CHAPTER XII.

“LIVE PURE, SPEAK TRUTH, RIGHT WRONG.”

The next day, directly breakfast was over, there was a solemn meeting in the Cuckoo copse, to consider the further details in the development of Phoena’s scheme.

“There’s only one thing that I want to say,” said Di.

“When isn’t there?” asked Jack.

“Well, but,” persisted the eager speaker, “what Phoena read out of the book last night was all very well, but as far as we are concerned there’s no sense in it in these days. I mean as regards keeping the vows, we can only do the dull part, such as speaking the truth and being kind to each other, and all that sort of thing.”

“Hear, hear,” broke in the boys.

“But as to the other part,” went on Di, encouraged by their applause, “which really was the only nice part, what chance have we of pursuing infidels, and riding abroad to maintain the right and of breaking lances over wicked people’s heads?”

“Oh! but Di,” cried Phoena, “you mustn’t talk like that. Proper knights didn’t break their lances over people’s heads as if they were only old women’s broomsticks.”

“Oh! all right then, stuck them into people’s hearts,” retorted Di, with a delightful independence as to the accuracy of her language, “so any way, I’m going to propose something much simpler. Let’s all agree that the boys are to do one brave thing every day and we girls one kind thing. And whoever fails to fulfil this, must be summoned before the whole lot of us and--”

“Be sat upon as we shall judge fit,” concluded Jack.

“Capital, capital!” resounded from all sides.

Only Faith dissented. Did she not know the fearful squabbling which under the proposed conditions would most surely mar the close of each day. “I don’t want to preach--” she began.

“Then _don’t_,” said Di, promptly.

“No, but,” continued Faith, growing scarlet, “if we bind ourselves at all, wouldn’t it be better to try and _be_ kind instead of binding ourselves to _do_ something kind and brave and all that? Because, though, I can’t exactly explain what I mean, _doing_ things isn’t always _being_ them. One may do a kind thing without being really kind.”

“What on earth do you mean?” asked Diana.

“This sort of thing,” said Faith. “Last evening when poor little Gaston looked through the door at us all eating cherries--”

“Well, we gave him some,” said Andrew.

“Yes, and giving him a handful of cherries was a kind act, but you were not kind in giving them to him. You called him a flabby French frog and in such a nasty tone too, I’m quite sure that he would have been much happier if he hadn’t had the cherries at all.”

“Yes,” said Jack, “I see what you mean, you dear pious old Fay, but look here, we’re going to turn over a new leaf altogether, you know, and we mean both to _be_ good and to _do_ good.”

“Still,” said Phoena, “Fay’s right, Di’s scheme won’t do. To start with, we shouldn’t probably have all an equal chance of doing great things, and then besides,” Phoena rather faltered over this bit of plain speaking, “besides we are none of us so extra kind and good, you know, that we are likely to--”

“Have some goodness to spare for every day in the week, that’s what you mean to say,” wound up Di.

“Something like it,” admitted Phoena, “so that we had better be contented with all trying to do our best, and then at the end of our time we must all solemnly consider whose best is _bestest_.”

Then followed a tremendous argument as to what kind of deed should be considered best. On this point, there were of course so many different opinions that the discussion bid fair to last to midnight, had not Hubert’s shrill tones asserted themselves.

“The most unselfish thing that we can do, and the thing that hurts ourselves the most, that ought to be called the bestest deed,” proclaimed this small self-constituted oracle.

Vague and distinctly ungrammatical as this proposition was, it was nevertheless hailed as a welcome end to the long discussion, and was duly carried in these terms.

“That that deed which shall be the most unselfish, and shall cost the doer the heaviest price shall be adjudged the best.”

And as Phoena entered this important resolution into her code of rules and regulations Faith wondered a little anxiously as to how and when that resolution would be enforced.

If she had only guessed what was coming!

But though Hubert’s suggestion was adopted, his sudden leap into public life, as well as to the top of the fence, whence he had delivered himself, nearly cost him the chance of being enrolled himself into the order at all, for the elder boys agreed that it was quite impossible to admit such an infant on the same footing as themselves.

“He’s such an awful youngster,” said Phil, sighing heavily at the thought of Hubert’s four years juniorship to himself.

“Of course,” said Andrew, decidedly, “we can’t have such a baby amongst us.”

But the pitiful look on the “awful youngster’s” face softened Jack’s heart.

“Phoena, can’t we take him in as something that isn’t a knight?” he asked; “As a squire or a page?”

“He might go in as a valet,” said Phoena. “No, you needn’t look offended, Hubert. A valet in those days didn’t mean a man who brushed clothes, but simply a vassalet or little page. He began his training for the knighthood just about your age, and valet was only the short for vassalet.”

“Vaseline you mean,” said Di, wickedly.

But Phoena went on:

“His chief duties were to attend his lord in the chase, to learn from him how to shoot and use the lance, to be taught courteous ways towards ladies, and to be ever of a modest and obedient behaviour.”

“Then, as I’m eldest, you’ll have to be my valet,” broke in Andrew.

“Only so long as you treat him properly, though,” said both boys; while Hubert, content through sad necessity, accepted these terms.

“But what shall we girls have to do?” asked Di. “I suppose we shall have to fulfil our good intentions in some way or other.”

“Of course,” said Phoena, “we shall have to be much more careful than the knights to fulfil our vows and to set them a good example. In olden times it was always the ladies, you know, who used to inspire the flower of chivalry to do noble deeds and teach high thoughts and----”

“High jinks will be what Di’ll teach us, and nothing else,” laughed Jack; “but I say, what about taking that little French beggar into the Order.”

“Oh! please do,” begged both the infants.

“It would be rather unkind to leave him out,” said Fay.

“He’d better look out if he comes under my notice,” said Andrew; “I’ll show him that I can pay off old scores.”

“Take care,” warned Phoena, “or you may get turned out of the Order and dubbed a false knight, for to revenge yourself on the weak would be breaking your vows, you know.”

“Oh! let’s have the poor little beggar in,” said Phil, good-naturedly. Marygold had been whispering so pleadingly in his ear.

“He is rather a Molly, you know,” objected Jack.

“And scarcely likely to be an ornament to the Order,” remarked Di.

“And very likely to be a bone of contention,” sighed Faith, who began to realise that there might be many objections to admitting Gaston to closer companionship with the older boys.

And so the motion for admitting Gaston into the noble company was not carried; but when, on the next afternoon, they held high festival in the Cuckoo Copse to inaugurate their Order, and Gaston, under Ruth’s protection, ran to and fro, a willing helper in carrying the good things which Mrs. Busson had provided for the feast, they all felt, as Phil expressed it, that it would be awfully mean to keep the wretched little chap out of their fun.

With infinite trouble Phoena had traced out a huge circle on the mossy ground, which was to represent the Round Table, and within this magic ring, all the viands were arranged also in a circle.

There were pyramids of strawberries and cherries, jugs of cream, currants in a snowstorm--a confection peculiar to Mrs. Busson, composed of whites of eggs beaten to a stiff snow and inlaid with clusters of crystallised red currants--there were fairy foolscaps, made of most transparent pastry, stuffed with cream and jam, there was thunder and lightning--clotted cream, intersected with flashes of apricot preserve--big bowls of curds and whey, with a magnificent dish of trifle to crown the centre of the table.

Mrs. Busson had indeed spared no pains to make the banquet worthy of the occasion.

But when, after Gaston had finished helping Ruth to arrange the table with such deftness that Ruth declared he was a regular little French cook, he meekly followed her back to the house without attempting to stay beside the tempting board, there was a violent reaction in Gaston’s favour amongst all the intending merry-makers.

To the infants’ exceeding joy they were bidden to pursue the outcast and to bring him back to the feast.

And so, with no very clear comprehension of his obligations, Gaston joined in the banquet, and was duly enrolled as the youngest knight in the Order of Good Intentions.

“We _must_ make him a knight,” Di had wisely whispered to Jack, “for if he were only a valet like Hubert, Andrew would bully him so.”