Part 15 (1/2)
At the sight of him she stopped short and cried, ”Have you heard the sad news?”
”No; what sad news?” said Tinker.
”About poor Monsieur Courtnay! He has had an accident; he is laid up at Nice, ill among strangers! I go; I fly to nurse him!”
”Nurse that brute!” said Tinker quickly. ”That--that is a waste of kindness.”
Madame de Belle-ile's face fell, and then flushed with anger. ”You are a horrid and detestable boy!” she cried angrily.
”Oh, no! I'm not! It's quite true,” said Tinker quietly, and he looked at her seriously. He wanted to warn her; then he saw that he could not do so without revealing Claire's secret. ”I wish I could tell you about him,” he went on. ”But I can't. He really is a sweep!”
”You are an impertinent little wretch!” she said, and left him.
”Au revoir,” said Tinker gently.
But she only tossed her head, and hurried on. Yet Tinker's honest expression of opinion had impressed her: she had a belief in the instinct of children generally and, like most people who came into contact with him, she had a strong belief in the instinct of Tinker.
She tried to forget his words; but they kept recurring to her, and in spite of herself, unconsciously, they put her on her guard.
Tinker watched her out of sight, then he had half a thought of telling Claire that she had gone to Courtnay, doubtless at his summons. But he saw quickly that there was no need, and dismissed the thought from his mind. Also, he kept out of his cousin's way for some days; he had a feeling that,--however grateful she might be to him, the sight of him, reminding her of how badly Courtnay had behaved, would be unpleasant to her.
However, he watched her from a distance, and saw that she was pale and listless. Then he saw with great pleasure that Lord Crosland contrived to be with her a good deal, that he even neglected the system for her.
But for all this pleasure, he was not quite easy in his mind; the knowledge that he had done his grand-uncle b.u.mpkin the service of saving him from such a son-in-law as Courtnay was a discomfort to him: he felt that this was a matter which must be set right, and he kept his eyes open for a chance. He looked, too, for the return of Courtnay and Madame de Belle-ile; but the days pa.s.sed and they did not return.
One morning he found himself in an unhappy mood. It seemed to him that his wits had come to a standstill; for three days no new mischief had come the way of his idle hands, and his regular, dally, mischievous practices had grown so regular as almost to have acquired the tastelessness of duties. The peculiar brightness and gaiety of Monte Carlo life had begun to pall upon him. Loneliness was eating into his soul; for of all the French boys who paraded the gardens of the Temple of Fortune, he could make nothing. Their costumes, which were of velvet and satin and lace, revolted him; their lack of spirit, their distaste for violent movement, their joy in parading their revolting costumes filled him with wondering contempt. As for the little French girls, he was at any time uninterested in girls; and these spindle-shanked precocities walked on two-inch heels, and tried to fascinate him with the graces of mature coquettes. His careful politeness was hard put to it to conceal his distaste for their conversation. Possibly he was hankering after a healthier life; but at any rate he, who was generally so full of energy, had mooned listlessly about the gardens all the morning, with a far-away look in his eyes, and the air of a strayed seraph.
During his mooning about he had pa.s.sed several times a little girl who looked English. She sat on a seat in the far corner--a strange, shy, timid child, watching with a half-frightened wonder the strikingly-dressed women and children who strolled up and down, chattering shrilly. He gave her but indifferent glances as he pa.s.sed; but, thanks to his father's careful training of his natural gift of observation, the indifferent glance of that child of the world took in more of a fellow-creature than most men's careful scrutiny. He saw that she was frail and big-eyed, that her frock was ill-fitting and shabby, her hat shabbier, her shoes ready-made, that she wore no gloves, and that her ma.s.s of silky hair owed its unsuccessful attempts at tidiness to her own brus.h.i.+ng. He summed her up as that archetype of patience, the gambler's neglected child.
Just before he went to his dejeuner, he saw that she was sitting there still. He took that meal with his father and Lord Crosland; and instead of hurrying off, directly he had eaten his dessert, to some pressing and generally mischievous business, he sat listening to their talk over their coffee and cigars, and only left them at the doors of the Casino. He strolled along the terrace, moody and disconsolate, able to think of nothing to amuse him, and, as he came to the end of the gardens, he saw a group of French children gathered in front of the seat on which the little girl was sitting, and, coming nearer, he heard jeering cries of ”Sale Anglaise! Sale Anglaise!”
In a flash Tinker's face shone with a very ecstasy of pure delight, and he swooped down on the group. The child was clutching the arm of the seat, and staring at her tormentors with parted lips and terrified eyes. For their part, they were enjoying themselves to the full. They had found a game which afforded them the maximum of pleasure, with the minimum of effort; and just as Tinker swooped down, a cropped and bullet-headed boy in blue velvet threw a handful of gravel into her face. She threw up her hands and burst into tears; the children's laughter rose to a shrill yell; and with extreme swiftness Tinker caught the bullet-headed boy a ringing box on the right ear and another on the left. The boy squealed, turned, clawing and kicking, on Tinker, and, in ten seconds of crowded life, had learned the true significance of those cryptic terms an upper-cut on the potato-trap, a hook on the jaw, a rattler on the conk, and a buster on the mark. He lay down on the path to digest the lesson, and his little friends fled, squealing, away.
The little girl slipped off the seat and said ”Thank you,” between two sobs.
Tinker's face was one bright, seraphic smile as he took off his hat, and, with an admirable bow, said, ”May I take you to your people?”
The bullet-headed boy rose to his feet and staggered away.
”Uncle's still in that big house,” said the little girl, striving bravely to check her sobs.
”That's a nuisance,” said Tinker thoughtfully; ”for we can't get at him.”
”I think he's forgotten all about me. He often does,” said the little girl, without any resentment; and she dusted the gravel off her frock.
”I might bolt in and remind him.”
”They won't let us in--only grown-ups,” said the little girl. ”Uncle tried to get them to let me in; but they wouldn't.”
”They're used to letting me in,” said Tinker--”and hauling me out again,” he added. ”It brightens them up. You tell me what he's like.”
Being a girl, the child was able to describe her uncle accurately: but when she had done, Tinker shook his head: