sitting in the gardens of the Temple of Fortune, and on a bench hard by
sat Claire and Courtnay. He was bending over her, talking volubly, in
a loverlike attitude, exceedingly offensive in so public a place. To
Sir Tancred's shrewd eyes he seemed to be deliberately advertising
their intimacy. She was gazing dreamily before her with happy eyes,
over the sea. Lord Crosland grew more and more fidgety; and at last he
said hotly, "You ought to interfere!"
"Not I!" said Sir Tancred. "I'm not going to interfere. I have enough
to do to keep Tinker out of mischief without acting as dry-nurse to the
children of Uncle Bumpkin."
"But hang it all, the man's a regular bad hat!" said Lord Crosland.
"He was advised to resign from the Bridge Club, and I happen to know
that he is actually wanted in London about a cheque."
"And in Paris, Berlin, Petersburg, Vienna, and Buda-Pesth. Men who
speak French as well as he does always are," said Sir Tancred. "Which
reminds me, Tinker, your accent is getting too good. The honest
English tongue was never made to speak French like a Frenchman. Let up
on it a little."
"Yes, sir," said Hildebrand Anne.
"But you ought to do something, don't you know?" said Lord Crosland.
"The child's very pretty, and nice, and sweet, and all that. It would
be no end of a shame if she came to grief with that bounder Courtnay."
"I won't stir a finger," said Sir Tancred firmly, "for two reasons.
One, Bumpkin Wigram helped my stepmother spoil my early life; two, if
this bounder Courtnay has got round Bumpkin words would be wasted.
Bumpkin is as dense and as obstinate as any clodhopper who ever chawed
bacon."
"But she's a pretty child and worth saving," said Lord Crosland. "What
do you think, Tinker?"
"I should think she was rather inexperienced," said Hildebrand Anne,
with admirable judgment.
"Solomon, va!" said Lord Crosland, clutching the boy's ribs, and
drawing from him a sudden yell.
"Well, come along; we have a hard day's work before us," said Sir
Tancred; and the two of them rose and strolled off towards the Temple
of Fortune.
They left Tinker sitting still and thoughtful, the prey of a case of
conscience. He knew the story of his father's marriage, his separation
from his wife by the action of Lady Beauleigh and Sir Everard. He had
been trained to detest them, and to believe any revenge on them a mere
act of justice. But his dead mother was but a shadowy figure to him,
and this girl was very charming, and sweet, and kind, for he had had a
long talk with her one evening, and she had shared a box of chocolates
with him. Did those chocolates constitute the tie of bread and salt
between them which his father had taught him was so binding? He wished
to help the girl, therefore he made up his mind that they did. With a
sigh of satisfaction he rose, sauntered up to the absorbed lovers, and
began to parade up and down before them. His nearness put something of
a check on the eloquence of Mr. Arthur Courtnay, and every time
Tinker's shadow fell on them he looked up and frowned.
At last he said, "Go away, my lad, and play somewhere else."
"I don't want any cheek from a hairdresser's assistant," said Tinker
with blithe readiness.
There is nothing so wounding as the truth, and Courtnay knew that he
was weak about the hair; he never could bring himself to keep it
properly cropped; it was so glossy. His florid face became quickly
florider, and he cried, "You impudent young dog!"
"Do not speak to me until you've been introduced. You're always
forcing your acquaintance upon someone, Roland Macassar," said Tinker.
It was again the wounding truth; and Courtnay sprang up and dashed for
him. Tinker bolted round a group of shrubs, Courtnay after him.
Finding him unpleasantly quick on his feet Tinker bolted into the
shrubs. Courtnay plunged after him right into a well-grown specimen of
the flowering cactus. It brought him up short. He began to swear, and
though he could have sworn with equal fluency and infelicity in French,
German, or Italian, in the depth of his genuine emotion he returned to
the tongue of his boyhood, and swore in English. When he came out of
the shrubs, adorned on one side of his face and both hands with neat
little beads of blood, he found that Claire had risen from her seat,
and was looking shocked, surprised, and worst of all, disgusted. He
did not mend matters much by mixing his apologies with threats of
vengeance on Tinker; but his temper, once out of control, was not
easily curbed. He made a most unfortunate impression on her; the beads
of blood scarcely excited her pity at all.
Meanwhile Tinker had taken advantage of his pursuer's meeting with the
cactus to leave the terrace swiftly. He went back to the Hôtel des
Princes, and took out Blazer for a walk, and as he walked, his
seraph-like face glowed with the pleasantest complacency. Blazer did
not like Monte Carlo at all; for him there was no sport and little
exercise in it; Tinker liked it very much. He had made many friends in
it, and enjoyed many amusements, the chief a pleasant, perpetual war
against the heavy, liveried guardians of the gambling rooms. It was
his opinion that people came to Monte Carlo to gamble; it was the
opinion of the Société des Bains de Mer de Monte Carlo that children
ought not to be admitted to the tables. They asserted their opinion;
and Tinker asserted his, with the result that his bolt into the Salles
de Jeu and his difficult extrication from them by the brawny, but
liveried officials was fast becoming one of the events of the day.
Sometimes Tinker would make his bolt from the outermost portal;
sometimes, with the decorous air of one going to church, he would join
the throng filing into the concert room, and bolt from the midst of it.
The process of expulsion was always conducted with the greatest
courtesy on either side; for his bolt had become an agreeable variety
in the monotonous lives of the guardians; they never knew when or in
what fashion it would come next.
Now he had another occupation, the shadowing of Mr. Arthur Courtnay.
That florid Adonis never grew used to hearing a gentle voice singing
softly:
"Get your hair cut! Get your hair cut!"
or,
"Oh, Tatcho! Oh, Tatcho!
Rejoice, ye bald and weary men!
You'll soon be regular hairy men!
Sing! Rejoice! Let your voices go!
Sprinkle some on your cranium!
What, ho! Tatcho!"
The poetry was vulgar; but long ago his insight into the heart of man
had taught Tinker to attack the vulgar with the only weapon effective
against them, vulgarity.
Sooner or later, whether he was walking, or sitting with Claire, those
vulgar strains would be wafted to Mr. Arthur Courtnay's ears, and they
injured his cause. They kept alive in the girl's mind an uneasy doubt
whether her father was right in asserting Arthur Courtnay to be one of
the nicest fellows he had ever met, a veritable gentleman of the old
school, an opinion founded on the fact that Courtnay was the only man
who had ever given two hours' close attention to his views on
Protection.
But, for all this lurking doubt, Courtnay's influence over her was
growing stronger and stronger. He was forever appealing to her pity by
telling her of the hard and lonely life he had lived since his father,
a poor gentleman of good family, had died in exile at Boulogne.
Really, his father, a stout but impecunious horse-dealer of the name of
Budgett, certainly in exile at Boulogne owing to a standing difference
with the bankruptcy laws of his country, was alive still. But Arthur
was very fond of himself, and once in the mood of self-pity, he could
invent pathetic anecdote after pathetic anecdote of his privations
which would have touched the heart of a hardened grandmother, much more
of a susceptible girl. She fell into the way of calling him "King
Arthur" to herself.
He devoted himself to winning her with an unrelaxing energy, for she
had forty thousand pounds of her own.
But he cared very little for her, and sometimes he found his
love-making hard work. She was not the type of girl whom he admired;
her delicacy irritated him; he preferred what the poet has called "an
armful of girl," buxom and hearty. Often, therefore, when she had gone
to bed, he would refresh himself by a vigorous flirtation with Madame
Séraphine de Belle-Île, a brisk and vivacious young widow, who affected
always gowns of a peculiarly vivid and searching scarlet. And this
self-indulgence proved in the end the ruin of his fine scheme of
establishing himself in life on a sound monetary basis.
Tinker was about to get into bed one evening, and found himself slow
about it. His conscience was worrying him about some duty left undone,
and he could not remember what the duty was. Of a sudden his terrible
omission flashed into his mind: in his patient application to the task
of shadowing and annoying Mr. Arthur Courtnay he had forgotten his
daily bolt into the gambling rooms. Reluctant, but firm, he slipped on
his pumps and went downstairs. Four minutes later the feverish
gamblers in the Salles de Jeu were gratified by the sight of a
seraph-like child in blue silk pyjamas who flew gaily round the tables
pursued by two stout and joyfully excited Southern Europeans in livery.
The pursuit was lively, but short, for Tinker ran into the arms of a
wily croupier who had slipped from his seat, and unexpectedly joined
the chase. He was handed over to his pursuers and conducted from the
rooms, amidst the plaudits of the gamblers. He bade good-night to his
liveried friends on the threshold of the Casino, congratulating them on
their increasing efficiency in "Le Sport," and warm, but happy with the
sense of one more duty done, he strolled into the gardens to cool.
[Illustration: The pursuit was lively, but short.]
He was noiseless in his pumps, and coming quietly round a clump of
shrubs, he caught Mr. Arthur Courtnay in the act of trying to kiss
Madame de Belle-Île with a fervour only justified by the most romantic
attachment.
"Oh!" said Tinker reproachfully; and even more reproachfully he began
to sing:
"Coupez vos cheveux! Coupez vos cheveux!"
With an execration which was by no means muttered, Mr. Arthur Courtnay
sprang up. Tinker darted away, and Courtnay followed. They pelted
through the gardens, Courtnay gaining; but as he passed a couple of
gendarmes standing in front of the Casino, Tinker yelled: "Gare le
voyou! Gare le voyou!" Instinctively the gendarmes flung themselves
before Courtnay, and his impetus brought the three of them to the
ground with some violence.
With one fleeting glance behind, Tinker scudded on to the hotel, and
once safely in his room abandoned himself without restraint to
convulsions of inextinguishable delight. When he recovered his
habitual calm, he saw that Fortune had given him a weapon with which he
might save his cousin.
Mr. Arthur Courtnay and the gendarmes picked themselves up; he made his
explanations, and wisely compensated them for the bruises they had
received in his fall. Then giving no more thought to Madame de
Belle-Île, who sat awaiting him eagerly, he returned gloomily to his
hotel, reflecting on the carelessness which had delivered him into the
hands of an indefatigable imp of mischief. The upshot of his
reflection was a resolve to press his wooing to an immediate
conclusion. The next day and the day after, therefore, he redoubled
his lamentations that the smallness of his means prevented him from
going, as his natural honesty dictated, straight to Claire's father,
and asking for her hand, and protested that he dare not risk the loss
of her, which would work irreparable havoc in his life. It was only
another step to suggest that, once they were married, her father's
strong liking for him would soon bring about their forgiveness. He
pressed and pressed these points, pausing at times to declare the
vastness of his affection for her, until at last, against her better
judgment, and in spite of a lurking distrust of him, of which she could
not rid herself, she yielded to his persistence and the overwhelming
influence of his stronger personality, and consented to elope with him.
Two days later, as Tinker, Sir Tancred, and Lord Crosland were at
déjeuner, Claire and Courtnay passed them on their way to the gardens.
"I shouldn't wonder if those two ran away together," said Lord
Crosland; and his cheerful face fell gloomy.
"They have the air," said Sir Tancred coolly.
"Look here, you ought to interfere, don't you know? You ought,
really," said Lord Crosland, who had fallen under the fascination of
Claire's fresh charm.
"Why don't _you_?" said Sir Tancred.
"Well," said Lord Crosland uncomfortably, "I did go to Sir Everard, and
tell him to keep an eye on Courtnay; and he as good as told me to go
to--Jericho."
"Just like Bumpkin," said Sir Tancred contemptuously. "I'll bet you a
fiver they bolt to-night--by the train _des décavés_."
"I don't want to bet about it," said Lord Crosland very gloomily.
Their talk made Tinker thoughtful. It would have been easy enough to
settle the matter by revealing Courtnay's injudicious display of
affection towards Madame de Belle-Île, but that was not Tinker's way.
He had a passion for keeping things in his own hands, and a pretty eye
for dramatic possibilities. Besides, he had taken a great dislike to
Courtnay, and was eager to make his discomfiture signal.
At half-past four in the afternoon he knocked at the door of Madame de
Belle-Île's suite of rooms, and her maid conducted so prominent a
figure in Monte Carlo society straight to her mistress.
Madame de Belle-Île, having just changed from a bright scarlet costume
into a brighter, was taking her afternoon tea before returning to the
tables.
"Bonjour, Monsieur le Vaurien," she said with a bright smile. "Have
you at last succeeded in gambling?"
"No; it would be no pleasure to me to gamble unless your bright eyes
were shining on the table," said Tinker with a happy recollection of a
compliment he had overheard.
"Farceur! Va!" said the lady with a pleased smile.
"I came to ask if you would like to sup with Mr. Courtnay to-night?"
said the unscrupulous Tinker.
"Ah, le bel Artur!" cried the lady. "But with pleasure. Where?"
"Oh, in the restaurant of the hotel," said Tinker.
The lady's face fell a little; she would have preferred to sup in a
less public place, one more suited to protestations of devotion.
"At about eleven?" she said.
"At half past," said Tinker. "And I think he'd like a note from you
accepting--it--it would please him, I'm sure. He--he--could take it
out, and look at it, you know." It was a little clumsy; but, though he
had thought it out carefully, it was the best that he could do.
"You think so? What a lot we know about these things!" said Madame de
Belle-Île with a pleased laugh; and she went forthwith to the
écritoire, and in ten minutes composed the tenderest of billets-doux.
Tinker received it from her with a very lively satisfaction, and after
a few bonbons, and a desultory chat with her, escorted her down to the
Casino.
The rest of the day seemed very long to his impatience, while to
Claire, harassed by vague doubt and real dread, it seemed exceedingly
short. When the hour for action came, she braced herself, by an
effort, to play her part; but it was with a sinking heart that she
stole, thickly veiled, and bearing a small hand-bag, out of the hotel
and down to the station. She was far too troubled to notice that she
was followed by two guardian angels in the shape of a small boy and a
brindled bull-terrier.
Courtnay met her on the top of the steps which lead down to the
station; and when she found him in a most inharmonious mood of triumph,
she began, even so early, to repent of her rashness. Then went down to
the station as the train _des décavés_, the train of the stony-broke,
steamed in; and they settled themselves in an empty first-class
compartment. Her heart seemed to sink to her shoes as she felt the
train move. Then the door opened, and, hauling the panting Blazer by
the scruff of his neck, Tinker tumbled into the carriage.
Claire gave a great gasp of relief: the sight of him gave her a faint
hope of escape; his presence was a respite. Tinker lifted Blazer on to
the seat between him and Courtnay, crying cheerfully, "I thought I'd
just missed you! I've got a note for you from Madame de Belle-Île, and
I knew she'd never forgive me if I didn't give it to you!"
Courtnay's florid face had already lost a little colour at the mere
intrusion of his inveterate persecutor that alone presaged disaster; at
his words his eyes displayed a lively, but uncomfortable tendency to
start out of his head. "I don't know what you mean!" he stuttered. "I
don't know Madame de Belle-Île!"
"You don't know Madame de Belle-Île!" cried Tinker in well-affected
amazement and surprise. "Why, only three nights ago I saw you trying
to kiss her in the gardens!"
"It's a lie!" roared Courtnay.
"The Beauleighs don't lie," said Tinker curtly.
For the moment, breathless with rage, Courtnay could find no words, and
Claire, very pale, stared from one to the other with startled,
searching eyes.
"At any rate, here's her letter," said Tinker stiffly, holding it out
over Blazer's back.
Claire stooped swiftly forward and took the letter. "I am the person
to read that letter," she said with a spirit Courtnay had never dreamed
of in her. "It is my right!"
She tore it open, and had just time to read "Mon Artur adoré," when
Courtnay, with a growl of rage, snatched it from her, and tore it into
pieces, crying, "I will not have you victimised by this mischievous
young dog! It's an absurd imposition! I claim your trust!"
But the doubt of him which had lurked always in the bottom of Claire's
heart had sprung to sudden strength; she looked at him with eyes that
were veritably chilling in their coldness, and, turning to Tinker, she
said, "Is it true?"
"It is--on my honour," said Tinker.
There was a quivering movement in Claire's throat as she choked down a
sob: she rose, and walked down the carriage to the seat opposite
Tinker, farthest from Courtnay. Slowly collecting his wits, Courtnay
grew eloquent and ran through the whole gamut of the emotions proper to
the occasion: honourable indignation, and passion so deep as to be
ready to forgive even this heart-breaking distrust. She listened to
him in silence with an unchanging face, her lips set thin, her sombre
eyes gazing straight before her.
Suddenly despair seized Courtnay, and he gave the rein to the fury
which he had been repressing with such difficulty. "At any rate, I'll
be even with you, you young dog!" he cried savagely. "I'm going to
throw you out of the train!"
"Oh, no; you're not!" said Tinker pleasantly. "By the time you've
thrown Blazer out there won't be enough of you left to throw me out."
Courtnay jumped up with a demonstrative hostility; Tinker hissed; with
an angry snarl Blazer drew in his tongue and put out his teeth, and
Courtnay sat down. For a while he was silent, seeking for an object to
vent his rage on; they could hear him grinding his teeth. Then he
burst out at Claire, taunting, jeering, and abusing.
"That's enough!" cried Tinker angrily. "Pstt! Pstt! At him, Blazer!
At him!"
For a few seconds Courtnay tried fighting, but his upbringing in France
had not fitted him to cope with a heavy bull-terrier. When the train
ran into the station at Nice, he was out on the footboard, on the
further side, yelling lustily.
"Come on quick, before there's a fuss!" cried Tinker, catching up
Claire's handbag, and opening the door. They jumped down, Tinker
whistled Blazer, and the three of them bustled along the platform.
"I've no ticket!" gasped Claire, who every moment expected Courtnay to
be upon them.
"I thought of that! I've got one for you!" said Tinker; and before
Courtnay had quite realised that the train had stopped, they were out
of the station.
Tinker hurried his charge along the line of fiacres, and stopped at a
victoria and pair.
"Holà, cocher!" he said. "From the Couronne d'Or? Wired for to drive
a lady and a boy to Monte Carlo?"
"Oui, monsieur!" cried the driver, gaily cracking his whip.
They scrambled in; and the horses stepped out. Tinker knelt on the
seat, looking back over the hood. They were almost out of sight of the
station when he fancied that he saw a hatless figure run out of it into
the road. It might have been only fancy; they were so far off he could
not trust his sight. Three minutes later he dropped down on the seat
with a sigh of relief. "That's all right!" he said.
"Oh," said Claire, "how can I ever thank you? You've saved me--oh,
what haven't you saved me from!"
"A bad hat--a regular bad hat," said Tinker gravely.
"You wonderful boy!" she cried, threw her arms around his neck and
kissed him.
Tinker wriggled uncomfortably. He often wished that there were not
quite so many women in the world who insisted on embracing him.
"Well, you're a kind of cousin, you see," he said by way of defence.
After a while Claire cooled from her excitement to the cold
understanding of her folly. Then she grew, very naturally, bitterly
unhappy, and to his horror Tinker heard the sound of a stifled sob.
"I think, if you'll excuse me," he said hurriedly, "I'll go to sleep."
And, happily for his comfort, his pretence at slumber was soon a
reality. It was no less a comfort to Claire: she had her cry out, and
felt the better for it.
When the carriage drew up before the Hôtel des Princes, they found an
excited group about the doorway. Sir Everard Wigram was the centre of
it, raging and lamenting. He had missed his daughter, and with his
usual good sense was taking all the world into his confidence. Lord
Crosland and Sir Tancred stood on one side; and it is to be feared that
Sir Tancred was enjoying exceedingly the distress of his enemy.
"Leave the bag to me! I'll give it to you to-morrow," whispered Tinker
as the horses stopped. "Say we've been for a drive. I shan't split!"
As Claire stepped out of the carriage, her father rushed up to her,
crying, "What does this mean? Where have you been? What have you been
doing?"
"Oh," said Claire coolly, raising her voice that all the curious group
might hear, "I've been for a drive with Cousin Hildebrand. I couldn't
find you to tell you I was going." And taking out her purse, she
stepped forward to pay the coachman.
Tinker, keeping the bag as low as he could, slipped through the group.
Lord Crosland hurried after him, and caught him by the shoulder.
"Where have you really been?" he said. "What happened? Where's
Courtnay?"
"I've been for a drive with my cousin," said Tinker, looking up at him
with eyes of a limpid frankness.
"Ah, let's see what you've got in that bag."
"Can't. It's locked," said Tinker shortly.
"Well, never mind. I owe you fifty pound," said Lord Crosland joyfully.
Tinker stopped short and his face grew very bright. "Do you?" he said.
"I think I should like it in gold--a fiver at a time."
CHAPTER TEN
TINKER'S FOUNDLING
On the following afternoon Tinker met Madame de Belle-Île hurrying out
of the hotel in a scarlet travelling costume.
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-Île'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.