Part 8 (2/2)
By the way, I forgot to tell you--the Fair was so funny--but Erlton ran over a black baby. It wasn't his fault a bit, and the mother, luckily, didn't seem to mind; because it was a girl, I expect. Aren't they an odd people? One really never knows what will make them cry or laugh.”
Something was apparently amusing them at that moment, however, for a burst of boisterous merriment pealed from a dense crowd near a booth pitched in an open s.p.a.ce.
”What's that?” she cried sharply. ”Let's go and see.”
She was out of the dog-cart as she spoke despite his protest that it was impossible--that she must not venture.
”Do you imagine they'll murder me?” she asked with an _insouciant_, incredulous laugh. ”What nonsense! Here, good people, let me pa.s.s, please!”
She was by this time in the thick of the crowd, which gave way instinctively, and he could do nothing but follow; his boyish face stern with the mere thought her idle words had conjured up. Do her any injury? Her dainty dress should not even be touched if he could help it.
But the sightseers, most of them peasants beguiled from their fields for this Festival of Spring, had never seen an English lady at such close quarters before, if, indeed, they had ever seen one at all. So, though they gave way they closed in again, silent but insistent in their curiosity; while, as the center of attraction came nearer, the crowd in front became denser, more absorbed in the bursts of merriment. There was a ring of license in them which made young Mainwaring plead hurriedly:
”Mrs. Gissing!--don't--please don't.”
”But I want to see what they're laughing at,” she replied. And then in perfect mimicry of the groom's familiar cry, her high clear voice echoed over the heads in front of her: ”_Hut! Hut! Ari bhaiyan! Hut!_”
They turned to see her gay face full of smiles, joyous, confident, sympathetic, and the next minute the cry was echoed with approving grins from a dozen responsive throats.
”Stand back, brothers! Stand back!”
There were quick hustlings to right and left, quick nods and smiles, even broad laughs full of good fellows.h.i.+p; so that she found herself at the innermost circle with clear view of the central s.p.a.ce, of the cause of the laughter. It made her give a faint gasp and stand transfixed. Two white-masked figures, clasped waist to waist, were waltzing about tipsily. One had a curled flaxen wig, a muslin dress distended by an all too visible crinoline, giving full play to a pair of prancing brown legs. The other wore an old staff uniform, c.o.c.ked hat and feather complete. The flaxen curls rested on the tarnished epaulet, the unembracing arms flourished brandy bottles.
It was a vile travesty; and the Englishwoman turned instinctively to the Englishman as if doubtful what to do, how to take it. But the pa.s.sion of his boyish face seemed to make things clear--to give her the clew, and she gripped his hand hard.
”Don't be a fool!” she whispered fiercely. ”Laugh. It's the only thing to do.” Her own voice rang out shrill above the uncertain stir in the crowd, taken aback in its merriment.
But something else rose above it also. A single word:
”Bravo!”
She turned like lightning to the sound, her cheeks for the first time aflame, but she could see no one in the circle of dark faces whom she could credit with the exclamation. Yet she felt sure she had heard it.
”Bravo!” Had it been said in jest or earnest, in mockery or---- Young Mainwaring interrupted the problem by suggesting that as the maskers had run away into a booth, where he could not follow and give them the licking they deserved because of her presence, it might be as well for her to escape further insult by returning to the buggy. His tone was as full of reproach as that of a lad in love could be, but Mrs.
Gissing was callous. She declared she was glad to have seen it.
Englishmen did drink and Englishwomen waltzed. Why, then, shouldn't the natives poke fun at both habits if they chose? They themselves could laugh at other things. And laugh she did, recklessly, at everything and everybody for the remainder of the drive. But underneath her gayety she was harping on that ”Bravo!” And suddenly as they drove by the river she broke in on the boy's prattle to say excitedly: ”I have it! It must have been the one in the Afghan cap who said 'Bravo!' He was fairer than the rest. Perhaps he was an Englishman disguised. Well! I should know him again if I saw him.”
”Him? who--what? Who said bravo?” asked the lad. He had been too angry to notice the exclamation at the time.
She looked at him quizzically. ”Not you--you abused me. But someone did--or didn't”--here her little slack hands resting in her lap clasped each other tightly. ”I rather wish I knew. I'd rather like to make him say it again. Bravo! Bravo!”
And then, as if at her own mimicry, she returned to her childish unreasoning laugh.
CHAPTER VI.
THE GIFT OF MANY FACES.
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