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.

[Illustration: 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."