He went, and Robert was at last able to remove his coat, mop his perspiring brow, and release the crushed and dishevelled Phoenix. Robert had to arrange his damp hair at the looking-glass at the back of the box, and the Phoenix had to preen its disordered feathers for some time before either of them was fit to be seen.
They were very, very early. When the lights went up fully, the Phoenix, balancing itself on the gilded back of a chair, swayed in ecstasy.
“How fair a scene is this!” it murmured; “how far fairer than my temple! Or have I guessed aright? Have you brought me hither to lift up my heart with emotions of joyous surprise? Tell me, my Robert, is it not that this, this is my true temple, and the other was but a humble shrine frequented by outcasts?”
“I don’t know about outcasts,” said Robert, “but you can call this your temple if you like. Hush! the music is beginning.”
I am not going to tell you about the play. As I said before, one can’t tell everything, and no doubt you saw The Water Babies yourselves. If you did not it was a shame, or, rather, a pity.
What I must tell you is that, though Cyril and Jane and Robert and Anthea enjoyed it as much as any children possibly could, the pleasure of the Phoenix was far, far greater than theirs.
“This is indeed my temple,” it said again and again. “What radiant rites! And all to do honour to me!”
The songs in the play it took to be hymns in its honour. The choruses were choric songs in its praise. The electric lights, it said, were magic torches lighted for its sake, and it was so charmed with the footlights that the children could hardly persuade it to sit still. But when the limelight was shown it could contain its approval no longer. It flapped its golden wings, and cried in a voice that could be heard all over the theatre:
“Well done, my servants! Ye have my favour and my countenance!”
Little Tom on the stage stopped short in what he was saying. A deep breath was drawn by hundreds of lungs, every eye in the house turned to the box where the luckless children cringed, and most people hissed, or said “Shish!” or “Turn them out!”
Then the play went on, and an attendant presently came to the box and spoke wrathfully.
“It wasn’t us, indeed it wasn’t,” said Anthea, earnestly; “it was the bird.”
The man said well, then, they must keep their bird very quiet. “Disturbing everyone like this,” he said.
“It won’t do it again,” said Robert, glancing imploringly at the golden bird; “I’m sure it won’t.”
“You have my leave to depart,” said the Phoenix gently.
“Well, he is a beauty, and no mistake,” said the attendant, “only I’d cover him up during the acts. It upsets the performance.”
And he went.
“Don’t speak again, there’s a dear,” said Anthea; “you wouldn’t like to interfere with your own temple, would you?”
So now the Phoenix was quiet, but it kept whispering to the children. It wanted to know why there was no altar, no fire, no incense, and became so excited and fretful and tiresome that four at least of the party of five wished deeply that it had been left at home.
What happened next was entirely the fault of the Phoenix. It was not in the least the fault of the theatre people, and no one could ever understand afterwards how it did happen. No one, that is, except the guilty bird itself and the four children. The Phoenix was balancing itself on the gilt back of the chair, swaying backwards and forwards and up and down, as you may see your own domestic parrot do. I mean the grey one with the red tail. All eyes were on the stage, where the lobster was delighting the audience with that gem of a song, “If you can’t walk straight, walk sideways!” when the Phoenix murmured warmly—
“No altar, no fire, no incense!” and then, before any of the children could even begin to think of stopping it, it spread its bright wings and swept round the theatre, brushing its gleaming feathers against delicate hangings and gilded woodwork.
It seemed to have made but one circular wing-sweep, such as you may see a gull make over grey water on a stormy day. Next moment it was perched again on the chair-back—and all round the theatre, where it had passed, little sparks shone like tinsel seeds, then little smoke wreaths curled up like growing plants—little flames opened like flower-buds. People whispered—then people shrieked.
“Fire! Fire!” The curtain went down—the lights went up.
“Fire!” cried everyone, and made for the doors.
“A magnificent idea!” said the Phoenix, complacently. “An enormous altar—fire supplied free of charge. Doesn’t the incense smell delicious?”
The only smell was the stifling smell of smoke, of burning silk, or scorching varnish.
The little flames had opened now into great flame-flowers. The people in the theatre were shouting and pressing towards the doors.
“Oh, how could you!” cried Jane. “Let’s get out.”
“Father said stay here,” said Anthea, very pale, and trying to speak in her ordinary voice.
“He didn’t mean stay and be roasted,” said Robert. “No boys on burning decks for me, thank you.”
“Not much,” said Cyril, and he opened the door of the box.
But a fierce waft of smoke and hot air made him shut it again. It was not possible to get out that way.
They looked over the front of the box. Could they climb down?
It would be possible, certainly; but would they be much better off?
“Look at the people,” moaned Anthea; “we couldn’t get through.”
And, indeed, the crowd round the doors looked as thick as flies in the jam-making season.
“I wish we’d never seen the Phoenix,” cried Jane.
Even at that awful moment Robert looked round to see if the bird had overheard a speech
