CHAPTER XXIII.

“TOUCH YOU!”

“Oh, I say, I say, I’ve got such a piece of news!” shouted Hubert, running indoors to join the others at breakfast, a few mornings later. “There’s a real big fair, with real gipsies, and merry-go-rounds, and caravans, and lots of things of that sort at Bramblehurst, and Mr. Busson says that he’ll put Ploughboy and Gleaner in the van and drive us all over there this afternoon, and he says too, that--”

Mrs. Busson, appearing at that moment, took up the thread of Hubert’s tale. “Yes, it really is quite a pretty sight,” she said, “for there’s a lovely open green at Bramblehurst, and the different coloured vans, and the horses, and everything dotted about make a regular picture. Most of the gentry round about drive in just the first day of the Fair to take a kind of bird’s-eye view of it, for the old village street is a sight in itself as well as the green. Indeed, they do say that artists hold that Bramblehurst Fair is as picturesque a sight as can be found anywhere, now-a-days.”

“Oh, let’s go, let’s go,” was the unanimous chorus.

“Well, I said to Busson, last night, I said, ‘it would be a real pity if the little gentry didn’t go to the Fair.’”

“That it would,” said many voices; whilst Fay, with her usual tact, added, “but, of course, you’ll come with us, Mrs. Busson.”

Did she not guess how the dear old lady was dying to join the party.

“Well, if it wouldn’t be crowding you too much,” she said, modestly, “I would be ever so pleased to come with you. But what do the young gentlemen think about it? They could have the ponies, and ride alongside of us, for I expect they’d weary of being inside the van for so long.”

“Oh, that would be stunning,” cried Phil and Jack. “We’ll be your outriders.”

“May I sit in front, with Mr. Busson, and drive?” asked Hubert.

“To be sure you shall, my dear.”

“You promise that he won’t let Andrew have the reins,” began Hubert.

“Don’t alarm, yourself,” said Andrew, “I shan’t come with you.”

“Not come with us, Andrew,” exclaimed Phoena.

“No, I’ve got a headache, and don’t fancy a ten miles jolt in a van,” was his singularly ungracious remark on the treat Mrs. Busson had planned for their benefit.

“Poor Andrew,” said Fay. “I shall stay at home with you.”

“No,” said Phil, “that’s not fair. Fay’s always giving up for Andrew.”

“I don’t want anyone,” said Andrew, “I want to stay at home alone. I shall look over my butterflies, and find plenty to do.”

“I’ll stay at home with you, Andrew,” volunteered Di, to the surprise of all.

“You, Di,” cried the boys, “why, only as we came along in the train, you were saying that you’d give anything to see a real fair.”

“Was I?” said Di, “then I’ve grown wiser since then. Besides, though I haven’t actually got a headache, I feel as if one is coming.”

“What does that feel like,” asked Marygold, genuinely curious.

“Like wanting to be left to oneself and not worried by silly little girls,” was the very tart rejoinder.

“She’s werry cross, so perhaps the headache is getting ready,” said Marygold.

Faith, meanwhile, was asking if Ruth would not like to come. Without Di and Andrew, there would be lots of room in the van.

“If you don’t object, it might be as well,” said Mrs. Busson, “for she might give an eye to the little ones, in case they got a bit excited and flustered over the Show and all the set out, you know.”

“Will Gaston come?” enquired Phoena.

Mrs. Busson was doubtful. “He was an odd little gentleman,” she remarked, and no one seemed anxious to press the point.

“I hope, my dears, that you won’t mind having your dinner at twelve o’clock,” said their hostess, “for if we’re to have a good time at the Fair, we shall have to get away from here at one, and then we shan’t be home before sunset.”

“We’ll eat our dinner at ten, Mrs. Busson,” was the obliging rejoinder, in which even the invalid of the present, and the sufferer from the headache of the future, joined quite fervently.

Neither Hubert nor Marygold could eat any breakfast, so great was their excitement at the prospect of the Fair. To both, there was a fearful joy in coming within close range of the mysterious and deeply interesting gypsies. Although they would have been terrified to encounter one alone, under the strong escort they would have this afternoon, they would feel brave enough to face an army of thickly-populated caravans.

“Will they have their faces stained with walnut juice?” Marygold asked.

“And, Phoena, do you think that we shall see the queen of the gypsies?” enquired Hubert.

“I’ll tell you what would be really, awfully fine, infants,” said Phil. “If we could find some stolen children in the vans, and carry them off.” The infants screamed for joy at the bare suggestion.

“Oh, yes, sorts of baby earls and earlesses, or dukes, or p’raps a live prince,” cried Marygold, whose thirst for the sensational was abnormally large that morning.

“I expect,” said Hubert, gravely, “that I’d get made a knight straight off, if I found a princess, and carried her home.”

“I’ll tell you what, my good friends,” remarked Phoena, solemnly, “the days of trial are passing very fast, and I’ve not yet made a single entry in my ledger of ‘golden deeds.’”

“Well, you see, Phoena, our exploits turned out rather badly, and then there was Andrew’s illness, and--”

“On the whole, Andrew’s illness was a good thing for you,” broke in Phoena, “for you know that as he was invalided for ten days, we didn’t count them at all, so that time was given in, and you ought to have used it to make all sorts of plans in. Now, think, we’ve only got three whole days left to us. If someone doesn’t do something grand in that time we shall have to write to Aunt Agatha, and tell her that she needn’t send us any prize, because no one has earned it.”

“We’ll be disgraced and degraded for ever,” laughed Jack.

“Oh, but you are idle, false knights,” cried Phoena, really distressed by their luke-warmness. “First you are untrue to your vows, and then, what is worse still, you try to make light of them.”

“Wait a bit, Phoena,” remarked Di, “the three days of grace are not up yet, and a good deal can happen in one single day,” and Di gave a very queer little laugh.

And, oddly enough, that laugh was echoed by Andrew, although, as he lay on the grass, with his hands clasped under his head, he seemed utterly absorbed in watching the light, fleecy clouds which were sailing through the summer blue overhead.

Phoena noted the laugh, and its echo, and darted a keen glance at Fay. As the eyes of the two cousins met, they said as plainly as eyes can speak: “Didn’t I tell you yesterday that those two are in league about something?”

Strange to say, during the last two days, Di and Andrew had seemed to have a deal of private business to transact together. As a rule, the brother and sister were by no means allies; yet, only yesterday, when, for the first time during their stay at Gaybrook, Andrew had come near to defying Mrs. Busson’s authority, Di had been ready to champion him.

“Oh, Mrs. Busson,” Andrew had begun, “I’m very much interested in spider’s webs, so I want to examine those which are over that sort of door, near the linen-press.”

“Oh, you can’t go fussing there,” had been the unusually sharp reply; “besides, it’s too dark.”

“Oh, of course, I shall take a candle,” said Andrew, coolly.

“Then, of course, you won’t,” said Mrs. Busson, very decidedly.

“But I mean to,” persisted Andrew.

“And I mean you shan’t,” was the retort. “I’m not going to have the place set on fire, I can tell you.”

“But I shall go with Andrew, and hold the candle,” Di had volunteered. Only she and Andrew were present, for they had taken care to wait for this interview till the others were out of hearing.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Busson, firmly. “If you want spiders’ webs, you can find plenty of them down in the cider cellar.”

“I don’t choose to go down there,” said Andrew; whilst Di added, with a thoughtfulness that was very foreign to her general behaviour: “It is much too damp for Andrew to go underground.”

“Then stay above ground, and don’t worry,” said Mrs. Busson.

There was something so uncompromising, both in her tone, and the gesture which she made, as though to sweep them from her presence, that both the children felt that further remonstrance would be vain. So, with a very ill grace, they retreated.

“Hullo, Gaston!” shouted Jack, catching sight of Gaston, running across the top of the field, “come here, old chap.”

Gaston came immediately; the schoolboys always commanded his attention.

“Look here, are you coming with us to see the Fair to-day?”

“I--I don’t know,” said Gaston, falteringly.

“Oh, yes, come along,” said Phoena, encouragingly, “it’ll be great fun.”

“Is Andrew going?” asked Gaston, very gravely.

“No, Andrew’s not going,” said the latter, mimicking Gaston’s tone.

“Then I come, then I come,” cried Gaston, capering into the air, and beating both heels together, a gymnastic peculiar to himself.

“Flattering for you, Andrew,” remarked Di.

“What do I care,” retorted Andrew. “As long as he speaks _to_ me with proper respect, I’m glad enough to leave him to himself. Of course, if he ever attempted”--this with an aggravating look at Gaston--“if he ever attempted to touch me--”

“Touch you,” echoed Gaston, with a whole world of loathing in his tone, “ugh! I would as soon touch a creeping, crawling serpent. Ah, no, I do mean rather a maggot; you are not grand enough to be a serpent, make no doubt about that.”

“That small boy hates you, and no mistake, Andrew,” said Jack, as Gaston was turning away.

“Yes,” said Gaston, looking back, “that is true, I _hate_ him.”

“He’s very welcome to hate me, if he likes,” said Andrew. “I don’t worship him, so there’s no love lost between us.”

“Still, I shouldn’t like to be spoken of in that way,” said Phoena, “’specially by someone to whom I’d not been particularly kind.”

“Perhaps not,” said Andrew. “For myself, I can’t imagine that the affection of a French frog could be of any great value.”

“It isn’t exactly that,” said Phoena, “but I should hate to be despised as Gaston despises you.”

“Well, I call that a good notion,” cried Andrew, flushing scarlet with indignation. “The idea of a miserable little under-done ‘parley-vous’ despising me, _me_! You are a green goose, Phoena.”

“All the same, there’s a deal in what Phoena says,” said Jack; “anyway, I’m glad Gaston doesn’t speak like that of me.”