. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
It is another Christmas Eve, ten years later than the one described in the opening chapter of this narrative1. The Honourable2 Thomas Singleton Bingle is preparing for his annual reading of "The Christmas Carol." The sentiment which influences him on this occasion is the same that inspired the habit in his days of long ago, but the surroundings have changed. Now the vast drawing-room in the home of Mr. Bingle provides the setting for an elaborate observance of a custom that has become almost historic to those who have studied the life and habits of Mr. Bingle. An imposing3 English butler, assisted by two able footmen and the head gardener of the estate, are employed in the final decoration of the huge room. For seven or eight years they have performed these Christmas Eve duties in the mansion4 on the Sound. Melissa, a trifle more buxom5 than in the days of the lower West Side apartment but quite as capable despite her secret knowledge that she receives a greater salary than the mighty6 Diggs, is superintending the hanging of a row of stockings along the mantel-ledge, stockings of variegated7 hues8 and distinguishing sizes.
There are eleven children in the family now. They range from one year up to twelve. Kathleen and Frederick divide the distinction of seniority, both being twelve. There is some doubt as to the actual age of Henrietta and Guinevere, but for the sake of policy, Henrietta, who came first, is down in the family records as six, Guinevere as five, although Mrs. Bingle herself confesses that they came but six weeks apart, and at a time when a few weeks, either way, make little or no difference in the computation. This was the nearest that Mr. and Mrs. Bingle ever came to being blessed with twins. For awhile they hoped that they could make twins out of these infants, but, as the children grew older, the impracticability of such a thought—or ambition—became clear to them, and they reluctantly abandoned the project. Henrietta revealed all the characteristics of being of Italian extraction, while Guinevere was unmistakably Irish.
If you were to take a motor-ride along the North Shore of Long Island Sound and feel your way back into private lanes that appear to lead nowhere in particular, they are so deviously9 circuitous10, you would pass by the lodge11 gates of two magnificent estates. One of them belonged to Mr. Bingle, the other to Sydney Force—or, more strictly12 speaking, to Mrs. Sydney Force. It is worthy13 of mention that Mr. Force lived up to his theory of regeneration by selling to Mr. Bingle, at a tremendous profit, one hundred acres off of the least desirable end of his late father-in-law's estate, thereby14 proving to himself that the early bird is a much smarter creation than the one which is satisfied to possess a mere15 nest-egg. Of course, the selling of that "parcel" of land was provocative16 of most acrimonious17 disputes between Mr. and Mrs. Force. Mrs. Force, while not averse18 to the sale of the land, was frightfully cut up by the fact that she was to have the impossible Bingles as neighbours, and Mr. Force, who was the prince of snobs19, berated20 her soundly for petty snobbishness21.
"Bingle is such a hopelessly common name," she said.
"It happens to be a proper name," remarked Mr. Force, resorting to a rather lame22 sort of wit.
"If it only had been Mrs. Bransone or Mrs. Mortimer," she sighed. "They are awfully23 smart, don't you know. One meets them everywhere."
"We couldn't have sold that piece of land to either one of 'em," said he. "They are much too smart for that."
Mr. Bingle erected24 a very costly25 and magnificent house, much against his will, and spent a great deal of time thereafter in wishing that he was back in the five-room apartment where he could put his hand on anything he wanted without having to call for a servant to tell him where to find it. He was so stupendously rich and so completely awed26 by the importance of being acquainted with Mrs. Force that he became a most desirable neighbour, from that lady's point of view. She experienced a great deal of pleasure in association with a man who could be made to feel as small as he gave every sign of being when in her august presence. It was really a joy to her. With all his money, he could not induce his wife's gowns to hang as Mrs. Force's hung; he could not make her boots fit as neatly27, nor her hats sit as naturally; he could not buy style or majesty28 for Mrs. Bingle. So he was the kind of neighbour to have. Any woman will tell you that.
Diggs was telling Watson, the footman, just where to put the mistletoe. Watson's position was precarious29. He was at the top of a step-ladder, struggling to reach the lowest crystal pendant on the enormous chandelier, and the ladder was wobbling.
"It's all tommy-rot," muttered Watson, apropos30 of nothing that had gone before.
"Wot's all tommy-rot?" demanded Mr. Diggs severely31.
"Christmas Eve," said Watson. "I have no objection to Christmas morning, but 'ang me if I can see any sense in Christmas Eve. What's it good for, anyway?"
"You'd better get a taller ladder," said Mr. Diggs. "It's getting on towards 'alf-past eight. We can't be all night 'anging that bunch of mistletoe, you know."
Melissa paused in her work long enough to devote an appraising32 look upon Watson.
"You look very handsome up there, Watson. It gives you a very good height. Straighten your legs out a bit. If you stand up as straight as you can you'll be as tall as Mr. Diggs THINKS he is."
"See here, my fine lady," began Diggs, annoyed.
"Oh, I beg pardon, Mr. Diggs," cried Melissa. "I didn't see you."
"You'll get your walking papers if you don't keep your place," said
Diggs ominously33.
"And I'll keep my place if I don't get my walking papers," retorted
Melissa, airily.
"And what's more," went on the butler, "you'll get the sack anyway if you don't stop filling the kids up with them yarns34 of yours. The nurses were telling Mrs. Bingle that the children didn't go to sleep for hours last night, they were that scared."
"Seeing ghosts, dragons and goblins all night long," said Hughes, the second footman, shoving a big chair into position. Chairs from all parts of the house had been brought to the drawing-room and arranged in a semi-circle in front of the huge fireplace, at one corner of which stood Mr. Bingle's reading lamp, accurately36 placed at the edge of a costly little Italian table. There were big chairs and little chairs, soft chairs and hard ones, chairs of velvet37 and chairs of silk, chairs of ancient needle-point and chairs that could not be sat upon.
"I didn't tell any ghost stories yesterday," said Melissa. "I told 'em about robbers and kidnappers38."
"Get the ladder, Watson," said Diggs. "What are you standing39 there for?
Do you think it's a pedestal you're on?"
"I just wanted to say that three of the kids saw sea-serpents and crocodiles in their dreams—"
"Don't lay it to me, Watson," broke in Melissa. "I'm not to blame if they had delirium40 tremens. I didn't give them anything to drink."
"I—I shall have to speak to Mrs. Bingle about you, Melissa," exclaimed
Diggs severely.
"Do! She is always complimented when you condescend41 to speak to her,
Mr. Diggs."
"Don't scrap," put in the gardener mildly. "Remember it's Christmas
Eve."
"Oy-yoy!" groaned42 Watson. "We've all got to listen to Mr. Bingle read Dickens again. It will be the sixth time I've 'eard The Christmas Carol in this 'ere room." He departed in quest of the tall step-ladder, banging Hughes on the shins with the small one as he swung past.
Hughes said something under his breath and then, with a quick glance at Melissa, went on: "I will say this for the old boy, he makes Christmas a merry one for all of us."
"Must I remind you again, Hughes, not to speak of the master as 'the old boy'? Please remember that you were engaged as a TRAINED servant."
"Well, I'd have you to know, Mr. Diggs, that I'm not one of your bally English servants. I'm as good an American as any one, and I say what I please."
"You were engaged as an English footman. I distinctly told you that at the intelligence office when I engaged you. You may be as American as you please on your days out, but while you are on duty in this 'ouse, you've got to be as English as I am, or—"
"Oh, I can drop 'em as well as any one, Mr. Diggs," said Hughes scornfully. "'Ulloa! 'Ere comes the lidy governess!" He was peering into the hall, the corners of his mouth drawn43 down in the most approved English fashion.
Whatever may have been Mr. Bingle's taste in the selection of rugs and furniture, he could be charged with no lack of it in his choice of a governess for the young Bingles. Miss Fairweather was as pretty as a picture. In fact, you would go a long way before you found a picture as pretty as Miss Fairweather. Her serene44 beauty was disturbed, however, by a perplexed45 frown, as she hurriedly entered the room and paused just inside the door for a furtive46, agitated47 glance down the hall.
"Diggs, who is in the library with Mr. Bingle?" she inquired, unconsciously lowering her voice as if fearing the sharpness of distant ears. It was a very pleasing, musical voice, a fact which no one appreciated more than Diggs, who boasted of his ability to know a lady when he heard one.
"A newspaper chap, Miss Fairweather. To interview Mr. Bingle about the—" (here he sighed faintly)—"about the Christmas jollities."
Miss Fairweather sent another futile48 look in the direction of the library. She was plainly distressed49 by her failure to see through the walls that intervened.
"What—what name did he give?"
"I can't say, Miss. I didn't quite catch it myself."
"But you must have announced him. He gave you his card or—something, didn't he?"
"No, Miss. He announced 'imself over the telephone this afternoon. It sounded like Blinkers, or, even more nearly, on his repeating it, like Rasmussen. At any rate, Mr. Bingle was expecting 'im, and came out into the 'all before I had the chance to learn his name proper, so to speak, Miss."
She bit her lip, annoyed. "Was it Flanders, Diggs?"
Mr. Diggs reflected. "It was," said he. "Now that you mention it, it was. Richard, I think."
Miss Fairweather lowered her eyes suddenly and grasped the back of a chair as if to steady herself. The next instant, she had recovered, except that a queer, hunted look had settled in her eyes.
"Thank you, Diggs. Please say to Mrs. Bingle that I shall not be down again this evening. I have a splitting headache." She moved rapidly toward the door.
"Won't you be here for the reading, Miss?"
"No. I always cry when I hear about Tiny Tim." "Beg pardon, Miss, but as this is your first Christmas Eve 'ere, you'll excuse me for saying that the entire 'ousehold is expected to be present for the reading. It is a rule, Miss. Even the cook comes up."
"Thank you, Diggs. Please give my message to Mrs. Bingle."
"Very good, Miss."
"By the way, is this Mr. Flanders tall and fair, with dark grey eyes, a rather broad mouth and just the tiniest sort of a wave in his hair—especially above the ears? And a small white scar on his left thumb?"
Diggs arose to the demands of the occasion, as he always did. "Yes, Miss. Quite accurate, I'm sure. And a very pleasant voice, I may add if you don't mind."
"Thank you, Diggs," said Miss Fairweather for the third time, and then scurried50 across the hall and up the broad staircase, accelerating her speed materially as the library door was thrown open and lively masculine voices came booming up from behind her.
"Sounds like a scene from a novel," said Melissa to Diggs, "A mysterious stranger appears to disturb the peace and quiet of our heroine. She runs off and hides in her room, shivering with dread51 lest this spectre out of her dark past—-"
"Rubbish!" said Mr. Diggs.
"Sure," said Melissa. "That's what most novels are. It's my opinion that that young lady's been on the stage, Mr. Diggs. She acts just like an actress. I've noticed that in her from the beginning. And the other day she had a letter from a theatrical52 manager. I saw the name on the envelope."
"I dare say," observed Diggs, inattentively. Watson appeared with the tall step-ladder. "Be a bit lively, Watson. I 'ear Mr. Bingle in the 'all. Go and open the door for Mr. Flanders, Hughes."
Melissa happened to be standing directly beneath the mistletoe. Hughes took advantage of an opportunity that has become historic. Then he passed swiftly out of the room, followed by Melissa's astonished: "Oh, you!" Watson came nimbly down the ladder and emulated53 the example of the astonishing Hughes quite before Melissa could recover herself. He received a resounding54 smack55 in return, but from the young woman's open hand.
"Don't stand under it," he grumbled56 ruefully, "unless you want to play the game."
"I'll stand under it as long as I please," said Melissa defiantly57, planting herself firmly on the spot from which Watson had hastily removed the ladder. She faced Mr. Diggs.
Mr. Diggs coloured. He cleared his throat and then glared at Watson, who went grinning from the room. Melissa was a very pretty, rosy58 young woman, and her eyes flashed dangerously.
"It's a fine old custom," said Mr. Diggs persuasively59. "In merry England we hobserve it—er—you might say religiously, and without fear of future complications. It can be done in a dignified60 fashion if—"
"I don't want to have it done in a dignified fashion," protested
Melissa, lifting her round little chin and pursing her lips invitingly61.
"Do it as if you liked it, not as if you wanted to be religious."
Mr. Diggs became human at once. He laid aside his austerity, and was no longer a butler but a good-looking chap of thirty-five who had the "very Old Nick" in him. It was the sort of kiss that has nothing in common with mistletoe—the sort that DOES lead to future complications. It proved something to Melissa, and she uttered a little sigh of happiness. Mr. Diggs kissed her because he was in love with her.
Unfortunately, Mr. Bingle entered the room at the very instant of least resistance, and coughed.
"Oh, I—I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle, genuinely distressed. It is worthy of note that it was the good little man who apologised, not Diggs.
As the master was accompanied by the tall young newspaper chap, who grinned abominably62, both Diggs and Melissa forgot their moment of bliss63 and fell from a great height. Needless to say, they were speechless.
"It's quite all right, Diggs," said Mr. Bingle, affecting a vast geniality64. "What's a mistletoe for if not to—yes, yes, Melissa, it's quite all right. Ahem! Don't you agree with me, Mr. Flanders?"
"Thoroughly65," said Mr. Flanders with conviction. "And what's more, Mr.
Bingle, I agree with Diggs."
Melissa, crimson66 to her throat, fled. Mr. Diggs passed his hand over his brow, as if to clear his brain, and then stammered67 in a voice that strove hard to regain68 its former impressiveness:
"Yes, sir, it—it is all right, sir. Quite all right, sir. As right as can be, sir."
"Right as rain," proclaimed Mr. Bingle, resorting to a habit of imitation that had marked his progress during the past few years of observation. He had heard the imposing Diggs say it, many times over. It was quite the proper thing to say, of course—apparently on any and all occasions—but, for the life of him, Mr. Bingle couldn't grasp the significance of the simile69. "And now, Diggs, THAT being settled, is everything else all right?" He surveyed the great, gaily70 bedecked room with an eye that took in the smallest detail.
"I think so, sir," said Diggs, slowly recovering. "You will hobserve, sir, that I have added the necessary new chair—the 'igh-chair over here, sir, for little Miss Him—Imogene."
"I see. We make it a point, Mr. Flanders, to get a new baby at least once a year. The first year, as I explained, we had three. Two or three years ago, one came in May and another in September."
"Mental arithmetic gives you twelve in all," said young Mr. Flanders.
"Eleven. We lost one in 1906. Little Harriet."
"Eleanor, sir, begging your pardon," corrected Diggs.
"Right. Thank you, Diggs. Malnutrition71. We never should have had her. There goes the door-bell, Tell Mrs. Bingle that Mr. and Mrs. Force have arrived, and give Mr. Force a drink before she comes down."
"Very good, sir." Diggs retired72 with gravity.
"President of our bank, you know. Mr. Sydney Force," explained Mr.
Bingle.
"I know. The husband of Mrs. Sydney Force," said Flanders, a twinkle in his grey eyes.
"Sit down, Mr. Flanders. I'd ask you to have a cigar, but the nurses say that smoke isn't good for the children. Force always smokes here. I can't tell him not to, you see. He wouldn't come again." In that bit of ingenuousness73, Mr. Bingle exposed the family state of mind in respect to their aristocratic neighbours. "Now, this is where we have the reading. Permit me to call your attention to the way we arrange the—er—the auditorium74, you might say. That's where I sit—over there. I'm glad you've decided75 to stay and hear The Christmas Carol. It will do you good, Mr. Flanders. You'll be a better man for it. There is a train in at nine-fifty-five. We'll not be interrupted here, so fire away. I'm ready to be interviewed."
They seated themselves on the broad, luxurious76 couch that marked the precise centre of the semi-circle and was evidently intended to be the section of honour. Mr. Bingle leaned back, stretched out his slender legs, crossed his feet, and looked over his tortoise-shell glasses with a fine assumption of tolerance77. He was still trying, after many years, to enjoy his own importance. Sad to relate, he still expected to wake up and find that he had but half an hour in which to eat his breakfast and get across town to the bookkeeper's stool he had occupied the day before. He sometimes felt of his ears reminiscently, for they seemed in some way to clearly connect him with his last waking hours. He never quite got over listening for the alarm clock.
At fifty-three, he was no older in appearance than when he was forty-three. If anything, he seemed younger, for the harassed78, care-worn expression had disappeared, leaving him bland79, benign80 of countenance81, although the same imperishable wrinkles lined his pinched cheeks. He was just as careless about his sparse82 hair as in the days of old. It was never by any chance sleek83 and orderly. The habit of running his fingers through his thatch84 still clung to him, significant reminder85 of the perplexities that filled his daily life over the ledgers86 and day-books. In all other respects, however, he was a re-made man.
His trim little frame was clothed in expensive garments; his patent leather pumps were the handiwork of the most fashionable of bootmakers, and quite uncomfortable; his hosiery was of the finest silk and his watch-chain was of platinum87; there were pearl studs in his unpolished shirt front and four shining black buttons on his neat white waistcoat; his clawhammer coat had a velvet collar and fitted him about the shoulders as if it had been constructed for a man who possessed88 much more of a figure than he; and his trousers were primly89 pressed. Not the same old Bingle outwardly, you will say, but you are wrong. He was, and always will be, like the leopard90.
A certain briskness91 of manner, inspired by necessity, had come to him in these days of opulence92. His position in life made its demands, and one of the most exacting93 of these denied him the privileges of familiarity. He would have liked nothing better than an hour or two a day of general conversation with Mrs. Bingle and Melissa—say while the latter was tidying up the library—but that was utterly94 out of the question under the new order of things. He was compelled, by virtue95 of exaltation, to be very crisp, succinct96, positive in his treatment of the most trivial matters; as for conversing97 amiably98 with a single servant in his establishment, something told him more plainly than words that it would not be tolerated—not for an instant. He would have given a great deal to be able to just once shout a glad, cheerful, heart-felt "good morning" to Diggs—or to any one of the servants, for that matter—but custom and the surprising dignity of his employees compelled him to utter the greeting in a casual, bored manner, quite as if he did it automatically and always as if he was on the point of clearing his throat. He sorely missed Melissa's spontaneous, even vulgar "Morning, Mist' Bingle," and the rattle99 of cutlery and chinaware. Melissa had acquired a fine but watchful100 dignity. She now said "good morning, sir" in the hushed, impersonal101 voice of the trained servant. She never "joked" with him, as of yore, although he was by way of knowing that she bubbled over with fun in the regions "below stairs."
"I haven't heard The Christmas Carol since I was twelve years old," said Richard Flanders. He had his note paper on his knee. "What I want, Mr. Bingle, is a good Christmas story from you. We shall play it up, of course, and—well, it ought to be good reading. Your own story, sir, from the beginning. All about the Hooper millions and the children that just grew."
"Something stranger than fiction, eh?" mused102 Mr. Bingle. "But, my dear sir, it's such an old story, this yarn35 about me. The newspapers have worn it to shreds103. Suppose we leave out all reference to the Hooper millions. If the public is as tired of those millions as I am at times, Mr. Flanders, we'll be doing an act of charity if we leave 'em out. You will get your best story, as you call it, by observing what happens here to-night. No one else has ever done it for a newspaper. You are the first, my dear sir. I am a simple man. I don't like to be in the newspapers. The long and tiresome104 litigation over my poor uncle's estate has kept me more or less in the limelight, as you fellows would say, and there have been times when I willingly would have given up the fight if my lawyers had allowed me to do so. But a lawyer is something you can't get rid of, once you've got him—or he's got you, strictly speaking. My lawyers won't allow ME to quit, and I have every reason to suspect that they won't allow the other side to quit. However, I believe the matter is nearing an end. The United States Supreme105 Court will pass on the issue just as soon as the lawyers on both sides reach a verdict—that is to say, a verdict acknowledging that it won't pay them to delay the business any longer. The case of Hooper et al vs. Bingle has been going on like the Jarndyce matter for nearly nine years. We've licked them in every court and in three separate hearings, and my lawyers are confident the Supreme Court will sustain the findings of the lower courts. I am a tender-hearted lunatic, Mr. Flanders. I have made an arrangement whereby the son and two daughters of Joseph Hooper are to be paid one million dollars each out of the estate, just as soon as I know definitely that I have beaten them in the court of last resort. I guess that will surprise 'em, eh?"
Flanders' eyes glittered. "Don't forget, Mr. Bingle, that you are speaking to a newspaper man. That last statement of yours would make a sensation, sir."
Mr. Bingle sighed. "I am sure you will not take advantage of me, Mr. Flanders. I have made a similar statement to every newspaper man who has interviewed me, and every one of them has promised not to use it in his paper. So far not one of them has violated his promise. I am sure, sir, that you are no less honourable than the rest of the boys."
"I have given no promise, sir."
"Nevertheless I shall trust you not to use the statement, Mr. Flanders.
And now, let us get back to the important part of the interview."
Flanders stared hard for a few seconds, unable to comprehend the serene faith that this little but exceedingly important man reposed106 in his fellow-man. He appeared to take it for granted that this startling piece of confidence would not be betrayed, no matter to whom it was extended. There was something actually pathetic in his guilelessness. Mr. Richard Flanders admittedly was staggered, and yet somewhere down in his soul he knew there was a spark of fairness that would become a stupendous obstacle in the path of his news-getting avarice107. Of course, he was no less honourable than the rest of the boys!
"You would be more generous toward your cousins, I fear, than they
could be toward you," said the reporter, twisting his pencil nervously108.
After all, it WOULD create a sensation, this remarkable109 statement of
Mr. Bingle.
"Oh, they would cheerfully see me rot in the poorhouse," assented110 Mr.
Bingle composedly. "I am not deceiving myself in regard to Geoffrey and
Angela and Lizzie—I mean Elizabeth. You won't mention what I have just
confided111 to you, will you, Mr. Flanders?"
Flanders sighed. He had hoped that the petition would not be put into definite form.
"Certainly not, sir—if you—er—if you'd rather I wouldn't," he managed to say with a fair show of alacrity112. "But, gee113!" The half-muttered ejaculation spoke114 volumes of regret.
His host smiled complacently115. It was settled, so far as he was concerned. Mr. Flanders was to be depended upon.
"Still snowing when you came in?" he asked, quite irrelevantly116 but with interest.
"Yes, sir—hard."
"Good! We'll have bob-sledding on the terrace for the kiddies to-morrow. I suppose you'd like to know how we happen to have such a large and growing family. Well, it's all very simple. It is our practice to acquire a new baby at least once a year. On occasions we have felt called upon to make it two, and even three, but of late it seems the more sensible plan to limit ourselves to one. It is our idea to keep up the practice until I am seventy-five, if God permits me to live to that age. So, you see, we will have reared a family of thirty-three children by that time, and we will never be without little toddlers and prattlers. I am fifty-three now, Mr. Flanders. We are reasonably sure to have twenty-two additions to the family. The pitiful part of getting old and decrepit117 lies in the fact that one's children grow up, get married, leave home—or die—and that is just what we are trying to guard against. On my seventy-fifth birthday, there will be a fine, healthy two-year-old babe crying and goo-gooing for my especial benefit, and by working backwards118 in your figuring you can also credit us with a three-year-old, a four-year-old, and so on up the line. Naturally we will have lost a goodly number of the first-comers, but we provide against a deficit119, so to speak, by this little plan of ours. Some of the girls may not turn out as well as we expect, however, so there is the possibility that they may remain with us to the end, enjoying single-blessedness. The boys, of course, will marry."
"It is splendid, Mr. Bingle," said Flanders enthusiastically. "You are a wonder."
"Not at all, not at all," protested Mr. Bingle, with a deprecatory gesture. "I'm a selfish, conniving120 old rascal121, that's what I am. We've always wanted children, Mrs. Bingle and I, and we never—er—never seemed to have 'em as other people do, so we began to look for children that needed parents as much as we needed children. That's the whole thing in a nut-shell. We are a bit high-handed about it, too. We never have a child until it is past the teething age and can walk a little bit and talk a little bit. So, you see, we manage to have 'em without the drawbacks. That's where we are selfish and—"
"I think you're quite sensible about it, Mr. Bingle," interrupted
Flanders politely. "They say teething is awful."
"That's what they say," said Mr. Bingle, a slight frown of regret on his brow. "Still, I should have preferred—ahem! Yes, yes! Most annoying, I'm told. The nurses seem to know. We began adopting our children as soon as we came into possession of my Uncle Joseph's money. Up to that time, we had hesitated about having other people's children on our hands and minds. Of course you'll understand that poverty could never have stood in the way of our having children of our own. God simply did not choose to give them to us. The old saying, 'a poor man for children,' did not work very well in my case. Mrs. Bingle is ten years younger than I. She is a strong, normal woman. I never could understand why—er—and neither could she, for that matter. As soon as we came into this fortune, or, more accurately speaking, after we had returned from our first trip to California and a short visit to Chicago, we adopted Kathleen. She was the daughter of a young woman who—but, never mind. We sha'n't go into that. She was about two years old. At once it occurred to both of us that it would be a fine idea to have a boy to grow up with her. So we called in the stork122. He happened to have a splendid, left-over, unclaimed two-year-old boy in stock, so we took him. That was Frederick. Then, a friend of mine—a widower123 who worked as a bookkeeper alongside of me, chap named Jenkins—died very suddenly, leaving a little girl just under eighteen months of age. That's how we got Marie Louise. And so it goes, Mr. Flanders, right up to date. Henrietta and Guinevere are almost twins. Six weeks between 'em. They—"
"You mean in respect to age or—"
"In respect to their arrival. Guinevere came much sooner than was anticipated, you might say. Little Imogene came the twenty-sixth of last September. She cries a good deal. I am inclined to think she's getting her wisdom teeth."
"Naturally, Mrs. Bingle is keen about the idea. Saves a lot of bother."
"It's got to be such a joy having children in this way, when we please, as often as we like, and being able to determine sex to our own satisfaction, that we really look forward to the arrival of a new one. There's always the pleasure of picking out blondes or brunettes. We try to equalize as much as possible. I am—or was—a blonde, Mr. Flanders—quite a decided blonde. Mrs. Bingle is still a brunette."
"And now, may I inquire, do they all regard you as their real father?"
"In a measure. There are times when they look upon me as a sort of truck-horse. But real fathers have told me that that is customary. They call me daddy, if that's what you mean. Once in a while they seem to recollect124 that there was another man and woman in their lives, but not often. Generally people who used to beat them, I gather. I will say this for our children: they were all thoroughly spanked125 before they came to us. It takes 'em a long time to get used to not being spanked."
"Do you never punish them?"
"Frequently. If they're bad I have them locked in a closet. We've got a very large closet with windows and other comforts. Usually there are three or four of 'em in at the same time, so they don't mind."
"God will surely reward you, sir, for being kind to all these poor little kiddies. May I—ahem!—May I express the hope, sir, that some day you may me blessed with—er—"
"No use, sir. Thank you, just the same. It will never happen."
"How many nurses have you in your employ?"
"Four at present. We also have a school-teacher—I mean, a governess.
Excellent young woman. Teaches 'em French and German. Curiously126 enough
some of the children take to foreign languages quicker than the others.
Force says that Reginald is a Hebrew. He was supposed to be Irish."
"Very interesting. All of them strong and healthy?"
"Absolutely. You'd think so if you could see 'em fight occasionally. They've had the whooping127 cough and chicken-pox. My doctor is the renowned128 Dr. Fiddler. You know of him?"
Mr. Bingle proceeded to dilate129 upon the activities and achievements of Dr. Fiddler. There had been broken arms and prodigious130 bruises131, cuts and gashes132 of every conceivable character, and in every instance Dr. Fiddler had performed with heroic fidelity133. In the middle of a particularly enthusiastic tribute to the doctor's skill as a fish-bone extractor, Diggs appeared in the doorway134, coughed indulgently, and then advanced.
"Beg pardon, sir. Mrs. Bingle says the children are getting nervous.
They happear to be—"
A series of shrill135 screeches136 descended137 the stairway, followed by the sudden slamming of a distant doorway and the instantaneous suppression of bedlam138.
"Quite so, quite so," exclaimed Mr. Bingle, springing to his feet. "Dear me, it is past the hour. Forgive me, Mr. Flanders, but—but I really can't delay the—er—Yes, yes, Diggs, tell Mrs. Bingle that we are all ready. Keep your seat, Mr. Flanders. Don't mind me. I must run upstairs and see if—Quite so, Diggs. They MUST be nervous. Where is Miss Fairweather?"
"She has a 'eadache, sir, and says she can't come down—"
"Stuff and nonsense! It will cure her headache. Send for her, Diggs.
She's our new governess, Mr. Flan—"
"What was the name?" demanded the reporter, pricking139 up his ears. He leaned forward with a new interest in his lively grey eyes. But Mr. Bingle was gone, his coat-tails fairly whisking around the heavy portieres.
"Fairweather, sir," supplied Diggs. "Miss Hamy—I mean to say,
Amy—Fairweather."
"Good Lord!" fell from the lips of Richard Flanders. Then he proceeded to behave in the most astonishing manner. He sprang to his feet and grasped the retreating Diggs by the arm, literally140 jerking that dignified individual back upon his heels. His eyes were gleaming. "Dark brown hair and soft grey eyes? Fairly tall and slend—" The sly grin on the butler's face served to check the outburst. He abruptly141 subdued142 his emotions. "Excuse me for grabbing you like that. I—I was just wondering if—"
Diggs had recovered his urbanity. "She is the same Miss Fairweather, sir. I recognise her from your description. It may interest you to hear, sir, that she acted just as queerly as you when I told her that you—"
"What did you tell her?" demanded Flanders, seeing that Diggs hesitated.
"That you had a scar on your thumb, sir. By the way, HAVE you?"
"I have!" exclaimed the young man. "Well, by George! Will wonders never cease? Where is she? You say she isn't coming down—but, of course, not! She couldn't think of it, knowing that I am here. I say, will you—will you see that she gets a message from me? Wait a second. I'll write it now. Just slip a note to her—Great Scott! What's that?"
The house seemed to be clattering143 down about his head.
"That, sir," responded Diggs, drawing a deep breath, "is the charge of the light brigade. Hinfants in arms, you might say. There's no stopping them now. 'Ere they come."
And down the wide stairway streamed the shrieking144 vanguard of the Christmas revellers—seven or eight unrestrained youngsters who had snatched liberty from the nurses the instant Mr. Bingle opened the play-room door at the top of the house. Down the steps they came, regardless of stumbles and tumbles—an avalanche145 of joy.
Diggs, from the doorway, raked the stairway and its squirming horde146 with an exploring eye.
"She is coming, sir. Fairly tall and slender, sir, and—"
"Good Lord!" gasped147 Flanders, helplessly. "This is more than I can stand. Diggs, do—do men ever faint?"
There was no reply. Three sturdy youngsters collided with Diggs. There was nothing he could say—with lucidity148.
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1
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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3
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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8
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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deviously
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| 弯曲地，绕道地 | |
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10
circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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12
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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13
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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14
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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15
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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16
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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17
acrimonious
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| adj.严厉的，辛辣的，刻毒的 | |
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18
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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19
snobs
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| （谄上傲下的）势利小人( snob的名词复数 )； 自高自大者，自命不凡者 | |
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20
berated
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| v.严厉责备，痛斥( berate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
snobbishness
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| 势利； 势利眼 | |
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22
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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23
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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24
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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25
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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26
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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28
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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29
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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30
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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31
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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32
appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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33
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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34
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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35
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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36
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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37
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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38
kidnappers
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| n.拐子，绑匪( kidnapper的名词复数 ) | |
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39
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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40
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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41
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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42
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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43
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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44
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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45
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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46
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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47
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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48
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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49
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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50
scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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52
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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53
emulated
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| v.与…竞争( emulate的过去式和过去分词 )；努力赶上；计算机程序等仿真；模仿 | |
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54
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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55
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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56
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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57
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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58
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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59
persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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60
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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61
invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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62
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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63
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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64
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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65
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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66
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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67
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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69
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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70
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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71
malnutrition
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| n.营养不良 | |
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72
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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73
ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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74
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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75
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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76
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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77
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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78
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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79
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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80
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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81
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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82
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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83
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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84
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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85
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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86
ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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87
platinum
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| n.白金 | |
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88
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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89
primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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90
leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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91
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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92
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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93
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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94
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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95
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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96
succinct
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| adj.简明的，简洁的 | |
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97
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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98
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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99
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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100
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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101
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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102
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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103
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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104
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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105
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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106
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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108
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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109
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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110
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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112
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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113
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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114
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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115
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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116
irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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117
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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118
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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119
deficit
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| n.亏空，亏损；赤字，逆差 | |
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conniving
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| v.密谋 ( connive的现在分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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122
stork
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| n.鹳 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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125
spanked
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| v.用手掌打( spank的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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127
whooping
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| 发嗬嗬声的，发咳声的 | |
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128
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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129
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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130
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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131
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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132
gashes
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| n.深长的切口（或伤口）( gash的名词复数 )v.划伤，割破( gash的第三人称单数 ) | |
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133
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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134
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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135
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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136
screeches
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| n.尖锐的声音( screech的名词复数 )v.发出尖叫声( screech的第三人称单数 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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137
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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138
bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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139
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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140
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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141
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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142
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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143
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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144
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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145
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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146
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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147
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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148
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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