theatrical properties—i prepare a play—philip begins to prepare the scenery—a new friend.

philip was at school during the remainder of the year, but i tried to put my good resolves in practice with the children, and it made us a more peaceful household than usual. when philip came home for the christmas holidays we were certainly in very pleasant moods—for an ill-tempered family.

our friends allow that some quickness of wits accompanies the quickness of our tempers. from the days when we were very young our private theatricals have been famous in our own little neighbourhood. i was paramount in nursery mummeries, and in the children's charade parties of the district, for philip was not very reliable when steady help was needed; but at school he became stage-manager of the theatricals there.

[186]

i do not know that he learned to act very much better than i, and i think alice (who was only twelve) had twice the gift of either of us, but every half he came back more ingenious than before in matters for which we had neither the talent nor the tools. he glued together yards of canvas or calico, and produced scenes and drop-curtains which were ambitious and effective, though i thought him a little reckless both about good drawing and good clothes. his glue-kettles and size-pots were always steaming, his paint was on many and more inappropriate objects than the canvas. a shilling's-worth of gilding powder went such a long way that we had not only golden crowns and golden sceptres, and golden chains for our dungeon, and golden wings for our fairies, but the nursery furniture became irregularly and unintentionally gilded, as well as nurse's stuff dress, when she sat on a warrior's shield, which was drying in the rocking-chair.

but these were small matters. philip gave us a wonderful account of the "properties" he had made for school theatricals. a dragon painted to the life, and with matches so fixed into the tip of him that the boy who acted as the life and soul of this ungainly carcase could wag a fiery tail before the amazed audience, by striking it on that particular scale of his dragon's skin which was made of sand-paper. rabbit-skin masks, cotton-wool wigs and wigs of tow, [187]seven-league boots, and witches' hats, thunder with a tea-tray, and all the phases of the moon with a moderator lamp—with all these things philip enriched the school theatre, though for some time he would not take so much trouble for our own.

but during this last half he had written me three letters—and three very kind ones. in the latest he said that—partly because he had been making some things for us, and partly because of changes in the school-theatrical affairs—he should bring home with him a box of very valuable "properties" for our use at christmas. he charged me at once to prepare a piece which should include a prince disguised as a woolly beast on two legs with large fore-paws (easily shaken off), a fairy godmother with a tow wig and the highest hat i could ever hope to see, a princess turned into a willow-tree (painted from memory of the old one at home), and with fine gnarls and knots, through which the princess could see everything, and prompt (if needful), a disconsolate parent, and a faithful attendant, to be acted by one person, with as many belated travellers as the same actor could personate into the bargain. these would all be eaten up by the dragon at the right wing, and re-enter more belated than ever at the left, without stopping longer than was required to roll a peal of thunder at the back. the fifth and last character was to be the [188]dragon himself. the forest scene would be wanted, and i was to try and get an old cask for a cave.

i must explain that i was not expected to write a play. we never took the trouble to "learn parts." we generally took some story which pleased us out of grimm's fairy tales or the arabian nights, and arranged for the various scenes. we each had a copy of the arrangement, and our proper characters were assigned to us. after this we did the dialogue as if it had been a charade. we were well accustomed to act together, and could trust each other and ourselves. only alice's brilliancy ever took us by surprise.

by the time that philip came home i had got in the rough outline of the plot. he arrived with a box of properties, the mere size of which raised a cheer of welcome from the little ones, and red-hot for our theatricals.

philip was a little apt to be red-hot over projects, and to cool before they were accomplished; but on this occasion we had no forebodings of such evil. besides, he was to play the dragon! when he did fairly devote himself to anything, he grudged no trouble and hesitated at no undertakings. he was so much pleased with my plot and with the cave, that he announced that he should paint a new forest scene for the occasion. i tried to dissuade him. there [189]were so many other things to be done, and the old scene was very good. but he had learnt several new tricks of the scene-painter's trade, and was bent upon putting them into practice. so he began his new scene, and i resolved to work all the harder at the odds and ends of our preparations. to be driven into a corner and pressed for time always stimulated instead of confusing me. i think the excitement of it is pleasant. alice had the same dogged way of working at a crisis, and we felt quite confident of being able to finish up "at a push," whatever philip might leave undone. the theatricals were to be on twelfth night.

christmas passed very happily on the whole. i found my temper much oftener tried since philip's return, but this was not only because he was very wilful and very fond of teasing, but because with the younger ones i was always deferred to.

one morning we were very busy in the nursery, which was our workshop. philip's glue-pots and size-pots were steaming, there were coloured powders on every chair, alice and i were laying a coat of invisible green over the cave-cask, and philip, in radiant good-humour, was giving distance to his woodland glades in the most artful manner with powder-blue, and calling on us for approbation—when the housemaid [190]came in.

"it's not lunch-time?" cried alice. "it can't be!"

"get away, mary," said philip, "and tell cook if she puts on any more meals i'll paint her best cap pea-green. she's sending up luncheons and dinners all day long now: just because she knows we're busy."

mary only laughed, and said, "it's a gentleman wants to see you, master philip," and she gave him a card. philip read it, and we waited with some curiosity.

"it's a man i met in the train," said he, "a capital fellow. he lives in the town. his father's a doctor there. granny must invite him to the theatricals. ask him to come here, mary, and show him the way."

"oughtn't you to go and fetch him yourself?" said i.

"i can't leave this," said philip. "he'll be all right. he's as friendly as possible."

i must say here that "granny" was our maternal grandmother, with whom we lived. my mother and father were cousins, and granny's husband was of that impetuous race to which we belonged. if he had been alive he would have kept us all in good order, no doubt. but he was dead, and granny was the gentlest of old ladies: i fear she led a terrible life [191]with us all!

philip's friend came up-stairs. he was very friendly; in fact alice and i thought him forward, but he was several years older than philip, who seemed proud of the acquaintance. perhaps alice and i were biased by the fact that he spoilt our pleasant morning. he was one of those people who look at everything one has been working at with such unintelligent eyes that their indifference ought not to dishearten one; and yet it does.

"it's for our private theatricals," said philip, as mr. clinton's amazed stare passed from our paint-covered selves to the new scene.

"my cousins in dublin have private theatricals," said mr. clinton. "my uncle has built on a room for the theatre. all the fittings and scenes come from london, and the first costumiers in dublin send in all the dresses and everything that is required on the afternoon before the performance."

"oh, we're in a much smaller way," said philip; "but i've some properties here that don't look bad by candlelight." but mr. clinton had come up to the cask, and was staring at it and us. i knew by the way alice got quietly up, and shook some chips with a decided air out of her apron, that she did not like being stared at. but her movement only drew mr. clinton's especial attention.

"you'll catch it from your grandmamma for [192]making such a mess of your clothes, won't you?" he asked.

"i beg your pardon?" said alice, with so perfect an air of not having heard him that he was about to repeat the question, when she left the nursery with the exact exit which she had made as a discreet princess repelling unwelcome advances in last year's play.

i was afraid of an outburst from philip, and said in hasty civility, "this is a cave we are making."

"they'd a splendid cave at covent garden last christmas," said mr. clinton. "it covered half the stage. an enormously tall man dressed in cloth of silver stood in the entrance, and waved a spear ten or twelve feet long over his head. a fairy was let down above that, so you may be sure the cave was pretty big."

"oh, here's the dragon," said philip, who had been rummaging in the property box. "he's got a fiery tail."

"they were quite the go in pantomimes a few years ago," said mr. clinton, yawning. "my uncle had two or three—bigger than that, of course."

philip saw that his friend was not interested in amateur property-making, and changed the subject.

[193]"what have you been doing this morning?" said he.

"i drove here with my father, who had got to pass your gates. i say, there's splendid shooting on the marsh now. i want you to come out with me, and we'll pot a wild duck or two."

"i've no gun," said philip, and to soften the statement added, "there's no one here to go out with."

"i'll go out with you. and i say, we could just catch the train back to the town, and if you'll come and lunch with us, we'll go out a bit this afternoon and look round. but you must get a gun."

"i should like some fresh air," said philip, "and as you've come over for me—"

i knew the appealing tone in his voice was for my ears, for my face had fallen.

"could i be going on with it?" i asked, nodding towards the forest scene.

"oh dear no! i'll go at it again to-night. it ought all to be painted by candlelight by rights. i'm not going to desert my post," he added.

"i hope not," said i as good-humouredly as i could; but dismay was in my heart.