"Thanks, but I'm afraid my old legs couldn't do it. I tell them sometimes they've done their best to make me a decrepit old man, but I've got a little friend who won't let them have all their own way. He keeps them from worrying me."
"Who is he?"
"Ah, well, he has a variety of names. He is a little companion of mine, and helps me to do my sketches. Good-bye, and bring that little sister of yours to see me next time you come."
"Good-bye, Sir Perceval."
CHAPTER V
The "Ogre's" Arrival
IT was a wet day. Lessons had been done; dinner was over, and Miss Gubbins had told her little charges not to leave the schoolroom. She had been reading them some of the "Idylls of the King;" and then seeing them settle down quietly on the old window-seat to talk them over, she slipped away to write some letters in her room. The servants were all busy making preparations for their master, as he was now expected back any day, and Mrs. Peck was in the worst of humours, scolding the maids, and full of lamentation over the old times that were gone.
The children wisely kept out of her way; even Smythe would have nothing to do with them, and they were glad to have the safe refuge of the school room to play in.
Now they were talking with serious eyes, and in earnest tones, about their beloved King Arthur and his knights.
"I'll be Arthur," said Donald, at last starting up, "and I'm going to give a banquet to Lancelot and my queen. Come on to the table!"
"It isn't like Arthur's table," objected Claud, "it's a nasty square thing, and you're not to sit at the head of it, Don, for Arthur never had a head, he sat equal with his knights!"
"Couldn't we pretend it was round?" suggested Gypsy.
Donald walked round the offending object with frowning brow, then his face cleared.
"We'll make it round," he said; "we'll cut off the corners!"
Claud capered up and down with delight at this inspiration.
"With our pocket-knives! Come on!"
The table was an old mahogany one, and the boys found it harder work than they anticipated.
"Will Gubby be angry?" asked Gypsy doubtfully, as she saw the shavings drop on the carpet.
"She knows we like a round table," said Donald, panting for breath, as he hacked away with a ruthless hand. "I know what will be better. I will go and get a saw. There is one in the toolhouse."
Away he ran, and Claud rested from his labour.
"You see," he explained to Gypsy, who was looking on with round eyes, "it's a very old table, and it's covered with ink, and it always has a cloth on, so it can't be very wrong to make it round instead of square!"
Donald soon returned, and the destruction of the table was renewed with fresh vigour. They were in the very midst of it, when the door suddenly opened, and Victor Thurston stood on the threshold.
So intent had they been in their occupation, that his arrival, and the consequent bustle in the house, had been entirely unnoticed by them. It was an unfortunate meeting.
A short, sharp ejaculation started the children. "Good heavens, what imps of mischief! Where on earth is your governess? Does she allow you to hack all the furniture to pieces in this fashion?"
Gypsy ran out of the room thoroughly frightened; Claud retreated to the window-seat; Donald only stood his ground.
"We're only altering our table a little. We want it round. This is our table, and this is our room. Mrs. Peck said so!"
He looked defiant, as he often did when his conscience told him he had done wrong; but the hurried entrance of Miss Gubbins, and her horror-stricken exclamations and apologies cut his excuses short.
"You must have your hands full," said Victor, with a short laugh, as he tried to greet Miss Gubbins politely, "if this is a specimen of how they employ themselves in your absence!"
"They have never done such a naughty thing before," said poor Miss Gubbins. "I cannot think how they could have dared to do it! Come and tell your brother how sorry you are, Donald, for spoiling his furniture so!"
"It isn't his table, it's ours," muttered Donald sullenly.
"Look here, youngster," and Victor drew his little brother to him by the ear. "I have given you a home here, but I don't expect you to ruin everything in it by wanton mischief. You are old enough to know better. We'll say no more about it now, but don't let me find you destroying anything else, or there will be a row. Now make yourself scarce, for, I want to have a few words with Miss Gubbins."
Donald darted out of the room, and Claud followed him.
Victor looked after them; then with a smile and shrug of his shoulders, said to Miss Gubbins, "I hope I have not made a mistake in having them here. I never pretend to understand children; they are unknown quantities to me, but I wanted to give them a comfortable home, and I was going to ask you, Miss Gubbins, if you felt it possible to superintend the household here a little. They say it wants a lady to make a place homelike, and these old servants have had it all their own way too long. I thought perhaps I could make some arrangement about the boys being taught out of the house, if only for a few hours every day, and Gypsy seems such a baby that she would not require much of your time. What do you think? Of course it remains with you whether you would be willing to try it."
Miss Gubbins gazed out of the window with a little frown between her eyes. She took off her pince-nez, rubbed them nervously, then put them on, and looked up at the young man before her.
"I will be quite frank with you," she said. "I could not superintend such a large household and the children's lessons too. If the boys were taken off my hands, it would be a different matter; but even then, unless you gave Mrs. Peck notice to leave, I should not like to attempt it. She does not like our being here, and would never be willing to take any orders from me."
"Mrs. Peck can go to Jericho!" exclaimed Victor, a little hotly. "She treated me to a little of her independence directly I came into the house. I wrote to her to make you thoroughly comfortable; I find she has banished you to the top of the house, and when I remonstrated, I met with quiet insolence. One thing I have quite determined, and that is, to be master here; and the sooner she knows it, and every one else too, the better it will be for them all!"
Miss Gubbins was silent. Victor went on:
"I shall lead a very quiet life here; there is a good bit of land which will need my attention, and I shall be in town very often. I want things to go on smoothly in my absence, and I don't consider Mrs. Peck will be needed any more. The cook, I find, has been here fifteen years, and seems a motherly, capable old body, quite anxious to escape Mrs. Peck's rule. Don't decide hastily, but let me know in a day or two what you feel about it. I won't keep you any longer now, but I hope you will dine with me at eight to-night. I conclude the children will be in bed by that time, and if not, there are plenty of servants here to look after them."
He strode away, and Miss Gubbins heaved a heavy sigh. "I must do it. I don't mind the housekeeping. It is these old servants I dread, and I shall not like to lose control over the boys. I hope they will get on well with Mr. Thurston. I wish he were not quite so masterful."
And then with another sigh, she settled herself in the window-seat, and took up one of her beloved poets to soothe her perturbed spirit.
The children meanwhile were discussing the arrival of their brother with vigour, in a favourite corner of theirs on the stairs. It was a little square landing overlooking the entrance hall, and was partially curtained off the wide staircase.
If "Agony's" subjects proved rebellious, she was sure to rush out at them from this corner after dusk as they passed upstairs, and Gypsy the heavy damask curtain at all times with awe and dread. She was sitting now on the floor, her legs well tucked under her, and Donald was holding forth:
"He's a worse Ogre than ever, and he'll make this house a kind of prison. He pinched my ear till I could have kicked him! He thinks he is going to be a kind of lord here."
"Like King Arthur," put in Gypsy; "and we shall be the knights, only we don't love him like they loved Arthur!"
"I've just made up my mind what I shall do," said Claud, sticking his hands in his pockets, and his chin in the air; "I shall get one of those suits of armour off the wall, and dress up in one, and I shall go to his bedroom at night, and frighten him well!"
"You'd be a wicked boy, then," said Gypsy, who had a fellow feeling for any one frightened after dark, "and perhaps you'd make him into an idiot, like the boy that Gubby told us about!"
"We'll do it, Claud," said Donald with enthusiasm, "and we'll do it to-morrow night!"
"And then he'll take out his pistol and shoot you," pursued Gypsy; "and it will serve you right, for Arthur's knights never went about frightening people. Galahad wouldn't do it."
"I'm not going to be Galahad," said Donald, a little impatiently, "he was too good. I can't be good, so it's no use trying."
"Then you'll never see the Holy Thing."
"Well, you won't, so you needn't think it. You're not a bit better than we are; you're worse, for you're a girl, and girls are made to be good, and Jane says you kicked her this morning!"
"Well," said Gypsy, a little abashed, "she tried to shut me into a cupboard 'to keep me quiet,' she said. I was only just getting a blacking brush to clean Helen Mary's shoes, and it was only a tiny little soft kick on her dress! I told her I was sorry after, because I'm trying hard to find the Holy Thing!"
The boys did not listen to this defence; they were busily engaged in laying their plans for the next night. They had both a great longing to get down one of the suits of armour from the wall, and try it on, but the difficulty was to reach them. However, the next day they pressed Ned, the stable-boy, into their service, and when Miss Gubbins went down to dine with their brother, the three conspirators crept to the darkest corner of the big hall, and with great trouble the smallest suit of armour was unfastened, and Claud put into it. The weight of it astonished and alarmed him.
"I'm nearly buried," he said in a muffled voice; "I can't keep it on long, Don. Let me out!"
"No; you must come upstairs and hide in his bedroom, and wait till he comes to bed!"
"That will be hours and hours; it's so heavy; I can't wait all that time!"
After further consideration, they decided that Claud should hide in "Agony's" corner on the stairs, and pounce out upon his victim as he came upstairs. It was a great labour to help him up there, but that was accomplished at last, and then Donald ran up to tell Gypsy that everything was in readiness. The audacity of the exploit awed her, but though she felt in her small heart that trouble would follow, she could not resist creeping out of bed and down the stairs to see Claud in his armour.
"Oh," she said with clasped hands, "you look beautiful, Claud, dear."
"It's awful hot and uncomfortable," was Claud's response.
THE ARMOUR WAS UNFASTENED.
"Yes, but just think! You're like a real knight now, and no one would be able to hurt you, if you had a fight. Who do you feel like? Galahad or Lancelot?"
"Sh—sh! Here's some one coming!" cried Donald.
Away he and Gypsy scampered back to their beds, and Claud stepped behind the curtain.
It was only Miss Gubbins. Having left Victor to have a smoke, she was coming up to her own set of rooms. Claud held his breath while she went by. Though he was sorely tempted to show himself, he refrained from doing so, as he knew in that case his plan would be frustrated. Time passed very slowly. Donald and Gypsy did not return to him, and his shoulders and arms were aching from the heavy weight of his armour.
"It isn't much fun, after all," was his rueful thought.
And then at last he heard his brother's voice in the hall, and the quick, heavy tread up the staircase.
Opening the curtain, he strode out.
"Who goes there?"
The challenge was not given in such gruff, manly tones as was planned. If truth must out, it was a very thin quavering treble squeak, and Victor was not in the least alarmed. For a minute he stood still, regarding the queer little figure in front of him with some amusement; then in a very determined tone he said:
"This will never do. I can't have my old armour walking over the house in this style. I must string it up again, and drive a nail through the helmet to make it secure."
Before Claud knew where he was, he found himself tucked under Victor's arm and being carried downstairs as if he were a mere parcel.
He was too proud to call out, and the rapid movement through the air so bewildered him, that it was not till he fancied he actually felt a cord being tied round his neck, and expected to be slung up on the wall the next minute, that all his courage deserted him.
Then Victor heard a piteous little muffled cry out of the old visor:
"Oh, please let me out! I won't do it again, I promise! Please undo me, and let me go out!"
But Victor was not so easily persuaded.
"I'll tie you up here, whoever you are, and there you shall stay till I choose to release you."
Poor Claud found he was being secured effectually to an old stone pillar in the outer hall, and then, whistling unconcernedly, his step-brother pursued his way upstairs, and he was left alone in the darkness.
This was turning the tables on him with a vengeance! The servants' hall was too far off to hear his muffled cries for help; he ached from the heavy, cumbersome weight of the armour, and he longed with all his heart to be safe in his own little bed. He wondered if Donald would come to his rescue, but he would not think of looking for him downstairs, and poor Claud quite expected to be left there all night.
It seemed to be hours to him before he saw, through the dimly-lighted hall, the figure of his brother descending the stairs.
But he was liberated at last, and emerged from his knightly covering, a tearful, woe-begone little figure.
"Now off to bed with you, and let this be the last prank with any of the armour here!"
Claud crept up to bed, quite cured of his love of intimidating any "grown-up," but with less love than ever for the one who had outdone him.
CHAPTER VI
A Great Disappointment
CHANGES were rapidly made after the young master had come home, but Mrs. Peck was not got rid of without a terrible struggle, and Miss Gubbins had to leave her poetry books and brace herself for the conflict. She was victor at last, for she was backed up by the "master;" but it ended in five or six of the other servants giving notice, and only Smythe and the cook remained of the old set.
Being so busy with these household difficulties gave her less time than ever to look after the children, and they practically "ran wild," as the saying is. Victor still figured as the "Ogre," and was shunned accordingly; but the house was big and empty enough to furnish pastime away from him, and they did not trouble him with their noise. Claud introduced Gypsy and Donald one afternoon to "Sir Perceval," and they all agreed that he was the "very funniest, jolliest fellow" they had ever seen.
"So you're the little lady who has seen the Holy Grail?" he asked Gypsy, just before the children were taking their departure.
Gypsy drew near to the wheeled chair with soft, serious blue eyes.
"Yes, I really and truly did see it," she said steadfastly; "and I'm trying hard to be very good enough to see it again."
"I suppose you had been awfully good just before you saw it?"
"I don't think I was very," admitted Gypsy doubtfully, "but I got up very early in the morning to look for it; it says so, you know!"
The boys had moved off, interested in the antics of a young foal just outside the orchard, and Gypsy felt she could speak quite freely to this pleasant-faced young man.
"Does it?" her questioner said doubtfully, taking up a volume of Tennyson that he had been referring to during the children's visit. "I think it was chiefly seen at night."
"It says, 'Those that seek Me early shall find Me,'" pursued Gypsy; "the lady said I ought to be looking for Jesus, and I should find Him, and the Holy Thing belongs to Him, doesn't it? If you see it, that means you must be getting near Jesus. And I knelt down and said my prayers, and then I saw the Holy Thing, just like Gubby told us. A rose red light, and yellow, it came down right on me; and the boys say I'm telling stories, and it's the straight real truth!"
"Sir Perceval" gazed at the little speaker in astonishment, and a softened expression stole over his face.
"I thought I had found a little mystic who loved fairy stories," he said slowly; "but I've found a mite who is searching for the deepest truth on earth, ay, and in heaven itself! Seeking for the Lord Jesus Christ are you, little one?"
Gypsy nodded. "I'm wanting to find Him. If you're very very good, I think He shows Himself to you just for a little minute, and I would so like to see Him!"
Her little mouth took wistful curves as she spoke, and for a moment there was silence.
"And what do you want to see Him for?"
"I should like Him to tell me He loved me, and was pleased with me, and would let me come to heaven when I die! I think I might have seen Him another day, because I found the right room, but I've lost it, and it seems to have gone, and no one knows anything about it!"
Then after another pause, she asked eagerly: "Have you ever seen or heard Jesus, Sir Perceval?"
"Sir Perceval's" face was very grave now. All the sparkle had died out of his eyes.
"I did hear Him once," he said thoughtfully.
"Oh, how nice! And did you see the Holy Thing?"
He shook his head, then turned to look after the boys.
"We're getting into deep water," he said lightly, "and you're looking as grave as a judge. Don't you know that children ought always to be crying or laughing, and a solemn face is never allowed until you're grown-up and married!"
Gypsy walked home thoughtfully between the two boys. The longing to find her quest took a strong possession of her, and after the schoolroom tea was over that afternoon, again she wandered down the old passages, trying every door, in the hope of coming across the one she wanted.
She was much startled and delighted when at last, opening one door, she found herself on the threshold of the lost room.
GYPSY TRIES THE DOOR.
There was the beautiful coloured window; the walls lined with books; the large square table in the middle of the room, but, seated writing at this table was the Ogre!
For a moment the child hesitated, then her curiosity overcame her shyness, and she advanced with a radiant face.
Victor looked up and wondered at the intrusion.
"How did you find this room out?" he asked, a little impatiently. "I thought I was safe here from all disturbance. This room is not for you children. Run away!"
The gladness died out of Gypsy's face at once, but she stood her ground.
"You aren't going to keep it all to yourself?" asked with vehemence. "It's the room I found and I lost, and it's the room which the Holy Thing is in. I want to see it again, and the boys want to see it too, and they'll know I wasn't telling stories when they see it!"
Victor stared at her, and wondered what had wrought up her feelings to such a pitch that she could stand her ground before him, instead of running away directly she saw him, as was her custom.
"What on earth are you talking about?" he asked, laying down his pen, and leaning back in his chair with a yawn. "What is the 'Holy Thing,' may I ask?"
"You know. Haven't you seen it? It's what Sir Galahad saw, and what all Arthur's knights looked for, and I thought p'raps we should find it in this house, and I found it all by myself early in the morning, and it came through that window up there!"
Her words still were absolutely unintelligible to him.
"What came through the window?"
"The Holy Thing. That's what we call it. Gubby calls it the Holy Grail, and Don says it's the Holy Light; but I saw it, and I want to see it again."
Dimly, he began to understand, and he looked at his little sister with some interest.
"You don't mean to tell me that you harum-scarum youngsters are playing at such a game as searching for the Holy Grail? Can you carry your imaginations and pretences so far as to believe in it yourself, I wonder?"
"I don't understand. It wasn't pretence. It was real truth, and the Holy Thing came down on my head. I saw it. It fell on my fingers and dress."
The earnestness and intensity of her tone amused him.
"You are queer little creatures," he said; "but I can't have you romping in this old library; it is generally locked up, and I use it but seldom."
"But let me, oh, please let me come in here early in the morning! I will be very good. I won't touch a thing. I'll just come in like I did before, and kneel down and say my prayers, and then, perhaps, I shall see it again."
Victor laughed, and turned to his writing.
"Well, if you want to turn it into a private chapel for your devotions, I don't suppose you can do much harm, but no romps or games in it, remember, and when I'm using it, make yourself scarce. Now run along, and leave me in peace."
Gypsy instantly obeyed, and fled along the passage in trembling delight, calling out:
"Don! Claud! I've found it!"
The boys were so engrossed in letting themselves up and down over the banisters by means of a rope they had tied to the top rail, that they did not respond to their sister's call.
It was not till Miss Gubbins came out and forbade their fascinating occupation, and sent them all into the schoolroom to be quiet till tea-time, that Gypsy obtained a hearing. Then the boys were interested in it at once.
"Where is the room? Did you see the Holy Thing?"
"Of course she didn't if the Ogre was there; he would frighten anything away."
"We'll go and see it directly after tea."
"No," said Gypsy gravely; "he said we weren't to come in there while he was there; but to-morrow morning early, when he is in bed, we can go. And then you'll see I wasn't telling stories!"
"I don't believe we shall see it," said Donald sceptically. "I'm sure it's a make up of yours!"
"You won't see it unless you're very good," said Gypsy diplomatically, "and if you're cross and say I'm telling stories, you won't see it at all!"
"We'll just be as good as gold," Claud said earnestly, "until to-morrow morning, and then if it's all a pretend, you'll catch it hot."
Miss Gubbins wondered a little at the quiet and peace that reigned in her small kingdom for the rest of the evening. The children sat on the low window-seat, and talked in low tones, without the shadow of a dispute amongst them. They had hit upon the delightful plan of telling each other all the naughty things they might do, if they were not trying to be good, and all vied with one another in proving that their brain was the most fertile in concocting mischievous devices.
The only danger in this was that they began to have a longing to put them into practice, and Donald wound up by saying:
"If we don't see the Holy Grail after all, it will be no use trying to be good any more, and then I shall just try a few of our plans."
All this made little Gypsy very anxious. She felt as if great issues hung upon the early morning visit to the library, and for a long time that night tossed about restlessly in her sleep, until at last Miss Gubbins came over to soothe her.
"What is it, dear? Is anything troubling you? Have you had dreams?"
Gypsy's flushed little face and disordered curls turned over on the pillow.
"If we don't see it, we shall never be good again, the boys say so."
And Miss Gubbins crept back to bed, hoping that such a dreadful statement only existed in dreamland.
Very early the next morning Gypsy was in her brothers' room with shining eyes and eager face. It did not often fall to her lot to be leader, and she was a little proud, and very fearful of the responsibility attached to it.
The boys were up in a moment, and three little figures instead of one now stole down the long corridor and into the old library.
It was unlocked this time, though for one moment the stiffness of the door handle made Gypsy tremble lest after all they should not gain an entrance. But directly they stood inside her little heart was at rest. There through that wonderful window was the coloured light, and it fell full on their pathway in rays of crimson and gold. Awed and delighted, she turned in triumph to the boys, but no ecstatic joy shone in their faces.
With a broad grin Donald spoke, and his words ruthlessly shattered poor Gypsy's beautiful conception.
"Why, you little stupid! You don't think that's the Holy Grail? It's just the sun shining through the coloured glass! Just like a girl! Haven't you seen a painted window before? I have, in a church Gubby took me to once, and I remember it all shone over the clergyman, and gave him a red nose and a blue mouth; he did look so funny!"
"Fancy bringing us to see that, and telling us it was the Holy Thing!" said Claud contemptuously.
Poor little Gypsy! Her face fell, and big tears began to gather in her blue eyes. She had been so happy, so sure of the vision, and now it was roughly taken away from her, and the boys, instead of being awed and solemnized, were laughing loudly at her stupidity. She stood immovable for a moment, and then, flinging herself down on the floor, gave way to a fit of bitter weeping. Her distress touched Donald's heart. He sat down by her and tried to comfort her.
"Don't be a cry-baby. Anyhow, you found out a stunning room, and I'll come and have a good look for pictures in these old books, when the Ogre is out! There's nothing to make your eyes red over!"
"Go away!" sobbed Gypsy. "We've been good all for nothing, and I never shall find the Holy Thing, I know I shan't! And now you'll be wicked all day, you said you would, and it's all my fault!"
The boys looked at each other gravely, then Donald said slowly:
"Well, it isn't a regular make up of yours, because you thought it was real, so we'll try and not be extra bad. We promise not to make you help us, if you don't want to. Come on, Claud, let's have a race back to bed; the last one in gets a pillow shot!"
They disappeared, but Gypsy cried on, and a little prayer went up to the One who is always willing to hear and comfort the troubles of childhood.
"O God! I do seek early, but I can't find. Do let me see the Holy Thing
soon, and help me to be good enough to find Jesus!"
Then she pattered away to bed, and finding Helen Mary on the floor, took her into her arms, and confided to her what had taken place. Helen Mary listened and smiled, and laid her cool wax cheeks against the hot tear-stained ones of her mistress, doing much towards bringing comfort to the disappointed little soul.
CHAPTER VII
Advising the Enemy
ONE sunny morning Victor stood on the hall doorsteps drawing on his gloves. His high dog-cart, with a spirited young horse, was being brought round by the groom, when he caught sight of Gypsy's fair head out of the schoolroom window watching his departure with interest. Some impulse prompted him to look up and say, "Would you like to have a drive with me this morning?"
Gypsy's head disappeared in a twinkling, but a minute after she was down in the hall, breathless, excited, and a little frightened at her audacity in accepting such an offer so hastily.
Victor glanced at her a little critically as he lifted her up and perched her between his knees, but her clean white frock and pinafore and freshly-starched sun-bonnet defied any criticism.
"How is it you are not playing with the boys?" he asked, as touching the cob smartly with his whip they trotted down the avenue.
"Don said they didn't want me because I couldn't be a knight, and I'm tired of being a rescued damsel. I said if they wouldn't play with me I should go over to the enemy. And then I was looking at you when you called me!"
"And who is the enemy?"
"Why, you," was the innocent reply, and then Gypsy caught her breath at this unwise speech, and wondered if the Ogre would be angry.
Her brother did not appear to notice anything peculiar in her statement. He drove on, and from her elevated position Gypsy watched the trees and fields skim by with delighted eyes. "It's lovely to go so fast," she said after a pause. "Don says he will drive us all out one day, when he can get a chance."
"I'm afraid that chance will be long in coming," said Victor, a little grimly; "those boys will have to be packed off to school soon, unless I can find a tutor for them in the neighbourhood."
"What's a tutor?" asked Gypsy, with dismay on her face.
Surely anything would be better than sending the boys off to school? What should she do without them?
"A chap who teaches—a schoolmaster. If I could find some fellow living near, I would send them to him for the day."
An inspiration seized Gypsy.
"There's a very nice fellow—at least Claud says he is, who lives at a farm across the fields. He is Sir Perceval, that's what we call him, but he has a very funny name of his own; and he draws lovely pictures that make us roar with laughing! His name is Bob Bogus, but he knows everything in the world, what the moon is made of, and how a frog changes his skin, and where pennies come from, and hundreds of questions we ask him. And he never says he doesn't know, like Gubby does. He has got stiff legs that won't move as they ought to, so he goes about in a chair, and he's so clever, he said he thought he could follow the hounds with it soon. Those are the dogs that hunt the foxes, you know. I asked him to tell me about it, and he said he used to be a hunter himself."
"Where does he live?" asked Victor, interested, though he was muttering, "Some farmer's cripple son, I suppose. Still, if he has had any education at all, he might keep them out of mischief for the present."
Gypsy pointed across the fields towards an old gabled farmhouse in the distance. "It's rather a long walk, but if you don't come by the road it's much shorter."
"I think we might pay him a visit on our way back," Victor said slowly. "How did you children get to know him?"
"Claud found him one day, when he was cross and ran away. Claud likes him very much, and so do and Don says he wishes he was our brother!"
"Instead of me?"
"Yes."
Gypsy's frankness was rather disconcerting.
"And why am I such an enemy?"
"I don't know. You always have been, I s'pose." Then, in a burst of confidence, Gypsy slid her little hand into his—"If you promise never, never to punish us, I'll be friends with you. I told the boys I would, and I'll try and not call you the Ogre any more."
"A most tempting bait," murmured Victor drily; "I ought to be overwhelmed with gratitude."
But he did not give the desired promise, and they drove on silently, till at last he pulled up at a large grey stone house, lying back behind some old shrubberies and lawn.
"I am going in here to speak to a gentleman on business. You must sit still till I come out. Don't move. I shall not be long."
A groom came forward to hold the horse, and Gypsy sat still, feeling rather proud of her position. Her quick eyes roved over the beautifully kept gardens before her, and presently, to her surprise, she saw a little girl come running forward with a dog at her heels.
She stopped when near, and looked up in astonishment at the small figure in the dog-cart. Then there was a glad cry of mutual recognition.
"Irene!"
"Gypsy!"
"However did you come here?"
"It's my home; how did you come?"
It was indeed Irene, and she was so excited at seeing her little seaside friend again, that nothing would satisfy her until she was lifted up into the cart by the groom, and was able to smother Gypsy with embraces and kisses.
"I thought I should never see you again; won't you stay and play with me? I should like it so much."
"The Ogre brought me over, and he's gone into the house, and told me not to get down."
"Never mind him; get out before he comes back, and I'll show you my arbour where I play!"
For a moment Gypsy wavered. The temptation was very strong, but she said slowly, "I don't think I'd better. I'm still trying to be good, because I'm beginning to look for the Holy Thing again. I won't give it up, though I know now it isn't in our house!"
This needed to be explained to Irene, who soon became quite content to sit and chatter with her little friend.
And when Victor came out, a quarter of an hour later, he found them fully engrossed in eager conversation.
He was accompanied by Irene's father, who looked surprised at his little daughter's position.
"Oh, please!" Gypsy cried out excitedly, addressing both the gentlemen. "Let Irene come home with me. We would like her to play with, and the boys said at the seaside she was very useful. Do let her come and spend the day with us."
"Are you old friends, then?" inquired Victor.
Gypsy explained the date of their acquaintance rather incoherently, but Irene's father lifted her down from the cart and bade her run away.
"I believe she ought to be at her lessons. My wife has just got a governess for her, but from all accounts she is a sad little scapegrace. Well, good day, Thurston. Hope you'll come over and dine with us next Thursday."
The little girls waved adieu to each other, and whilst Irene walked away dejectedly, Gypsy was lull of delightful anticipation of seeing more of her.
She chatted away quite unconstrainedly to Victor, who began to feel interested for the first time in his life in childish purposes and plans. He did not forget the visit to "Sir Perceval," and drove up in style to the old farmhouse, bringing out the farmer's wife and several men and maids, all full of curiosity to know his errand.
FOR A MOMENT VICTOR HESITATED.
"It will be Mr. Yates ye'll be meanin'," said the farmer's wife, a pleasant-faced woman, who gave Gypsy a friendly nod and smile. "Your young gentlemen are very fond of comin' over to see him. This way, please."
Victor lifted his little sister out, and they were ushered into the sitting-room, where they found "Sir Perceval" in his chair sketching busily.
He greeted them with his bright smile, and for a moment Victor hesitated. This was no farmer's son, and he might be offended at the proposition that was about to be laid before him. But Victor was always straightforward, and he plunged into his subject at once.
"I have not the pleasure of knowing you, Mr. Yates, and you must pardon me, if my errand seems to you a little strange. The fact is, I am on the lookout for some one in our neighbourhood who will undertake to give my small brothers a few hours' tuition every day. We want them taken off our hands for the morning, at all events. This child here suggested that you might do it, and I came to ask you if it were possible."
"Sir Perceval" put down his sketch, and looked a trifle confused.
"I am not a schoolmaster by profession," he said, a little haughtily.
Then Gypsy saved all further awkwardness by breaking in: "Oh, do say yes, Sir Perceval! We will be so good, and you will let me come too, won't you? The boys would do everything you told them; Gubby says they're always good when they're busy at lessons, and they like you even better than Gubby!"
"Sir Perceval" smiled at the child's earnestness; then he turned to Victor more graciously.
"I am an idle fellow, with plenty of time on my hands. I have matriculated at Oxford, and am supposed to be a good hand at classics. If you like to send your small brothers over to me, I will do my best with them for a few hours. But as to any terms, we must leave that out of the question. It will be an occupation and pleasure to me, nothing more."
Then Victor said stiffly:
"I am much obliged by your generous offer, but could not think of accepting it. I was led here by this child, but I see now what a mistake I have made. I hope you will forgive our intrusion. Good morning. Come, Gypsy."
He led the bewildered Gypsy out with the air of a prince, mounted his dog-cart, and drove off with her at a smart pace, muttering under his breath:
"Trust a child for landing one in awkward positions!"
Gypsy ventured a remark, but was snubbed at once, and the drive home was a quiet one.
The boys and Miss Gubbins were in the hall when they arrived, and Gypsy walked in with her chin well up in the air, delighted at the dismay and astonishment on her brother's face.
"We have been looking for her everywhere," said Miss Gubbins, addressing Victor; "I hope she has been good."
"Oh yes. I suppose we ought to have asked permission first, but we both acted on impulse." And with a friendly nod to his little sister, Victor walked away, whilst the boys seized hold of Gypsy's hands and raced her upstairs, bringing her in a breathless state to the schoolroom, and then eagerly questioning her as to her behaviour.
"What have you been doing?"
"Why do you come in grinning like that, as if you had been making up to the Ogre? Tell us at once."
Gypsy had subsided on the floor, but now she sat up and shook back her fair curls with a little importance in the gesture.
"I told you I would go over to the enemy if you didn't let me play with you, and so I have, and I've been advising him, and I like him—rather."
The last word was added hesitatingly.
Donald scowled at her.
"You're a mean little toad, that's what you are!"
Gypsy smiled provokingly.
"I've been a lovely drive, and you'll never guess who I've seen!"
"Who?" asked Claud curiously.
"I shan't tell you, unless you promise not to be cross."
There was silence, then Donald said with great severity:
"Did you ask the Ogre to take you to drive?"
"No, I didn't. He asked me."
The boys stared.
"Is that the very truth?"
"Yes. He called me out of the nursery window, and I'd nothing to do, and I went, because you wouldn't let me be a knight!"
"Who did you see? If you don't answer, we'll sit upon you."
Gypsy judged it better now to reply.
"Irene. She's living not far away from us."
There were great exclamations about this, and after Gypsy had given a full account of her meeting her, she said, with a sparkle of mischief in her eyes:
"And that's not all. The Ogre and me have been finding a schoolmaster for you. You're going to school somewhere, and we've been talking all about it, and we nearly found a schoolmaster, only something was wrong, I don't know what. You're too naughty to be kept here. I'm not going to school. I shall eat my dinner with the Ogre, and go out for a drive with him every day."
Assuredly Gypsy's head was quite turned. Never had she spoken to her brothers with such patronising condescension, and with one swoop they fell upon her, to punish such impertinence.
The three children were rolling over the floor, a confused heap of struggling arms and legs, with piercing shrieks and yells, when Miss Gubbins came into the room. She restored order, but for the rest of the day Gypsy revelled in her threats of school and tutors, and it was only during the quiet hour before bedtime, when Miss Gubbins always gathered them round her for some reading, that she so far relented as to tell them about "Sir Perceval."
"If he teaches us, it will be stunning!" exclaimed Claud. "And if he says he won't, I'll make him!"
"How will you?" asked Gypsy.
"Oh, I'll bother him into it. He likes us to come and see him, and I'll tell him if we go to school we'll never come near him again. He won't like that!"
"We'll go and ask him to-morrow," said Donald. "I would rather do lessons with him than with you, Gubby."
Miss Gubbins only smiled. "I am afraid your lessons have rather suffered lately. I shall have more time, now that things have settled down here, and I think we must begin work again, or you will have forgotten all you have learnt."
But the boys never learnt with Miss Gubbins again. Victor received a note the next day from "Sir Perceval," saying that he was quite willing to undertake the boys' tuition from nine to one o'clock every morning, and would agree to whatever terms he proposed. Victor swallowed his pride. Why should he prevent an idle young man from pleasing himself in such a matter? It is true he did not know much about him, but he looked and spoke like a gentleman; he had received a college education, and the boys were willing to go.
So Victor wrote and accepted his offer, and three days after, Donald and Claud set cheerfully off with school-books under their arms, and Gypsy watched them from the schoolroom window with tears in her eyes. It was a great disappointment to her that she was not to accompany them, and she proved a very listless, indifferent little pupil to Miss Gubbins.
"We've always done lessons together before," she wailed, "and now we shall never be the same again. I wish I'd never taken the Ogre to see Sir Perceval."
CHAPTER VIII
Night Wanderers
IT was Gypsy's birthday. She woke early in the morning, in glad anticipation of the eventful day. It had seemed such a very long time since her last birthday; and so much had happened lately that, as she had told the boys the evening before, she felt years and years older.
A great treat was in store for her. Irene was coming to spend the whole day with her, the boys had a holiday, and they were going to take their dinner out to a wood a little distance off. From dwelling on these delights in front of her, Gypsy's thoughts assumed a more serious form. She hugged Helen Mary closer to her, and began to talk in a whisper.
"I'm seven years old, Helen Mary, and I'm going to be a very good girl always now. And I'm going to look for the Holy Thing harder than ever. I must find it. Look at that text over there! 'Those that seek Me early shall find Me.' Oh, I wish I could! I wish I could! I shall go away and look for it, like Galahad did; it isn't in this house. I must go right away, and perhaps I shall find it on the top of a hill! I wonder if I could look for it when we're out to-day! I'll talk to Irene about it when she comes."
"Gypsy, many happy returns of the day, and here's my present!"
It was Claud, his head just inside the door, and Donald from behind him echoed the good wish; then, flinging two parcels on to her bed, they scampered away, and with trembling fingers and radiant face Gypsy opened her presents.
These were characteristic of the givers. A bull's eye lantern with a real candle in it from Donald; a bow and arrow from Claud; but Gypsy was supremely content with both, and they were more to her taste than the pretty little work-box given to her by Miss Gubbins.
They were chattering merrily over their breakfast when Victor opened the door and looked in. "Do you want the trap round at ten or eleven, Miss Gubbins? I suppose I must pay my respects to this important young woman. How many birthdays have you had?"
Victor was fast gaining Gypsy's confidence, though the boys still held aloof from him. At the sound of his voice she had run up to him, and had received a birthday kiss.
"I'm seven," she said proudly.
Victor put thumb and finger slowly into his waistcoat pocket, then held out a gold coin.
"I think you might be trusted with this, then. Don't spend it all on sugar-plums."
And whilst Gypsy was holding in her small palm a sovereign for the first time in her life, and hardly knowing how to express her thanks, he turned to talk to Miss Gubbins.
The boys came up to their sister at once.
"I wish it was my birthday," said Donald enviously, "I would buy such heaps of things that I want. I say, Gypsy, you can get a lovely set of cricket stumps and two bats for 10s. When are you going to spend it?"
Gypsy looked important.
"I must go to the shops and see," she said. "I shan't get any cricket unless I like."
"No, I'll tell you," said Claud eagerly, "buy a real gun that we can shoot rabbits with. You always said you would like to shoot, and we'll get old Sykes to take us out in the morning before breakfast."
These disinterested suggestions only half commended themselves to Gypsy, but the ownership of such a sum of money gave her much thought and anxiety.
The arrival of Irene soon turned her mind into other channels, there was so much to talk about and to show her. At eleven o'clock the waggonette was at the door, and Victor packed the children in, who were followed by Miss Gubbins.
When they were well out of sight of the house, Gypsy said, "I believe the Ogre would have liked to come with us."
"Oh, shut up!" exclaimed Donald. "You'll be getting so fond of him that you'll be tied to his coat-tails soon. You're a traitor, that's what you are!"
"It's my birthday," retorted Gypsy angrily, "and you're not to call me names!"
"Hush, children," said Miss Gubbins, "let us have no quarrelling. Try and show Irene how good you can be, not how naughty."
"I like naughty children best," said Irene quickly.
The boys grinned, but Gypsy looked grave.
"I'm trying to be very good to-day," she said, "and I shall look for the Holy Thing again. I expect I didn't find t before because I was too little. Seven is a lot older than six, isn't it, Gubby?"
"Yes," assented Miss Gubbins absently, as she took out a book from her pocket and began to read. "Now sit quiet, like good children. We have an hour's drive before us."
"You didn't look for it at the proper time," said Claud thoughtfully, crossing his legs with a grandfatherly air; "you ought to ride away in the forest just when the sun is setting, and when it's getting darker and darker, and then you see the light of it, and you follow it on."
"Yes," put in Donald, "and when Claud and I get some ponies to ride, that's what we mean to do. You will miss us one day, and then you will know where we have gone."
"It says, 'Seek Me early,'" said Gypsy, her eyes fixed earnestly on her brother's face.
"Of course. But it doesn't say you'll find it early. It's always late at night. Besides, that's a text you're saying. That doesn't come in 'Arthur and his Knights.'"
"But the Holy Thing means the same as the text, I know it does," argued Gypsy.
"I say, just lend me your bow and arrow, and let me have a shot at the birds as we go up this hill."
Gypsy held her lantern tightly in one hand, and her bow and arrows in the other. The sovereign was safely screwed up in a piece of paper in the bottom of her pocket. Nothing would induce her to leave these gifts at home. She demurred at trusting Donald with her bow.
"You'll be losing the arrows," she said.
"I'll jump out and pick them up again; we're going so slowly."
But Miss Gubbins forbade this suggestion being carried out, and they drove on through the sweet country lanes, up and down hill, until at last they came to their destination. It was a beautiful wood stretching away for a couple of miles to a breezy down beyond. For the next few hours the children enjoyed themselves as only children can. The picnic dinner came first, then games of hide and seek, and rambles after wild flowers, and nuts and blackberries. Irene laughed and chatted as merrily as any; her pale little face grew quite childlike and rosy with her exertions to imitate the others round her.
The tea was even more delightful than the dinner, for they were allowed to gather sticks and have a fire. It was when tea was over, and, rather tired with their play, they were lying on the grass watching the dying flames of the fire, that Donald spoke in his most peremptory and solemn manner.
"Agony is angry."
Claud and Gypsy looked at the smoke anxiously.
It was certainly very black, but they hoped every minute to see it clear. Irene had to be initiated into this game, and when they rose to their feet, and Donald said in the same impressive tone, "Follow me," she stole forward on tiptoe with the others, almost expecting to be led to her death.
Miss Gubbins called after them:
"You have one hour left before we pack up, so make the most of it."
Donald led them some distance through some thick bushes, and then paused before an old oak tree.
"We are to climb this right to the top," he said solemnly.
Claud looked delighted, Gypsy rather anxious, and Irene thoroughly frightened.
A little breathless whisper from Irene to Gypsy followed.
"I don't know how to climb. I can't do it."
"It's very easy if you don't go too high."
This was not reassuring to poor Irene.
Donald was already ascending, Claud following, when Gypsy said:
"I don't think Irene and I are coming. It's too difficult for us."
"You must come," Donald shouted.
But Gypsy felt very bold to-day. Was it not her birthday? Was she not now seven years old, and the possessor of a golden sovereign?
She turned away.
"Old Agony will let me off because it's my birthday. Come, Irene, we will go for a walk."
She darted off down a side path before the boys could stop her, and Irene scampered after her.
"Now we'll sit down under this tree," said Gypsy, assuming the air of generalship which she found very pleasant; "and we'll talk about the Holy Thing."
Irene listened and pondered, and then said slowly:
"I should like to find it. I would like to begin to look for it now."
Then Gypsy's blue eyes sparkled with a sudden inspiration.
"We will go this very evening, Irene. Now, at once. We couldn't have a better day than my birthday. Look! The sun is getting red behind those trees. The boys said that was the proper time to set out. And I've got my lantern and a candle, and some real matches in it. We put them there this morning. And you're carrying my bow and arrows. I've got three left, we might shoot some rabbits when we get hungry, and just fancy if we see the Holy Thing to-night! Wouldn't it be lovely?"
"Oh yes," cried Irene excitedly, "let us go at once, before it gets quite dark."
"We'll go along this path right through the wood."
Away they trotted hand in hand, with the blissful indifference of childhood to all future difficulties and dangers. They lived only in the present, they thought only of the present, it was natural they should act accordingly.
It seemed a long way to Irene, and at last her steps began to flag.
"Is it much farther?" she asked.
"I'm going on till we see the light," said Gypsy, trying to speak bravely, "and then we'll follow it."
But after a time even her courage gave way, and when they came to a deep ditch with dry leaves, which bounded one side of the wood, she suggested that they should sit down.
A few minutes after, huddled together, the two little girls fell fast asleep in each other's arms, and so soundly did they sleep that the shouts of those searching for them never reached their ears.
Gypsy was the first to wake, and when she did so it was quite dark. For a moment she wondered where she was. When she remembered, she roused Irene by violently shaking her.
"Wake up, Irene! We went to sleep and never said our prayers, and it's the middle of the night!"
Irene woke with a start, and a little shiver.
"I'm frightened; let's go home. I don't like the dark, and it's cold."
"We'll say our prayers, and ask God to show us the Holy Thing. Kneel down properly, Irene."
Two little figures with bowed heads and clasped hands repeated their usual formula of evening prayer. It was a still quiet evening; only the twittering of some restless birds and the distant hoot of some owls disturbed the silence around them. Strangely enough, Gypsy did not feel frightened. Her little soul was so wrought upon by the intense desire to find the Holy Grail, that she forgot everything else.
"O God," she murmured, "please let us find the Holy Thing to-night.
We are trying to be very good, Irene and me; please don't let us have to
go home without finding it."
"I'm very cold," said Irene, after prayers had been said, and they stood gazing at each other rather helplessly, wondering what was to be done next.
"I think," said Gypsy, "if we scramble through this hedge we shall see how to walk better. Let us try to get through this hole here."
This feat was accomplished, and through the deepening darkness they saw stretching away before them an open common. It was a dreary sight. Irene caught hold of her little companion's hand very tightly.
"We're very—brave—and—good—to—to come—aren't we?" she said in a quavering voice.
"I'm sure we shall see the light soon," Gypsy responded, in a cheerful little voice. "You see Galahad rode away into the dark, and Sir Perceval after him, and Gubby told us the storm came on, and lightning and thunder, and rain, and still he went on following the light."
"Look!" interrupted Irene. "Look!"
Gypsy started. There, in front of them, shone a light, and her little heart beat quickly.
"It has come, Irene. Quick! Let us run after it; it will lead us straight to the Holy Thing itself!"
Away they scampered over the short grass and dry bracken, and steadily, though surely, the light moved on in front of them.
CHAPTER IX
A Strange Awakening
BUT run as they might, they could not overtake it, and at last, to their bitter disappointment and grief, it faded away in the distance, and they were left alone in the darkness once more. Then Irene's fortitude forsook her. She burst into frightened sobs.
"I'm so tired and hungry. I want to get home. Do take me home, Gypsy; I don't want to look for the light any more.
"Don't cry, Irene; perhaps we shall see it again."
But Gypsy's tone was forlorn. She looked round her in vain. No light was to be seen. Then a bright thought struck her.
"We'll make a light ourselves, Irene. I'll light my lantern. I've got some matches."
Irene stopped crying, and the little girls, with a great deal of fuss and difficulty, struck a match, and lighted up their small lantern. This did not seem to improve matters. Dark shadows seemed to collect across their path, and Gypsy, worn out and frightened at last, sat down on the ground, and sobbed out—
"I wish we hadn't come. I'm afraid we're lost for ever!"
"Are there any wolves, do you think?" wailed Irene. "Can't we go back, Gypsy?"
"I don't know which is back or front," was the sobbing reply.
To add to their discomfort, a drizzling rain now set in. They crouched on the ground together with shivering limbs and chattering teeth, but presently another light shone out, and Gypsy raised her head with eager expectancy.
"It's the Holy Thing," she said.
But Irene's quick ears had caught a familiar sound. "I think it's somebody in a carriage," she said.
And a few minutes later, out of the darkness appeared a cart and horse, with a lantern tied in front. It was only a tinker and his wife returning' home from a neighbouring fair, but the children hailed them with delight.
"We're lost; take us home!" they cried.
The tinker, a burly-looking man, a little the worse for drink, stopped his horse.
"Now then, what are you a-doin' of 'ere?" he demanded. "Do 'ee want to scare all decent folks a-passin' by? What be 'ee a-doin' of?"
"Oh, do take us away from here!" cried Irene. "We're lost, and it's so dark and cold!"
The tinker considered. His wife, who had all her wits about her, got out, and without another word-lifted both the little girls into the cart.
"There ye be; sit still, and we'll give ye a lift to the next town. Drive on, Tim, ye stupid, or we shall be out all night!"
Tim drove on slowly.
"What be 'ee a-goin' to do with 'em?" he asked surlily. "We ain't got enough bread for ourselves, let alone other folks' brats!"
Gypsy was so full of relief and thankfulness at being taken up, that her spirits rose at once.
"I've got some money," she assured him cheerfully; "a whole sovereign in my pocket, and I will buy some cake and buns for Irene and myself when we come to some shops. We're very hungry, for we haven't had anything since tea, and we always have some supper at home before we go to bed."
Furtive glances were exchanged between husband and wife, and then the woman said kindly—
"You'd best let me have that money, my dear, to spend for ye. Little ladies don't know what be good for 'em."
Before Gypsy could expostulate, the woman's hand was in her pocket, and the precious coin was transferred to another's care.
Gypsy grew a little uneasy, but she was too tired to express her feelings, and soon both she and Irene were fast asleep, the cart rattling along at an increased speed, and the owners of it talking in low tones, with many sidelong glances at the sleeping children.
Gypsy was roused with a start. She was being lifted out of the cart, and Irene, more asleep than awake, was deposited on a doorstep in a dark narrow street.
Before they could ask any questions, the cart had driven rapidly on, and they were left alone in the silence and darkness of the night.
"Irene, wake up! What has happened to us?"
But Irene did not reply—her sleep was sound—and then Gypsy sat down by her, and whilst considering gravely in her little mind what had better be done now, was again overtaken by sleep, and neither child woke till broad daylight.
Irene was the first to open her eyes, and very bewildered and frightened she was for the first few minutes.
"Gypsy, where are we? Are we in a dream? Do wake up and tell me."
Then Gypsy came to her senses, tried to stand up, but fell back on the doorstep with a little cry.
"My legs are quite stiff, and oh, Irene, we haven't got any boots on!"