CHAPTER XVI.

MR. ROWE ON THE SUBJECT—OUR COUSIN—WESTON GETS INTO PRINT—THE

HARBOUR'S MOUTH—WHAT LIES BEYOND.

Mr. Rowe's anxiety to see Rupert and Henrietta, and to "take the

liberty of expressing himself" about their having saved Baby Cecil's

life was very great, but the interview did not take place for some

time. The barge _Betsy_ took two voyages to Nine Elms and home again

before Henrietta was down-stairs and allowed to talk about the fire.

Rupert refused to see the barge-master when he called to ask after

Henrietta; he was vexed because people made a fuss about the affair,

and when Rupert was vexed he was not gracious. When Henrietta got

better, however, she said, "We ought to see old Rowe and thank him for

his kindness to Charlie;" so the next time he called, we all went into

the housekeeper's room to see him.

He was very much pleased and excited, which always seemed to make him

inclined to preach. He set forth the noble motives which must have

moved Rupert and Henrietta to their heroic conduct in the emergency,

so that I felt more proud of them than ever. But Rupert frowned, and

said, "Nonsense, Rowe, I'm sure I never thought anything of the kind.

I don't believe we either of us thought anything at all."

But Mr. Rowe had not served seventeen years in the Royal Navy to be

put down when he expounded a point of valour.

"That's where it is, Master Rupert," said he. "It wouldn't have been

you or Miss Henrietta either if you had. 'A man overboard,' says

you—that's enough for one of your family, sir. _They_ never stops to

think 'Can I swim?' but in you goes, up the stairs that wouldn't hold

the weight of a new-born babby, and right through the raging flames."

"Oh, dear!" cried Henrietta, "that's just what Cook and all kinds of

people will say. But it was the front stairs that were on fire. We

only went up the back stairs, and they weren't burning at all."

The barge-master smiled in reply. But it was with the affability of

superior knowledge, and I feel quite sure that he always told the

story (and believed it) according to his impossible version.

It was on the third day after the fire that our cousin called at the

_Crown_. He had never been to see us before, and, as I have said, we

had never been to the Castle. But the next day he sent a close

carriage for Henrietta and my mother, and a dog-cart for Rupert and

me, and brought us up to the Castle. We were there for three months.

It was through him that Rupert went to those baths abroad, which cured

his knee completely. And then, because my mother could not afford to

do it, he sent him to a grander public school than Dr. Jessop's old

grammar school, and Mr. Johnson sent Thomas Johnson there too, for Tom

could not bear to be parted from Rupert, and his father never refused

him anything.

But what I think was so very kind of our cousin was his helping me.

Rupert and Henrietta had been a credit to the family, but I deserved

nothing. I had only run away in the mean hope of outshining them, and

had made a fool of myself, whilst they had been really great in doing

their duty at home. However, he did back me up with Mother about going

to sea, and got me on board the training-ship _Albion_; and my highest

hope is to have the chance of bringing my share of renown to my

father's name, that his cousin may never regret having helped me to my

heart's desire.

Fred Johnson and I are very good friends, but since our barge voyage

we have never been quite so intimate. I think the strongest tie

between us was his splendid stories of the captain, and I do not

believe in them now.

Oddly enough, my chief friend—of the whole lot—is Weston. Rupert

always said I had a vulgar taste in the choice of friends, so it seems

curious that of our old schoolmates Johnson should be his friend and

Weston mine. For Johnson's father is only a canal-carrier, and Weston

is a fellow of good family.

He is so very clever! And I have such a habit of turning my pockets

inside out for everybody to see, that I admire his reticence; and

then, though he is so ironical with himself, as well as other people,

he has very fine ideas and ambitions and very noble and upright

principles—when you know him well.

"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," and the fire that burned

down our house got Weston into print at last.

It was not a common letter either, in the "correspondence" part, with

small type, and the editor not responsible. It was a leading article,

printed big, and it was about the fire and Rupert and Henrietta.

Thomas Johnson read it to us, and we did not know who wrote it; but it

was true, and in good taste. After the account of the fire came a

quotation from Horace,

"Fortes creantur fortibus et bonis."

And Johnson cried—"That's Weston, depend upon it. He's in the _Weekly

Spectator_ at last!"

And then, to my utter amazement, came such a chronicle of the valiant

deeds of Rupert's ancestors as Weston could only have got from one

source. What had furnished his ready pen with matter for a comic

ballad to punish my bragging had filled it also to do honour to Rupert

and Henrietta's real bravery, and down to what the colonel of my

father's regiment had said of him—it was all there.

Weston came to see me the other day at Dartmouth, where our

training-ship _Albion_ lies, and he was so charmed by the old town

with its carved and gabled houses, and its luxuriant gardens rich with

pale-blossomed laurels, which no frost dwarfs, and crimson fuchsias

gnarled with age, and its hill-embosomed harbour, where the people of

all grades and ages, and of both sexes, flit hither and thither in

their boats as landlubbers would take an evening stroll—that I felt

somewhat justified in the romantic love I have for the place.

And when we lay in one of the _Albion's_ boats, rocking up and down in

that soothing swell which freshens the harbour's mouth, Weston made me

tell him all about the lion and the silver chain, and he called me a

prig for saying so often that I did not believe in it now. I remember

he said, "In this sleepy, damp, delightful Dartmouth, who but a prig

could deny the truth of a poetical dream?"

He declared he could see the lion in a cave in the rock, and that the

poor beast wanted a new sea-green ribbon.

Weston speaks so much more cleverly than I can, that I could not

explain to him then that I am still but too apt to dream! But the

harbour's mouth is now only the beginning of my visions, which stretch

far over the sea beyond, and over the darker line of that horizon

where the ships come and go.

I hope it is not wrong to dream. My father was so modest as well as

ambitious, so good as well as so gallant, that I would rather die than

disgrace him by empty conceit and unprofitable hopes.

Weston is a very religious fellow, though he does not "cant" at all.

When I was going away to Dartmouth, and he saw me off (for we were

great friends), one of the last things he said to me was, "I say,

don't leave off saying your prayers, you know."

I haven't, and I told him so this last time. I often pray that if ever

I am great I may be good too; and sometimes I pray that if I try hard

to be good God will let me be great as well.

The most wonderful thing was old Rowe's taking a cheap ticket and

coming down to see me last summer. I never can regret my voyage with

him in the _Betsy_, for I did thoroughly enjoy it, though I often

think how odd it is that in my vain, jealous wild-goose chase after

adventures I missed the chance of distinguishing myself in the only

Great Emergency which has yet occurred in our family.

A VERY ILL-TEMPERED FAMILY.

"Finding, following, keeping, struggling,

Is HE sure to bless?"

_Hymn of the Eastern Church._

CHAPTER I.

A FAMILY FAILING.

We are a very ill-tempered family.

I want to say it, and not to unsay it by any explanations, because I

think it is good for us to face the fact in the unadorned form in

which it probably presents itself to the minds of our friends.

Amongst ourselves we have always admitted it by pieces, as it were, or

in negative propositions. We allow that we are firm of disposition; we

know that we are straightforward; we show what we feel. We have

opinions and principles of our own; we are not so thick-skinned as

some good people, nor as cold-blooded as others.

When two of us quarrelled (and Nurse used to say that no two of us

ever agreed), the provocation always seemed, to each of us, great

enough amply to excuse the passion. But I have reason to think that

people seldom exclaimed, "What grievances those poor children are

exasperated with!" but that they often said, "What terrible tempers

they all have!"

There are five of us: Philip and I are the eldest; we are twins. My

name is Isobel, and I never allow it to be shortened into the ugly

word _Bella_ nor into the still more hideous word _Izzy_, by either

the servants or the children. My aunt Isobel never would, and neither

will I.

"The children" are the other three. They are a good deal younger than

Philip and I, so we have always kept them in order. I do not mean that

we taught them to behave wonderfully well, but I mean that we made

them give way to us elder ones. Among themselves they squabbled

dreadfully.

We are a very ill-tempered family.

CHAPTER II.

ILL-TEMPERED PEOPLE AND THEIR FRIENDS—NARROW ESCAPES—THE

HATCHET-QUARREL.

I do not wish for a moment to defend ill-temper, but I do think that

people who suffer from ill-tempered people often talk as if they were

the only ones who do suffer in the matter; and as if the ill-tempered

people themselves quite enjoyed being in a rage.

And yet how much misery is endured by those who have never got the

victory over their own ill-temper! To feel wretched and exasperated by

little annoyances which good-humoured people get over with a shrug or

a smile; to have things rankle in my mind like a splinter in the

flesh, which glide lightly off yours, and leave no mark; to be unable

to bear a joke, knowing that one is doubly laughed at because one

can't; to have this deadly sore at heart—"I _cannot_ forgive; I

_cannot_ forget," there is no pleasure in these things. The tears of

sorrow are not more bitter than the tears of anger, of hurt pride or

thwarted will. As to the fit of passion in which one is giddy, blind,

and deaf, if there is a relief to the overcharged mind in saying the

sharpest things and hitting the heaviest blows one can at the moment,

the pleasantness is less than momentary, for almost as we strike we

foresee the pains of regret and of humbling ourselves to beg pardon

which must ensue. Our friends do not always pity as well as blame us,

though they are sorry for those who were possessed by devils long ago.

Good-tempered people, too, who I fancy would find it quite easy not to

be provoking, and to be a little patient and forbearing, really seem

sometimes to irritate hot-tempered ones on purpose, as if they thought

it was good for them to get used to it.

I do not mean that I think ill-tempered people should be constantly

yielded to, as Nurse says Mrs. Rampant and the servants have given way

to Mr. Rampant till he has got to be quite as unreasonable and nearly

as dangerous as most maniacs, and his friends never cross him, for the

same reason that they would not stir up a mad bull.

Perhaps I do not quite know how I would have our friends treat us who

are cursed with bad tempers. I think to avoid unnecessary provocation,

and to be patient with us in the height of our passion, is wise as

well as kind. But no principle should be conceded to us, and rights

that we have unjustly attacked should be faithfully defended when we

are calm enough to listen. I fancy that where gentle Mrs. Rampant is

wrong is that she allows Mr. Rampant to think that what really are

concessions to his weakness are concessions to his wisdom. And what is

not founded on truth cannot do lasting good. And if, years ago, before

he became a sort of gunpowder cask at large, he had been asked if he

wished Mrs. Rampant to persuade herself, and Mrs. Rampant, the little

Rampants, and the servants to combine to persuade him, that he was

right when he was wrong, and wise when he was foolish, and reasonable

when he was unjust, I think he would have said No. I do not believe

one could deliberately desire to be befooled by one's family for all

the best years of one's life. And yet how many people are!

I do not think I am ever likely to be so loved and feared by those I

live with as to have my ill-humours made into laws. I hope not. But I

am sometimes thankful, on the other hand, that GOD is more

forbearing with us than we commonly are with each other, and does not

lead us into temptation when we are at our worst and weakest.

Any one who has a bad temper must sometimes look back at the years

before he learned self-control, and feel thankful that he is not a

murderer, or burdened for life by the weight on his conscience of

some calamity of which he was the cause. If the knife which furious

Fred threw at his sister before he was out of petticoats had hit the

child's eye instead of her forehead, could he ever have looked into

the blinded face without a pang? If the blow with which impatient

Annie flattered herself she was correcting her younger brother had

thrown the naughty little lad out of the boat instead of into the

sailor's arms, and he had been drowned—at ten years old a murderess,

how could she endure for life the weight of her unavailing remorse?

I very nearly killed Philip once. It makes me shudder to think of it,

and I often wonder I ever could lose my temper again.

We were eight years old, and out in the garden together. We had

settled to build a moss-house for my dolls, and had borrowed the

hatchet out of the wood-house, without leave, to chop the stakes with.

It was entirely my idea, and I had collected all the moss and most of

the sticks. It was I, too, who had taken the hatchet. Philip had been

very tiresome about not helping me in the hard part; but when I had

driven in the sticks by leaning on them with all my weight, and had

put in bits of brushwood where the moss fell out and Philip laughed at

me, and, in short, when the moss-house was beginning to look quite

real, Philip was very anxious to work at it, and wanted the hatchet.

"You wouldn't help me over the hard work," said I, "so I shan't give

it you now; I'll make my moss-house myself."

"No, you won't," said Philip.

"Yes, I shall," said I.

"No, you won't," he reiterated; "for I shall pull it down as fast as

you build it."

"You'd better not," I threatened.

Just then we were called in to dinner. I hid the hatchet, and Philip

said no more; but he got out before me, and when I returned to work I

found that the moss-house walls, which had cost me so much labour,

were pulled to pieces and scattered about the shrubbery. Philip was

not to be seen.

My heart had been so set upon my project that at first I could only

feel the overwhelming disappointment. I was not a child who often

cried, but I burst into tears.

I was sobbing my hardest when Philip sprang upon me in triumph, and

laughing at my distress.

"I kept my promise," said he, tossing his head, "and I'll go on doing

it."

I am sure those shocks of fury which seize one like a fit must be a

devil possessing one. In an instant my eyes were as dry as the desert

in a hot wind, and my head reeling with passion. I ran to the

hatchet, and came back brandishing it.

"If you touch one stake or bit of moss of mine again," said I, "I'll

throw my hatchet at your head. I can keep promises too."

My intention was only to frighten him. I relied on his not daring to

brave such a threat; unhappily he relied on my not daring to carry it

out. He took up some of my moss and threw it at me by way of reply.

I flung the hatchet!—

My Aunt Isobel has a splendid figure, with such grace and power as one

might expect from her strong health and ready mind. I had not seen her

at the moment, for I was blind with passion, nor had Philip, for his

back was turned towards her. I did not see distinctly how she watched,

as one watches for a ball, and caught the hatchet within a yard of

Philip's head.

My Aunt Isobel has a temper much like the temper of the rest of the

family. When she had caught it in her left hand she turned round and

boxed my ears with her right hand till I could see less than ever. (I

believe she suffered for that outburst for months afterwards. She was

afraid she had damaged my hearing, as that sense is too often damaged

or destroyed by the blows of ill-tempered parents, teachers, and

nurses.)

Then she turned back and shook Philip as vigorously as she had boxed

me. "I saw you, you spiteful, malicious boy!" said my Aunt Isobel.

All the time she was shaking him, Philip was looking at her feet.

Something that he saw absorbed his attention so fully that he forgot

to cry.

"You're bleeding, Aunt Isobel," said he, when she gave him breath

enough to speak.

The truth was this: the nervous force which Aunt Isobel had summoned

up to catch the hatchet seemed to cease when it was caught; her arm

fell powerless, and the hatchet cut her ankle. That left arm was

useless for many months afterwards, to my abiding reproach.

Philip was not hurt, but he might have been killed. Everybody told me

so often that it was a warning to me to correct my terrible temper,

that I might have revolted against the reiteration if the facts had

been less grave. But I never can feel lightly about that

hatchet-quarrel. It opened a gulf of possible wickedness and life-long

misery, over the brink of which my temper would have dragged me, but

for Aunt Isobel's strong arm and keen eye, and over which it might

succeed in dragging me any day, unless I could cure myself of my

besetting sin.

I never denied it. It was a warning.

CHAPTER III.

WARNINGS—MY AUNT ISOBEL—MR. RAMPANT'S TEMPER, AND HIS CONSCIENCE.

I was not the only scarecrow held up before my own mind.

Nurse had a gallery of historical characters, whom she kept as beacons

to warn our stormy passions of their fate. The hot-tempered boy who

killed his brother when they were at school; the hot-tempered farmer

who took his gun to frighten a trespasser, and ended by shooting him;

the young lady who destroyed the priceless porcelain in a pet; the

hasty young gentleman who kicked his favourite dog and broke its

ribs;—they were all warnings: so was old Mr. Rampant, so was my Aunt

Isobel.

Aunt Isobel's story was a whispered tradition of the nursery for many

years before she and I were so intimate, in consequence of her

goodness and kindness to me, that one day I was bold enough to say to

her, "Aunt Isobel, is it true that the reason why you never married

is because you and he quarrelled, and you were very angry, and he went

away, and he was drowned at sea?"

Child as I was, I do not think I should have been so indelicate as to

have asked this question if I had not come to fancy that Nurse made

out the story worse than it really was, for my behoof. Aunt Isobel was

so cheerful and bright with us!—and I was not at that time able to

believe that any one could mend a broken heart with other people's

interests so that the marks should show so little!

My aunt had a very clear skin, but in an instant her face was thick

with a heavy blush, and she was silent. I marvelled that these were

the only signs of displeasure she allowed herself to betray, for the

question was no sooner out of my mouth than I wished it unsaid, and

felt how furious she must naturally feel to hear that her sad and

sacred story was bandied between servants and children as a

nursery-tale with a moral to it.

But oh, Aunt Isobel! Aunt Isobel! you had at this time progressed far

along that hard but glorious road of self-conquest which I had hardly

found my way to.

"I beg your pardon," I began, before she spoke.

"You ought to," said my aunt—she never spoke less than decisively—"I

thought you had more tact, Isobel, than to tell any one what servants

have said of one's sins or sorrows behind one's back."

"I am _very_ sorry," I repeated with shame; "but the thing is, I

didn't believe it was true, you always seem so happy. I am _very_

sorry."

"It is true," said Aunt Isobel. "Child, whilst we are speaking of

it—for the first and the last time—let it be a warning for you to

illustrate a very homely proverb: 'Don't cut off your nose to spite

your own face.' Ill-tempered people are always doing it, and I did it

to my life-long loss. I _was_ angry with him, and like Jonah I said to

myself, 'I do well to be angry.' And though I would die twenty deaths

harder than the death he died to see his face for five minutes and be

forgiven, I am not weak enough to warp my judgment with my misery. I

was in the right, and he was in the wrong. But I forgot how much

harder a position it is to be in the wrong than in the right in a

quarrel. I did not think of how, instead of making the return path

difficult to those who err, we ought to make it easy, as GOD

does for us. I gave him no chance of unsaying with grace or credit

what he could not fail to regret that he had said. Isobel, you have a

clear head and a sharp tongue, as I have. You will understand when I

say that I had the satisfaction of proving that I was in the right and

he was in the wrong, and that I was firmly, conscientiously

determined to make no concessions, no half-way advances, though our

Father _goes to meet_ His prodigals. Merciful Heaven! I had the

satisfaction of parting myself for all these slow years from the most

honest—the tenderest-hearted—"

My Aunt Isobel had overrated her strength. After a short and vain

struggle in silence she got up and went slowly out of the room,

resting her hand for an instant on my little knick-knack table by the

door as she went out—the only time I ever saw her lean upon anything.

* * * * *

Old Mr. Rampant was another of my "warnings." He—to whose face no one

dared hint that he could ever be in the wrong—would have been more

astonished than Aunt Isobel to learn how plainly—nay, how

contemptuously—the servants spoke behind his back of his unbridled

temper and its results. They knew that the only son was somewhere on

the other side of the world, and that little Mrs. Rampant wept tears

for him and sent money to him in secret, and they had no difficulty in

deciding why: "He'd got his father's temper, and it stood to reason

that he and the old gentleman couldn't put up their horses together."

The moral was not obscure. From no lack of affection, but for want of

self-control, the son was condemned to homelessness and hardships in

his youth, and the father was sonless in his old age.

But that was not the point of Nurse's tales about Mr. Rampant which

impressed me most, nor even the endless anecdotes of his unreasonable

passions which leaked out at his back-door and came up our back-stairs

to the nursery. They rather amused us. That assault on the butcher's

boy, who brought ribs of beef instead of sirloin, for which he was

summoned and fined; his throwing the dinner out of the window, and

going to dine at the village inn—by which the dogs ate the dinner and

he had to pay for two dinners, and to buy new plates and dishes.

We laughed at these things, but in my serious moments, especially on

the first Sunday of the month, I was haunted by something else which

Nurse had told me about old Mr. Rampant.

In our small parish—a dull village on the edge of a marsh—the Holy

Communion was only celebrated once a month. It was not because he was

irreligious that old Mr. Rampant was one of the too numerous

non-communicants. "It's his temper, poor gentleman," said Nurse. "He

can't answer for himself, and he has that religious feeling he

wouldn't like to come unless he was fit. The housekeeper overheard

Mrs. Rampant a-begging of him last Christmas. It was no listening

either, for he bellowed at her like a bull, and swore dreadful that

whatever else he was he wouldn't be profane."

"Couldn't he keep his temper for a week, don't you think?" said I

sadly, thinking of my mother's old copy of the _Weeks Preparation_ for

the Lord's Supper.

"It would be as bad if he got into one of his tantrums directly

afterwards," said Nurse: "and with people pestering for

Christmas-boxes, and the pudding and turkey, and so many things that

might go wrong, it would be as likely as not he would. It's a sad

thing too," she added, "for his neck's terribly short, and they say

all his family have gone suddenly with the apoplexy. It's an awful

thing, Miss Isobel, to be taken sudden—and unprepared."

The awe of it came back on me every month when the fair white linen

covered the rustiness of the old velvet altar-cloth which the marsh

damps were rotting, and the silver vessels shone, and the village

organist played out the non-communicants with a somewhat inappropriate

triumphal march, and little Mrs. Rampant knelt on with buried face as

we went out, and Mr. Rampant came out with us, looking more glum than

usual, and with such a short neck!

_Now_ I think poor Mr. Rampant was wrong, and that he ought to have

gone with Mrs. Rampant to the Lord's Supper that Christmas. He might

have found grace to have got through all the little ups and downs and

domestic disturbances of a holiday season without being very

ferocious; and if he had tried and failed I think GOD would

have forgiven him. And he might—it is possible that he

_might_—during that calm and solemn Communion, have forgiven his son

as he felt that Our Father forgave him. So Aunt Isobel says; and I

have good reason to think that she is likely to be right.

I think so too _now_, but _then_ I was simply impressed by the thought

that an ill-tempered person was, as Nurse expressed it, "unfit" to

join in the highest religious worship. It is true that I was also

impressed by her other saying, "It's an awful thing, Miss Isobel, to

be taken sudden and unprepared;" but there was a temporary compromise

in my own case. I could not be a communicant till I was confirmed.

CHAPTER IV.

CASES OF CONSCIENCE—ETHICS OF ILL-TEMPER.

Confirmations were not very frequent in our little village at this

time. About once in three years the Bishop came to us. He came when I

was twelve years old. Opinions were divided as to whether I was old

enough, but I decided the matter by saying I would rather wait till

the next opportunity.

"I may be more fit by that time," was my thought, and it was probably

not unlike some of Mr. Rampant's self-communings.

The time came, and the Bishop also; I was fifteen.

I do not know why, but nobody had proposed that Philip should be

confirmed at twelve years old. Fifteen was thought to be quite early

enough for him, and so it came about that we were confirmed together.

I am very thankful that, as it happened, I had Aunt Isobel to talk to.

"You're relieved from one perplexity at any rate," said she, when I

had been speaking of that family failing which was also mine. "You

know your weak point. I remember a long talk I had, years ago, with

Mrs. Rampant, whom I used to know very well when we were young. She

said one of her great difficulties was not being able to find out her

besetting sin. She said it always made her so miserable when clergymen

preached on that subject, and said that every enlightened Christian

must have discovered one master passion amongst the others of his

soul. She had tried so hard, and could only find a lot, none much

bigger or much less than the others. Some vanity, some selfishness,

some distrust and weariness, some peevishness, some indolence, and a

lapful of omissions. Since she married," continued my aunt, slowly

pulling her thick black eyelashes, after a fashion she had, "I believe

she has found the long-lost failing. It is impatience with Mr.

Rampant, she thinks."

I could not help laughing.

"However, Isobel, we may be sure of this, people of soft, gentle

temperaments have their own difficulties with their own souls which we

escape. Perhaps in the absence of such marked vices as bring one to

open shame one might be slower to undertake vigorous self-improvement.

You and I have no difficulty in seeing the sin lying at _our_ door."

"N—no," said I.

"Well, _have you_?" said Aunt Isobel, facing round. "Bless me," she

added impetuously, "don't say you haven't if you have. Never let any

one else think for you, child!"

"If you'll only have patience and let me explain—"

"I'm patience its very self!" interrupted my aunt, "but I do hate a No

that means Yes."

_My_ patience began to evaporate.

"There are some things, Aunt Isobel, _you know_, which can't be

exactly squeezed into No and Yes. But if you don't want to be bothered

I won't say anything, or I'll say yes or no, which ever you like."

And I kicked the shovel. (My aunt had shoved the poker with _her_

slipper.) She drew her foot back and spoke very gently:

"I beg your pardon, my dear. Please say what you were going to say,

and in your own way."

There is no doubt that good-humour—like bad—is infectious. I drew

nearer to Aunt Isobel, and fingered the sleeve of her dress

caressingly.

"You know, dear Aunt Isobel, that I should never think of saying to

the Rector what I want to say to you. And I don't mean that I don't

agree to whatever he tells us about right and wrong, but still I think

if one can be quite convinced in the depths of one's own head, too,

it's a good thing, as well as knowing that he must be right."

"Certainly," said Aunt Isobel.

"To begin with, I don't want you to think me any better than I am.

When we were very very little, Philip and I used to spit at each

other, and pull each other's hair out. I do not do nasty or unladylike

things now when I am angry, but, Aunt Isobel, my 'besetting sin' is

not conquered, it's only civilized."

"I quite agree with you," said Aunt Isobel; which rather annoyed me. I

gulped this down, however, and went on:

"The sin of ill-temper, _if it is a sin_," I began. I paused,

expecting an outburst, but Aunt Isobel sat quite composedly, and

fingered her eyelashes.

"Of course the Rector would be horrified if I said such a thing at the

confirmation-class," I continued, in a dissatisfied tone.

"Don't invent grievances, Isobel, for I see you have a real

stumbling-block, when we can come to it. You are not at the

confirmation-class, and I am not easily horrified."

"Well, there are two difficulties—I explain very stupidly," said I

with some sadness.

"We'll take them one at a time," replied Aunt Isobel with an

exasperating blandness, which fortunately stimulated me to

plain-speaking.

"Everybody says one ought to 'restrain' one's temper, but I'm not sure

if I think one ought. Isn't it better to _have things out_? Look at

Philip. He's going to be confirmed, and then he'll go back to school,

and when he and another boy quarrel, they'll fight it out, and feel

comfortable afterwards. Aunt Isobel, I can quite understand feeling

friendly after you've had it out, even if you're the one who is

beaten, if it has been a fair fight. Now _restraining_ your temper

means forcing yourself to be good outside, and feeling all the worse

inside, and feeling it longer. There is that utterly stupid little

schoolroom-maid, who is under my orders, that I may teach her. Aunt

Isobel, you would not credit how often I tell her the same thing, and

how politely she says 'Yes, miss!' and how invariably she doesn't do

it after all. I say, 'You _know_ I told you only yesterday. What _is_

the use of my trying to teach you?' and all kinds of mild things like

that; but really I quite hate her for giving me so much trouble and

taking so little herself, and I wish I might discharge her. Now, if

only it wasn't wrong to throw—what are those things hot-tempered

gentlemen always throw at their servants?"

"Don't ask me, my dear; ask Mr. Rampant."

"Oh, he throws everything. Bootjacks—that's it. Now, if only I might

throw a bootjack at her, it would waken her up, and be such a relief

to my feelings, that I shouldn't feel half so unforgiving towards her

all along. Then as to swearing, Aunt Isobel—"

"Swearing!" ejaculated my aunt.

"Of course swearing is very wrong, and all profane-speaking but I do

think it _would be_ a help if there was some innocent kind of strong

language to use when one feels strongly."

"If we didn't use up all our innocent strong language by calling

things awful and horrible that have not an element of awe or horror in

them, we should have some left for our great occasions," said Aunt

Isobel.

"Perhaps," said I, "but that's not exactly what I mean. Now do you

think it would be wrong to invent expletives that mean nothing bad? As

if Mr. Rampant were to say, 'Cockatoos and kingfishers! where are my

shooting-boots?' For you know I do think it would make him more

comfortable to put it in that way, especially if he had been kept

waiting for them."

I paused, and Aunt Isobel turned round.

"Let us carry your idea well forward, Isobel. Bootjacks and expletives

would no doubt be a relief to the thrower when hurled at servants or

some one who could not (or from principle would not) retaliate, and

the angry feelings that propelled them might be shortened by 'letting

off the steam,' so to speak. But imagine yourself to have thrown a

bootjack at Philip to relieve your feelings, and Philip (to relieve

his) flinging it back at you. This would only give fresh impetus to

_your_ indignation, and whatever you threw next would not be likely to

soothe _his_."

"Please don't!" said I. "Aunt Isobel, I could never throw a hatchet

again."

"You are bold to promise to stop short anywhere when relieving

passionate feelings by indulgence has begun on two sides. And, my

dear, matters are no better where the indulgence is in words instead

of blows. In the very mean and undignified position of abusing those

who cannot return your abuse it might answer; but 'innocent strong

language' would cease to be of any good when it was returned. If to

'Cockatoos and kingfishers! where are my shooting-boots?' an equally

violent voice from below replied, 'Bats and blackbeetles! look for

them yourself!' some stronger vent for the steam of hot temper would

have to be found, and words of any kind would soon cease to relieve

the feelings. Isobel, I have had long and hard experience, and your

ideas are not new ones to me. Believe me, child, the only real relief

is in absolute conquest, and the earlier the battle begins, the easier

and the shorter it will be. If one can keep irritability under, one

may escape a struggle to the death with passion. I am not cramming

principles down your throat—I say as a matter of personal practice,

that I do not know, and never hope to find a smoother or a shorter

way. But I can say also—after Victory comes Peace."

I gave a heavy sigh.

"Thank you, Aunt Isobel, I will try; but it makes my second difficulty

all the worse. I can fancy that I might possibly learn self-control; I

can fancy by main force holding my tongue, or compelling it to speak

very slowly and civilly: but one can't force one's feelings. Aunt

Isobel, if I had been very much insulted or provoked, I might keep on

being civil for years on the outside, but how I should hate! You can't

prevent yourself hating. People talk about 'forgive and forget.' If

forgiving means doing no harm, and forgetting means behaving quite

civilly, as if nothing had happened, one could. But of course it's

nonsense to talk of making yourself really _forget_ anything. And I

think it's just as absurd to talk of making yourself forgive, if

forgiveness means feeling really kindly and comfortable as you did

before. The very case in which I am most sure you are right about

self-control is one of the worst the other way. I ought to be ashamed

to speak of it—but I mean the hatchet-quarrel. If I had been very

good instead of very wicked, and had restrained myself when Philip

pulled all my work to pieces, and jeered at me for being miserable, I

_couldn't_ have loved him again as I did before. Forgive and forget!

One would often be very glad to. I have often awoke in the morning and

known that I had forgotten something disagreeable, and when it did

come back I was sorry; but one's memory isn't made of slate, or one's

heart either, that one can take a wet sponge and make it clean. Oh

dear! I wonder why ill-tempered people are allowed to live! They ought

to be smothered in their cradles."

Aunt Isobel was about to reply, but I interrupted her.

"Don't think me humble-minded, Aunt Isobel, for I'm not. Sometimes I

feel inclined to think that ill-tempered people have more sense of

justice and of the strict rights and wrongs of things—at least if

they are not very bad," I interpolated, thinking of Mr. Rampant—"than

people who can smile and look pleasant at everything and everybody

like Lucy Lambent, who goes on calling me darling when I know I'm

scowling like a horned-owl. Nurse says she's the 'sweetest tempered

young lady she ever did know!' Aunt Isobel, what a muddle life is!"

"After some years of it," said my aunt, pulling her lashes hard, "_I_

generally say, What a muddle my head is! Life is too much for it."

"I am quite willing to put it that way," sighed I, laying my

muddle-head on the table, for I was tired. "It comes to much the same

thing. Now—there is my great difficulty! I give in about the other

one, but you can't cure this, and the truth is, I am not fit to go to

a confirmation-class, much less to the Holy Communion."

"Isobel," said my aunt, folding her hands on her lap, and bending her

very thick brows on the fire, "I want you to clearly understand that I

speak with great hesitation, and without any authority. I can do

nothing for you but tell you what I have found myself in _my_

struggles."

"Thank you a thousand times," said I, "that's what I want. You know I

hear two sermons every Sunday, and I have a lot of good books. Mrs.

Welment sends me a little book about ill-temper every Christmas. The

last one was about saying a little hymn before you let yourself speak

whenever you feel angry. Philip got hold of it, and made fun of it. He

said it was like the recipe for catching a sparrow by putting salt on

its tail, because if you were cool enough to say a hymn, there would

then be no need for saying it. What do you think, Aunt Isobel?"

"My dear, I have long ago given up the idea that everybody's weak

points can all be strengthened by one plaster. The hymn might be very

useful in some cases, though I confess that it would not be in mine.

But prayer is; and I find a form of prayer necessary. At the same time

I have such an irritable taste, that there are very few forms of

devotion that give me much help but the Prayer-Book collects and

Jeremy Taylor. I do not know if you may find it useful to hear that in

this struggle I sometimes find prayers more useful, if they are not

too much to the sore point. A prayer about ill-temper might tend to

make me cross, when the effort to join my spirit with the

temptation-tried souls of all ages in a solemn prayer for the Church

Universal would lift me out of the petty sphere of personal vexations,

better than going into my grievances even piously. I speak merely of

myself, mind."

"Thank you," I said. "But about what I said about hating. Aunt Isobel,

did you ever change your feelings by force? Do you suppose anybody

ever did?"

"I believe it is a great mistake to trouble one's self with the

spiritual experiences of other people when one cannot fully know their

circumstances, so I won't suppose at all. As to what I am sure of,

Isobel, you know I speak the truth."

"Yes," said I; it would have been impertinence to say more.

"_I_ have found that if one fights for good behaviour, GOD

makes one a present of the good feelings. I believe you will find it

so. Even when you were a child, if you had tried to be good, and had

managed to control yourself, and had not thrown the hatchet, I am

quite sure you would not have hated Philip for long. Perhaps you would

have thought how much better Philip used to behave before your father

and mother died, and a little elder-sisterly, motherly feeling would

have mixed with your wrath at seeing him with his fat legs planted

apart, and his shoulders up, the very picture of wilful naughtiness.

Perhaps you might have thought you had repulsed him a little harshly

when he wanted to help, as you were his chief playmate and twin

sister."

"Please don't," said I. "How I wish I had! Indeed I don't know how I

can ever speak of hating one of the others when there are so few of

us, and we are orphans. But everybody isn't one's brother. And—oh,

Aunt Isobel, at the time one does get so wild, and hard, and twisted

in one's heart!"

"I don't think it is possible to overrate the hardness of the first

close struggle with any natural passion," said my aunt earnestly; "but

indeed the easiness of after-steps is often quite beyond one's

expectations. The free gift of grace with which GOD perfects

our efforts may come in many ways, but I am convinced that it is the

common experience of Christians that it does come."

"To every one, do you think?" said I. "I've no doubt it comes to you,

Aunt Isobel, but then you are so good."

"For pity's sake don't say I am good," said my aunt, and she kicked

down all the fire-irons; and then begged my pardon, and picked them up

again.

We were silent for awhile. Aunt Isobel sat upright with her hands

folded in her lap, and that look which her large eyes wear when she is

trying to see all the sides of a question. They were dilated with a

sorrowful earnestness when she spoke again.

"There _may_ be some souls," she said, "whose brave and bitter lot it

is to conquer comfortless. Perhaps some terrible inheritance of strong

sin from the father is visited upon the son, and, only able to keep

his purpose pure, he falls as fast as he struggles up, and still

struggling falls again. Soft moments of peace with GOD and

man may never come to him. He may feel himself viler than a thousand

trumpery souls who could not have borne his trials for a day. Child,

for you and for me is reserved no such cross and no such crown as

theirs who falling still fight, and fighting fall, with their faces

Zionwards, into the arms of the Everlasting Father. 'As one whom his

mother comforteth' shall be the healing of _their_ wounds."

There was a brisk knock at the door, and Philip burst in.

"Look here, Isobel, if you mean to be late for confirmation-class I'm

not going to wait for you. I hate sneaking in with the benches all

full, and old Bartram blinking and keeping your place in the catechism

for you with his fat forefinger."

"I am _very_ sorry, Philip dear," said I; "please go without me, and

I'll come on as quickly as I can. Thank you very much for coming to

remind me."

"There's no such awful hurry," said Philip in a mollified tone; "I'll

wait for you down-stairs."

Which he did, whistling.

Aunt Isobel and I are not demonstrative, it does not suit us. She took

hold of my arms, and I laid my head on her shoulder.

"Aunt Isobel, GOD help me, I will fight on to the very end."

"HE _will_ help you," said Aunt Isobel.

I could not look at her face and doubt it. Oh, my weak soul, never

doubt it more!

CHAPTER V.

CELESTIAL FIRE—I CHOOSE A TEXT.

We were confirmed.

As Aunt Isobel had said, I was spared perplexity by the unmistakable

nature of my weakest point. There was no doubt as to what I should

pray against and strive against. But on that day it seemed not only as

if I could never give way to ill-temper again, but as if the trumpery

causes of former outbreaks could never even tempt me to do so. As the

lines of that ancient hymn to the Holy Ghost—"_Veni Creator_"—rolled

on, I prayed humbly enough that my unworthy efforts might yet be

crowned by the sevenfold gifts of the Spirit; but that a soul which

sincerely longed to be "lightened with celestial fire" could be

tempted to a common fit of sulks or scolding by the rub of nursery

misdeeds and mischances, felt then so little likely as hardly to be

worth deprecating on my knees.

And yet, when the service was over, the fatigue of the mental strain

and of long kneeling and standing began to tell in a feeling that came

sadly near to peevishness. I spent the rest of the day resolutely in

my room and on my knees, hoping to keep up those high thoughts and

emotions which had made me feel happy as well as good. And yet I all

but utterly broke down into the most commonplace crossness because

Philip did not do as I did, but romped noisily with the others, and

teased me for looking grave at tea.

I just did not break down. So much remained alive of the "celestial

fire," that I kept my temper behind my teeth. Long afterwards, when I

learnt by accident that Philip's "good resolve" on the occasion had

been that he would be kinder to "the little ones," I was very glad

that I had not indulged my uncharitable impulse to lecture him on

indifference to spiritual progress.

That evening Aunt Isobel gave me a new picture for my room. It was a

fine print of the Crucifixion, for which I had often longed, a German

woodcut in the powerful manner of Albert D¸rer, after a design by

Michael Angelo. It was neither too realistic nor too mediÊval, and the

face was very noble. Aunt Isobel had had it framed, and below on an

illuminated scroll was written—"What are these wounds in Thine

Hands? Those with which I was wounded in the house of My friends."

"I often think," she said, when we had hung it up and were looking at

it, "that it is not in our Lord's Cross and Passion that His patience

comes most home to us. To be patient before an unjust judge or brutal

soldiers might be almost a part of self-respect; but patience with the

daily disappointments of a life 'too good for this world,' as people

say, patience with the follies, the unworthiness, the ingratitude of

those one loves—these things are our daily example. For wounds in the

house of our enemies pride may be prepared; wounds in the house of our

friends take human nature by surprise, and GOD only can teach us to

bear them. And with all reverence I think that we may say that ours

have an element of difficulty in which His were wanting. They are

mixed with blame on our own parts."

"That is why you have put that text for me?" said I. My aunt nodded.

I was learning to illuminate, and I took much pride in my room. I

determined to make a text for myself, and to choose a very plain

passage about ill-temper. Mrs. Welment's books supplied me with

plenty. I chose "Let not the sun go down upon your wrath," but I

resolved to have the complete text as it stands in the Bible. It

seemed fair to allow myself to remember that anger is not always a

sin, and I thought it useful to remind myself that if by obstinate

ill-temper I got the victory in a quarrel, it was only because the

devil had got the victory over me. So the text ran full length:—"Be

ye angry, and sin not; let not the sun go down upon your wrath:

neither give place to the devil." It made a very long scroll, and I

put it up over my window, and fastened it with drawing-pins.

CHAPTER VI.

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.

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, 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 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 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

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

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 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.

"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.

CHAPTER VII.

A QUARREL—BOBBY IS WILLING—EXIT PHILIP.

Philip came back by an evening train, and when he had had something to

eat he came up to the nursery to go on with the scene. We had got

everything ready for him, and he worked for about half-an-hour. But he

was so sleepy, with cold air and exercise, that he did not paint well,

and then he got impatient, and threw it up—"till the morning."

In the morning he set to work, talking all the time about wild duck

and teal, and the price of guns; but by the time he had put last

night's blunders straight, the front door bell rang, and Mary

announced "Mr. Clinton."

Philip was closeted in his room with his new friend till twelve

o'clock. Then they went out into the yard, and finally Mr. Clinton

stayed to luncheon. But I held my peace, and made Alice hold hers. Mr.

Clinton went away in the afternoon, but Philip got the plate-powder

and wash-leather, and occupied himself in polishing the silver

fittings of his dressing-case.

"I think you might do that another time, Philip," said I; "you've not

been half-an-hour at the properties to-day, and you could clean your

bottles and things quite as well after the theatricals."

"As it happens I just couldn't," said Philip; "I've made a bargain,

and bargains won't wait."

Alice and I screamed in one breath, "You're _not_ going to give away

the dressing-case!"—for it had been my father's.

"I said a _bargain_" replied Philip, rubbing harder than ever; "you

can't get hold of a gun every day without paying down hard cash."

"I hate Mr. Clinton!" said Alice.

It was a very unfortunate speech, for it declared open war; and when

this is done it cannot be undone. There is no taking back those sharp

sayings which the family curse hangs on the tips of our tongues.

Philip and Alice exchanged them pretty freely. Philip called us

selfish, inhospitable, and jealous. He said we grudged his enjoying

himself in the holidays, when he had been working like a slave for us

during the half. That we disliked his friend because he _was_ his

friend, and (not to omit the taunt of sex) that Clinton was too manly

a fellow to please girls, etc., etc. In self-defence Alice was much

more out-spoken about both Philip and Mr. Clinton than she had

probably intended to be. That Philip began things hotly, and that his

zeal cooled before they were accomplished—that his imperiousness laid

him open to flattery, and the necessity of playing first-fiddle

betrayed him into second-rate friendships, which were thrown after the

discarded hobbies—that Mr. Clinton was ill-bred, and with that

vulgarity of mind which would make him rather proud than ashamed of

getting the best of a bargain with his friend—these things were not

the less taunts because they were true.

If the violent scenes which occur in ill-tempered families _felt_ half

as undignified and miserable as they _look_, surely they would be less

common! I believe Philip and Alice would have come to blows if I had

not joined with him to expel her from the room. I was not happy about

it, for my sympathy was on her side of the quarrel, but she had been

the one to declare war, and I could not control Philip. In short, it

is often not easy to keep the peace and be just too, as I should like

to have said to Aunt Isobel, if she had been at home. But she was to

be away until the 6th.

Alice defeated, I took Philip seriously to task. Not about his

friend—the subject was too sore, and Alice had told him all that we

thought, and rather more than we thought on that score—but about the

theatricals. I said if he really was tired of the business we would

throw it up, and let our friends know that the proposed entertainment

had fallen through, but that if he wanted it to go forward he must

decide what help he would give, and then abide by his promise.

We came to terms. If I would let him have a day or two's fun with his

gun, Philip promised to "spurt," as he called it, at the end. I told

him we would be content if he would join in a "thorough rehearsal,"

the afternoon before, and devote himself to the business on the day of

the performance.

"Real business, you know," I added, "with nobody but ourselves. Nobody

coming in to interrupt."

"Of course," said Philip; "but I'll do more than that, Isobel. There's

the scene—"

"_We'll_ finish the scene," said I, "if you don't aggravate Alice so

that I lose her help as well as yours."

Alice was very sulky, which I could hardly wonder at, and I worked

alone, except for Bobby, the only one with anything like a good temper

among us, who roasted himself very patiently with my size-pot, and

hammered bits of ivy, and of his fingers, rather neatly over the cave.

But Alice was impulsive and kind-hearted. When I got a bad headache,

from working too long, she came round, and helped me. Philip was

always going to do so, but as a matter of fact he went out every day

with the old fowling-piece for which he had given his dressing case.

When the ice bore Charles also deserted us, but Alice and I worked

steadily on at dresses and scenery. And Bobby worked with us.

The 5th of January arrived, the day before the theatricals. Philip

spent the morning in cleaning his gun, and after luncheon he brought

it into the nursery to "finish" with a peculiarly aggravating air.

"When shall you be ready to rehearse?" I asked.

"Oh, presently," said Philip, "there's plenty of time yet. It's a

great nuisance," he added, "I'll never have anything to do with

theatricals again. They make a perfect slave of one."

"_You've_ not slaved much, at any rate," said Charles.

"You'd better not give me any of your cheek," said Philip

threateningly.

"We've done without him for a week, I don't know why we shouldn't do

without him to-morrow," muttered Alice from the corner where she was

sewing gold paper stars on to the Enchanted Prince's tunic.

"I wish you could," growled Philip, who took the suggestion more

quietly than I expected; "anybody could do the Dragon, there's no

acting in it!"

"I won't," said Charles, "Isobel gave me the Enchanted Prince or the

Woolly Beast, and I shall stick to my part."

"Could I do the Dragon?" asked Bobby, releasing his hot face from the

folds of an old blue cloak lined with red, in which he was rehearsing

his walk as a belated wayfarer.

"Certainly not," said I, "you're the Bereaved Father and the Faithful

Attendant to begin with, and I hope you won't muddle them. And you're

Twelve Travellers as well, and the thunder, remember!"

"I don't care how many I do, if only I can," said Bobby, drawing his

willing arm across his steaming forehead. "I should like to have a

fiery tail."

"You can't devour yourself once—let alone twelve times," said I

sternly. "Don't be silly, Bob."

It was not Bob I was impatient with in reality, it was Philip.

"If you really mean to desert the theatricals after all you promised,

I would much rather try to do without you," said I indignantly.

"Then you may!" retorted Philip. "I wash my hands of it and of the

whole lot of you, and of every nursery entertainment henceforward!"

and he got the fragments of his gun together with much clatter. But

Charles had posted himself by the door to say his say, and to be ready

to escape when he had said it.

"You're ashamed of it, that's it," said he; "you want to sit among the

grown-ups with a spy-glass, now you've got Apothecary Clinton's son

for a friend,"—and after this brief and insulting summary of the

facts, Charles vanished. But Philip, white with anger, was too quick

for him, and at the top of the back-stairs he dealt him such a heavy

blow that Charles fell head-long down the first flight.

Alice and I flew to the rescue. I lived in dread of Philip really

injuring Charles some day, for his blows were becoming serious ones as

he grew taller and stronger, and his self-control did not seem to wax

in proportion. And Charles's temper was becoming very aggressive. On

this occasion, as soon as he had regained breath, and we found that no

bones were broken, it was only by main force that we held him back

from pursuing Philip.

"I'll hit him—I'll stick to him," he sobbed in his fury, shaking his

head like a terrier, and doubling his fists. But he was rather sick

with the fall, and we made him lie down to recover himself, whilst

Alice, Bobby, and I laid our heads together to plan a substitute for

Philip in the Dragon.

When bed-time came, and Philip was still absent, we became uneasy, and

as I lay sleepless that night I asked myself if I had been to blame

for the sulks in which he had gone off. In fits of passion Philip had

often threatened to go away and never let us hear of him again. I

knew that such things did happen, and it made me unhappy when he went

off like this, although his threats had hitherto been no more than a

common and rather unfair device of ill-temper.

CHAPTER VIII.

I HEAR FROM PHILIP—A NEW PART WANTED—I LOSE MY TEMPER—WE ALL LOSE

OUR TEMPERS.

Next morning's post brought the following letter from Philip:—

"MY DEAR ISOBEL,

"You need not bother about the Dragon—I'll do it. But I wish you

would put another character into the piece. It is for Clinton. He says

he will act with us. He says he can do anything if it is a leading

part. He has got black velvet knickerbockers and scarlet stockings,

and he can have the tunic and cloak I wore last year, and the flap

hat; and you must lend him your white ostrich feather. Make him some

kind of a grandee. If you can't, he must be the Prince, and Charles

can do some of the Travellers. We are going out on the marsh this

morning, but I shall be with you after luncheon, and Clinton in the

evening. He does not want any rehearsing, only a copy of the plan.

Let Alice make it, her writing is the clearest, and I wish she would

make me a new one; I've torn mine, and it is so dirty, I shall never

be able to read it inside the Dragon. Don't forget.

"Your affectionate brother,

"PHILIP."

There are limits to one's patience, and with some of us they are not

very wide. Philip had passed the bounds of mine, and my natural

indignation was heightened by a sort of revulsion from last night's

anxiety on his account. His lordly indifference to other people's

feelings was more irritating than the trouble he gave us by changing

his mind.

"You won't let him take the Woolly Beast from me, Isobel?" cried

Charles. "And you know you promised to lend _me_ your ostrich plume."

"Certainly not," said I. "And you shall have the feather. I promised."

"If Mr. Clinton acts—I shan't," said Alice.

"Mr. Clinton won't act," said I, "I can't alter the piece now. But I

wish, Alice, you were not always so very ready to drive things into a

quarrel."

"If we hadn't given way to Philip so much he wouldn't think we can

bear anything," said Alice.

I could not but feel that there was some truth in this, and that it

was a dilemma not provided against in Aunt Isobel's teaching, that

one may be so obliging to those one lives with as to encourage, if not

to teach them to be selfish.

Perhaps it would have been well if on the first day when Philip

deserted us Alice and I, had spent the afternoon with Lucy Lambent,

and if we had continued to amuse ourselves with our friends when

Philip amused himself with his. We should then have been forced into a

common decision as to whether the play should be given up, and,

without reproaches or counter-reproaches, Philip would have learned

that he could not leave all the work to us, and then arrange and

disarrange the plot at his own pleasure, or rather, he would never

have thought that he could. But a plan of this kind requires to be

carried out with perfect coolness to be either justifiable or

effective. And we have not a cool head amongst us.

One thing was clear. I ought to keep faith with the others who had

worked when Philip would not. Charles should not be turned out of his

part. I rather hustled over the question of a new part for Mr. Clinton

in my mind. I disliked him, and did not want to introduce him. I said

to myself that it was quite unreasonable—out of the question in

fact—and I prepared to say so to Philip.

Of course he was furious—that I knew he would be; but I was firm.

"Charles can be the Old Father, and the Family Servant too," said he.

"They're both good parts."

"Then give them to Mr. Clinton," said I, well knowing that he would

not. "Charles has taken a great deal of pains with his part, and these

are his holidays as well as yours, and the Prince shall not be taken

from him."

"Well, I say it shall. And Charles may be uncommonly glad if I let him

act at all after the way he behaved yesterday."

"The way _you_ behaved, you, mean," said I—for my temper was slipping

from my grasp;—"you might have broken his neck."

"All the more danger in his provoking me, and in your encouraging

him."

I began to feel giddy, which is always a bad sign with us. It rang in

my mind's ear that this was what came of being forbearing with a bully

like Philip. But I still tried to speak quietly.

"If you think," said I through my teeth, "that I am going to let you

knock the others about, and rough-ride it over our theatricals, you

are mistaken."

"_Your_ theatricals!" cried Philip, mimicking me. "I like that! Whom

do the properties belong to, pray?"

"If it goes by buying," was my reply to this rather difficult

question, "most of them belong to Granny, for the canvas and the

paints and the stuff for the dresses, have gone down in the bills; and

if it goes by work, I think we have done quite as much as you. And if

some of the properties _are_ yours, the play is mine. And as to the

scene—you did the distance in the middle of the wood, but Alice and I

painted all the foreground."

"Then you may keep your foreground, and I'll take my distance," roared

Philip, and in a moment his pocket-knife was open, and he had cut a

hole a foot-and-a-half square in the centre of the Enchanted Forest,

and Bobby's amazed face (he was running a tuck in his cloak behind the

scenes) appeared through the aperture.

If a kind word would have saved the fruits of our week's hard labour,

not one of us would have spoken it. We sacrifice anything we possess

in our ill-tempered family—except our wills.

"And you may take your play, and I'll take my properties," continued

Philip, gathering up hats, wigs, and what not from the costumes which

Alice and I had arranged in neat groups ready for the green-room.

"I'll give everything to Clinton this evening for his new theatre, and

we'll see how you get on without the Fiery Dragon."

"Clinton _can't_ want a fiery dragon when he's got you," said Charles,

in a voice of mock compliment.

The Fairy Godmother's crabstick was in Philip's hand. He raised it,

and flew at Charles, but I threw myself between them and caught

Philip's arm.

"You shall not hit him," I cried.

Aunt Isobel is right about one thing. If one _does_ mean to stop short

in a quarrel one must begin at a very early stage. It is easier to

smother one's feelings than to check one's words. By the time it comes

to blows it is like trying to pull up a runaway horse. The first pinch

Philip gave to my arm set my brain on fire. When he threw me heavily

against the cave with a mocking laugh, and sprang after Charles, I

could not have yielded an inch to him to save my life—not to earn

Fortunatus' purse, or three fairy wishes—not to save whatever I most

valued.

What would have induced me? I do not know, but I know that I am very

glad it is not quite so easy to sell one's soul at one bargain as

fairy-tales make out!

My struggle with Philip had given Charles time to escape. Philip could

not find him, and rough as were the words with which he returned to

me, I fancy they cost him some effort of self-control, and they

betrayed to Alice's instinct and mine that he would have been glad to

get out of the extremity to which our tempers had driven matters.

"Look here!" said he in a tone which would have been perfect if we

had been acting a costermonger and his wife. "Are you going to make

Clinton the Prince or not?"

"I am not," said I, nursing my elbow, which was cut by a nail on the

cask. "I am not going to do anything whatever for Mr. Clinton, and I

ought to be cured of working for you."

"You have lost an opening to make peace," said an inner voice. "You've

given the yielding plan a fair trial, and it has failed," said

self-justification—the swiftest pleader I know. "There are some

people, with self-satisfied, arbitrary tempers, upon whom gentleness

is worse than wasted, because it misleads them. They have that remnant

of savage notions which drives them to mistake generosity for

weakness. The only way to convince them is to hit them harder than

they hit you. And it is the kindest plan for everybody concerned."

I am bound to say—though it rather confuses some of my ideas—that

experience has convinced me that this last statement is not without

truth. But I am also bound to say that it was not really applicable to

Philip. He is not as generous as Alice, but I had no good reason to

believe that kindly concession would be wasted on him.

When I had flung my last defiance, Philip replied in violent words of

a kind which girls in our class of life do not (happily!) use, even

in a rage. They were partly drowned by the clatter with which he

dragged his big box across the floor, and filled it with properties of

all kinds, from the Dragon to the foot-light reflectors.

"I am going by the 4.15 to the town," said he, as he pulled the box

out towards his own room. "You need not wait for either Clinton or me.

Pray 'ring up' punctually!"

At this moment—having fully realized the downfall of the

theatricals—Bobby burst into a howl of weeping. Alice scolded him for

crying, and Charles reproached her for scolding him, on the score that

her antipathy to Mr. Clinton had driven Philip to this extreme point

of insult and ill-temper.

Charles's own conduct had been so far from soothing, that Alice had

abundant material for retorts, and she was not likely to be a loser in

the war of words. What she did say I did not hear, for by that time I

had locked myself up in my own room.

CHAPTER IX.

SELF-REPROACH—FAMILY DISCOMFORT—OUT ON THE MARSH—VICTORY.

If I could have locked myself up anywhere else I should have preferred

it. I would have justified my own part in the present family quarrel

to Aunt Isobel herself, and yet I would rather not have been alone

just now with the text I had made and pinned up, and with my new

picture. However, there was nowhere else to go to.

A restless way I have of pacing up and down when I am in a rage, has

often reminded me of the habits of the more ferocious of the wild

beasts in the Zoological Gardens, and has not lessened my convictions

on the subject of the family temper. For a few prowls up and down my

den I managed to occupy my thoughts with fuming against Philip's

behaviour, but as the first flush of anger began to cool, there was no

keeping out of my head the painful reflections which the sight of my

text, my picture, and my books suggested—the miserable contrast

between my good resolves and the result.

"It only shows," I muttered to myself, in a voice about as amiable as

the growlings of a panther, "it only shows that it is quite hopeless.

We're an ill-tempered family—a hopelessly ill-tempered family; and to

try to cure us is like patching the lungs of a consumptive family, I

don't even wish that I _could_ forgive Philip. He doesn't deserve it."

And then as I nursed the cut on my elbow, and recalled the long hours

of work at the properties, the damaged scene, the rifling of the

green-room, and Philip's desertion with the Dragon, his probable

industry for Mr. Clinton's theatricals, and the way he had left us to

face our own disappointed audience, fierce indignation got the upper

hand once more.

"I don't care," I growled afresh; "if I have lost my temper, I believe

I was right to lose it—at least, that no one could have been expected

not to lose it, I will never beg his pardon for it, let Aunt Isobel

say what she will. I should hate him ever after if I did, for the

injustice of the thing. Pardon, indeed!"

I turned at the top of the room and paced back towards the window,

towards the long illuminated text, and that

"—— Noble face,

So sweet and full of grace,"

which bent unchangeable from the emblem of suffering and

self-sacrifice.

I have a trick of talking to myself and to inanimate objects. I

addressed myself now to the text and the picture.

"But if I don't," I continued, "if after being confirmed with Philip

in the autumn, we come to just one of our old catastrophes in the very

next holidays, as bad as ever, and spiting each other to the last—I

shall take you all down to-morrow! I don't pretend to be able to

persuade myself that black is white—like Mrs. Rampant; but I am not a

hypocrite, I won't ornament my room with texts, and crosses, and

pictures, and symbols of Eternal Patience, when I do not even mean to

_try_ to sacrifice myself, or to be patient."

It is curious how one's faith and practice hang together. I felt very

doubtful whether it was even desirable that I should. Whether we did

not misunderstand GOD'S will, in thinking that it is well

that people in the right should ever sacrifice themselves for those

who are in the wrong. I did not however hide from myself, that to say

this was to unsay all my resolves about my besetting sin. I decided to

take down my texts, pictures, and books, and grimly thought that I

would frame a fine photograph Charles had given me of a lioness, and

would make a new inscription, the motto of the old Highland Clan

Chattan—with which our family is remotely connected—"_Touch not the

cat but a glove_."[1]

[Footnote 1: _AnglicË_ "without a glove."]

"Put on your gloves next time, Master Philip!" I thought. "I shall

make no more of these feeble attempts to keep in my claws, which only

tempt you to irritate me beyond endurance. We're an ill-tempered

family, and you're not the most amiable member of it. For my own part,

I can control my temper when it is not running away with me, and be

fairly kind to the little ones, so long as they do what I tell them.

But, at a crisis like this, I can no more yield to your unreasonable

wishes, stifle my just anger, apologize for a little wrong to you who

owe apologies for a big one, and pave the way to peace with my own

broken will, than the leopard can change his spots."

"And yet—_if I could_!"

It broke from me almost like a cry, "If my besetting sin _is_ a sin,

if I have given way to it under provocation—if this moment is the

very hardest of the battle, and the day is almost lost—and if now,

even now, I could turn round and tread down this Satan under my feet.

If this were to-morrow morning, and I had done it—O my soul, what

triumph, what satisfaction in past prayers, what hope for the future!

"Then thou shouldest believe the old legends of sinners numbered with

the saints, of tyrants taught to be gentle, of the unholy learning to be

pure—for one believes with heartiness what he has experienced—then

text and picture and cross should hang on, in spite of frailty, and in

this sign shalt thou conquer."

One ought to be very thankful for the blessings of good health and

strong nerves, but I sometimes wish I could cry more easily. I should

not like to be like poor Mrs. Rampant, whose head or back is always

aching, and whose nerves make me think of the strings of an ∆olian

harp, on which Mr. Rampant, like rude Boreas, is perpetually playing

with the tones of his voice, the creak of his boots, and the bang of

his doors. But her tears do relieve, if they exhaust her, and

back-ache cannot be as bad as heart-ache—hot, dry heart-ache, or

cold, hard heart-ache. I think if I could have cried I could have felt

softer. As it was I began to wish that I could do what I felt sure

that I could not.

If I dragged myself to Philip, and got out a few conciliatory words, I

should break down in a worse fury than before if he sneered or rode

the high horse, "as he probably would," thought I.

On my little carved Prayer-book shelf lay with other volumes a copy of

¿ Kempis, which had belonged to my mother. Honesty had already

whispered that if I deliberately gave up the fight with evil this

must be banished with my texts and pictures. At the present moment a

familiar passage came into my head:

"When one that was in great anxiety of mind, often wavering

between fear and hope, did once humbly prostrate himself in

prayer, and said, 'O if I knew that I should persevere!' he

presently heard within him an answer from GOD, which said,

'If thou didst know it, what would'st thou do? Do what thou

would'st do then, and thou shalt be safe.'"

Supposing I began to do right, and trusted the rest? I could try to

speak to Philip, and it would be something even if I stopped short and

ran away. Or if I could not drag my feet to him, I could take Aunt

Isobel's advice, and pray. I might not be able to speak civilly to

Philip, or even to pray about him in my present state of mental

confusion, but I could repeat _some_ prayer reverently. Would it not

be better to start on the right road, even if I fell by the way?

I crossed the room in three strides to the place where I usually say

my prayers. I knelt, and folded my hands, and shut my eyes, and began

to recite the Te Deum in my head, trying to attend to it. I did attend

pretty well, but it was mere attention, till I felt slightly softened

at the verse—"Make them to be numbered with Thy saints in glory

everlasting." For my young mother was very good, and I always think

of her when the choir comes to that verse on Sundays.

"Vouchsafe, O Lord, to keep us this day without sin." "It's too late

to ask that," thought I, with that half of my brain which was not

attending to the words of the Te Deum, "and yet there is a little bit

of the day left which will be dedicated either to good or evil."

I prayed the rest, "O Lord, have mercy upon us, have mercy upon us. O

Lord, let Thy mercy lighten upon us, as our trust is in Thee. O Lord,

in Thee have I trusted, let me never be confounded!" and with the last

verse there came from my heart a very passion of desire for strength

to do the will of GOD at the sacrifice of my own. I flung myself on

the floor with inarticulate prayers that were very fully to the point

now, and they summed themselves up again in the old words, "In Thee, O

Lord, have I trusted, let me never be confounded!"

When I raised my head I caught sight of the picture, and for an

instant felt a superstitious thrill. The finely drawn face shone with

a crimson glow. But in a moment more I saw the cause, and

exclaimed—"_The sun is setting_! I must speak to Philip before it

goes down."

What should I say? Somehow, now, my judgment felt very clear and

decisive. I would not pretend that he had been in the right, but I

would acknowledge where I had been in the wrong. I _had_ been

disobliging about Mr. Clinton, and I would say so, and offer to repair

that matter. I would regret having lost my temper, and say nothing

about his. I would not offer to deprive Charles of his part, or break

my promise of the white feather; but I would make a new part for Mr.

Clinton, and he should be quite welcome to any finery in my possession

except Charles's plume. This concession was no difficulty to me. Bad

as our tempers are, I am thankful to say they are not mean ones. If I

dressed out Mr. Clinton at all, it would come natural to do it

liberally. I would do all this—_if I could_. I might break down into

passion at the mere sight of Philip and the properties, but at least I

would begin "as if I knew I should persevere."

At this moment the front door was shut with a bang which shook the

house.

It was Philip going to catch the 4.15. I bit my lips, and began to

pull on my boots, watching the red sun as it sank over the waste of

marshland which I could see from my window. I must try to overtake

him, but I could run well, and I suspected that he would not walk

fast. I did not believe that he was really pleased at the break-up of

our plans and the prospect of a public exposure of our squabbles,

though as a family we are always willing to make fools of ourselves

rather than conciliate each other.

My things were soon on, and I hurried from my room. In the window-seat

of the corridor was Alice. The sight of her reproached me. She slept

in my room, but I jealously retained full power over it, and when I

locked myself in she dared not disturb me.

"I'm afraid you've been wanting to come in," said I. "Do go in now."

"Thank you," said Alice, "I've nowhere to go to." Then tightening her

lips, she added, "Philip's gone."

"I know," said I. "I'm going to try and get him back." Alice stared in

amazement.

"You always do spoil Philip, because he's your twin," she said, at

last; "you wouldn't do it for me."

"Oh, Alice, you don't know. I'd much rather do it for you, girls are

so much less aggravating than boys. But don't try and make it harder

for me to make peace."

"I beg your pardon, Isobel. If you do, you're an angel. I couldn't, to

save my life."

At the head of the stairs I met Charles.

"He's gone," said he significantly, and bestriding the balustrades, he

shot to the foot. When I reached him he was pinching the biceps muscle

of his arm.

"Feel, Isobel," said he, "It's hard, isn't it?"

"Very, Charles, but I'm in a hurry."

"Look here," he continued, with an ugly expression on his face, "I'm

going into training. I'm going to eat bits of raw mutton, and

dumb-bell. Wait a year, wait half a year, and I shall be able to

thrash him. I'll make him remember these theatricals. I don't forget.

I haven't forgot his bursting my football out of spite."

It is not pleasant to see one's own sins reflected on other faces. I

could not speak.

By the front door was Bobby. He was by way of looking out of the

portico window, but his swollen eyes could not possibly have seen

anything.

"Oh, Isobel, Isobel!" he sobbed, "Philip's gone, and taken the

D—d—d—dragon with him, and we're all m—m—m—miserable."

"Don't cry, Bobby," said I, kissing him. "Finish your cloak, and be

doing anything you can. I'm going to try and bring Philip back."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Isobel! If only he'll come back I don't

care what I do. Or I'll give up my parts if he wants them, and be a

scene-shifter, if you'll lend me your carpet-slippers, and make me a

paper cap."

"GOD has given you a very sweet temper, Bobby," said I,

solemnly. "I wish I had one like it."

"You're as good as gold," said Bobby. His loving hug added strength

to my resolutions, and I ran across the garden and jumped the ha-ha,

and followed Philip over the marsh. I do not know whether he heard my

steps when I came nearly up with him, but I fancy his pace slackened.

Not that he looked round. He was much too sulky.

Philip is a very good-looking boy, much handsomer than I am, though we

are alike. But the family curse disfigures his face when he is cross

more than any one's, and the back view of him is almost worse than the

front. His shoulders get so humped up, and his whole figure is stiff

with cross-grained obstinacy.

"I shall never hold out if he speaks as ungraciously as he looks,"

thought I in despair. "But I'll not give in till I can hold out no

longer."

"Philip!" I said. He turned round, and his face was no prettier to

look at than his shoulders.

"What do you want?" (in the costermonger tone.)

"I want you to come back, Philip"—(here I choked).

"I dare say," he sneered, "and you want the properties! But you've got

your play, and your amiable Charles, and your talented Alice, and your

ubiquitous Bobby. And the audience will be entertained with an

unexpected after-piece entitled—'The disobliging disobliged.'"

Oh it _was_ hard! I think if I had looked at Philip's face I must have

broken down, but I kept my eyes steadily on the crimson sun, which

loomed large through the marsh mists that lay upon the horizon, as I

answered with justifiable vehemence:

"I have a very bad temper, Philip" (I checked the disposition to

add—"and so have you"), "but I never tell a lie. I have _not_ come

after the properties. The only reason for which I have come is to try

and make peace." At this point I gathered up all my strength and

hurried on, staring at the sun till the bushes near us and the level

waste of marsh beyond seemed to vanish in the glow. "I came to say

that I am sorry for my share of the quarrel. I lost my temper, and I

beg your pardon for that. I was not very obliging about Mr. Clinton,

but you had tried me very much. However, what you did wrong, does not

excuse me, I know, and if you like to come back, I'll make a new part

as you wanted. I can't give him Charles's part, or the feather, but

anything I can do, or give up of my own, I will. It's not because of

to-night, for you know as well as I do that I do not care twopence

what happens when I'm angry, and, after all, we can only say that

you've taken the things. But I wanted us to get through these holidays

without quarrelling, and I wanted you to enjoy them, and I want to try

and be good to you, for you are my twin brother, and for my share of

the quarrel I beg your pardon—I can do no more."

Some of this speech had been about as pleasant to say as eating

cinders, and when it was done I felt a sudden sensation (very rare

with me) of unendurable fatigue. As the last words left my lips the

sun set, but my eyes were so bedazzled that I am not sure that I

should not have fallen, but for an unexpected support. What Philip had

been thinking of during my speech I do not know, for I had avoided

looking at him, but when it was done he threw the properties out of

his arms, and flung them around me with the hug of a Polar bear.

_"You_ ill-tempered!" he roared. "You've the temper of an angel, or

you would never have come after me like this. Isobel, I am a brute, I

have behaved like a brute all the week, and I beg _your_ pardon."

I retract my wishes about crying, for when I do begin, I cry in such a

very disagreeable way—no spring shower, but a perfect tempest of

tears. Philip's unexpected generosity upset me, and I sobbed till I

frightened him, and he said I was hysterical. The absurdity of this

idea set me off into fits of laughing, which, oddly enough, seemed to

distress him so much that I stopped at last, and found breath to say,

"Then you'll come home?"

"If you'll have me. And never mind about Clinton, I'll get out of it.

The truth is, Isobel, you and Alice did snub him from the first, and

that vexed me; but I _am_ disappointed in him. He does brag so, and

I've had to take that fowling-piece to the gunsmith's already, so I

know what it's worth. I did give Clinton a hint about it, and—would

you believe it?—he laughed, and said he thought he had got the best

of _that_ bargain. I said, 'I hope you have, if it isn't an even one,

for I should be very sorry to think _I_ had cheated a friend!' But he

either did not or wouldn't see it. He's a second-rate sort of fellow,

I'm sure, and I'm sorry I promised to let him act. But I'll get out of

it, you shan't be bothered by him."

"No, no," said I, "if you promised I'd much rather. It won't bother me

at all."

(It is certainly a much pleasanter kind of dispute when the struggle

is to give, and not to take!)

"You can't fit him in now?" said Philip doubtfully.

"Oh yes, I can." I felt sure that I could. I have often been short of

temper for our amusements, but never of ideas. Philip tucked the

properties under one arm, and me under the other, and as we ran

homewards over the marsh, I threaded Mr. Clinton into the plot with

perfect ease.

"We'll have a second Prince, and he shall have an enchanted shield,

which shall protect him from you—though he can't kill you—for Charles

must do that. He shall be in love with the Princess too, but just when

he and Charles are going to fight for her, the Fairy Godmother shall

sprinkle him with the Waters of Memory, and break a spell which had made

him forget his own Princess in a distant land. You know, Philip, if he

_does_ act well, he may make a capital part of it. It will be a splendid

scene. We have two real metal swords, and as they are flashing in the

air—enter the Fairy with the carved claret jug. When he is sprinkled he

must drop his sword, and put his hands to his head. He will recall the

picture of his own Princess, and draw it out and kiss it (I can lend him

my locket miniature of great-grandpapa). Charles and he must swear

eternal friendship, and then he will pick up his sword, and exit right

centre, waving the golden shield, to find his Princess. It will look

very well, and as he goes out the Princess can enter left in distraction

about the combat, and she and Charles can fall in each other's arms, and

be blessed by the Fairy."

"Capital!" said Philip. "What a head you have! But you're out of

breath? We're running too fast."

"Not a bit," said I, "it refreshes me. Do you remember when you and I

used to run hand in hand from the top to the bottom of Breakneck Hill?

Oh, Philip, I do wish we could never quarrel any more! I think we

might keep our tempers if we tried."

"_You_ might," said Philip, "because you are good. But I shall always

be a brute."

(Just what _I_ said to Aunt Isobel! Must every one learn his own

lessons for himself? I had a sort of unreasonable feeling that my

experience ought to serve for the rest of our ill-tempered family into

the bargain.)

Philip's spirits rose higher and higher. Of course he was delighted to

be out of the scrape. I am sure he was glad to be friendly again, and

he was hotter than ever for the theatricals.

So was I. I felt certain that they would be successful now. But far

above and beyond the comfort of things "coming right," and the

pleasure of anticipated fun, my heart was rocked to a higher peace. In

my small religious experiences I had never known this triumph, this

thankfulness before. Circumstances, not self-control, had helped me

out of previous quarrels; I had never really done battle, and gained a

conquest over my besetting sin. Now, however imperfectly and

awkwardly, I yet _had_ fought. If Philip had been less generous I

might have failed, but the effort had been real—and it had been

successful. Henceforth my soul should fight with the prestige of

victory, with the courage that comes of having striven and won,

trusted and not been confounded.

The first person we met after we got in was Aunt Isobel. She had

arrived in our absence. No doubt she had heard the whole affair, but

she is very good, and never _gauche_ and she only said—

"Here come the stage-managers! Now what can I do to help? I have had

some tea, and am ready to obey orders till the curtain rings up."

Boys do not carry things off well. Philip got very red, but I

said—"Oh, please come to the nursery, Aunt Isobel. There are lots of

things to do." She came, and was invaluable. I never said anything

about the row to her, and she never said anything to me. That is what

I call a friend!

The first thing Philip did was to unlock the property-box in his room

and bring the Dragon and things back. The second thing he did was to

mend the new scene by replacing the bit he had cut out, glueing canvas

on behind it, and touching up with paint where it joined.

We soon put straight what had been disarranged. Blinds were drawn,

candles lighted, seats fixed, and the theatre began to look like

itself. Aunt Isobel and I were bringing in the footlights, when we saw

Bobby at the extreme right of the stage wrapped in his cloak, and

contemplating, with apparent satisfaction, twelve old hats and six

pasteboard bandboxes which were spread before him.

"My dear Bobby, what are these?" said Aunt Isobel. Bobby

hastily—almost stammeringly—explained,

"I am Twelve Travellers, you know, Aunt Isobel."

"Dear me!" said Aunt Isobel.

"I'll show you how I am going to do it," said Bobby.

"Here are twelve old hats—I have had such work to collect them!—and

six bandboxes."

"Only six?" said Aunt Isobel with commendable gravity.

"But there are the lids," said Bobby; "six of them, and six boxes,

make twelve, you know. I've only one cloak, but it's red on one side

and blue on the other, and two kinds of buttons. Well; I come on left

for the First Traveller, with my cloak the red side out, and this

white chimney-pot hat."

"Ah!" said Aunt Isobel.