CHAPTER I

An Old Quest

IT was a very warm afternoon in July. In a front room with a large bay window overlooking the sea and beach at F— were the three little Thurstons; and they were having their tea at a round table, presided over by their governess, Miss Gubbins. The atmosphere was close; the children's faces hot, and—if I may say it—sticky; and Miss Gubbins leant back in her chair fanning herself with a newspaper and watching her charges in lazy wonder, as they ate slice after slice of bread and butter, and emptied a large plate of prawns between them, talking ceaselessly as they did so.

Donald, the eldest, was a bright, handsome little fellow, who thought and acted for himself, and was generally in trouble through his independent spirit. Claud was fair and sturdy, had quite as strong a will as Donald, but was always willing to take advice; and Gypsy, as she was called, and whose proper name was Eleanor, was a quicksilvery, gentle-looking little maiden, with a fragile appearance and a spirit as high as either of her two brothers.

"A reg'lar handful!" pronounced the landlady, who had now had them as her lodgers for some years. "The plagues of the terrace!" pronounced the two quiet maiden ladies next door.

"And the dearest children in the world when they're good," Miss Gubbins would say.

Miss Gubbins took life very easily. She always dressed in grey, was very short-sighted, and had a passionate love for poetry, which love she tried to foster in her young charges. She was not a young woman, but had a simple freshness of mind and heart that always kept her in touch with children. Her rule was not a severe one, and except in the three hours of morning study, her little pupils were left very much to their own devices. Good principles she sought to instil into their minds, and beyond this she did not go.

She sat now, as she often did, listening to the conversation, but taking no part in it unless she was appealed to.

"Old Cole said he'd lend me some red paint, and I'll do it in letters large as life," said Donald, with a little swagger in his tone.

"What will you put on it?" asked Claud thoughtfully, as he sucked a prawn's head and put it on the edge of his plate with a sigh, to think that he could get no more out of it.

"The resident's property."

"What grand words!" And Gypsy opened her blue eyes to their widest extent.

"Trespassers will be prosecuted!" continued Donald.

"What does prosecute mean?" asked Gypsy.

"Burnt at the stake, and cut up in little pieces, and drowned, and arms and legs twisted off, and eyes put out with red hot pokers!" said Claud with cheerful assurance.

"That's persecuted, you booby!"

Donald's tone was contemptuous. He added, "And if that won't keep the visitors off our corner, I'll fight every one of them!"

"You wouldn't beat them. You might the mother's children, but not the nursery ones, nor the schoolroom ones; and there are two sets of schoolroom ones coming to-morrow, the Stevens, and the Burkes who were here last year!"

"I shall get old Cole to help me."

"And I'll help you too, and I'll put on my boots, because the kicks will hurt more!"

This was from Gypsy, whose eyes sparkled in anticipation of a coming contest.

Then Miss Gubbins spoke.

"What are you all talking about? Don't let me hear of you fighting any one!"

"Well, it's our bit of beach, it has got the big rock on it, and the longest breakwater, and we're residents, aren't we, Gubby? And the visitor children aren't going to drive us from it—two boys tried it on this afternoon—and we'll let them know who we are!"

Donald spoke excitedly, and flourished his teacup in his hand like a war club.

"And they were only nursery children, too!" cried Claud with scorn.

"I don't understand what you mean by 'nursery children,'" said Miss Gubbins.

"Oh, Gubby, you know! We told you the other day; they are the ones that live in a nursery, of course. All the children that come here belong to three lots. The schoolroom ones come with their governess or from school; they're the jolliest. Some of the nursery ones aren't bad, but the nurses are horrid, and the mother's children are worst of all! They have company manners and best frocks and kid gloves, and always live in the drawing-room!"

Miss Gubbins smiled.

Donald went on: "And the residents always come first, before the visitors. The beach belongs to us in the winter, and we aren't going to give up our pet corner in the summer for any wretched little visitor!"

"You will not be residents here much longer," said Miss Gubbins, rousing herself; "I am only waiting till you have done tea to tell you about it. I heard from your step-brother this morning."

There were shouts at this. "The Ogre!" "Is he coming to see us?" "What did he say?"

Miss Gubbins would not satisfy any curiosity until the tea things were removed, hands and faces washed, and a tidy little group gathered round her.

The children were always curious when there was any correspondence between Victor Thurston and their governess. He was almost a stranger to them. He had been abroad when his father had married a young wife, and never saw the children till after their mother's death, which occurred when Gypsy was born. Then he came home for a few months, as his father was taken ill, and followed his second wife to the grave within six months of her death. Victor made arrangements for the children to be taken to Miss Gubbins, who was a friend of their mother, and she had come into rooms with them at the seaside, where they had remained ever since. And then Victor had gone abroad again, and, beyond a short visit one summer, during which he inspired the children with the greatest awe, he had not been near them.

"Do tell us, Gubby, quick!" pleaded Claud. "Is he coming here?"

"No, but we are going to him. Now don't scream so, and I will tell you. An uncle of yours has died, and has left your brother an old house in the country. He says it is too large for him to live in alone, and he wants us to go there at once."

"The Ogre's Castle! Hip, hip, hurrah! Are we going to-morrow?"

"The end of next week."

"And is he there?"

"No, he will not come till a month later, he says."

"Then we shall do just as we like, and you'll give us a holiday, like a dear good Gubby, won't you?"

"I shall see."

"Do tell us what it is like, and if there are dungeons, and secret rooms?"

"I know nothing about it. Now, you mustn't worry me with questions, but have patience, for we shall soon be there."

There was much excitement about the coming change; but, when they had quieted down, Miss Gubbins told them she would read to them as usual, as the tide was in, and they could not go out on the beach. This was a custom of hers nearly every evening, and she had been half telling, half reading, Tennyson's thrilling tale of King Arthur and his knights.

To-night she chose the "Holy Grail," and, mystical as it was, the little ones' shining eyes and rapt attention told her how much they had enjoyed it.

They drew long breaths when she finished.

"And Galahad never came back," said Claud, dreamily looking out to the sunset sky across the bay. "It's rather sad, but it's lovely!"

"I shouldn't like to be too good," said Donald meditatively; "that's what people mean when they say some children are too good to live. They're afraid of being caught away like Sir Galahad!"

Gypsy said nothing. She sat with clasped hands on a footstool, her pretty little face unusually grave. In her small heart she was saying to herself, "I wish I could find it. I should like to start to-morrow!"

"It's only a story, you know, children; but every one in this world is seeking for something, and it is only to some that special blessing is given. We all ought to try for it."

"Try for what?" asked Donald.

"Well," said Miss Gubbins vaguely, "try to be very, very good, like Galahad. He went through the world looking for heavenly glory, and he found it."

"I think I'd rather be like Lancelot," said Donald. "He wasn't quite so very good as Galahad. Gubby, do you think there will be a big hall and a round table in the Ogre's Castle?"

The conversation drifted away from the old legends to the near future, and little Gypsy was the only one of the three who went to bed that night with her brain full of stormy seas, golden light, and boats of fire riding on the waves.

When Miss Gubbins bent over her the last thing at night, she caught the murmured words, "I see the boat; it's coming for me!"

The next day found the children on the beach—not quite so keen upon having the sole monopoly of their favourite corner, now that they knew they were going away. They soon made their little companions aware of the fact, and talked rather grandly about the "castle" they were going to live in. They were busily employed with others in laying out gardens in the sand, with seaweed lawns, pebble paths, and miniature lakes, when Gypsy felt herself pulled by the hand. Turning round, she met the earnest gaze of a little girl about her own age, evidently a new-comer.

"May I play with you?" was the shy request.

Then Gypsy proceeded with the usual catechism to which all new-comers were subjected.

"What's your name?"

"Rene Gordon."

"Have you got a governess?"

"No."

"A mother?"

"Mother is in London with father."

"Have you got a nurse?"

"Yes; she's over there with my little baby brother."

"You can come and get some crabs to put in the lake with me."

And Gypsy led her off in a grandmotherly fashion.

Irene was a pale, uninteresting-looking child, but Gypsy's frank conversation soon put her at ease, and she gave her her full confidence.

"I came here the day before yesterday. I saw you playing, and wanted to come so much, but I didn't like to. You make much better castles and gardens than any one else!"

"That's because we're—we're residers," said Gypsy, struggling with the long word.

"I never have any one to play with at home," continued Irene with a sigh; "and I'm always being punished, and no one loves me."

"You must be a wicked girl, then!" And Gypsy stopped in her operation of turning over stones to find some crabs, and regarded her new friend with doubtful eyes.

"Nurse says I am. I don't like nurse, and she doesn't like me."

"Nurses are very nasty, I think. We haven't a nurse, only Gubby, and she's very nice. But we haven't a father and mother, like you. Don't they like you?"

Irene did not answer for a minute, then she said slowly,—

"I'm a kind of mistake, you know. I don't know how I came, but I was born wrong. I ought to have been a boy, and mother doesn't like girls. Father said, when Percy was born, that he was worth a dozen girls, for he was the heir. I don't quite understand what a heir is. I know he will have our house when he grows up, and I shan't have nothing! No one wants me at home. If I only knew some one who did, I would run away to them; but then, that's rather a frightening thing to do!"

"It would be lovely," said Gypsy, with sparkling eyes. "You could have all kinds of adventures if you ran away. You could sleep in the woods—climb up a tree when night came, because of the wolves, and eat berries and rabbits, and boil a kettle, and—and join a circus, and be dressed in gold and silver, and jump through hoops, and have all the people clapping you, and then you'd grow up a rich lady, and marry a prince, and live in a castle ever after!"

Irene listened to this burst of eloquence much impressed.

"But where should I find a circus?"

"Oh, they're always just outside the wood in storybooks. Or you could be like Galahad, and go riding after the 'Holy Thing.'"

"Who was she?"

"It was a man, not a she. He was very, very good. And a lot of knights rode away one day to find it."

"Find what?"

"The Holy Thing."

"What's that?"

"Well, it was a kind of glory light, something like a cup all in red and yellow and silver. It came from heaven to only very good people, and they all went to find it, and Galahad did. He went across the sea on bridges, and there was an awful storm, and he wouldn't stop for nobody or nothing, and at last a little boat took him right into the sky, and he never came back again."

"And what did he see in the sky?"

Gypsy considered; then in a solemn tone she replied, "God."

"I don't think I'll be like that," said Irene gravely. "That would be a frightening journey."

"Well, I'm going to go one day. I shall set out and find it, and then I shall never come back."

"Hi! Gypsy, hurry up! Where are the crabs?"

It was Donald, who was waxing impatient; and the little girls dropped their conversation for the present.