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 he had already written two novels, both of which remained unpublished.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."
