FullReads

With this he walked to his table–he had not yet taken a seat, although a chair was next to my own–and laid in my lap a roll of galley-proofs.

“It is the new encyclopaedia. I do the biographies, you see–principally of men and the different towns and countries. I have got down now to the R’s–Richelieu–Rochambeau–” his fingers were now tracing the lines. “Here is Romulus, and here is Russia–I gave that half a column, and–dry work, isn’t it? But I like it, for I can write here by my fire if I please, and all my other time is my own. You see they are signed ‘Norvic Bing.’ I insisted on that. These publishers are selfish sometimes, and want to efface a writer’s personality, but I would not permit it, and so finally they gave in. But no more of that–one must eat, and to eat one must work, so why quarrel with the spade or the ground? See that you raise good crops–that is the best of all.”

Then he branched off into a description of a ball he had attended some years before at the Tuileries–of the splendor of the interior; the rich costumes of the women; the blaze of decorations worn by the men; the graciousness of the Empress and the charm of her beauty–then of a visit he had made to the Exile a few months after he had reached Chiselhurst. Throwing up his hands he said: “A feeble old man with hollow eyes and a cracked voice. Oh, such a pity! For he was royal–although all Europe laughed.”

When the time came for me to go–it was near midnight, to my astonishment–he followed me to the door, bidding me good-night with both hands over mine, saying I should come again when he was at leisure, as he had been that night–which I promised to do, adding my thanks for what I declared was the most delightful evening I had ever spent in my life.

And it had been–and with it there had oozed out of my mind every drop of my former suspicion. There was another side that he was hiding from us, but it was the side of tenderness for his children–for those he loved and from whom he was parted. I had boasted to myself of my intuition and had looked, as I supposed, deep into his heart, and all I found were three little faces. With this came a certain feeling of shame that I had been stupid enough to allow my imagination to run away with my judgment. Hereafter I would have more sense.

All that winter Bing was the life of the house. The days on which his seat was empty–off getting statistics for the encyclopaedia, I explained to my fellow-boarders, I being looked upon now as having special information owing to my supposed intimacy, although I had never entered his room since that night–on these days, I say, the table relapsed into its old-time dullness.

One night I found his card on my pin-cushion. I always locked my door myself when I left my room–had done so that night, I thought, but I must have forgotten it. Under his name was written: “Say good-by to the others.”

I concluded, of course, that it was but for a few days and that he would return as usual, and hold out his two big generous hands to each one down the table, leaving a warmth behind him which they had not known since he last pressed their palms–and so on down until he reached Miss Buffum and the school-teacher, who would both rise in their seats to welcome him.

With the passing of the first week the good lady became uneasy; the board, as usual, had been paid in advance, but it was the man she missed. No one else could add the drop of oil to the machinery of the house, nor would it run smoothly without him.