Mr. Sigsbee remained for luncheon. He did not return to the city until late in the afternoon. All day long an atmosphere of gloom, not altogether attributable to reaction from the Fourth, pervaded the house. By that strange, mysterious form of contagion described as "sensing," the servants became infected by the depression; questioning looks were answered by questioning looks; conversation was carried on in lowered tones and confined almost exclusively to matters pertaining to the work in hand; furtive looks were bestowed upon the door of Mr. Bingle's study and, later on, directed with some misgiving upon the closed transom above Mrs. Bingle's bedroom door. To the certain knowledge of the oldest servant on the place, this transom had never been lowered before.
This much was known to three persons: the butler, one of the footmen and Melissa: shortly after the strange gentleman entered Mr. Bingle's study with the master, the mistress and Dr. Fiddler, Mrs. Bingle was led to her room by the doctor and her husband, moaning and wringing her hands. The trained nurse who had come down to take care of Rutherford was hastily summoned to the bedroom, and later on Diggs was instructed to telephone to Dr. Fiddler's office in town with an order to his assistant to send out a second nurse without delay.
At dinner, Mr. Bingle was singularly pale and preoccupied. His doctor and his lawyer talked of the attitude of the Administration at Washington in regard to the Mexican question and other problems in which a keen observer would have remarked that they were not at all interested—and in which Diggs and Hughes certainly had no present interest. They ate quite heartily, as doctors and lawyers are prone to do when the opportunity presents itself. Immediately after dinner they repaired to the study and closed the door. All evening there were telephone conversations with New York and Washington, and frequent visits to Mrs. Bingle's room by the doctor and Mr. Bingle.
At ten o'clock Mr. Bingle walked out upon the moon-lit lawn and gazed about him in all directions, taking in the terraces, the park, the gardens, and last of all the splendid facade of the great house itself. Head gardener Edgecomb approached and to him Mr. Bingle said:
"It was a beautiful place—a beautiful place, indeed," and then straightway returned to the house. Edgecomb, slack grammarian though he was, made note of the fact that he spoke of the house in the past tense, quite as if it were a thing that had ceased to exist.
The children had had their supper when Melissa came down from Mrs. Bingle's room, whither she had been summoned in some haste at five o'clock. She promptly announced that they were to skip off to bed at once as their mother's head was that bad that she was not to be disturbed by the slightest sound. To the inquiries of her fellow-servants, Melissa curtly replied that it was none of their business what had happened and if they had any business they'd better attend to it instead of snooping around the halls trying to find out something that did not in the least concern them.
Melissa knew what had happened. Before eight o'clock that night Miss Fairweather knew, and Flanders also. The great Bingle dream was not the only one to be shattered by the news that the day brought forth.
For the first time in two days, Melissa addressed herself to Mr. Diggs. Her lip trembled and there were tears lying close to the surface of her eyes. She told the butler, in smothered tones, that she had decided to remain in the employ of Mr. Bingle as long as he needed her services, and that she would have to return his ring. She could not marry him—at least not at present, nor for a long time perhaps. The children refused to go to bed unless Melissa told them a story. She collected them in the nursery—the lame, the halt and the half-blind—and very meekly inquired what kind of a story they would have.
"The one about Peter Pan," said Henrietta.
"No! Tell us a new one about the piruts," cried Wilberforce.
"A ghost story, 'Lissie," chimed in Harold, aged five. "Scare me good and hard, so's I can sleep with Freddy to-night."
"It's not the right kind of a night for a ghost story," said Melissa, her eyes going over the group with a strange, sweet compassion in their depths. "The wind ought to be howling with blood-curdling glee and the will-o'-the-wisp ought to be a-hoppin' in the swamp. There ought to be a graveyard close by—and some skeletons standing just outside the winders, trying to look in upon us through their eyeless sockets."
"Let's imagine 'em," said Frederick.
"I want to huddle, 'Lissie," lisped Rosemary. "It's fun to huddle."
"You'll be discharged if you fill these kids up with any more of those yarns of yours," said Stokes, the nurse-maid, languidly looking up from the book she was reading.
"I guess not," said Melissa, rather grimly. "My job's safe, no matter what I do or don't do. Go on with your reading, Miss Stokes. Your worries are almost over. Mine are just beginning. Huddle up close, Rosemary—I'm going to begin."
"I'm huddled," shivered Rosemary, crawling under Melissa's sheltering arm.
"Now, this is a true story," began Melissa wearily. The children had drawn close about her. "It's an honest true one about a ghost that used to ha'nt my great-grandfather. My great-grandfather owned a beautiful castle in France not far from Nice." She pronounced it with the long sound of the vowel, and was promptly corrected by Marie Louise. "I said it was my great-grandfather, not my niece," said the storyteller sharply. "Well, onct upon a time he was engaged in a war—the Communism war, I think it was. In the heat of battle one day he cut off a great general's head, just like that. Goodness, don't jump so, Rosemary! It rolled down a hill, bumpety-bump, swearing all the way. You see, he was a very great general and was allowed to swear all he pleased. He got his head cut off, so there's a warning for you boys never to swear. Well, Grandpa got off of his fiery steed and looked everywhere for the corpse's head. He had the body all right, but what good was a body without a head? He couldn't find it anywhere. The rest of the army came up and helped in the search, but 'twasn't any use. That general's head had disappeared as if by magic. At first it was thought they might trace it by the cuss-words it was uttering, but you see by this time everybody was swearing, so it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. They kept on hunting for nearly a week, because Grandpa wanted to send that feller's head to his widow, so's she could give it a decent burial and also get the insurance. He—"
"And so's she could get married again," broke in Frederick.
"Exactly. Well, after the war was over, Grandpa he went back to his castle to rest up for the next war, and to have his sword sharpened and his petard fixed. One dark night he was a-setting in his ante-room pondering over the past and wondering what had become of that feller's head—and also what had become of his widder, who was a most bewitching creature and would make any man a most desirable wife, especially if he didn't have one already—which Grandpa didn't. All of a sudden he heard a voice speaking to him as if from a graveyard. It said 'Good evenin', Duke!' Did I tell you my great-grandpa was a duke? Well, he was. 'Good evenin', Duke,' said the voice, coming from nowhere in—"
"Did it say it twice?" demanded Reginald.
"Four or five times," said Melissa; "because Grandpa wasn't sure he heard it the first time. He looked everywhere. Finally he saw it. It was perched right there on his knee—a awful, horrid, bluggy head with its moustache twisted up like Swanson's on Sunday. It—Oh, Lordy!"
Mr. Bingle entered the nursery. The children stared at him as if at the long-expected ghost, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. His sandy, greyish hair which of late had been trained to lie quite sleek and precise across the widening bald-spot, was now in a state of wild disorder. It stood out "every which way," according to Melissa's subsequent description, and lent to his appearance an aspect of fierceness that was almost inconceivable. Somehow they were all surprised when this sinister figure spoke, for his voice was kind and gentle, and not at all what one might have looked for in a maniac.
"Well, well, here we are. Isn't it time you all were in bed? Off with you, like good boys and girls. Daddy won't be able to come up to see that you're tucked in to-night. I'll say good night to you now. Melissa, will you and Stokes come down to the library as soon as you've got them to bed? And please tell the other nurse-maids to come also. I don't happen to see them about anywhere. I suppose it is a general night out. I have something important to say to you all. Please be as spry as possible. I want to get it over with."
Half an hour later, Mr. Bingle received his servants in the library. It was to be noted that his hair was smoothly brushed. With him in the room was a young man who was recognised by a few of the servants as Mr. Epps, a clerk from the lawyers' offices. From Diggs down to the boy whose sole duty it was to feed the robins and squirrels in the park—all were there, a curious and strangely depressed assemblage.
The master, in a quiet, unemotional voice at once stated the object of the meeting. He had called them together for the purpose of giving them the required two weeks' notice, and also to pay them in full their wages up to the twentieth of the month. They were at liberty to go, however, as soon as they liked, but he desired them to know that it would be with his best wishes for their future. A letter of recommendation would be found attached to each pay envelope. He regretted exceedingly that it was not in his power to supplement this last payment by the addition of a well-deserved present to each of his faithful servitors. Circumstances over which he had no control made it impossible for him to give them more than the stipulated amount. In concluding a brief, simple tribute to their loyalty as servants and an expression of his sincere regret that they were so soon to part company, Mr. Bingle said:
"You see before you, my friends, a man who is poorer than any one of you. Yesterday I was a rich man, to-day I am as poor as Job's turkey. Poorer, if anything, for Job's turkey at least possessed a home, such as it was. To-morrow I shall receive official notification that Seawood and all that goes with it, real and personal, is no longer mine. The law has said so, and I must abide by the decision of the highest court in the land.
"The Supreme Court has finally handed down its decision in the case of Hooper et al. vs. Bingle. I am not the rightful heir. Joseph H. Hooper was not acting within his rights when he disposed of his privately acquired fortune. His children were acting within their rights when they disowned him, scorned him, kicked him out of their lives. It has been decided that my uncle was not competent to dispose of his property, and that I, his conniving nephew, influenced him by craft, wiliness, duplicity and so forth to such an extent that he gave his money to me instead of to those who should have received it. The Supreme Court declares that all of the lower courts erred in not admitting testimony to prove that my uncle DESIRED to leave his fortune to his children, even after he had made his last will in my favour.
"It may interest you to know that 'The Christmas Carol' had a great deal to do with the decision. The lower courts refused to hear evidence to the effect that after making his will he wrote a letter to each of his children, over his own signature, in which he stated that upon reading the carol he was so impressed with the sermon it preached that he was more than willing to let bygones be bygones and to give to his children all of his fortune, in equal shares, expressing the hope, however, that they would be governed by the same noble book in compensating his beloved nephew, Thomas Bingle, and so on and so forth. If they would take him back into their lives, he would forget and forgive. Of course, no attention was paid to these letters at the time, because he was supposed to be penniless. They only went to show that he was mentally unbalanced. In the original trials, these letters were introduced. The Christmas Carol was also offered as one of the exhibits, and it was allowed to stick. When the story was read in open court, every one sniffled, even the judge. The jury almost bellowed. 'As it was allowed to remain in the record, I've no doubt the Supreme Bench wept a little over Tiny Tim. In its decision the Supreme Court refers quite freely to the story and its effect on the old gentleman. I shall not go into the history of the case. It would not be of interest to you. It is only necessary for me to repeat that I shall be penniless. Seawood must be turned over to the rightful owners. I don't mind admitting that I have never really felt that it belonged to me. I have always thought that Joseph Hooper's millions belonged to his children, mean as they are.
"But that is neither here nor there. My lawyers would not consent to my believing anything that they didn't want me to believe. I don't own a dollar in the world, however, except the wages due to you, my faithful servants. These wages are to be paid to you to-night by Mr. Epps, who has cashed my last check against the Hooper fortune, in order that you may receive your due. To-morrow my check, I fear, would not be honoured. If I have done wrong in withdrawing money to-day for the purpose of paying you for honest labour, I shall certainly never permit it to disturb my conscience. As soon as Rutherford is able to be removed, I shall leave Seawood forever. In conclusion, I may say that all I have left in the world are ten small children. As usual, they turn out to be the poor man's fortune. Mr. Epps, will you be good enough now to distribute the pay envelopes? I shall say good night to all of you, and to you, Mr. Epps, as well. To-morrow at any hour you may select it will give me pleasure to go with you to see the little flat you have described as the most desirable in your list of apartments. I was not aware, Mr. Epps, that you acted as a renting agent in addition to your duties with Bradlee, Sigsbee & Oppenheim."
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Epps. "I find it quite a profitable side issue, Mr. Bingle. Clients of ours are constantly being reduced to the necessity of seeking cheaper—ahem! I shall be pleased to show you the flat at any hour YOU may select."
"Thank you, Epps."
Without going more deeply into details, the foregoing explains the situation. Thomas Singleton Bingle was to be deprived of the Hooper millions. His ten years of possession, years of peace and plenty, had come to an abrupt termination. Poverty, even darker than he had suffered before the windfall, loomed up ahead of him, for in the old days there had been no children to feed and clothe. Added to this was the certainty that a sick wife would take the place of that well, strong and encouraging Mary of the past. Despite the claims and assurances of his lawyers, Mr. Bingle always had felt that this day would come. He had never looked upon himself as the rightful possessor of Joseph Hooper's fortune in its entirety. So, when the time came, he was the least surprised by the shock, and would have been the first to smile had it not been for the dreadful effect the news had upon Mrs. Bingle. His wife collapsed. She sent for her mother and sister and declared openly that from that day forth she would make her home with them. And to add to Mr. Bingle's incalculable distress, Dr. Fiddler very resolutely said that he thought it advisable for her to do precisely what she wanted to do at this time. Later on, no doubt, she would look upon the situation differently, and would return to him sound in body, mind and affection. But for the present—well, said the great Dr. Fiddler, she'd be much happier with her mother and sister, away from Mr. Bingle and the children. He also advised Mr. Bingle in no uncertain terms to get rid of the children as soon as possible without seriously jeopardising their future welfare, "for," said he, "they will never cease to be a barrier between you and your wife, now that the dream is over and you are both awake to the cruel call of reality." The situation became desperate for Mr. Bingle when his wife took her extraordinary stand, and not before. He wilted like a faded flower in the face of this blighting calamity.
On the morning of the sixth of July, a pompous old gentleman rang the front doorbell at Sea............