Mr. Bingle

by George Barr McCutcheon

And that is why Kathleen did not go South early in March—not until late in April, for that matter, when she had completely recovered from a particularly stubborn illness, and long after all of the others, except little Imogene, were up and about. Imogene died.

Miss Fairweather was the angel in this season of tribulation. She was true blue. Day and night she gave up to the care of the sick ones, and when it was all over the roses in her cheeks were missing, but the light in her eyes was bright.

Then Kathleen went away. Mr. Force, considerably humbled, apologised to Mr. Bingle for as many things as he could remember, and Mrs. Force, after all, did condescend to introduce Mrs. Bingle to her own exclusive dressmaker. Napoleon came. Mr. Bingle watched the newspapers for an account of the suicide of Monsieur and Madame Rousseau, but no such event was reported. No doubt the approach of spring deterred them. They would probably wait until cold weather set in again.

In order to encourage the struggling Rousseau, he bought, through Rouquin, a rather startling painting by the young artist, in which a herd of red cattle partook placidly of the skyline and a pallid windmill dominated the foreground. Later on, an expert informed him that the red cattle were rocks on the edge of a pool and the windmill was a lady making ready to dive into the water for a lonely swim. The painting was signed, but the name was not Rousseau. It was Fauret. Rouquin explained the discrepancy. He said that young Rousseau preferred to paint under an assumed name—in truth, it was his maternal grandmother's name—rather than to have his canvases confused with those of the academic, old-school Barbizon painter. He was above trading on a name that was fast becoming obsolete!

Then there came the astonishing disappearance of young Frederick. The third day after Kathleen's departure, Frederick turned up missing. A week passed before the detectives found him in Washington, penniless, half-starved but valiant. He had run away from home to find Kathleen, for, in his fickle heart, he had come to realise that it was she whom he loved and not old Miss Fairweather at all. Extreme hunger and an acute attack of home-sickness dampened his ardent regard for the distant Kathleen, for the time being at least, and he was quite content to return to Seawood, where, after all, he could have all he wanted to eat and at the same time reflect audibly on the fact that he was a real hero.

Envy induced Wilberforce to run away a few days after Frederick returned with his great tales of adventure, privation and gallantry. He got no farther from home than White Plains, and was back at Seawood before nine o'clock at night on the day of his flight, yet he had enjoyed so many hair-raising experiences, rescued so many lovely girls from all manner of perils, and soundly thrashed so many unprincipled varlets, that even Melissa's narratives became weak and puerile when put up against the tales he told to his pop-eyed brothers and sisters. He did not mention the sound thrashing that he sustained at the hands of Mrs. Bingle, however, nor did he attempt to account for the bitter howls that began to issue from behind the closed library doors almost simultaneously with his return to Seawood. These howls, it may be added, had a great deal to do with the decline of enthusiasm among the other boys. Wilberforce's adventure in the library was the one that made the deepest impression on them.

And this summary paddling of young Wilberforce, in direct opposition to the wishes of his foster-father, who would have punished him in a less drastic fashion, brings us to the gravest of Mr. Bingle's worries: the curious change in Mrs. Bingle's attitude toward the children.

From being a loving, kind, sympathetic mother she lapsed into the opposite in every particular. Her querulousness, impatience, even antipathy became more and more marked as the summer advanced and Mr. Bingle, in dire distress, consulted Dr. Fiddler. She scolded incessantly, spanked frequently, complained from morning till night, and suffered headaches, neuritis and kindred ailments to such an extent that the good doctor might well have been pardoned for looking a bit wiser than ever before and suggesting a change of scene and environment for the lady, whose nerves undoubtedly had been affected by the troubles of the past few weeks.

Every one about the place observed and secretly commented on the amazing change in the mistress of the house. The calm, serene, level-headed manager of Mr. Bingle's household had developed into a cranky, dyspeptic tyrant whose pleasure it was to be unfailingly displeased with everything, and who, despite the fact that she was not yet forty-three, declared that she was a broken old woman without the remotest hope of ever seeing a well day again in her life. She was quite positive that she suffered from a dreadful and incurable malady. She knew the symptoms, she had every one of them, and no doctor in the world could convince her to the contrary—so she said. Her greatest desire was to go to Peekskill, where she could find peace and quiet and unutterable relief from the annoyances caused by the little nuisances that Mr. Bingle had taken under his wing. In Peekskill her mother and sister still lived the simple life, and that was what she wanted more than anything else.

Mr. Bingle's gentle argument that he could not go to Peekskill with her met with a petulant response. She made it plain to him that she realised his preference for the children and that she was no longer of any use to him as a companion or helpmate. For her own part, she'd like to see them all in Jericho—meaning the children, of course. All of which shocked and distressed poor Mr. Bingle beyond expression.