The Admirable Tinker | Page 9

bruises, and felt all the tiny
bones carefully. He declared that none of them were broken and that, in
spite of having been starved, the child was sound and healthy. The
moment the doctor's grip on him loosed, Tinker wriggled off his knee
and fled to Selina, who carried him away along with a selection from
the parcels to dress him.
"A bad case," said the doctor. "But I've seen worse, much worse. I hope
you'll put the matter into the hands of the Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Children, and have the parents prosecuted--picked him up in
the gutter I suppose."
"I haven't made up my mind about prosecuting them," said Sir Tancred.
"Oh, have them prosecuted! Have them prosecuted! It stops others,"
said the doctor. "And besides, they might get the cat: it's the only thing
brutes of this kind understand." Then he added thoughtfully, "There's
one uncommon thing about this child--quite uncommon."
"What's that?"
"His vitality--he ought to be in bed, half-dying, with those bruises, and
starved as he is. But you saw how he struggled to get away from me.
Well, I'll write you a prescription for as strong a tonic as I dare give a
child."
He wrote the prescription, promised to be round every morning, and
took his fee. As he went away he said, "Someone ought to get six
month's hard labour for maltreating him."
After a while Selina brought in Tinker, dressed in his new clothes, with
his mat of hair cut close to his head. He was still grimy--many baths
were yet needed before he would be clean; but Sir Tancred saw that,
once clean, and his peaked face filled out a little, he would be a very

pretty baby. His features were fine, his eyes of a deep blue, his head
was small and well-shaped, and the close-cut hair clustered about it in
little curls.
He clung to Selina's gown, and Sir Tancred bade her sit down, and see
what he would do. It was a long time before he stirred from her side,
and then only a little way, moving with a curious, stealthy gait, casting
fearful glances at Sir Tancred. He was attracted by the bright stuffs
which covered the furniture, and went from piece to piece, stroking it.
Then he saw himself in the unnecessarily mirrored door of the
sideboard, and surveyed his image with an almost excited curiosity, and,
it almost seemed, approbation.
[Illustration: He surveyed himself with an excited curiosity.]
An idea struck Sir Tancred; he went out, took a cab, came back with an
armful of toys, and set them in the middle of the room. The child stared
and stared at them with great eyes. After a long while, in his stealthy,
timid way, he made a few steps towards them, and scuttled back to
Selina. He sallied out again, came nearer to them, and fled back. In the
fourth attempt he carried off a little horse, and escaped with it behind
the sofa. There he played with it, or rather sat hugging it, stroking it, or
fingering it, in a dead silence. Sir Tancred watched his every movement,
his every expression, missing nothing; his eyes could not have enough
of him.
Twice again Selina fed him, and twice he was again ravenous. At
half-past six she put him to bed.
Sir Tancred dressed for dinner, made arrangements for the feeding of
Selina, and went into the smoking-room. There Lord Crosland found
him, and they dined together. After dinner Lord Crosland pressed him
to go to a theatre or a music-hall; but Sir Tancred would not: the
discoveries of the day had left him no heart for amusement. He saw
Lord Crosland set out in search of diversion; came back to his room,
and sent Selina to her supper, while he watched over the child. He sat
by the window, looking up the river, and smoking, in an unhappy
reverie. Now and again he went and looked long at his sleeping boy.

When Selina came up from her supper he heard for the first time the
story of his wife's death, and received her last message, which had been
so long delivering. It was no little comfort to him in this revival of
sorrow to hear that she had learned of the accident which prevented
him from coming to her, and, sure of their ultimate meeting, had come
to bear patiently their separation. And the knowledge that she must die
without seeing him again had come to her in the merciful and
indifferent weariness so often the forerunner of death.
When he had heard, and heard again, all that Selina could tell him, he
gave her a cheque for five hundred pounds, putting aside her
protestations that she had never looked for it,