“You are better, dear Madame?” he said, smiling long at her.
“Better, yes, gentle Louis. And better for thy flowers, chivalric heart.” She put the violets and anemones to her face with both hands, and then gently laid them aside to extend her hand to Geoffrey.
“The good Geoffrey will do his best, while there is no Kishwégin?” she said as he stooped to her salute.
“Bien sûr, Madame.”
“Ciccio, a button off thy shirt-cuff. Where is my needle?” She looked round the room as Ciccio kissed her hand.
“Did you want anything?” said Alvina, who had not followed the French.
“My needle, to sew on this button. It is there, in the silk bag.”
“I will do it,” said Alvina.
“Thank you.”
While Alvina sewed on the button, Madame spoke to her young men, principally to Max. They were to obey Max, she said, for he was their eldest brother. This afternoon they would practise well the scene of the White Prisoner. Very carefully they must practise, and they must find someone who would play the young squaw—for in this scene she had practically nothing to do, the young squaw, but just sit and stand. Miss Houghton—but ah, Miss Houghton must play the piano, she could not take the part of the young squaw. Some other then.
While the interview was going on, Mr. May arrived, full of concern.
“Shan’t we have the procession!” he cried.
“Ah, the procession!” cried Madame.
The Natcha-Kee-Tawara Troupe upon request would signalize its entry into any town by a procession. The young men were dressed as Indian braves, and headed by Kishwégin they rode on horseback through the main streets. Ciccio, who was the crack horseman, having served a very well-known horsey Marchese in an Italian cavalry regiment, did a bit of show riding.
Mr. May was very keen on the procession. He had the horses in readiness. The morning was faintly sunny, after the sleet and bad weather. And now he arrived to find Madame in bed and the young men holding council with her.
“How very unfortunate!” cried Mr. May. “How very unfortunate!”
“Dreadful! Dreadful!” wailed Madame from the bed.
“But can’t we do anything?”
“Yes—you can do the White Prisoner scene—the young men can do that, if you find a dummy squaw. Ah, I think I must get up after all.”
Alvina saw the look of fret and exhaustion in Madame’s face.
“Won’t you all go downstairs now?” said Alvina. “Mr. Max knows what you must do.”
And she shooed the five men out of the bedroom.
“I must get up. I won’t dance. I will be a dummy. But I must be there. It is too dre‑eadful, too dre‑eadful!” wailed Madame.
“Don’t take any notice of them. They can manage by themselves. Men are such babies. Let them carry it through by themselves.”
“Children—they are all children!” wailed Madame. “All children! And so, what will they do without their old gouvernante? My poor braves, what will they do without Kishwégin? It is too dreadful, too dre‑eadful, yes. The poor Mr. May—so disappointed.”
“Then let him be disappointed,” cried Alvina, as she forcibly tucked up Madame and made her lie still.
“You are hard! You are a hard Englishwoman. All alike. All alike!” Madame subsided fretfully and weakly. Alvina moved softly about. And in a few minutes Madame was sleeping again.
Alvina went downstairs. Mr. May was listening to Max, who was telling in German all about the White Prisoner scene. Mr. May had spent his boyhood in a German school. He cocked his head on one side, and, laying his hand on Max’s arm, entertained him in odd German. The others were silent. Ciccio made no pretence of listening, but smoked and stared at his own feet. Louis and Geoffrey half understood, so Louis nodded with a look of deep comprehension, whilst Geoffrey uttered short, snappy “Ja!—Ja!—Doch!—Eben!” rather irrelevant.
“I’ll be the squaw,” cried Mr. May in English, breaking off and turning round to the company. He perked up his head in an odd, parrot-like fashion. “I’ll be the squaw! What’s her name? Kishwégin? I’ll be Kishwégin.” And he bridled and beamed self-consciously.
The two tall Swiss looked down on him, faintly smiling. Ciccio, sitting with his arms on his knees on the sofa, screwed round his head and watched the phenomenon of Mr. May with inscrutable, expressionless attention.
“Let us go,” said Mr. May, bubbling with new importance. “Let us go and rehearse 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 god were warbling to himself as he wandered among the peaks of dawn. You
