Part 30 (1/2)

”Let us go,” said Mr. May, bubbling with new importance. ”Let us go and rehea.r.s.e _this morning_, and let us do the procession this afternoon, when the colliers are just coming home. There! What?

Isn't that exactly the idea? Well! Will you be ready at once, _now_?”

He looked excitedly at the young men. They nodded with slow gravity, as if they were already _braves_. And they turned to put on their boots. Soon they were all trooping down to Lumley, Mr. May prancing like a little circus-pony beside Alvina, the four young men rolling ahead.

”What do you think of it?” cried Mr. May. ”We've saved the situation--what? Don't you think so? Don't you think we can congratulate ourselves.”

They found Mr. Houghton fussing about in the theatre. He was on tenterhooks of agitation, knowing Madame was ill.

Max gave a brilliant display of yodelling.

”But I must _explain_ to them,” cried Mr. May. ”I must _explain_ to them what yodel means.”

And turning to the empty theatre, he began, stretching forth his hand.

”In the high Alps of Switzerland, where eternal snows and glaciers reign over luscious meadows full of flowers, if you should chance to awaken, as I have done, in some lonely wooden farm amid the mountain pastures, you--er--you--let me see--if you--no--if you should chance to _spend the night_ in some lonely wooden farm, amid the upland pastures, dawn will awake you with a wild, inhuman song, you will open your eyes to the first gleam of icy, eternal sunbeams, your ears will be ringing with weird singing, that has no words and no meaning, but sounds as if some wild and icy G.o.d were warbling to himself as he wandered among the peaks of dawn. You look forth across the flowers to the blue snow, and you see, far off, a small figure of a man moving among the gra.s.s. It is a peasant singing his mountain song, warbling like some creature that lifted up its voice on the edge of the eternal snows, before the human race began--”

During this oration James Houghton sat with his chin in his hand, devoured with bitter jealousy, measuring Mr. May's eloquence. And then he started, as Max, tall and handsome now in Tyrolese costume, white s.h.i.+rt and green, square braces, short trousers of chamois leather st.i.tched with green and red, firm-planted naked knees, naked ankles and heavy shoes, warbled his native Yodel strains, a piercing and disturbing sound. He was flushed, erect, keen tempered and fierce and mountainous. There was a fierce, icy pa.s.sion in the man.

Alvina began to understand Madame's subjection to him.

Louis and Geoffrey did a farce dialogue, two foreigners at the same moment spying a purse in the street, struggling with each other and protesting they wanted to take it to the policeman, Ciccio, who stood solid and ridiculous. Mr. Houghton nodded slowly and gravely, as if to give his measured approval.

Then all retired to dress for the great scene. Alvina practised the music Madame carried with her. If Madame found a good pianist, she welcomed the accompaniment: if not, she dispensed with it.

”Am I all right?” said a smirking voice.

And there was Kishwegin, dusky, coy, with long black hair and a short chamois dress, gaiters and moccasins and bare arms: _so_ coy, and _so_ smirking. Alvina burst out laughing.

”But shan't I do?” protested Mr. May, hurt.

”Yes, you're wonderful,” said Alvina, choking. ”But I _must_ laugh.”

”But why? Tell me why?” asked Mr. May anxiously. ”Is it my _appearance_ you laugh at, or is it only _me_? If it's me I don't mind. But if it's my appearance, tell me so.”

Here an appalling figure of Ciccio in war-paint strolled on to the stage. He was naked to the waist, wore scalp-fringed trousers, was dusky-red-skinned, had long black hair and eagle's feathers--only two feathers--and a face wonderfully and terribly painted with white, red, yellow, and black lines. He was evidently pleased with himself. His curious soft slouch, and curious way of lifting his lip from his white teeth, in a sort of smile, was very convincing.

”You haven't got the girdle,” he said, touching Mr. May's plump waist--”and some flowers in your hair.”

Mr. May here gave a sharp cry and a jump. A bear on its hind legs, slow, shambling, rolling its loose shoulders, was stretching a paw towards him. The bear dropped heavily on four paws again, and a laugh came from its muzzle.

”You won't have to dance,” said Geoffrey out of the bear.

”Come and put in the flowers,” said Mr. May anxiously, to Alvina.

In the dressing-room, the dividing-curtain was drawn. Max, in deerskin trousers but with unpainted torso looked very white and strange as he put the last touches of war-paint on Louis' face. He glanced round at Alvina, then went on with his work. There was a sort of n.o.bility about his erect white form and stiffly-carried head, the semi-luminous brown hair. He seemed curiously superior.

Alvina adjusted the maidenly Mr. May. Louis arose, a _brave_ like Ciccio, in war-paint even more hideous. Max slipped on a tattered hunting-s.h.i.+rt and cartridge belt. His face was a little darkened. He was the white prisoner.

They arranged the scenery, while Alvina watched. It was soon done. A back cloth of tree-trunks and dark forest: a wigwam, a fire, and a cradle hanging from a pole. As they worked, Alvina tried in vain to dissociate the two _braves_ from their war-paint. The lines were drawn so cleverly that the grimace of ferocity was fixed and horrible, so that even in the quiet work of scene-s.h.i.+fting Louis'

stiffish, female grace seemed full of latent cruelty, whilst Ciccio's more muscular slouch made her feel she would not trust him for one single moment. Awful things men were, savage, cruel, underneath their civilization.