Amy," he persisted. "It isn't all over. Now that I've found you, I'll see that I don't lose track of you again. We can't talk here. Where can I see you alone—"
"Sh!" she cautioned, and he respected the appeal in her dark, distressed eyes. Mr. Bingle had entered the room, and was greeted by a shout of delight from the children. The governess moved swiftly away from the young man's side, mingling with the nurses by the fireplace.
Mr. Bingle, hurrying toward the semi-circle of youngsters was surprised by a genial slap on the back from the visibly excited Flanders.
"Wonderful!" exclaimed the young man, his face radiant. "Wonderful!"
"Aren't they?" cried Mr. Bingle, pleased.
"I don't mean the—Ahem! They certainly are, Mr. Bingle. I expect this to be the most beautiful Christmas Eve in all my life, sir. I shall never be able to thank you for—"
"Tush, tush! Now come along. I want to introduce you to the young ladies and gentlemen. Imogene, my dear, this is Mr. Flanders. Kathleen, shake hands with—oh, I beg pardon, I ought to have presented you to the Fairy Princess. Miss Fairweather, just a moment, please. I want you to meet my friend, Mr. Flanders, of the Banner. Well, well, are we all here? Let me see: one, two, three—no, hold up your hands as I call the roll. Strict attention, Mr. Flanders, and you'll know which is which—I say, Flanders, would you mind looking this way, please? Children first, on an occasion like this, sir. Grown-ups don't count. How is your headache, Miss Fairweather? Now, speak up, children. Answer to your names—and how to Mr. Flanders, while you're about it."
Planting himself in front of the row of eager children, grasping Flanders's arm with one hand, and employing the other in a sort of counting-off process, he called the roll.
Kathleen, exquisitely dressed and radiant with joy, a dainty miss who looked to be fourteen but was said to be twelve, curtsied to Flanders, who bowed low, his roving eye unwilling to relax its interest in the flushed face of the governess. Then came Frederick, a sturdy youngster; Marie Louise, a solemn-eyed ten-year-old; Wilberforce, Reginald, Henrietta, Guinevere, Harold, Rosemary, Rutherford, and last of all Imogene, who whimpered.
"There!" said Mr. Bingle proudly. "They did it very nicely, didn't they, nurse?" He addressed the four nurses, who beamed as one. "Diggs, you may summon the servants. I hear Mrs. Bingle and our guests in the hall—or is it the—er—ahem!"
"The servants 'ave congregated in the 'all, sir. It is them that is whispering," said Diggs, who had been scowling in the direction of the door. "I shall speak to them, sir. They should be made to understand—"
"Don't lecture them to-night, Diggs," broke in Mr. Bingle hastily. "Not on Christmas Eve. Let 'em whisper. Tell 'em to come right in. You see, Mr. Flanders, we have the servants in to hear the Christmas Carol. It's my rule. They enjoy it. They—Ah, my dear! Here we are! This is Mr. Flanders, Mary—my wife, sir. Come right in, Mrs. Forced. Permit me to introduce my old friend Flanders of the Banner. Mr. Force, shake hands with Mr. Flanders. Now—er—ahem! All right, Diggs—call 'em in."
The servants—a horde of them—stalked into the room, each one being formally, but perfunctorily announced by the butler, and each one flushing painfully in return for the attention. There was Delia, the cook, and Christine, her assistant; Swanson, the furnace man; Lockhart, the chauffeur, and Boyles, the washer; Cora, the laundress; Georgia, the scullery-maid; Edgecomb, the gardener, and his four helpers; Beulah and Emma, the upstairs-maids; Bliss, the lodge-keeper, and Jane, his daughter; Frank, the pony-cart driver, and Joe, the coachman; Matson, the stable-boy; Fannie, the seamstress; Rudolph, the carpenter; Miss McLeish, the stenographer and telephone operator; Throckinorton, the dairy-man; Scott, the stockman; John Butts, the handy-man; Melissa, Watson and Hughes. The four nurses escaped official announcement because they had been clever enough to anticipate the formality.
Awkward, ill-at-ease in Sunday garments, and almost sullen in their efforts to appear impressed, they formed an amazing group as they clumsily ranged themselves in a compact fringe outside the more favoured guests of the evening, who occupied what may be described as the "orchestra." They remained standing.
"Ever see the play called 'The Admirable Crichton'?" whispered Mr. Bingle to Flanders while the servants were crowding into their places.
"Yes," said Flanders. "I recognise the setting, but I miss the grown-up daughters. Diggs is shorn of his opportunities, sir."
"That play gave me an idea. It was written by a fellow named Barrie. He also wrote 'Peter Pan.' That is the greatest play ever written."
"If one believes in fairies, Mr. Bingle."
"Well, I do," said Mr. Bingle.
"So do I," said Flanders, his gaze wandering. Miss Fairweather was caught in the act of staring at him. She lowered her eyes.
Mr. Force arbitrarily had settled into the chair next to little Kathleen. His hard, impassive face wore a softer expression than was usually to be observed there, and his voice, ordinarily brusque and domineering, became ludicrously soft and wheedling.
"Come here, Kathleen. Sit on my knee. I've—I've got something pretty for you."
Kathleen instantly lost her joyous, happy expression. Her eyes fell and her manner betrayed unmistakable aversion to the august petitioner.
"Thank you, Mr. Force," she muttered, and was guiltily conscious of impoliteness. Frederick snickered. "I—I don't want to," she went on, spurred to defiance by her brother's action.
"Why not?" demanded Mr. Force coaxingly.
"Oh—because," said Kathleen, almost surlily.
"Don't you like me, Kathleen?"
"Yes, sir," said she, but without enthusiasm.
"Would you like to see what I've got for you? All for yourself alone, you know."
Kathleen couldn't resist. She betrayed the greediness that overcomes all feminine antipathy. "What is it?" she asked guardedly.
"Sit on my knee and I'll put it around your neck," said he, fumbling in his waistcoat pocket.
The child flushed painfully and her eyes fell again. "I don't want to," she repeated.
Force got up from his chair, muttered something under his breath, and moved away. He almost collided with Bingle.
"What's the matter with these kids of yours, Bingle?" he began irascibly. "Why don't you bring them up properly? Teach 'em politeness. Teach them how to behave toward—"
"My dear Force, has—has Kathleen been rude?" said Mr. Bingle in distress.
"You are not to reprimand her," said Force hastily. "I wouldn't have you do that for the world. She'd always have it in for me if she knew that I—but, what nonsense I'm talking. They are little ingrates anyhow—all of them. Good Lord, Bingle, I can't understand what you see in the brats."
"I know you can't," said Mr. Bingle mildly. "That's just the difference between us."
"There's only one in the whole lot that I'd have as a gift," said Force, with a sidelong glance at Kathleen, who was joyous once more. "That girl has got some class to her. Why is it, Bingle, that she dislikes me? All the rest of 'em are friendly enough—too friendly, if anything—but she won't even look at me."
"That's the woman of it," said Mr. Bingle.
"What's the woman of it?" demanded Force gruffly. "What do you mean by 'woman of it'? Don't be silly, Bingle. She's a mere child."
"She'll come around all right," said Mr. Bingle gaily. "Give her time, old fellow, give her time."
"Good heavens, what a racket they're making," growled Force. "Have you no control over them, Bingle? I'd send the whole lot of them to bed, hang me if I wouldn't."
"On Christmas Eve? Oh, no, you wouldn't, old—Where are you going?"
"I'm going into the library to smoke," said Force. "I can't stand the row."
"Now, don't do that," pleaded Mr. Bingle, grasping his arm. "Wait a minute. I'll speak to Kathie. She—"
"Do nothing of the sort," snapped Force. "She doesn't like me, and that's all there is to it. I've taken a fancy to the child, Bingle—I never liked a kid before in all my life. I've got a little present for her, but—oh, well, never mind. I'll put it in her stocking, if you'll tell me which is hers. But I say, why doesn't she like me, Bingle?" He was staring at the back of Kathleen's brown, curly head, and his eyes were filled with perplexity.
"Bashful—just bashful," explained Mr. Bingle.
"Do you really think so?" demanded the other eagerly.
"Sure," said Mr. Bingle, delighted. "All girls go through that stage of development. I don't mind saying to you, Force, she's my favourite. It's a dreadful thing to say, but I'd rather lose any one of them—or all of them—than to lose Kathie. I love her with all my heart."
Flanders was shaking hands with the small boys, Mrs. Bingle looking on with placid approval.
"What's your name, my little man?"
"Abraham."
"Ahem!" coughed Mrs. Bingle, with a violent start.
"Reginald, sir," gasped he whose memory was still faithful when under the pressure of excitement.
"I see," said Flanders, smiling down into Mrs. Bingle's embarrassed eyes. "Lapsus linguae, Mrs. Bingle."
"My French is very—" began Mrs. Bingle plaintively.
"Do you like Santa Claus, Reginald?" interrupted Flanders.
"I like him better'n I do Dickens," confessed Reginald with considerable positiveness. "Say, what's your name?"
"My name is Dick."
"Gee! Deadwood Dick, the road-agent? The feller Melissa is always telling us about? Hey, kids, here's—"
"Sh!" hissed Flanders, clapping his hand over Master Reginald's mouth. "Never mind that!"
"Did I understand Mr. Bingle to say, Mr. Flinders, that you report for the Banner?" It was Mrs. Force who spoke. She was inspecting the young man through a bejewelled lorgnette, held at an angle which was meant to establish beyond dispute the fact that she was looking down upon him from a superior height. She was a tall woman and she had been married to Mr. Force for twelve long years. Looking down on him had become such a habit that it was quite impossible for her to look up to any one of his sex.
"Yes, Mrs. Force, the Banner."
"Can you tell me who put that disgusting item in the paper about my little gathering last week?" She regarded him with severity.
"Gathering? Oh, I daresay it was one of the hospital reporters, Mrs. Force," said Flanders suavely. She spent the rest of the evening in cogitation.
Three words describe Mrs. Force. She detested children.
Joe, the coachman, and Watson were waiting for an opportunity to speak to Mr. Bingle. They appeared to be crowding each other.
"I beg pardon, Mr. Bingle," began Joe, hurriedly, as the master turned in response to Watson's cough.
"What is it, Joseph?"
Watson succeeded in speaking first. "If you please, sir, my grandmother is dying in the city. I've just been sent for, sir. I think it is possible for me to catch the eight-forty—"
"I beg pardon, sir," broke in Joe. "I've just heard that my sister is expecting a baby to-night, and I thought I'd speak to you about getting off—"
"Just a moment," said Mr. Bingle, blinking rapidly. "Wasn't your grandmother dying last Christmas Eve, Watson?"
"No, sir. It was Hughes's grandmother."
"Did she die?"
"She did, sir," said Watson, with a pleased smile. "Hughes can attend to my—"
"And your sister, Joe: didn't you get off last month for three days to attend her wedding? Your only sister, I think you said."
"Yes, sir. Poor girl," said the coachman, without shame or conscience.
Mr. Bingle looked hard at the two men. They coloured. "Very well. You may go, both of you, but don't let it happen again. I am sorry that you will not be here to receive your Christmas presents. I shall distribute the envelopes to-night. By the way, the grandmother season ends about the middle of October, Watson. Good night, and—a Merry Christmas to both of you."
"Beg pardon, sir," stammered Watson, sheepishly. "I'm ashamed of myself, sir. It shan't 'appen again, not so long as I'm in your service." The coachman shuffled his left foot uneasily and appeared to find something of great interest in the rug on which he was standing. At any rate, he scrutinised it very intently. Mr. Bingle smiled as he turned away.
Miss Fairweather suddenly leaned over and whispered into the ear of young Wilberforce. He paid no attention to her, so she shook him gently by the arm. A moment later, obeying an unspoken command, he sheepishly removed two large wads of cotton from his ears.
"Don't you want to hear about Old Scrooge and Tiny Tim?" she whispered.
"I wish I'd thought of doing that," lamented Mr. Force audibly. He had witnessed the little incident.
"I'd sooner hear about Melissa's pirates and sea-cooks," whispered Wilberforce shrilly.
"Order, please!" commanded Mr. Bingle, taking his place at the reading-table. "Please be seated, Mr. Force. Hi! Look out! Not on top of Rosemary."
"Good heavens! I might have squashed her—or him. What are you? A boy or a girl?"
"I'm a woming," piped up Rosemary from the depths of the biggest chair in the room.
Mr. Bingle cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. Then he benignly surveyed the audience. The row of servants bobbed their heads and shifted from one foot to the other.
"Friends all," began the master, "I give you greeting. On this glad evening no line is drawn between master and man, no—What is it, Delia?"
The cook had stepped forward. "Excuse me for interruptin', sor, but for sivin years I've stud through the Christmas Carol, from ind to ind, and I'm sivin years older than whin I began. I'm no longer young and hearty. I'm—"
"Well, why do you hesitate? Go on. Do you mean to say you don't want to hear it again?"
"God 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 hoarsely, 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 blustery. 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.
"Sh!" 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 assistance—"
"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, Dick!" she murmured, in great distress.
"Do you know anything? Who is this detective? Has he come to—"
"Sh! Why, you're actually shivering! Here, sit down in the window seat—behind the curtain, dearest. What have you to be afraid of? You've done no wrong."
She sank down on the window seat. The thick lace curtain shielded her agitated face from the view of all inquiring eyes save those of the tall, eager young man who sat down beside her.
"They don't know that I was on the stage, Dick. They wouldn't have me here if they knew that I've been an actress. I—Oh, I hope—"
"Brace up, darling! This detective isn't interested in you. What motive could he have in looking you up? Bingle is in the dark, so it's evident he hasn't hired any one to investigate your past. Forget it! That isn't what I want to talk to you about. I've been half-crazy, dear, for the past eight months. Why did you run away without giving me a chance to square myself after that miserable night? Don't get up! I've found you and I'm determined to have it out with you, Amy. You've just got to hear what I have to say." His hand was upon her arm, a firm restraining grasp that checked her attempt to escape. Undismayed by the look of scorn that leaped into her eyes, he leaned closer and spoke in quick agitated whispers.
Fully half an hour elapsed before Mr. Bingle returned to the room. His face was noticeably grey and pinched, and all of the ebullience of spirit had disappeared. His wife eyed him anxiously, apprehensively. Slowly, almost with an effort, he made his way to the reading-table, purposely avoiding the gaze of the inquiring assemblage. His hand shook perceptibly as he took up the book and cleared his throat—this time feebly and without the usual authority, it might have been observed.
"Anything wrong, Bingle?" inquired Force, regarding him curiously.
"Nothing, nothing at all," said Mr. Bingle, vainly affecting a smile that was meant to put every one at ease. "No crime has been committed, so don't be nervous, any of you. Just a little private matter of—of"—
His gaze went swiftly to the eager, uplifted face of little Kathleen, and he never completed the sentence. As he turned his face away, ostensibly to find his place in the book, his lower lip trembled, and a mist came over his eyes.
The dramatic enthusiasm with which he was wont to read the Dickens story was sadly lacking. He read lifelessly, uncertainly, and at times almost inaudibly. There was a queer huskiness in his voice that made it necessary for him to clear his throat frequently.
Under ordinary conditions, he would have observed the singular aloofness of Miss Fairweather and the reporter who was there by virtue of an assignment. They retained their somewhat sequestered position in the window seat, effectually screened by the curtains, and whispered softly to each other, utterly oblivious to the monotonous drone of the reader, quite in a little world of their own.
Flanders was pleading earnestly with the rigid-faced girl. Her cautious, infrequent responses were not of an encouraging nature, that was plain to be seen, but he too was obdurate. He held one of her slim hands in a grip that could not be broken, as she had discovered to her dismay. Mr. Bingle read on, ignorant of the little drama that went on under his very nose, so to speak, and those of his auditors who were not nodding their heads in frank drowsiness, were so completely wrapped up in extraneous thoughts concerning the visit of the detective that they had eyes for no one except the person who could explain the mystery.
Mr. Bingle's voice began to quaver much earlier in the story than usual. He was always moved to tears, but as a rule he was able to suppress them until along toward the end of the story. But now he was in distress from the beginning. He choked up completely, in a most uncalled-for manner and at singularly unexpected places. He managed to struggle through the first twenty or thirty pages, and then, seeing for himself that he was nearing the first of the weepy places and realising that he was sure to burst into tears if he continued, he deliberately closed the book, keeping his forefinger between the leaves, and announced in a strained voice that he would skip over to the final chapter if the audience did not object. He gave no excuse. It is doubtful, however, if he was gratified by the profound sigh of relief that went up from the group of listeners.
At last, he came to the end of the story. He had no voice at all for the concluding paragraphs: a hoarse, grotesque whisper, that was all. When the servants had departed and the children were scampering off to bed, thrilled by promises of the morrow, Mr. Single's arm stole about his wife's shoulders and she was drawn suddenly, even violently close to his side. He avoided her puzzled, worried gaze and resolutely addressed himself to Mr. and Mrs. Force and Mr. Flanders. Miss Fairweather had disappeared.
"That man was a detective," said he, without preamble. "His agency was employed nearly a year ago to discover the whereabouts of a certain child, whose father, repenting a wrong perpetrated years ago, desires to do the right thing by his luckless offspring. After all these months, this detective has located the little girl. She is in this house. She is my favourite—and yours, Mary, God help us."
"Kathleen?" whispered Mrs. Bingle dully.
"Kathleen?" repeated Sydney Force, staring blankly at the little man.
"Yes," said Mr. Bingle, and sat down suddenly in a big arm chair, burying his face in his hands.
No one spoke for many minutes. Flanders had the grace to turn away from the group. He was an unusual type of newspaper reporter. Here was something that would make a splendid "story," and yet he was fine enough to turn his back upon the opportunity that lay open to him.
Mr. Force's hands were gripping the back of a chair so rigidly that the knuckles were white and gleaming.
"For a year, did you say, Bingle?" he questioned, steadying his voice with an effort.
"Almost a year," gulped the little man, looking up through streaming eyes. "Her mother died when Kathie was about a year old. The father never saw his child. He had deceived the woman. He cast her off and—married another, I take it, although I am a bit hazy. I was so upset that I—I scarcely remember what the man said. Now the—the father wants to find his child. He—he wants to give her a home—Oh, Lordy, Lordy! I can't bear the thought of it. Sh! Don't cry, Mary. Maybe he'll let us keep her. He is married. Perhaps he can't afford to acknowledge her as his child under the circumstances. I—I put it up to the detective. He actually grinned in my face and said he was quite positive his client would be as sensible as most men have to be in similar straits."
"Are you sure that Kathleen is the one he is looking for, Mr. Bingle?" inquired Mrs. Force. "They sometimes follow false clues, or something of the sort. I once heard of a detective who—"
"No such luck," groaned Mr. Bingle. "He has Kathie's history from the day she was born. There—there isn't any chance for a mistake. She is the one. Our eldest, our loveliest—Oh, Mary!"
Force shot an unmistakable look of alarm at the newspaper man who stood in the doorway, staring out into the hall.
"Do you know the mother's name, Bingle?" he inquired. His voice sounded so strange and unnatural that his wife glanced at him sharply.
"Yes. I know her real name. On the records at the hospital she was known as Mrs. Hinman. But, you see, she wasn't married. Her name was Glenn."
Sydney Force's face was bloodless.
The affairs of Amy Fairweather and Richard Flanders require explanation. When two good-looking young people meet as these two met, and betray such surprising emotion, it goes without saying that at least one episode in their joint history deserves the undivided attention of the onlooker, who, in this case, happens to be you, kind reader. It must be perfectly clear to you that Miss Fairweather and Mr. Flanders were, at one time in their lives, more than moderately interested in each other. That part of their story does not require elucidation. Indeed, only an intelligence of the most extraordinary denseness would demand the bald, matter-of-fact declaration that they had been in love with each other. What we are concerned about, therefore, is an episode of the early spring in the present year of our story.
It is quite simple, after all. We have only to go back a year to get to the bottom of the matter. Miss Fairweather and Mr. Flanders were fellow lodgers in a boarding-house not far removed from Times Square. She was playing a small part in one of the Broadway theatres and was known on the programme as Amy Colgate, the customary sop to "family feelings" causing her to abandon her own name during the neophytic period of her career. This was a temporary concession, however; she intended to make the family name famous as soon as she got a "part" that would give her a real chance. Flanders was on the newspaper, but his aspirations were quite as lofty as any one's: he was writing a play. He had already written two novels, both of which remained unpublished.
At the outset, his play was intended for Miss Barrymore, but after the second week of his acquaintance with the attractive Miss Colgate his ambitions proved fickle: he discarded Miss Barrymore and substituted Miss Colgate for the star part in the piece. Fortunately he had written but six or eight pages of the first act, so the transfer was not a deleterious undertaking. He could see no one else in the part; he could think of no one else as he dreamed of the play's success. Moreover, Miss Colgate was as pleased as Punch over this flattering tribute to her magnetism—for the part, as described, was one that would not "get over" unless created by an actress of pronounced magnetic appeal—and lost no time in falling deeply in love with the manly playwright. They were serious-minded, ambitious young people. It is of small consequence that he was an untried, unskilled dramatist, and of equally small moment that she was little more than an amateur. They saw a bright light ahead and trudged steadily toward it, prodding themselves—and each other—with all the vain-glorious artifices known to and employed by the young and undefeated. The young man's dramatic aspirations were somewhat retarded, however, by the fact that he was so desperately enamoured that he couldn't confine his thoughts to the play; so the growth of the first act was slow and tortuous. Under other conditions he would have despaired of ever completing the thing. As it was, his despair was of an entirely different character and had to do with the belief that Miss Colgate loved some one else instead of him.
But even doubt and uncertainty possess virtue in that they often lead to rashness, sometimes folly. In this case, Mr. Flanders proposed marriage, albeit he couldn't, for the life of him, see how he was going to manage on a salary of twenty-five dollars a week. That was the rashness of it. Miss Colgate attended to the folly. She said she would marry him if it meant starvation. So there you are.
After that, ambition revived and worked smoothly, rapidly. In the middle of the second act, however, the play failed—that is to say, the play in which Miss Colgate was appearing on Broadway. (It failed in the middle of Mr. Flanders' second act, lest I appear ambiguous.) The young actress found herself out of employment and without much prospect of getting an engagement at that season of the year—a bad year it was, too, if you will remember what theatrical people had to say about it. Now, she was not obliged to work for a living. She could have gone back to her family in Connecticut. But she was not made of that sort of stuff. She could have gone back home and married the most desirable young or old man in the town. She could have given up the stage and devoted herself to the teaching of music, French or wood-carving, in which pursuits she was far less of an amateur than at play-acting. But she was a valiant, undaunted little warrior. She announced that she was ready to do anything that offered, even chorus-work.
And one evening she told him that she had found a place in the chorus of a "road show." She tried to hide her mortification under a somewhat quivering jauntiness, but Mr. Flanders went rudely to the bottom of the matter. She argued that she could change her name and no one would be the wiser. She would positively refuse to appear in tights. Then came the episode. Mr. Flanders flew into a scornful rage. He said a great many things that he was afterwards ashamed to recall. Among other things, he said he'd be hanged if he'd marry a chorus-girl; as for tights, she wouldn't have any choice in the matter, once the manager set his mind to it. She had not been in love with him long enough to submit to bullying, so she sent him about his business. Moreover, she coldly informed him that their engagement was over and that she never wanted to see his face again.
Inasmuch as it would be quite impossible to remain in the same boarding-house without seeing his face once in a while, she moved out the very next day.
The "road" was not what she had expected, nor was the life of a chorus-girl as simple as it had seemed from her virtuous point of view. Before the first two weeks were over, she deserted the company, disillusioned, mortified. It HAD come to a matter of tights.
She returned to New York and bravely resumed her visits to managerial offices and to the lairs of agents, in quest of an engagement not quite so incompatible with her sense of delicacy and refinement as the one she had just abandoned. But there was nothing to be had. More than once she was tempted to write to Flanders, begging him to forgive her and to forget, if he could, the silly mistake she had made. But love and loneliness were no match for the pride that was a part of her nature. She resolutely put away the temptation to do the perfectly sensible thing, and, woman-like, fortified herself against surrender by running away from danger.
She had heard of the Bingles through a woman playwright who wanted to dramatize the Bingle enterprise. Nothing, said this enthusiastic person, could be more adorable than a play based on the Bingle methods of acquiring a family.
One day, in Central Park, she saw Mr. Bingle and seven of the children. He looked happy but inadequate. A grinning park policeman enlightened her as to the identity of the bewildered little man. A single glance was all that was necessary to convince her that Mr. Bingle was having his hands full.
He had lost all control of the little ruffians. (The park policeman was the first to call them ruffians, so I may be pardoned.) They insisted on playing games that Mr. Bingle couldn't play, and he was beginning to look worried. Time and again he tried to herd them into the big station 'bus in which he had brought them over from Seafood (the Bingle estate), and always with so little success that he was getting hot and tired—and farther away from the conveyance all the time. Still he smiled cheerfully and gave no sign of losing his temper.
They were frolicking in the neighbourhood of the lake at the north end of the park, and Miss Colgate was sitting on one of the benches not far removed from the scene of activity. She began to feel sorry for the little foster-father. He was having a time of it! The first thing he knew, one of the little insurgents would tumble into the lake and—well, she couldn't imagine anything more droll than Mr. Bingle venturing into the water as a rescuer. At last, moved by an impulse that afterwards took its place as the psychic capstone in her career, she arose and resolutely went to his relief. He was panting and perspiring, for the spring day was warm.
"May I help you to gather them up?" she inquired.
Now, Mr. Bingle was not accustomed to seeing girls as pretty as the one who accosted him so amiably. At first, he said no, he was very much obliged, he guessed he could manage 'em, thank you. He wasn't quite sure that it was right for him to "take up" with a strange and beautiful young woman in a public park. One never could tell about these well-dressed women who sit on park benches, and yet appear to be perfectly free from tuberculosis. But Miss Colgate insisted, and Mr. Bingle, taking a second look at her, said he would be grateful if she'd stay and watch the littlest ones while he rounded up the big ones. She shook her head, smiling, and gently ordered him to sit down and cool off a bit while she gathered in the recalcitrants.
"You look so hot and tired," she said, and her smile was so frankly sympathetic, so commanding in its sweetness, that Mr. Bingle promptly sat down and said that it beat all how hot the weather was for early May. Perhaps they WOULD come for her, he went on shyly; if she didn't mind calling Frederick, that would be sufficient. Frederick was the rebel leader. He ought to be spanked. She smiled again, and Mr. Bingle said to himself that he'd never seen anything so nice. As she walked away, bent on rounding-up the three boys and Kathleen, he was impressed by the slim, graceful figure and the manner in which she carried herself. Nothing ordinary or common about THAT girl, said he; nothing bold or immodest. Out of the goodness of her heart she had proffered assistance, as any gently born person would have done. His heart warmed toward her. It wasn't often that one encountered a pretty girl who was considerate, sweet-natured and polite to her elders, especially in New York City. He almost forgot Henrietta and Guinevere in his contemplation of this extraordinary phenomenon. Indeed, Henrietta's blubberings went quite unnoticed for some little time, and it was not until Guinevere sent up a sympathetic howl that he remembered the "littlest ones" and hastily took them upon his knees, dropping his hat in his haste.
He was considerably amazed by the swiftness with which his ally "rounded-up" the five roisterers. She went about it sweetly, even gaily, yet with a certain authority that had an instant effect on the youngsters. Almost before he knew what had happened, she was approaching him with the flushed, mischievous "kiddies" in tow. They were staring at the strange, beautiful young lady with wide-open, fascinated eyes. They were abashed, puzzled; meek with wonder. When she extended her hands to Kathleen and Marie Louise, they came to her shyly and then, without so much as a glance at the three boys, she calmly led them back to the marvelling little millionaire. It was a crafty way of bringing the boys, to time. Their curiosity, cupidity, envy—what you will—brought them scurrying up to the group, and not a face was missing from the ranks when she stopped before Mr. Bingle and said:
"And now that we have them, bound hand and foot, what are we to do with them? Put them in a dungeon and feed them on bread and water?"
"I don't see how you did it," said Mr. Bingle. "It was really quite wonderful. Perhaps it was because you are so very pretty. I think, if you don't object, I'll put 'em in the 'bus, take 'em home and feed them on milk and honey and jam. Thank you, thank you ever so much."
"I love children and I believe that children like me," said she, her fingers gently caressing Kathleen's brown, tumbled locks. "That explains it, I am sure. Now, boys, run on ahead and tell the chauffeur your father is coming. And, listen to me: your father is tired and very, very warm. You must not cause him any more distress. I am sure you won't, will you?"
Then she wiped the tears from the cheeks of the "littlest ones," straightened their bonnets, and, in the end, proposed that she should carry one of them to the 'bus.
Down in her heart, she was coddling the wild, improbable hope that Mr. Richard Flanders might be somewhere in the neighbourhood, watching her with proud, but remorseful eyes!
Mr. Bingle turned to her after the children were safely stowed away in the 'bus and ready for the long ride home. He had his hat in his hand and he bowed very low, with the old-fashioned courtesy that time and environment had failed to modify.
"My dear young lady, you remind me of the fairy princess that I knew so well as a boy. You spring up out of the ground and—Whist! you perform deeds of magic and enchantment. I am sorry that we cannot have you hovering about us forevermore. We are all enchanted."
"Thank you," she said, with her gay smile. "Do you still believe in fairies?"
"I do," said he.
"And witches?"
"Absolutely," said he, with boyish enthusiasm. "And wizards, too—and, I'm ashamed to admit it—ghosts. Good-bye. Thank you for the spell you've cast upon us. I think it has done all of us a lot of good. I undertook a task that was beyond me, bringing these youngsters here for a lark. But you see, I had promised them the trip, and I don't believe in going back on a promise. The governess left us yesterday, most unexpectedly. She said her sister was ill, but—well, I shouldn't say anything unkind. Perhaps her sister really is ill. So, then, I brought them all by myself. Mrs. Bingle is in the city looking for a new governess. She—"
"Would you consider—" began Miss Colgate eagerly, and then flushed to the roots of her hair, What had come over her? Was she on the point of applying for a position as governess in a family of—But why not? Why not? She was tired, discouraged, and a failure at the work she had tried so hard to perform.
"Yes?"
She laughed confusedly. "It was nothing, Mr. Bingle, nothing at all. Good-bye. I hope you'll get them home safe, sound and—intact. They are dears."
Mr. Bingle surveyed his brood. Every eye was riveted on the face of the strange, lovely lady, and in each was the look of complete subjugation.
"You've hypnotised them," said he, wonderingly.
She looked away. After a moment's hesitation, she cast the die—urged by the queerest impulse that had ever come over her.
"Would you consider me, Mr. Bingle, for the position that has just been given up by the—the woman whose sister is ill?"
He heard, but he could not believe his ears. "I—I beg pardon?" he said.
She faced him, now resolute and eager. "I am not a fairy princess, I am not a witch. As a matter of fact, I am a very commonplace person who is obliged to earn a living one way or another, and it isn't always a simple thing to do. Tip to this instant, I hadn't the remotest thought of becoming a governess. I don't know what came over me unless it was loneliness, thinking of my little brothers and sisters at home. When I first saw you and the children nothing was farther from my mind than the thought that has just come into it. I DO love children. I want work, Mr. Bingle. I am self-supporting. No matter what may have been my ambition up to five minutes ago, I am content to put it aside, I am willing to undertake—"
"My dear young lady," broke in Mr. Bingle, who had been slow to grasp her meaning and even slower to recover from his stupefaction; "you—you really have knocked me silly. I hadn't the faintest idea—"
"May I apply to Mrs. Bingle to-morrow?" she asked nervously, interrupting him with unintentional rudeness. "I have no references to give as a governess, but I—I think I can convince Mrs. Bingle that I would be quite capable. Do you think there would be a chance for me if I—"
Mr. Bingle broke in once more, this time with acute enthusiasm. "Don't wait till to-morrow," he exclaimed. "Do it to-day! To-morrow may be too late. Harkins, drive to the nearest public telephone. We will call up the intelligence office and see if Mrs. Bingle has been there yet. If she hasn't—"
"Is she looking for a governess in an intelligence office?" cried Miss Colgate, in dismay.
"Certainly! Where else? Oh, I see," he made haste to add, sensing her expression; "it isn't the place to find high-grade governesses, eh? Well, all the better for us! We'll head her off. Climb in, Miss—Miss—"
"Fairweather, Mr. Bingle," said she, and it was the first time in two years that she had called herself by that name. Of all the millions of human beings in New York, but one knew that her name was Fairweather—and she had quarrelled with him. She had told Dick Flanders. He was the kind of man that women tell things to without reserve or without considering the consequences.
"Move up, Frederick," commanded Mr. Bingle. "Make room for Miss Fairweather. She's going to be the new governess. Lively, Harkins! The nearest telephone. No! Not that saloon over there. Tackle an apartment house. Well, well, Miss Fairweather, this is just like a fairy story after all. I told you that I believed in fairies, didn't I?"
And that is how Miss Fairweather came to be governess in the Bingle family, a position for which she was suited by nature but for which she was utterly unqualified when it came to experience. And that is how she managed to disappear so completely that Richard Flanders, love-sick and repentant, could find no trace of her. There were days—and long, long nights—when she ate her heart out in the hunger for him, but she could not bring herself to the point where starvation made it imperative for her to go begging. There was always before her the distressing fear that he might have ceased, to care for her—ay, that he might have gone so far as to transfer his affections to some one else as the result of her stupid notions concerning independence.
No doubt he was going his way without a thought of her, pleasantly forgetting her or, at best, merely remembering her as one who had proved a brief but satisfactory blessing, as many a passing sweetheart has been to a man in his flight through time. No, she argued in conflict with her inclinations, it was not to be thought of, this senseless desire to go back and begin all over again. Everything was over between them. She had made her choice on that never-to-be-forgotten night and she had gone out of his life. There was no use bewailing the fact that she was in the wrong and that his contentions had been justified. She had made her bed, and she would lie in it. The fault was with her, not with him—and yet she could never quite forgive him for being right! She couldn't forget how angry she was before she realised that his judgment was better than hers. As a matter of fact, she couldn't help being a perfectly normal woman: she enjoyed misery.
It must be recorded that she imposed upon the Bingles in one respect: she did not mention the fact that she was or had been an actress. On the other hand, she did not deceive them as to her lack of experience as a teacher of young children. She confessed that the work was new to her, but she confessed it so naively, so frankly, that they were charmed into overlooking the most important detail in the matter of engaging a governess. In fact, Mr. Bingle very properly said to his wife that as she was expected to devote her time to children who had no pedigree, "it wouldn't be along the line of common sense to exact references from her." Besides, said he, she was so sure to be satisfactory. It was only necessary to look into her honest eyes to feel sure about that. And Mrs. Bingle, who was just then in the throes of adopting Imogene, agreed to everything that Imogene's prospective father had to say.
In the meantime, Mr. Flanders had remained doggedly constant. He had surrendered, as a man will, to reason, and had set about to find the girl of his choice, determined to make his peace with her. But nowhere was she to be found. He laid aside the unfinished play. What was the sense of writing a play if there was no one to play the principal part? He was disconsolate. He cursed himself for the stupid thing he had done. He had wrecked his life, that's what he had done—poor fool!
And then came the unexpected meeting in the home of Thomas Singleton Bingle, and the detached scene in the shelter of the window-nook.
Mr. Bingle experienced a second shock just before Flanders darted out of the house to jump into the waiting automobile which was to take him to the station for the 10:17 train.
"Well, good night, Mr. Bingle," cried the tall young reporter, sticking his head through the library door in response to the host's invitation to "come in." "Thank you for the greatest evening of my life. It's just like a fairy story. Oh, yes, before I forget it: I want to tell you how much I enjoyed 'The Chimes.' I never knew that Dickens could write anything so—"
"'The Chimes'?" cried Mr. Bingle, abruptly leaving the little group at the fireplace and bearing down upon the unconscious offender. "What do you mean? It wasn't 'The Chimes' that I—"
"Certainly not," exclaimed Mr. Flanders, glibly. "Of course, it wasn't. I never think of 'The Christmas Carol' without first thinking of 'The Chimes.' Thank you for getting the automobile out to take me to—"
"No trouble at all, my dear fellow," cried Mr. Bingle, shaking hands with the departing guest. "I wish you a Merry Christmas."
Flanders' face was glowing. "It will be the merriest Christmas I've ever known, Mr. Bingle," he said, his voice husky with emotion. "I owe it to you, too. By Jove, sir, I believe I am the happiest man in all the world." He almost shook the little man's arm out of its socket.
Mr. Bingle's smile was meant to be beaming. He made a valiant effort to rise above the catastrophe that was to make his Christmas the most miserable he had ever known.
"Come to see us every Christmas Eve, my boy, if it puts you in such good spirits to see the—the kiddies—" his voice quavered a little—"and to hear the 'Carol.' You will always find the latchstring out."
"No other Christmas Eve will be as glorious as this one, sir," said Dick, gently dragging his host into the hall and lowering his voice to a thrilling undertone. "Not in a million years. Why, it is positively bewildering. I wonder if I'm awake. Is it really true? I—I can't believe that it really happened. Take a good, long look at me, please. You DO see me, don't you? I am really standing here in your house—"
"What in the world are you talking about?" gasped Mr. Bingle, drawing back a step or two. Mr. Flanders grabbed him by the arm. "Ouch!"
"I beg pardon, sir—I didn't mean to be rough," cried Flanders. "I'm so excited I don't know what I'm doing, that's all. A man may be excused for a lot of brainstorm antics when he's going to be married again. It—"
"Married again? I thought you said you'd never—"
"What I mean is this: I was going to be married once and now I'm going to be married again. See? Oh, you know what I mean. I'm just driveling—simply driveling with joy. We fixed it all up fifteen minutes after we got together. You might congratulate me, Mr. Bingle."
"God bless my soul! Congratulate you on what?"
"I'm going to marry your governess."