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 Bumpkin 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-Île; but the days passed 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 passed 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 passed;
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 mass of silky hair owed its unsuccessful attempts
at tidiness to her own brushing. He summed her up as that archetype of
patience, the gambler's neglected child.
Just before he went to his déjeuner, 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:
"He must be just like a dozen other Englishmen in there," he said.
"And they wouldn't give me time to ask each one if he were your uncle."
The little girl sighed, and said, "It doesn't matter, thank you," and,
sitting down again on the seat, resumed her patient waiting, drooping
forward with eyes rather dim.
Tinker studied her face, and his keen eye told him what was wrong.
"Have you had déjeuner?" he said sharply.
"No-o-o," said the little girl reluctantly.
"Then you've had nothing since your coffee this morning?"
"No, but it doesn't matter. Uncle is rather forgetful," said the
little girl, but her lips moved at the thought of food as a hungry
child's will.
"This won't do at all! Come along with me. It's rather late, but
we'll find something."
Her face brightened for a moment; but she shook her head, and said,
"No, I mustn't go away from here. Uncle might come back, and he would
be so angry if he had to look for me."
Tinker shrugged his shoulders, turned on his heel, and was gone. She
looked after him sadly. She would have liked him to stay a little
longer; it was so nice to talk to an English boy after ten days in this
strange land; and he seemed such a nice boy. But she only drooped a
little more, and stared out over the bright sea with misty eyes,
composing herself to endure her hunger.
Tinker went swiftly to the restaurant of the Hôtel des Princes, where
the waiters greeted him with affectionate grins, and, addressing
himself to the manager, set forth his new friend's plight, and his
wishes. The manager fell in with them on the instant, only too pleased
to have the chance of obliging his most popular customer; and, in five
minutes, Tinker left the restaurant followed by a waiter bearing a tray
of dainties, all carefully chosen to tempt the appetite of a child.
They took their way to the gardens, and the little girl brightened up
at the sight of the returning Tinker. But when the waiter set the tray
on the seat, she flushed painfully, and though she could not draw her
hungry eyes away from the food, she stammered, "T-t-thank you very
m-m-much. B-b-but I haven't any money."
Tinker gave the waiter a couple of francs, and bade him come for the
tray in half an hour. Then he said cheerfully, "That's all right. The
food's paid for; and whether you eat it or not makes no difference. In
fact, you may as well."
The child looked from his face to the food and back again, wavering;
then said, with a little gasp, "Oh, I am so hungry."
Tinker took this for a consent, put some aspic of pâté de foie gras on
her plate, and watched her satisfy her hunger with great pleasure,
which was not lessened by the fact that, for all her hunger, she ate
with a delicate niceness. He had feared from her neglected air that
her manners had also been neglected. After the aspic, he carved the
breast of the chicken for her, helped her to salad, and mixed the ice
water with the _sirop_ to exactly the strength he liked himself; after
the chicken, he helped her to meringues, and after the meringues
lighted the kirsch of the _poires au kirsch_, which he had chosen
because it always pleased him to see the kirsch burn, and ate one of
the pears himself, while she ate the others. When she had finished her
little sigh of content warmed his heart.
He put the tray behind the seat, and settled down beside her for a
talk. Now that she was no longer hungry, she was no longer woebegone,
and her laugh, though faint, was so pretty that he found himself making
every effort to set her laughing. They talked about themselves with
the simple egoism of children; and he learned that her name was Elsie
Brand; that she was ten years old--nearly two years younger than
himself--that her mother had died many years ago, and that she had
lived with her father in his Devonshire parsonage by the sea till last
year, when he, too, had died. Then her Uncle Richard had taken her
away to live with him in London. Her story of her life in London
lodgings set Tinker wondering about that Uncle Richard, and piecing
together the details Elsie let fall about his late rising, his late
going to bed, his morning headache and distaste for breakfast, he came
to the conclusion that he was a bad hat who lived by his somewhat
inferior wits.
At the end of her story he tried to persuade her to come to the sea
with him and seek amusement there. But he failed; she would not leave
the seat. He gathered, indeed, from her fear of vexing her uncle that
that bad hat was in the habit of slapping her if she angered him, and,
for a breath, he was filled with a fierce indignation which surprised
him; she looked so frail. But he did not ask her if it were so, for
his delicacy forewarned him that the question would provoke a struggle
between her loyalty and her truthfulness. He entertained her,
therefore, with his reminiscences, and enjoyed to the full the
admiration and wonder which filled her face as he talked. Absorbed in
one another, they paid no heed to the passing of the hours; and the
sudden fall of twilight surprised them.
They began to speculate whether Uncle Richard had had enough of his
gambling, and would come and fetch her. But, even now, Elsie was not
impatient, so inured had she been to neglect. She only looked anxious
again. Tinker, on the other hand, was impatient, very impatient, with
Uncle Richard, whom he was disposed to regard as a gentleman in great
need of a kicking. Moreover, the chill hour after sunset, so dangerous
on that littoral, was upon them, and he considered with disquiet the
thin stuff of the child's frock.
Presently he said abruptly, "I've promised my father to wear an
overcoat during the fever hour. I must be off and get it, and a wrap
for you. You won't be frightened, if I leave you alone?"
"No," Elsie said bravely, but her tone belied the word.
"Well, walk up and down quickly, so that you don't get a chill. If you
keep near the seat, your uncle can't miss you if he comes."
"Very well," said Elsie, rising obediently. "Only--only--if you could
get back soon."
"I will," said Tinker, and he bolted for the hotel.
Elsie walked up and down, trying to feel brave, but the odd shapes
which the bushes assumed in the dim light daunted her not a little, and
she strove to drive away the fancy that she saw people lurking among
them. Tinker was gone a bare seven minutes; but to the timid child it
seemed a very long while, and she welcomed his return with a gasp of
relief.
He wore a smart, close-fitting brown racing overcoat, which reached to
his ankles; and for her he brought his fur-lined ulster.
"Here I am," he said cheerfully. "Get into this," and he held out the
ulster.
She put her arms into the sleeves, and he drew it around her and
buttoned it up.
"You are a kind boy," she said, with a little break in her voice. A
sudden strong but inexplicable impulse moved Tinker; he bent forward
and kissed her on the lips.
While you might count a score the children stood quite still, staring
at one another with eyes luminous in the starlight. Elsie's face was
one pink flush, and Tinker was scarlet.
"That--that was a very funny kiss," she said in a curious voice.
"Oh, what's a kiss?" said Tinker, with forced bravado, consumed with
boyish shame for the lapse.
"I--I--liked it," said Elsie. "No one has kissed me since father
died." And her breath seemed to catch.
"Girls like kissing," said Tinker in a tone of a dispassionate
observer. Then he seemed to thrust the matter away from him with some
eagerness: and, slipping her arm through his, he said, "Come on, let's
walk up and down."
They walked up and down, chattering away, till eight o'clock. Then he
said, "My father will be expecting me; he dines at eight. Won't you
come too?"
"No, no, thank you. I must wait for Uncle Richard; I must really."
But her arm tightened round his involuntarily.
Tinker thought a while. The gardens were brighter now. The stars were
shining with their full radiance, and the lamps were alight, so that
even their retired corner was faintly bright.
"Well, you go on walking up and down. You won't feel so lonely as
sitting still, and I'll be back as soon as I can;" he said, and off he
went.
He found his father and Lord Crosland beginning their soup, and,
sitting down, he told them of Elsie's plight. They were duly
sympathetic; and his father at once gave him leave to take some dinner
to her, and dine with her. Thereupon, after a brief but serious
conference with the manager, Tinker departed, again followed by a
waiter with a tray. Elsie had not looked for his return for a long
while; and she was indeed pleased to be so soon freed from the struggle
against her timidity.
They ate their dinner with great cheerfulness and good appetite, and
for an hour after it they chattered away happily. Then Elsie grew
drowsy, very drowsy, indeed, and presently, nestled against Tinker, she
fell asleep. Fortunately, the southern night was warm, and, in the
fur-lined ulster, she could take no harm. He sat holding her to him,
listening to her breathing, looking out over the sea, and revolving
many memories and more schemes, till, at last, the lights began to
dance before his eyes, and he, too, fell asleep.
He knew no more until he was awakened by someone shaking his arm, and
found his father and Lord Crosland standing over them.
The lamps of the Casino and the gardens were out; only the dim
starlight lighted the scene. The two children sat up and stared about
them--Elsie sleepily, Tinker wide awake.
"We've found you at last. Hasn't your little friend's uncle come for
her?" said Sir Tancred.
"No one has come," said Tinker.
Sir Tancred and Lord Crosland looked at one another.
"Desertion," murmured Lord Crosland softly.
"Well, come along," said Sir Tancred cheerfully. "We must put her up
for to-night."
The children slipped off the seat; Tinker put Elsie's arm through his,
and, holding her up when she stumbled over the long ulster, followed
his father and Lord Crosland.
There were some empty bedrooms in their corridor, and Elsie was settled
for the night in one of them.
Tinker awoke next morning, very cheerful at the thought of having a
companion to join in his amusements. He made haste to knock at Elsie's
door, and bid her come out for a swim before their coffee. She was
soon dressed and found him waiting for her. She flushed a little as
she greeted him, and he greeted her with a seraph's smile.
"I thought you'd like a bathe before our coffee," he said.
"It would be nice," said Elsie wistfully. "But my hair--it is such a
trouble, even without being wetted by sea-water."
Tinker looked at the fine silky mass of it, and said with sympathetic
seriousness, "I saw it was beyond you; but we'll manage."
He caught her hand, they ran down the stairs, out of the hotel, and
most of the way to the beach. Then he took her to a lady's
bathing-tent, and instructed the attendant to provide Elsie with the
prettiest costume she had; changed himself, and in five minutes they
were in the sea. To his joy, he found that she could swim nearly as
well as he. But he was very careful of her, and the moment she looked
cold he took her ashore.
They came back to the hotel very hungry; and Tinker led the way through
the passages at the back of the hall, down into the hotel kitchen,
where he was welcomed with affectionate joy by the kitchen staff. The
end of a long table had been laid with the finest napery and plate of
the hotel; they sat down at it, and were forthwith served with an
exquisitely cooked dish of fresh mullet, wonderful hot cakes, and
steaming cups of fragrant _café au lait_. As he breakfasted, Tinker
conversed with the chattering staff with a cheerful kindliness and a
thorough knowledge of all their private concerns, keeping Elsie
informed of the matters under discussion by such phrases as "It's
Adolphe's wife; she beats him;" or, "Lucie has consulted a
fortune-teller, who says she is going to marry a millionaire;" or,
"Jean's eldest daughter has just made her first communion; they say she
looked like a pretty little angel." But he did not tell her of the
chaffing congratulations heaped on him on the prospect of his settling
down with his beautiful blonde demoiselle. He accepted them with a
smile of angelic indulgence.
When they had done they went upstairs; and, on the way, Tinker said, "I
must have a shot at that hair of yours; it--it really gets on my
nerves."
"It's no use," said Elsie with her ready flush. "I brush it as well as
I can; but I can't do it very well, there's such a lot of it."
"Well, I'll do what I can," said Tinker, and he measured with
thoughtful eye the silken mass, tangled and matted by the sea-water.
He led the way into his room, and set her in a chair, took off his
coat, turned up his sleeves, took his hair brushes, and began upon it.
It was his first essay as coiffeur, but his natural and trained
deftness stood him in good stead. He kept a watchful eye on her face
in the glass, and whenever it puckered, brushed more gently; but, at
times, in his absorption in his task, he so far forgot himself as to
hiss like a groom cleaning a horse. In the middle of it Sir Tancred
came in, and it was significant that he saw Tinker's occupation without
a smile, made no joke upon it, but seemed to take it as the most
natural thing in the world that his son should be discharging a
function of the lady's maid. He greeted the children gravely, sat
down, and watched the brushing with a respectful attention. Now and
again he asked Elsie a question, which seemed too idle to be
impertinent, but her answers told him all he wished to know; and
presently he felt, with Tinker, that her uncle was a gentleman in great
need of kicking.
[Illustration: It was his first essay as coiffeur.]
At last Tinker had finished; Elsie rose with a luxurious sigh, and he
looked at his work with fond pride. It was very beautiful, fine hair;
and its sheen of changing light well repaid him for his trouble. Sir
Tancred proposed that they should stroll down to the Casino, and find
her uncle. Lord Crosland joined them in the hall and went with them.
When they came to the Casino, they found a little crowd already
gathered about its doors, waiting for them to open.
But Richard Brand was not in it, and at once Elsie's face grew anxious.
As soon as the doors opened, Sir Tancred went in to ask if her uncle
has made any inquiries about Elsie, or left word where she might find
him. In ten minutes he came out again and said, "No; he has made no
inquiries. Suppose you stroll with Elsie along towards the Condamine,
Crosland; that is the way he would come. Tinker and I will wait here."
Lord Crosland looked at his face, said, "Come along, missie," and
strolled off with the anxious child.
When they were out of hearing, Sir Tancred said, "I'm afraid the child
is in a bad mess. This disgusting uncle of hers lost every penny at
roulette last night; and the authorities, with their usual kindness,
took his ticket to London, and put him in the train with twenty-five
francs in his pocket."
"What a cad!" said Tinker shortly.
"Well, she is on our hands, and we must look after her till we can make
arrangements--deposit her in a home or something."
Tinker said nothing for a while; he seemed plunged in profound thought.
He kicked a little stone ten yards away; then raised his eyes to his
father's face and said, in the firm voice of one whose mind is made up,
"I should like to adopt her."
"Adopt her?" said Sir Tancred with some surprise.
"Yes; I should like to, very much."
"Well, thanks to your industry in the matter of flying-machines and
stolen children, you have a nice little income, so we needn't consider
the question of expense. You can afford it. But in what capacity
would you adopt her--as father, uncle, guardian, or what? The
formalities must be observed."
"I think as a brother," said Tinker.
Sir Tancred thought a while, then he said, "You will find it a great
responsibility."
"Yes; but I don't mind. I--I like her, don't you know!"
Sir Tancred's stern face relaxed into one of his rare and charming
smiles. "Very good," he said. "You shall adopt her."
"Thank you, sir," said Tinker, and his smile matched his father's.
"And may I have some money to dress her? Her clothes are dreadful."
"They are," said Sir Tancred; and, taking out his notecase, he gave him
a thousand-franc note.
"Thank you," said Tinker, beaming. "I'll break it to her about her
uncle."
He hurried off towards the Condamine, and overtaking Elsie and Lord
Crosland, told her that it was all right, that they had arranged to
take care of her for a few days, and carried her away to fetch Blazer,
for his morning walk. It is to be feared that he gave her the
impression that her uncle had been a party to the arrangement, but by a
flood of talk he diverted successfully her mind from the matter. From
an unworthy jealousy Blazer was at first disposed to sniff at Elsie,
but when he found that she joined heartily in the few poor amusements
the place afforded an honest dog, he became more gracious. The
children made their déjeuner with Sir Tancred and Lord Crosland, and
after it, having restored the reluctant Blazer to his lodging in the
basement of the hotel, they took the train to Nice.
Tinker hired the largest commissionaire at the station and bought a
small trunk, which he gave him to carry. Then he went straight to
Madame Aline's and, having insisted on seeing Madame herself, explained
that the bright and elaborate fashions affected by the little French
girls would not suit Elsie.
Madame agreed with him, but said, "Simplicity is so expensive."
Tinker waved away the consideration, and showed Madame the
thousand-franc note. At once she fell a victim to his irresistible
charm, and set about meeting his taste with the liveliest energy, with
the result that in less than an hour Elsie was provided with an evening
frock of an exquisite shade of heliotrope, an afternoon frock of no
less exquisite shade of blue, and a hat, stockings, and gloves to
match. They were packed in the trunk, and with them two pairs of
shoes, which Madame sent for from a no less expensive bootmaker, and
various other garments.
When they came out of her shop, Tinker considered for a while the hole
he had made in the thousand-franc note, and said, "The time has come to
be economical."
He examined the shops with a keen eye till he came to one which seemed
more of the popular kind, and there he bought a frock of serge and
three of dark-blue linen, stouter shoes, slippers, and two hats. Here
he waited while Elsie changed, and when she came out, looking another
creature, he said with a sigh of relief, "I knew you'd look all right
if you had a chance."
They had ices at a café, and caught a train back to Monte Carlo. Elsie
seemed dazed with her sudden wealth, while Tinker was full of a quiet,
restful satisfaction. But it was in the evening that the great triumph
came. When she came out of her room in her evening frock, Tinker
regarded her for a moment with a satisfaction that was almost solemn,
then he turned her round and said, "We match."
"Do you really think so?" said Elsie in an awed voice, with humid eyes.