Whole book · 9 sections
Vol. XX.—No. 1020.]
[Price One Penny.
JULY 15, 1899.
[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]
A LESSON IN LOVE.
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
OUR LILY GARDEN.
SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.
THE NEW GAME OF CROQUET,
SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.
THE COURTSHIP OF CATHERINE WEST.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
By FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE.
All rights reserved.]
By ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.
A GLINT OF SUNSHINE.
r. Black,” said Lucy, speaking rather suddenly after her pause, “Miss Latimer and I are keeping house together just now, and we are hopeful of securing the services of a highly respectable elderly woman, who will keep things neat and punctual. Would you care to come and live here for the present, paying me precisely what you have paid Mrs. Mott?”
“Oh, Mrs. Challoner,” cried the lad, “how can you propose such a delightful thing! It is far too good to be true! To come to a house like this, so near the office too, and your home! It would be a real kindness in you to do such a thing: but it would not be fair—you oughtn’t to think of it!”
“Mr. Black,” said Lucy, “I think it may suit you very well indeed; but the kindness and the service will not be all on my side. In the event of all manner of evil chances—burglaries or chimney fires, for instance,” she interpolated with a smile, “we shall have a reliable and friendly house-mate. See how useful you were to me, and how you kept up our spirits on that terrible Christmas Day! But most especially, Mr. Black, there will be somebody else besides me for Hughie to talk to, and perhaps play with sometimes.” Her lip trembled as she spoke. It was hard to think she herself could not suffice for her own child. But she was too true a mother to limit her little boy’s enjoyments to her own failing powers, no longer equal to provide them.
“I come home so tired sometimes,” she said, “that I fear I may put a damper on Hugh’s prattle, or fail him in his romps. Miss Latimer, too, is very tired, and she is growing old. It would be such a comfort to feel I had a young friend’s help to fall back upon at a pinch. It might not happen often. It may not happen at all, because it will be such a restful relief to know there is somebody to fall back on. I shall take no mean advantage of your presence in this matter,” she added, with an April smile. “I think you may trust me for that!”
“Oh, Mrs. Challoner,” said Tom, “that’s just what a fellow misses when he isn’t at home; there’s nobody expects anything from him, and he gets like a working and feeding and eating machine. I’m sure I’ll be only too delighted to be of any use I can. As for playing with Hugh, we’ll have drill and all sorts of larks. And he can go for a run with me in the evenings, whenever you don’t want to walk! To think of getting into a home such as this! How thankful mother will be! She’s beginning to worry about the matter, for though I’ve made light of it to her, she seemed to guess how it would be.”
So it was settled. Then Clementina Gillespie duly kept the appointment Mrs. Challoner made with her. Her appearance well supported her introduction by Mrs. Bray’s faithful Rachel. Certainly she had not the sonsie charm of the delusive Mrs. Morison. Quite the reverse. Clementina’s face had no resemblance to a winter apple lying in the frost. She was pale and thin, almost cadaverous-looking, with a well-marked aquiline nose and a long jaw. In place of Mrs. Morison’s white frills and cosy wraps, she was clad in what she called her “mournings,” without a dash of white about her. Lucy at once noticed the soft Highland voice, with its strange Celtic wailing. But Clementina Gillespie’s manner and appearance were alike “superior.” Indeed, there was a kind of severe, decayed high-breeding and elegance about her.
“Four people instead of three, ma’am,” she said, when Lucy told her that her household was to be joined by a youth of seventeen. “It will make no differ to me, whatever. I shall have nothing to do but to try to do my best for you all. And, indeed, the young gentleman will be a blessing and a safeguard in the house, for I do think this Babylon has terrible risks for a household of lone women.”
“There is not so much danger as people from country places are apt to imagine,” Lucy hastened to reassure her, fearful lest terrors of “Babylon” should drive her back to her native fastnesses. “The young gentleman will sleep in the little room behind the dining-room, Miss Latimer, I and my little boy are on the first floor, and your bedroom is in the attic, so you see burglars will have to pass us all before they can get to you,” she added playfully.
Clementina Gillespie did not smile. “They might come in by the roof,” she said. “I hear they often do. What is fated will happen. But I am not afraid, whatever.”
“Of course not,” Lucy replied. “If you have lived in a lonely house on a hillside, you are sure to be a brave woman. It must be rather eerie in such places on wild, dark, winter nights.”
“The winds and the darkness are the servants of the Almighty,” returned the Highland woman. “But wherever there be peoples, there be bad peoples.”
“Ay, but good ones also,” said Lucy. “And all people are in God’s hand, as well as all forces of nature.”
Clementina Gillespie did not answer, and Lucy somehow felt that she did not quite agree. It struck her, however, that conversation having taken such a turn was a sufficient proof that this person was on a different intellectual level from all the other servants she had seen lately. It was equally clear that if Clementina were never to be more cheerful than she was at present, she might be a little depressing. Yet Lucy recollected that she had come from a father’s grave and a broken-up home, and was a stranger in surroundings utterly alien to her previous ways and thoughts. Besides there would be Tom to keep the house alive with mirth and laughter.
Lucy was not sorry to be able to ask Jane Smith whether it would put her to any inconvenience to leave before her “notice month” had expired, or whether she would like to do so. Of course, in either case she would get her wage the same, but badly as the girl had behaved, Lucy was reluctant to evict her if the home was of any importance to her.
“Oh, no, mum, I’ll go to-morrow if you like, mum,” was Jane’s answer. “I’ve got a place waiting for me the minute you can do without me. They’ll be glad to have me so soon.”
Lucy allowed herself to ask no question then. Nobody had inquired about Jane’s character. But if she had taken a place in the country it might be in her own village, and might have been secured by some other line of introduction. But when the day of departure came, Lucy felt it to be her duty as a mistress to know where the girl was going. So she inquired gently—
“Have you far to go, Jane?”
“No, mum,” was the curt answer, with no information vouchsafed.
“Shall you want a cab? Or are your boxes to be called for by the railway people?” Lucy persisted.
“I don’t want no cab, mum. A friend of mine’s coming to give me a hand. You needn’t trouble about me, mum.”
Lucy and Hugh were seated at their tea, when the black-bearded man came whistling up the street and descended the area steps. Jane was waiting for him. One or two loud laughs were heard, followed by bumping sounds. He had laden himself with Jane’s big trunk, and she followed with a tin box and a brown paper parcel. She had not relented, nor come to the parlour even for a civil “Good evening.” As she followed her trunk and its bearer, she turned and looked in at the dining-room window with a mocking smile.
The group crossed the street, but paused a few yards lower down. There was a house whose door was open, and there they went in. That was where Jane had found a place! That was the “country situation” in favour of which she had given her abrupt notice! It was Mrs. Challoner’s own neighbours who had received her servant without the slightest reference to her. Lucy felt stung. She knew nothing of these people, except that their name was Marvel, and that the family seemed to consist of father, mother, and two or three daughters. She had constantly seen them going out, in evening dress, in cabs. But how discourteous was their present action! If, as it seemed, they had made up their minds to take Jane under any circumstances, they might at least have made formal recognition of her last employer’s existence. The only inference Lucy could draw was that her late servant had managed to put her so thoroughly in the wrong that the Marvels believed hers to be no standard to which they need refer, and herself a person to whom no civility was due.
It vexed Lucy to find how this thought hurt her. She knew that, in ordinary parlance, she “ought to be above feeling such things.” Once upon a time she would have laughed at such a matter as affecting herself, though she might have recognised its significance socially. She could not understand her greater weakness now. She said to herself that often in her life she had found pleasure in setting herself harder tasks than any she was now accomplishing; for she had taken youth’s athletic joy in pedestrian feats and in working against time. She was still unable to realise that it is one thing to court fatigue and excitement with unimpaired vigour and high-strung nerves, and quite another matter to accept these when one is already worn out with anxieties and fears. Also that it is one thing to live even the most laborious days in at atmosphere of love and appreciation, and another to toil in so much risk of carping and misunderstanding that one is thankful if one can but escape notice altogether. There is repose and refreshment beforehand in the very consciousness that there exists somebody who will say presently, “You must rest; you must have a holiday;” and who possesses both the will and the power to enforce the words, just as we often feel so much assurance in an outstretched helping hand, that we can jump safely, without availing ourself of its help.
Fond mother Lucy could not be expected to understand that there had been a perpetual strain in having for so long had no household companionship but that of her little laddie. If it is tiring to stretch ever upwards to minds above our own, speaking of things we do not understand, and in a language we scarcely know, it is equally exhausting to the mind to be for ever stooping, and never able fully to express its deepest thoughts and feelings.
There was a strain, too, in Lucy’s terror lest Hugh should lack something in being thrown wholly upon her failing resources; she would not rest if she thought he wanted a game; she would not even relapse into brief silences such as she often craved. No, she had goaded herself on to chatter, and make fun, and tell stories!
Then there had been nobody to remember and provide the little dainties—the pleasant table-surprises which do so much to stimulate a failing appetite. Until Miss Latimer had come to stay, all that Lucy cared for was that Hugh should get his milk, and his puddings, and his fruit. And somehow she herself turned from all these. And there was nothing tempting in their stead.
Also Lucy had started on her new laborious, lonely life after the agony of Charlie’s illness and the supreme effort made for his departure. She had been at the very bottom of her physical powers and nervous energy. For six months she had been steadily giving out and taking nothing in; nothing but nameless little worries had filled in the interstices of work and anxiety.
Looking in her glass, she could see her face was thin and wan; she noticed one or two silver threads in her hair. Anybody else looking so, she would know to be ill, but she would not own any breakdown in herself. Ill! Was not her task already half accomplished, and had not Charlie’s journey prospered beyond their hopes?
If only she had been able to enjoy one week of the bracing breezes off Deal, and of the wholesome presence of Mrs. May! If only the Brands’ house had been one where she was sure to find hearty welcome, and where she could have spoken out all the imaginings and horrors that began to haunt her. But from nobody in the world was it more necessary to hide her trembling spirits and collapsing forces than from her sister Florence, who would have seen in them only an occasion for criticism and censure, and for counsels for whose carrying out she would offer no furtherance.
It was at this time that Lucy first had a dream—which she often had afterwards—and which, worse still, became a sort of waking vision, which would open before her if ever she dared to remain for one moment without active occupation for brain or hand.
In that sleeping dream, and in that waking “vision,” she saw herself walking on a dreary road, between a dead wall and an open wold. Night was falling fast; wind and rain were beating upon her; her limbs were failing, and still she struggled on, and as she went, she seemed to wail, “Alone! Alone! Alone!”
The dream always broke off there; the vision went no further. She never knew how it ended.
Two days after Jane Smith’s exit and Clementina’s in-coming, Tom Black arrived. Miss Latimer and Lucy welcomed his cheery presence. Clementina certainly seemed highly respectable, and set about her work as one who wished to do her duty conscientiously. But her very presence was depressing. Her necessary sentences always ended with a sigh, and the depth of her mourning-raiment was never alleviated while she went about her household tasks. Indeed, one could scarcely fancy her in a cheerful lilac print. Of course, she had not worn caps on her father’s croft, and Lucy did not dream of suggesting them to her, though she could not help feeling that it would have been a joyful relief to see a white lace butterfly crowning the smooth black hair which seemed as much in mourning as all the rest of Clementina.
The only little personalities which Clementina contributed to the kitchen furniture were three memorial cards: one yellow and almost undecipherable with age, the other in commemoration of the piper, Niel Gillespie, the friend of Rachel’s dead lover; the newest, a tribute to the recently deceased father; also she possessed a piece of quaint and heavy pottery, the figures of two children kneeling beside a grave under a weeping willow, and a dim old print, “The Death of Abel,” in a thick black frame.
Tom brought quite a different order of things into the house. The pictures he hung up in his bedroom were of Skye terriers hopelessly watching butterflies, kittens playing with a ball, a group of cricketers on the green of his native place. He had his mother’s portrait, too, set up in a dainty little frame, on which he had evidently lavished some pocket-money. He brought it into the dining-room to show Lucy, and Lucy, with one moment’s reflection, asked him whether he would not like to keep it there, where he would pass his waking hours. “Oh, yes, certainly, Tom would like it, only wouldn’t Mrs. Challoner feel——” but while he was yet speaking, Lucy had taken it from his hand, and had found room for it on the mantelshelf. Her own father’s portrait and Charlie’s were there already. There had been one of herself and little Hugh, but her husband had taken that away with him. Lucy slipped Mrs. Black’s picture into the empty place. Clementina crooned eerie Gaelic songs in the kitchen. Tom went about the house singing—
It is, perhaps, needless to say in which song Hugh learned to join. Indeed, the oddest thing about Clementina was that Hugh did not seem to like her—no, not though she always sent up a special little pie-cake for him whenever there was a pie, and though if her face ever wore a smile, that smile was put on for him. Alas, little Hugh had been so fond of the ill-starred Jessie Morison! It seemed a pity that such proven moral instability should have charms which this manifold respectability had not!
Lucy had not seen or heard from the Brands for some time. Such silences were not unusual between the two households, unless something special was going forward. Lucy knew that her sister had been paying some country-house visits, and felt sure she should hear from her when she came home to make her preparations for the annual family migration to the seaside.
The summer holidays began at the Institute. Of course, it was impossible for Lucy or Miss Latimer to think of leaving home when they had just received a strange servant and a guest. Still, the holidays meant considerable relaxation. Hugh had his holidays, too, and he and his mother, and sometimes Miss Latimer, too, used to go off together to Hampstead or Highgate or Greenwich, where he could gather wild flowers and play about, while she found quaint or pretty “bits” for sketches. Then, when they came home, there was Tom with funny stories about people and events at the office, or the “latest news” of the evening. The domestic group, with their varied ages and developments, made, as it were, a pretty household chime—the child’s exuberant inconsequence melting into Tom’s boyish enthusiasms, and those rising towards Lucy’s serious ideals and soberer outlook on life, and Miss Latimer’s gentle pathos. Of course, to old household loves and loyalties bred from years of mutual experience, this was but as a sketch is to a masterpiece. But it was good so far as it went. And every masterpiece has been but a sketch once!
It was certainly a lovely gleam of peace and content, but Lucy knew that for her its brightness was derived from her consciousness that Charlie, in all the elation of renewed health, might now be considered fairly on his homeward way! His last letter, which had arrived three days after Tom Black’s in-coming, had come from Hong Kong, whither Captain Grant had unexpectedly steered his course, owing to the unforeseen demands of a promising branch of business. They would leave that port a day or two after the letter was posted, and might reasonably expect to arrive at Vancouver well within the year of Charlie’s proposed absence. But the Slains Castle herself, after despatching her business at the Canadian port, would have to return home all round by Cape Horn, thus not only unconscionably prolonging her voyage, but doing this through stormy seas at an inclement season. Captain Grant, however, had declared that he had never had such a fortunate voyage, that Charlie had been such a “luck” passenger, and that as circumstances had broken his own promise that his ship would not be away more than a year, so on his side he would release Charlie at Vancouver, rebating from the hundred guinea fee enough to pay for Charlie’s land journey by the Pacific Railway and the short Atlantic voyage by a liner from New York.
“I begin to feel that we may expect to keep our next Christmas together,” wrote Charlie, “and I dared hardly form that hope while my return within that time lay wholly with a sailing-vessel, on which I find two or three weeks ‘more or less’ are matters of no account whatever. Now, little woman, you and I must prepare for one more long silence. We may touch at some of the islands of the North Pacific, and then you shall get a missive; but again we may not, and then your next letter will hail from Vancouver, and I myself shall arrive on the back of it—like a postscript! I don’t need to ask you to let me have letters waiting at Vancouver. Write there regularly whenever you feel inclined to have a chat with your old man, and then, whether I arrive sooner or later, I shall have a nice sequence of sweet letters to keep me company on my lonely rush across North America and the Atlantic. Remember, my wifie, that before you receive this, the distance between us will be actually lessening day by day. Here’s to our happy meeting hour! And God bless my brave little wife!”
Of course Lucy’s heart rose high. The worst was now over, and in the glow of renewed joy she began to think it had not been so very bad. As by magic the weariness and weight dropped from her feet, her voice recovered its full, rich timbre, her eyes shone with fresh light. She said to herself that she had not been overworn or ill after all—“only anxious and depressed.” And now what she had to do was to banish the thin wanness of her face before Charlie came home. As for the silvery hairs—they must stay. But she said to herself that there is beauty in silvery hairs, and she was not at all sorry to stand proven as no longer girl or bride, but as woman and matron, with every right to think and to act for herself and for others.
She was still going cheerily in the light cast by Charlie’s letter, and though she had already eagerly written to Vancouver, she had not begun to feel the damping effect of the inevitable silence of the North Pacific, when an epistle came from Florence.
“Dearest Lu,—I am home from my visits, and am very busy packing us all off for Scarborough. Can’t get round to see you at any hours I am likely to find you in Pelham Street.” (She had quite forgotten the holidays!) “Won’t you come over to me here? Please, do! Come to-morrow, as early as you can in the afternoon, and stay to dinner and for the evening. Please wire reply. We expect only one or two friends. The change will do you good. I don’t invite Hugh too, because I want you to stay, and I know you wouldn’t keep him out in the night air. Surely you can leave him at home for once! And do remember I’m your only sister, and have got such a lot of things to show you. I’ve told Jem I’m writing to you; don’t let him say you pay no attention to my invitations! (He has said that—Jem can be nasty sometimes, though he’s always so polite to you!) Do come!
“From your loving sister,
“Flo Brand.
“P.S.—I suppose you are always getting the best of good news from the other side of the sea?”
That palpable “afterthought” nearly made Lucy flatly decline the appeal. Yet she hesitated. This was only “Florence’s way,” and she might have done just the same had the original motive of her letter been inquiry after her brother-in-law and not a mere invitation to her sister. Lucy wanted to cherish family affection, so far as it was possible; and then she could well believe that Jem “could be nasty.” Poor Flo!
So she got as far as to mention her invitation to her little household at tea-time.
“Of course you’ll go,” said Miss Latimer. “It will do you a world of good.”
“Hugh and I will get on grandly while you are away,” said Tom. “We’ve got a plan laid out already for some evening ‘when mamma is busy,’ but now it shall be when ‘mamma is gone to a party.’”
“I can’t go very early,” observed Lucy, hesitating, “for I sha’n’t leave home before you come from the office.”
“It’s a slack time, and I’ll get away sharp,” returned Tom, while Hugh’s face, which had clouded, cleared, and he danced to and fro between his mother and his friend.
So Lucy wrote to Florence, and told her she might expect to see her between five and six next evening.
(To be continued.)
PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.
By CHARLES PETERS.
A visit to the royal gardens at Kew is always a pleasant holiday. There is so much to see and admire, and so very much of what is quite new and unexpected, that all lovers of flowers must look both forward to and backwards at their visits to England’s greatest garden.
We remember strolling into the gardens on a June day last year. The weather was fine and warm, and the gardens were at their very best. We had been into the various greenhouses; had duly admired the airy lightness of the filmy ferns; had marvelled at the stalky palm or the ridiculous cactus (one of the latter we can never forget, for it bore a great pink blossom on what might have been mistaken for a savage’s club!) We had seen the great leaves of the Victoria lily, with its huge flower-bud not yet open; we had viewed with interest the curious sacred bean, and had been half-stifled in the dense atmosphere of the tropical orchid house. But it was not among the rare productions of the tropics; it was not in the greenhouse in which the choicest of flowers are exhibited in tasteful combination; it was not among the curious and beautiful orchids that the finest flower of June was to be seen.
No! The finest plant which flowered in Kew in that June was to be found in an open bed behind the great palm-house. On turning towards the rosery when leaving the tropical palm-house, our attention was arrested by a sheet of dazzling gold. We approached the spot and found that the object which had brought us thither was a bed of the great Caucasian lily or Lilium Monodelphum.
There was nothing in any part of the gardens to equal this bed of homely, hardy lilies. It was perfectly lovely! The great yellow bells hanging in pyramidal masses were as elegant as they were gorgeous, and had the plant been growing in a hot-house it would have been looked upon as one of the choicest productions of the tropics.
It was by no means the first time that we had seen this lily; but never before had we seen it in such perfection. Each flower-spike was perfect and bore from two to thirty blossoms.
Of all the Martagons, L. Monodelphum and its varieties is unquestionably the finest. Indeed, in none of the groups of lilies will you find more than two or three which will beat this species for splendour.
It is in the higher reaches of the Caucasus and the western parts of Persia that this lily is at home. And surely there can be but few finer sights in nature than a great mass of these lilies growing on a hill-side.
Lilium Monodelphum is one of the most characteristic of all the lilies. It grows to the height of four or five feet and bears a great pyramid of large, bright, canary-coloured blossoms, tinged with purple at the base and slightly spotted with black. The pollen is yellow. Though this lily is placed with the Martagons, it has but little in common with the lilies we considered last month. The flowers strongly recall Lilium Nepaulense. They are very long and but slightly recurved, hanging downwards like yellow bells and swaying gently in the breeze. This plant has a very strong scent, which, though pleasant in the open ground, is intolerable in a room.
This is one of the few lilies which bear seed freely in England. In some seasons every blossom will be succeeded by a long six-sided pod. The seed, however, takes very long to grow.
In many ways L. Monodelphum resembles L. Auratum. One of these ways is the extreme variability to which both are subject.
The colour of this species is usually of a bright canary yellow; but we have seen specimens of a very pale lemon colour with very few spots. Another not uncommon variety has deep almost saffron-coloured blossoms.
Then there is great variety in the size and number of the spots. One variety, called Szovitzianum, is very freely spotted, while the type is often quite free from spots.
The colour of the pollen is also variable. In Szovitzianum it is chocolate colour, whilst in the other varieties it is yellow.
Even the shape of the flowers is variable, some varieties having blossoms far more recurved than others.
It is usual to divide the various varieties of L. Monodelphum under two heads. The first contains the typical or monodelphous forms. Here the blossoms are but little recurved, of a deep yellow, with yellow anthers. These varieties are said to flower two or three weeks before the second group; but we have not observed any difference in this respect.
The second or Szovitzianum group produces fewer flowers of very variable colour, but richly spotted with black. The pollen is chocolate colour, and the blossoms are more recurved. The flower buds are also visible as soon as the shoot is above ground, whereas in the former group the buds are enclosed till the lily is two or three feet high.
Unless the soil of your garden is exactly suited to it, you will find that L. Monodelphum is by no means an easy flower to grow. But surely its extreme beauty is sufficient inducement to give a considerable amount of trouble to establish this fine plant. And when you have once succeeded in making it at home, it will not give you much further trouble, for it is perfectly hardy and increases moderately when it once gets a fair start.
A PRESENT FOR FRIENDS.
Rarely, if ever, does this lily do well during the first and second years after it has been shifted into new surroundings. It will come up right enough the first years, but the whole shoot will suddenly die down about the middle of May. What causes this queer behaviour we really cannot say.
L. Monodelphum wants a very heavy loam with a little clay in it. The loam must be of great depth, and should, if possible, rest on a chalky base. A little lime should be added to the soil, but peat should be excluded and sand should only be placed round the bulb. When the flower-buds show, a good thick top-dressing of old stable manure may be applied with advantage.
This lily should never be disturbed when once it has done well. It is better to place the bulbs very deep, say eighteen inches or so below the surface, and then the supernatant soil can be thoroughly dug and enriched every winter.
As a pot plant, this lily rarely does well, for it is almost impossible to give it sufficient depth of earth in a pot.
The nearest ally to L. Monodelphum is the very rare L. Polyphyllum. This lily is extremely beautiful, but is so uncommon that but few of our readers are likely to have seen it. We have only once seen it ourselves, and have never been able to obtain a bulb.
The bulb of this species is totally different from any other. It is long and thin, being composed of numerous long lance-shaped scales. As far as we know, the bulb is always pure white.
In growth this lily resembles the last, but it rarely reaches a greater height than three feet.
The flowers are longer but more reflexed than are those of L. Monodelphum. They are of a beautiful creamy-white colour, curiously streaked with dark purple markings.
It was formerly grown under the name of Fritillaria Polyphylla, but that it is truly a lily is unquestionable. It is a native of the Himalayas, and we should think that its culture ought to be similar to that of L. Giganteum from the same region. It is said to be perfectly hardy.
The North American Continent has given us many species of lilies. Up to the present we have only described three: L. Washingtonianum, L. Parryi, and L. Philadelphicum. These three lilies are certainly very different from any that the Old Continent has given us. But we now meet with ten species, very nearly allied, and yet in no way resembling any others.
These are the swamp lilies, a sub-section of the Martagons, the ten members of which are all confined to North America. And they are a very characteristic group of lilies.
In most of these species the bulb is annual, being produced at the extremity of a thick perennial rhizome. Why all the American lilies (except three) should bear rhizomes and annual bulbs, while all the Old World species bear perennial bulbs without rhizomes we cannot say, but there must be some important reason to account for it.
There is only one American lily which bears a globose bulb in any way like the ordinary bulbs of the Eastern species. This lily is Lilium Columbianum, a perfect little gem in its way.
In all the swamp lilies, the leaves are arranged in whorls, the stems are tall and slender, and the blossoms are nodding, only slightly recurved, and of a yellow or orange colour, usually spotted more or less thickly with black or purple.
The following are the ten species of swamp lilies, together with the districts from which they hail:—
By some authorities L. Parvum, L. Maritimum, L. Roezlii and L. Grayi are considered to be merely varieties of L. Canadense; and L. Californicum is said to be only a variation from L. Pardalinum, but we prefer to consider them as separate species.
And there are some authors who consider Lilium Bolanderi, L. Pardalinum Michauxi, L. Pardalinum Warei and others, which we consider to be merely varieties, to be distinct species.
The culture of the swamp lilies is perfectly simple, and if attention is paid to one or two details, failure is extremely improbable.
The swamp lilies want peat; they will grow in a mixture of peat and sand. But to thoroughly establish them a compost of peat, leaf-mould and sand should be used. If to this can be added the dried mud from the bottom of a ditch, so much the better. These lilies are always thirsty, and can never get too much water. They like a shady swampy spot, some of them preferring the drier banks of streams. The bulb must be handled with great care, for both the bulb itself and the rhizome are very tender, and the numerous thick fleshy scales which compose them are readily detached by rough handling.
To all the above rules for growing the swamp lilies, L. Humboldti and L. Columbianum are exceptions.
By far the best known of this group of lilies is Lilium Canadense, the Canada Lily. This is the only one of the group which can be considered as an old garden plant. It has been grown in England now for a long time, and was the fifth lily to be cultivated in our island.
This lily is a very pretty flower, not gorgeous nor pretentious as are so many of the genus, but quiet and homely. It grows about four feet high; the stem is very slender, and the leaves are whorled. In the middle of summer it bears from three to fifteen blossoms like small stars. They are bright orange in colour, thickly spotted with deep purple, and about an inch and a half across. Their chief beauty lies in the way they hang, for they are very gracefully swung. The segments are not reflexed, and the plant more nearly resembles the Eulirions than it does the typical Martagons.
The lily is subject to great variety, especially in the colour of the blossoms, which vary from lemon yellow to brick red. There is a great number of named varieties, but they are all more or less inconstant. By some authorities nearly all the other swamp lilies are considered to be merely variations from Lilium Canadense.
Although, as we have said, the Canada lily has long been cultivated in England, it does not always take kindly to our soil, and very often it speedily degenerates, and in a few years disappears. But if the soil is really to its liking, it will often flourish in England. Like so many of its congeners, it is very impatient of removal, and when once established it should be left alone.
A fitting companion to the last, but of greater vigour and considerably superior dimensions is the Lilium Superbum of the United States of America.
This species is often confused with the last, but it can readily be distinguished by the form of its bulb and rhizome; its greater vigour and more robust growth; the shape of the flower buds, which is triangular in L. Canadense, and rounded in L. Superbum; and by the blossoms themselves, which are far larger, very revolute and marked with a green star formed by the green ribs of the segments. In this respect L. Superbum resembles L. Speciosum. It also produces more blossoms than does L. Canadense, and flowers later in the season.
The root of this lily is typical of those species which bear annual bulbs and perennial rhizomes. The bulb is small, about as large as a walnut, composed of thick, short, fleshy scales, very closely packed together, but easily detached by a rough hand. It closely resembles a young fir-cone, but is more spherical. The rhizome or sucker is about as thick as a man’s little finger, and from one to four inches long. It is hard, but brittle, and regularly dotted with small scales.
As far as we have been able to follow the life history of the underground portions of rhizome rooted lilies, we have come to the conclusion that in all the bulbs are annual and are produced in the early autumn when the flower spike is dying. It is usually stated that in some species, i.e., L. Canadense, the bulbs are annual; but in other species, such as L. Superbum, the bulbs are perennial. Perhaps this is usually the case, but it certainly is not so with our lilies. We do not say that the old bulb is entirely destroyed when once it has flowered; a little nucleus is left which sometimes develops afresh into a new bulb. But the tendency of all the American lilies is to run along under the ground, shifting their position every year.
The flowers of L. Superbum are numerous. They much resemble those of L. Canadense, but are larger, more recurved, and less graceful. They also have the curious green star above referred to. This alone is quite sufficient to distinguish the species from the other swamp lilies.
It is a fine lily, and of course a fine plant, but it is not superb, anymore than L. Elegans is elegant.
The culture is the same as that of L. Canadense. It is, however, a much more satisfactory species to grow.
Lilium Parvum, the little lily, is a graceful plant bearing numerous small blossoms of a full orange, spotted with black.
Lilium Parvum is another misnamed lily, for it often grows five feet high, which is far taller than most lilies. It sometimes bears as many as fifty blossoms.
Lilium Maritimum resembles the last, but the blossoms are far fewer, and are of a brick-red colour. Both these lilies resemble L. Canadense in their growth and habits. The bulb of L. Parvum resembles that of Lilium Pardalinum on a small scale.
Lilium Roezlii, another similar species, bears yellow flowers richly spotted with purple. The bulb is rhizomatous. We figured the bulb of this lily in our October part. L. Grayi we know little or nothing of. We possess a root, but it seems reluctant to flower.
The panther lily, or Lilium Pardalinum, is the finest of the swamp lilies, Humboldt’s lily perhaps excepted. This lily has so much in its favour that it should be grown by everyone who possesses a soil suitable to its culture.
The bulb of this lily is very long, and the rhizome is covered with scales, so that it is impossible to say where the bulb ends and the rhizome begins. It is yellowish in colour, often suffused with pink.
In growth it resembles L. Superbum, but the inflorescence is quite distinct. The flowers are large; the segments deep red for their outer half and bright orange at their base, thickly spotted with black. In the centre of the red portion of the segment is a large black spot bordered with yellow, which gives the whole flower a very attractive appearance. The petioles, or stalks which support the blossoms, are very gracefully curved, a characteristic very well portrayed in the accompanying drawing. Each stem will produce from three to eight blossoms, each about two and a half inches across.
This is another very variable lily, and a large number of its varieties have received special names. The variety Augustifolium, figured in our illustration, is the one commonly grown. L. Pardalinum Warei has flowers of an unspotted apricot colour. It is extremely rare and expensive. L. Bourgoei and L. Pallidifolium are varieties which our knowledge of lilies is insufficient to differentiate.
Perhaps a variety of L. Pardalinum, but more probably a distinct species, Lilium Californicum is distinguished from the last lily by the fewness, but large size, of its blossoms, the greater brilliance of its colour, the abrupt transition from the red to the orange portions of the perianth, and the browner colour of its spots.
L. Pardalinum and L. Californicum require the same treatment as the other swamp lilies except that they must have more leaf mould, more of the mud from the ditch, if you can get it, and less peat and less water.
The last two of the swamp lilies of North America stand apart from those which we have just considered, as they differ very greatly in almost every particular.
Lilium Humboldti, by far the finest of the swamp lilies, is a plant which every lover of gorgeous flowers should grow if he can. We said “if he can,” for we cannot grow it! The plants do very well till the blossoming season approaches, and then they die suddenly. Yet the bulbs are not diseased, and the roots are chiefly normal.
The bulb of this species is long, oblique, and perennial. It does not bear a rhizome, but it much resembles that of L. Washingtonianum.
In its growth and in its leaves this species resembles L. Washingtonianum, but its blossoms would surprise anybody who had never seen them. They are so different from any other flower in nature except the little lily which is described below. Ten, twenty, forty, even fifty blossoms may be borne by one stalk. These flowers are about four inches long, completely recurved, but the tips of the segments stand away from their bases on a pedicel of four or five inches length. In colour they are a flaming orange-yellow, quite a different kind of yellow from that of Monodelphum, spotted and splashed with a rich purple brown.
We wish we could grow this lily, but unfortunately this is one of our failures. It cannot be helped, we must try again; perhaps we shall discover how to grow it in time.
From the last paragraph it follows that our opinion upon the cultivation of this lily is not worth much. But we can tell you what not to do and what we intend to do next year.
Do not grow this lily in peat. We imagined that the same treatment as we gave the other swamp lilies would suit this one; but it did not. We believe that it will do best if treated as we advised for L. Washingtonianum or L. Monodelphum. Still, we cannot grow the lily ourselves, and we are not the only people who have difficulty with it. If you want to know how to cultivate this lily, you must discover the way yourself.
If you look at L. Humboldti through the wrong end of a telescope, you will get a very fair idea of Lilium Columbianum, the last of this group of lilies. It will not, however, be a perfect resemblance, for the flowers of the smaller species are more revolute and not nearly so richly spotted. The bulb of this lily is ovoidal in shape. Indeed, it is the only lily found in America which possesses an egg-shaped bulb.
This lily is not difficult to cultivate, a rich peaty soil with plenty of ditch mud suiting it admirably. It flowers in the middle of June, and is altogether a most satisfactory and beautiful plant.
(To be continued.)
In the preceding chapters we have dealt with the subject of reading in general, and have mentioned many books of the olden world that must not be ignored, besides some histories, with historical fiction side by side, which may serve as stepping-stones down through the centuries to the present day, or up through the centuries to the dawn of history, whichever way you prefer to take your journey. As to whether you should read history backwards or forwards, much depends on your present stock of knowledge. If circumstances have unfortunately left you ignorant, even of the history of your own country, you would be scarcely fitted to begin a Greek history, but should choose, in the first place, an English history, or historical primer, that you can understand.
The majority of girls who read this page will, however, possess a fair knowledge of English history, and may at once begin their study of ancient civilisations, which will help them in no small degree to understand the present. Or they may, with advantage, consult Professor Freeman’s General Sketch of History, with maps, published at 3s. 6d. by Macmillan. The constant aim of this admirable little book is to show the connection in history, and it is the best introductory book for the general reader.
No cultivated person can live in an easy conviction that modern civilisation is all that needs attention, and that “the old heathen” is a suitable description of sages and philosophers of yore.
We must not omit to say that the advanced student in history will need some good history of the Renaissance—Walter Pater’s or John Addington Symonds’—to enlighten her as to the great awakening of the human intellect in the fifteenth century.
Biography is an admirable channel for the learning of history. Herodotus, the “Father of history,” showed us that history is really only a series of stories about people, and if any reader can glance at Rawlinson’s translation, she will become aware of this. Unfortunately history is so long that these “stories” have, as a rule, to be compressed, and so lose their living interest.
Perhaps the present generation cannot recall the charm of the First History of Rome, and the First History of Greece, by the author of Amy Herbert, used as school-books, in contrast to the ordinary English history. The present writer used to wonder why Roman history was so delightful, English history so dull, and why the former could always be remembered—the latter, never! It was just because those elementary manuals of Greek and Roman history—as to whose intrinsic value we are expressing no opinion whatever—used the “story” method of dealing with their subject.
Plutarch’s Lives have already been mentioned. Dean Farrar’s Seekers after God should not be omitted. It tells the story of some of the greatest men who lived just before and after the Christian era.
When we turn to English history we may learn much from the series of Twelve English Statesmen, published at 2s. 6d. a volume by Macmillan. An excellent specimen of these is Mrs. J. R. Green’s Henry II., a delightful book from which the history of the twelfth century may be better understood.
For the fifteenth century, read the Life of Savonarola, by Pasquale Villari; an essay on Joan of Arc, by De Quincey. For the sixteenth century consult “The Great Artists Series” for lives of Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian, and others, and read some Life of Martin Luther, or Froude’s essay on Erasmus and Luther, in his Short Studies. Also read Sidney Lee’s Life of Shakespeare.
For the seventeenth century Lord Macaulay’s essays on John Milton and John Bunyan will be interesting. For the eighteenth century again Lord Macaulay has an essay on Frederick the Great, which is valuable, and Boswell’s Life of Johnson is a delightful book for all times. Lord Macaulay’s Critical and Historical Essays from which the above are selected are published at 2s. 6d. Sarah Tytler’s Life of Marie Antoinette, published at 2s. 6d. (“New Plutarch Series”), may be useful. Emerson’s book Representative Men is published in many editions from 6d. upwards. For the nineteenth century, there are many biographies of interest; every great man has his life written and published, and many men who are not great, so that it requires discretion to choose among them. Read the Life of Mazzini, by E. A. V., whatever else you omit. The Eulogy of Richard Jeffries, by Walter Besant, is a charming and suggestive book for lovers of nature, though it has nothing to do with “history” so called.
The Life of Michael Faraday, by Professor Sylvanus Thompson, will give you an insight into the progress of science, and how much it can be aided by one single man. But it is vain to ramble on in this way. You will probably have heroes or authors specially dear to you, and will wish to know about them all that you can learn. Some of the most fascinating biographies are those of authors: e.g., the Life of Charlotte Brontë, by Mrs. Gaskell. You may also consult with advantage the “Eminent Women Series,” published at 3s. 6d. each volume.
So much for indications—they are nothing else—to guide you in your study of history and biography. This chapter is fated to dwell on what is generally called “solid reading,” though some of the books we have mentioned are as interesting as any novel.
Before we quit the regions of “solid reading” for those of poetry and romance, which we hope to visit in the next chapter, a word may be said for reading societies. Of these, undoubtedly the best is the National Home Reading Union.
Amateur societies may be good, or may be extremely futile. The benefit of the reading society is this: it helps people how to read, and teaches them what to read; supplies lists of books for the different sections, and criticisms on those books. A letter to the secretary, Miss Mondy, Home Reading Union, Surrey House, Victoria Embankment, London, W.C., will bring a reply with all details of the society, which we commend to our readers.
There is much to be said as to the charming fields for exploration that lie open to the reader of “essays.” The first writer in this vein whom we should recommend to girls and women is Mr. Ruskin. Possibly it may be a mistake on our part, but it seems to us that there is in some quarters a tendency to detract from the fame of this illustrious writer, who, perhaps more than any other, has helped to shape the thought of his time. The prevailing taste for “restraint,” “literary reserve,” and repression, is opposed to the freedom of his lofty flights of eloquence and impassioned poetic prose. Yet this will be only a temporary phase of opinion among a few; for as long as the English language lasts, John Ruskin’s passages of nature-painting and of artistic criticism, based as they are on truth, will endure. He is also a teacher in the region of morality, and his advice is fitted in no small degree for those about to enter upon life.
For a long time the advice to “read Ruskin” was rather tantalising, as his books were so costly as to be beyond the reach of the ordinary reader. But there is now an edition of many of them published at 5s. the volume, by Mr. George Allen, Orpington, Kent. From this series you might select Ethics of the Dust, Sesame and Lilies, and A Crown of Wild Olive. Modern Painters is a treasury of priceless value as to its contents, and still costly; but Frondes Agrestes, containing readings from it, is published at 3s.
What will Ruskin as a teacher do for you, provided, of course, you have a mind open to receive and appreciate his teaching?
He will inculcate upon you the beauty of absolute truth, uprightness, charity towards and care for your fellows.
He will teach you, with many a charming hint and allurement by the way, the duty of storing, by the study of literature, your mind with the very best that has been thought and said in the world.
He will open your eyes to the beauty that lies around you; for instance, to the changing pageant of the skies, at morn, at sunset, and at night—to the conformation of the tiny leaf, twig, or crystal as well as to the majesty of the everlasting hills, and the might of the torrent and the storm.
He will guide you into sound ways of thinking, with regard to painting and architecture.
He will show you something of the capacity of the English language as a vehicle of expression, and he cannot fail to add refinement and grace to your mode of thought. He will make the world a more beautiful place to you; and will make you more fit to live and work in the world.
So much for this great “Master,” as he is still called by those who love and revere him.
Two indispensable authors in the field of essays and criticism, are the Americans, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Emerson is a “prophet.” To many readers he puts into words what they may have long thought or felt, and they start to see their own unexpressed vague idea alive before them. “Trust thyself” is his counsel.
The Autocrat, Professor, and Poet of the Breakfast Table, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, are graceful and charming books which must always be loved by the thoughtful reader. They can be obtained in the “Camelot Series” at 1s. each.
Mazzini’s Essays, dealing chiefly with political and social questions, should be read by thoughtful young men and women.
Thomas Carlyle has had much to do with the development of a feeling of individual responsibility. The essays of Charles Lamb, and the dialogues of Walter Savage Landor; the essays of Leigh Hunt, Augustine Birrell, Mrs. Meynell, and many others, will charm in one way and another, and repay reading.
There are certain writers whose province it seems to inspire and stimulate. Such, to those on the threshold of life, are teachers of priceless worth. Ruskin, Emerson, Mazzini, Carlyle, all belong to this category.
They make us feel that life is worth living, ideals are worth toil and aspiration; and recall the words of Matthew Arnold in Rugby Chapel:
(To be continued.)
WITH A FEW HINTS TO BEGINNERS, BY ONE OF THEM.
FIG. 1.—GOOD FORM.
Your editor, always with an eye to his readers’ pleasure and profit, asked me to make a few drawings illustrative of the new way of playing croquet, a game that has recently been revived with astonishing success all over the country; and also to write a short description of the game with a few general hints that may be of help to those taking up croquet for the first time. I am old enough to remember the introduction of the game, as played in the old way with wide hoops, light mallets, and light balls. Croquet became the rage, and for a few years monopolised the attention of lovers of outdoor recreation; then lawn tennis came in, and croquet was allowed to well-nigh drop out of existence. As played now it is certainly a far better game, and though more difficult is correspondingly the more interesting. It might be called lawn billiards, and with practice and some natural aptitude a player can become as certain of his strokes as in billiards, provided, of course, the lawn be a good one.
FIG. 2.—BAD FORM.
The chief differences in the new game as compared with the old are bigger and heavier mallets, heavier balls, narrower hoops placed much further apart, and therefore more difficult to negotiate, no croqueting with the foot, i.e., your own ball has to be placed against the ball you have hit, and the player strikes his own ball according to the distance and direction he wishes his own and the other ball to go, instead of keeping his foot on his own ball while he hits it. Those who have played the old game will realise what a difference this “loose” instead of tight croqueting makes to the play. Another important point in taking croquet is that if your own or the other ball is driven off the boundary line, the player loses the remainder of his turn. This law was introduced to prevent a player from running completely away from his opponent, which was likely to happen when a good player was well set.
The best game is that played between four players in partnership, as matters become more equalised as the play proceeds than in single games between two opponents, though where two players are fairly matched the single game allows of a greater exhibition of skill. Games frequently last a couple of hours and even longer in the four-handed game, and from an hour to an hour and a half in singles, and it is important that players should not feel “hung up” for time, for nothing is so calculated to put a player off than the feeling that he must hurry to catch a train. Good players proceed in a quiet determined fashion, well on the alert, but never in a hurry. On the other hand, too much calculation and deliberateness will often make a player fail to get through a hoop or roquet. You must sight your ball and get the direction, and then play boldly and with decision; hesitating play is fatal to good strokes. Brisk play is undoubtedly the thing both for the player and the others of the party, for if a game is dragged out it becomes tedious. I confess that I am by no means a good player, but an indifferent player can get a lot of enjoyment out of the game provided he gets players of about his own calibre to play with and against him. There is no doubt that to play well necessitates pretty constant practice, for without that one cannot be sure of either the direction and, what is of equal importance, the strength of his stroke. This latter is one of the great difficulties of the game, for upon hitting your ball the right distance depends your chance of a second stroke either by getting through a hoop or when you roquet. The distance a ball will travel will depend upon the nature of the lawn as well as upon the strength of your stroke.
A good lawn well drained, of closely cropped turf in good condition and true, will play faster than where the grass is poor and dampish. Weeds, like plantains and daisies, will quite spoil a stroke if the ball happens to slide upon them, and obviously holes or bare places are still worse. An ordinary lawn can be improved by sifting over it sandy road scrapings, and hollows filled in in this way early in the year and well rolled will become turf later on as the grass will grow through the soil. A poor lawn can be helped by sowing on this top dressing some good lawn seed, which can be had at any good seedsman’s. Birds are partial to it, and it is necessary to either net the lawn or stretch across it black thread at intervals.
A lawn which is weedy can only be improved with trouble and labour. Plantains, the worst pest, must be got up by their roots; there is a lawn weeder sold for the purpose. Dandelions must be carefully extracted or they will spring up again, as will docks. Daisies are a nuisance, and can only be got rid of by weeding; the lawn sand will do something to eradicate them. Constant rolling and cutting with a good lawn mower, provided with a hood to collect the cut grass, is necessary to preserve a lawn in good condition. An impoverished lawn should be dressed with road sweepings and bone dust, and moss in a lawn is a sure indication that this treatment is necessary. A lawn grown from seed will take some two or three years to form a turf; to hasten matters turfs should be put down, as if this be done in the autumn, and the lawn thus formed be top-dressed with sifted road-scrapings in the spring, it will be playable in the summer. If a lawn be damp there is only one cure—drainage, which means having pipes laid some two feet below the surface. A well drained lawn can be played on soon after a shower of rain, whereas a badly drained lawn is nearly always boggy. I give these few details about the lawn itself because, though many of us have to put up with what we have, we might as well make the best of it, and a little care and attention will do much to improve our turf, and the game is so much more enjoyable if the lawn we play upon is fairly good. Nothing is so annoying as having a good stroke spoilt because the ball is given a wrong bias by a weed or hole.
FIG. 3.—SIGHTING THE BALL.
It is not my purpose to give the rules of the game, as a capital shilling handbook by Mr. J. Jeffery is published by Dean and Son, Fleet Street, from which I take the three methods of arranging the hoops, and to which I refer the reader; but a few general hints which come to me through having played the game may not be de trop. It is useless playing a much better player on equal terms, and here comes in the question of handicapping. This can be done by giving the weaker player the start of a hoop or two, or by “bisques,” or extra strokes which can be taken at any period of the game. These extra strokes should be given by an umpire, and where one is not available hoops should be taken, though the weaker player can play to a certain hoop while the stronger player has to go right round the course. This latter arrangement is perhaps preferable. For single games a third ball called a “Jack” can be used, each player having the right of using this extra ball. The Jack can also be used by a player who elects to play two others in partnership. Three players generally play enemies, and can use a “Jack” or not as agreed upon. Where one player plays against two others, he should be the better player, and should play first, as it is an advantage for a weaker player to come after. In a four game the last player is manifestly in a better position than the others, as he has the three other balls to roquet. But there can be no question that double games, i.e., with four players in partnership, is the ideal game; the two stronger players should each take a weaker partner. In the double game generalship is most important, the chief rule to be observed being for the partners to play each other’s game, which means coming to each other’s rescue quite irrespective of getting through hoops. To make this clear, a player should go to the assistance of his partner at all costs, for if partners do not play together their chances of winning are much lessened. This may sound an arbitrary law, but experience will convince anyone that it is founded upon a knowledge of the game, as it is of the greatest help to have your partner’s ball to roquet, and you not only help yourself, but you can often put your partner’s through a hoop as well as your own. I have seen games where two players will each play his own game irrespective of the other, while their opponents play together, and as the game draws to a conclusion the advantage of playing in partnership in deed as well as in name is most marked. It is sometimes worth the while of a stronger player to become a “rover” when a game is well advanced, especially if his partner is a weak player, as then the rover can give more assistance to the partner than he could if he had to trouble about points himself. Another tactic which must not be lost sight of is, when you cannot come to your partner’s assistance, to make for the hoop your partner will go for next, which will materially assist him, as he can roquet your ball and “take two turns off.”
Six players can take part in a game, but it makes it long drawn out and tedious.
There is another point to be observed, and that is to carry the war into the enemies’ camp, especially if your two opponents are getting much ahead. By croqueting them out of position instead of getting through your own hoop you thwart them, thereby giving yourselves a chance. Some players carry this too far, never troubling to make points themselves, and as it is only by making points, that is, getting through hoops, that wins the game, the chief concern should be to make points, at the same time doing your best as occasion serves to prevent your opponents getting ahead.
Always notice where the ball of the player following you is before you make your final stroke, for it is certainly better to hit yourself out of his way (and if possible, to where your partner’s ball is) even at the loss of position than to give your opponent an easy roquet. All these matters come under the head of generalship, and it is well for partners to agree as to the course to be pursued, instead of each asserting his or her ego, and so bringing about divided councils, which can only end in disaster if your opponents play well together. It is to be feared—that is, on this subject of tactics—so much bad temper is shown, but that is not the fault of croquet, for there are players at every game who lose their temper as play goes against them. Play with all the keenness and persistence possible, never giving up trying while the issue is still undecided, but the “rigour of the game” certainly need not lead to ructions. There are days when one is “off” play, and when the easiest strokes are muffed. This is aggravating, of course, and if it annoys you much retire gracefully, but the old hand knows that there are times when one’s play is better than usual, and these occasions should make up for those other days when you are “off.” All match-games and tournaments are apt to try one by inducing a state of nervousness, which makes good play impossible. One knows that this comes from over-desire to win, by playing up to one’s best form. Any counsel is one of perfection on such a matter, but if one could only realise that more is done by quiet steady play, hanging on to your opponent’s heels and realising that the game is not lost until the last point is scored, some of this feverish excitement might be allayed.
I must just say a few words with regard to strokes, and here the illustrations, drawn from some photographs I took of a girl who is a particularly good player, may be helpful.
There are two classes of players, those who score points and pay little heed to the way they do this, and those who study “form,” that is, the way they play: a good style comes partly by practice and partly by an aptitude for the game. It is good form to hold your mallet somewhat like a cricket bat as in Fig. 1, and hit your ball with freedom and from the elbow, but beginners find it difficult to be certain of the direction the ball will travel, and prefer to hold the mallet in front of them as in Fig. 2, letting it swing like a pendulum. This sort of stroke enables the player to gauge the direction with greater certainty, but you can get no force into it, and the tyro should cultivate the freer stroke, if she wish to become a strong instead of a timid player.
In estimating direction, it is a good plan to look along the top of your mallet across to the object you aim at, and your partner can be of help here by looking from the object aimed at, on to your mallet, as the girl is doing in Fig. 3, to see that the direction is the right one. This I consider a very good hint, and one that I profited by myself, and it is of great assistance to one to have your partner’s criticism, especially when making a long shot. As regards strength of stroke, practice alone can gauge this. The modern mallets have one side faced with rubber for a particular class of strokes, where the ball is not to travel far, and it is important for the player to learn to use this side as well as the wooden one. Pushing or spooning is rigorously barred, and a hit to count must be heard distinctly.
No. 1. Eight-Hoop Setting.
No. 3. Six-Hoop Setting.
Used in Public Tournaments.
No. 2. Seven-Hoop Setting.
Clips are used by some, as by attaching one to the hoop that has next to be negotiated all discussion is avoided as to the play, as will sometimes happen in the middle of a game, but many players do not trouble to use them.
I give three diagrams as to the placing of the hoops marked with the distances taken from the book published by Dean and Son before referred to. A good game can be played on any fair-sized ground, but if too small the strokes become too easy, and the game suffers. The proper size is 40 yards long and 30 yards wide, and should not be less than 20 yards by 15 yards. The “dead boundary” should be marked all round with whiting, as in lawn tennis.
These are the three chief settings with the distances measured on a full-sized ground. Where the lawn is smaller the necessary allowances must be made. The eight hoop setting is a good one for beginners, as the distances to be negotiated are not so great as in the six hoop, which is the most difficult of the three.
No. 1.—Eight hoop.
Pegs 3 yards from boundary.
First and sixth hoops 4 yards from pegs.
Middle hoops midway and 4 yards from each other.
Corner hoops 5 yards from end of ground and 4 yards from side.
Starting spot opposite centre of same, and 2 feet in front.
No. 2.—Seven hoop.
Pegs in centre line of ground, 7 yards from nearest boundary.
Hoops up centre of ground, 5 yards from peg, and 5¼ yards apart.
Corner hoops 7 yards from centre, and in a line with pegs.
Starting spot 1½ yards from first hoop in centre line.
No. 3.—Six hoop.
As in No. 2, except that the middle-line hoops are 7 yards apart, and 7 yards from peg.
Starting spot opposite centre of left-hand corner hoop, and 1 foot from same. Corner hoops in a line with pegs.
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen Sisters,” etc.
SNOWY ENGLAND.
Oscar sat alone in the office. It was Saturday afternoon, and the other clerks had already taken their departure. He had undertaken to finish what work still remained; and a pile of letters lay upon the desk before him. Outside the snow was lazily falling, and he had no disposition for the football match in the town ground, which had attracted his comrades. He scarcely felt inclined to leave the hot little fire, and face the cold walk to River Street.
Oscar was not looking well just now, and he was feeling a little depressed. The winter had been rather a dreary season for him. He missed Sheila and the pleasant Sundays spent with her at Cossart Place. The monotony of his present work oppressed him more than it had done at first. He had braced himself at the outset to bear their reverse of fortune bravely, and he knew that they were lucky in having relations who had come forward to help them at that crisis in their affairs. He had resolved not to disappoint them, and had thrown himself with as much interest and energy as possible into his new tasks.
But we all know that it is easier to bring enthusiasm and energy to the commencement of a new routine than to maintain it day after day and week after week. Oscar had never liked the routine work of the office, and latterly he had had a good deal of it. The senior clerk had died rather suddenly in September, and his place had not been filled. Oscar had been given a part of his work, and North had lent his energies to filling the gap. It had made the office work heavier than had been the case at first, though Oscar had been glad to help his uncle in the emergency, and even Cyril had sometimes come down and offered his services.
Gradually Oscar had come to be looked upon as head of the office under North. The other clerks, if not younger, were less responsible, and looked to him as being a relative of Mr. Cossart’s. This was pleasant in a way, but it kept Oscar more to his desk than he had expected, and the contrast to his old life of freedom was sometimes keenly felt.
He was not very robust, and the cold damp winter tried him. There had been little severe frost, but a wet, dank fog had hung about, with drizzling rain or sleety snow. He had to turn out in all weathers, and had not time or energy for exercise of a more exhilarating character than the daily walk to the office. So that he drooped somewhat as the winter wore away, and felt little spring for anything beyond his daily round.
However, the week’s work was now finished, and he was just contemplating closing the office when his uncle came quickly in, a look of vexation upon his face.
He had some papers in his hand, and one of these he threw down upon the desk before the young man, saying in a vexed tone—
“Look there, Oscar! What does this mean? Here is that bill come in a second time from Jones and Wright, and I gave you the money to pay it with in October. They are a small firm, and I never keep them waiting for payment. What does it mean?”
Oscar looked at the bill, pondered a moment, for many bills went through his hands now, and his memory was not very strong for detail; then a flash of enlightenment seemed to come upon him, and he exclaimed—
“Oh, I remember now. You gave me the money in cash. But, uncle, the bill was paid, and I have the receipt, and it’s all checked off in the books. I will show you.”
Oscar got down the file and ledger, found the place in the latter, where the entry had been made, and produced the former bill duly receipted.
Mr. Tom looked at it, and compared it with the paper on the desk.
“A singular mistake for Jones and Wright to make,” he observed. “However, I will see them myself. It is close by, and I daresay they will not have closed already.”
He went off, and Oscar, without thinking more of the matter, shut up the desks and such places as were under his care, gave out the letters for the post, and went home.
He wished there had been something else to do than to go to the River Street house. Had Sheila only been there, he would have spent the Sunday at Cossart Place, for he was a favourite in that house, Effie having taken one of her rather capricious fancies to him. But it was no use thinking of that now; and he went home in the snow, glad to find himself under shelter, although there was nobody to give him a welcome.
The Bensons were always “at home” on Saturday afternoons, and it was the fashion now for the Cossarts to be there pretty regularly. The two families had always been intimate, now they were almost like one. Raby’s marriage was being talked of for the coming summer. Her mind was already very full of the trousseau and wedding finery.
Oscar established himself in the library and commenced his weekly journal letter to Sheila. He had posted one for the mail yesterday, but he had not been able to tell her of several small items of interest which had occurred during the past week. He was still writing when his uncle came in with a very grave look upon his face.
Oscar felt at once that something must be amiss, but it did not occur to him that the matter would affect him personally. He looked up with a question in his eyes, and was perplexed at the grave unbending glance that met his.
“I have been to Jones and Wright about that bill, Oscar,” he said, in very measured tones, and then came to a full stop.
“Yes, uncle?” said Oscar, with a note of interrogation in his voice, and then came to a deadlock himself, feeling uncomfortable without knowing why.
“Just that, Oscar. I have been to them. They tell me that bill was never paid. That receipt was not made by any of their people. They invariably use their stamp; they do not write across the postage stamp with a pen. I verified this by going back to the office and looking up former receipts. See here, I have brought the bills to show you. No, Oscar, do not speak yet, I do not wish you to do so. Take time. I will leave the papers here with you now. Later on I will come for your explanation. Remember, my boy, that all I look for is a free and candid explanation and confession, whatever the fault may be. You are my sister’s son, and I shall not forget that.”
And Mr. Tom walked rather hastily from the room, leaving Oscar sitting with the bills before him, and a dazed expression upon his face.
It took him a little time to collect himself and gather all the significance of this thing. Bit by bit it came to him that a deed had been done by some person which was nothing more or less than the theft of forty pounds; for that was the amount of the bill. The money had been given to him in cash—he remembered that. Usually debts were paid by cheque, but now and then, when there was a good deal of cash in the office, payments were made in this way; but when this method was employed, it was always North or himself who was entrusted with the money.
A burning flush rose to Oscar’s cheek. He strove to recall what he had done with that forty odd pounds. He had no recollection of going to that place himself with the money. He must have entrusted it to somebody else, in that easy-going way of which North had warned him more than once.
Oscar thrust his hands through his hair, and racked his brains desperately. He saw at once what a terrible temptation he had put in somebody’s way. It had hardly occurred to him as yet that he might fall under suspicion himself; but he realised that through his easy-going carelessness—his way of trusting the other clerks with business given him to do, and doing theirs in exchange—he had been the cause of a serious monetary loss to his uncle, and had enabled somebody to embezzle money and perhaps lay the foundation of a career of crime.
It was a terrible thought. But who—who was the culprit? Careless as Oscar knew himself to be, it did not yet seem to him that he would readily have put so large a sum of cash into the hands of a young clerk, and yet he had never suspected one of them of the smallest deflection from rectitude, and certainly he had given it to somebody.
He looked at the date of the false receipt. It was just after the death of Curtis, when the office was in some confusion and the pressure of work heavy. He might well have overlooked the memory of the transaction. And yet he did seem to have some floating impression of a talk with somebody about the payment of the bill, and he distinctly remembered filing the receipt and making the entry in the ledger.
But to whom had he given the money?
He pulled out the tiny pocket diary he carried, where he just dotted down notes of things to be told to Sheila. He found the day in question, and noted the initial C. in one corner.
That meant that Cyril had been helping them. He remembered he had told Sheila of the condescension of the great ’Varsity man! And then with a start it came over him. Could it have been Cyril who had paid the bill? Or at least who had taken the money to do so, and brought back the supposed receipt?
Oscar’s heart beat thick and fast. He buried his face in his hands and thought. Slowly there seemed to come to him some such recollection, but was it only imagination? He remembered the pressure of that day. He remembered his uncle coming in and out with various orders. He remembered the money being given him with instructions to pay the bill at once; but there absolute memory failed him. Yet Oscar thought he would remember had he entrusted another with the task, though had Cyril offered in his easy way to go and pay the bill, most likely he would have agreed without a second thought. As he pondered the matter over and over, it seemed to grow clearer in his mind that Cyril had taken the matter into his own hands; but the very thought of this struck him with a sort of terror. Cyril was a son of the house. He was still the favourite of his parents. They would never, never believe such a thing of him. It would be almost impossible even to suggest it. And then Oscar could not be certain that he remembered the circumstance, only fleeting visions passed before his mind’s eye, together with the conviction that he would not have so easily forgotten the matter had not Cyril or North been his substitute. If he had made over the money to a brother clerk, he felt certain he would have recollected the matter.
And whilst he was in the midst of these troubled cogitations, who should come in but Cyril himself.
Oscar looked up eagerly.
“You are the very person I was wanting,” he said, not pausing to consider whether or not open speech were the most diplomatic way of treating this problem. “Cyril, do you remember those days after Curtis died when you came and helped in the office?”
Suddenly Cyril’s eyes narrowed slightly; if Oscar had not been so absorbed himself, he might have noticed the indefinable change that passed over Cyril’s face, but his voice was quite gay and easy.
“I remember coming and writing a lot of very dry letters, but I hope you don’t expect me to quote you their contents after three months!”—and he laughed.
“Do you remember your father bringing in some money and giving it to me to pay a bill of Jones and Wright?”
Cyril turned to poke the fire, and seemed to be pausing to refresh his memory.
“I think I have a vague recollection of something of the sort, though what firm it was I should be sorry to say. I remember his putting some money on your desk, and I think I advised you to lock it up.”
Oscar gave a little start; those words brought back a fresh wave of recollection, but his heart beat heavily and seemed to fall within him. He had not a very high opinion of Cyril’s moral courage. If indeed he had been guilty—but Oscar would not pursue the thought farther lest he should lose his self-control.
“Cyril, didn’t you take the money to pay the bill? Don’t you remember saying you had written enough, and would like a breath of fresh air? We thought it would get rid of the money lying about. Didn’t you take it and bring back the receipt?”
“I?” questioned Cyril lightly, leaning forward and making another vigorous onslaught at the fire. “I don’t recollect ever paying a firm’s bill in my life! But suppose I did, what then?”
“Well, there has been a mistake about this bill,” said Oscar. “Either it was not paid, and the person who had the money receipted it; or else it was paid to some unauthorised person in Jones and Wright’s who pocketed the money and receipted the bill without using the firm’s stamp. Anyway the money has never got into the right hands, and I am very uneasy about it, because I can’t be sure who it was that took the money from me. And it is such a dreadful thing to think of anybody’s being a thief. I wondered if you had given it afterwards to some other person. I can’t help having a vague impression that you had something to do with it, Cyril.”
Oscar looked up appealingly. Stronger and more strong was the notion coming to him that Cyril was the responsible person. But how would it be possible to bring it home to him if he denied? Oscar did not think either of the younger clerks had been present when the talk between them passed. He seemed to remember Cyril’s saying it had better be paid, and his taking the money away before the lads came back from their dinner. Yes, he felt more and more certain every minute. But Cyril lay back in his chair and laughed.
“My dear fellow, you are quite making a mare’s nest for yourself. I had nothing whatever to do with the matter. I recollect my father’s bringing you the money and telling you to pay, and I recommended you to lock it up out of sight. That is all I know of the matter, and I’m afraid I can’t help you out of your difficulty——”
And there Cyril suddenly stopped short for North had entered the room, and it was plain from his face that he knew the story and had come to talk the matter over with Oscar.
“I’ll leave you to have it out together,” said Cyril rather hastily, rising and walking away. “I wish I could help you to a better memory, Oscar; but, perhaps, if you and North talk it over together you’ll get some light on the subject.”
He walked off whistling, closing the door behind him. North looked after him with the same rather stern expression on his face that it had worn on entering.
“Oscar,” he said slowly, “do you mean that Cyril is in any way mixed up in this wretched business?”
Oscar dropped his eyes and spoke in a very low tone.
“I don’t know, North.”
(To be continued.)
hat day was the beginning of a week of pure delight to Catherine. In proportion as her body drank in the pure sweet air, so her mind and outlook developed and expanded. It was much for her to have the constant companionship of a woman like Margaret Gray, a woman whose generous nature viewed the girl’s beauty without jealousy, and delighted in setting it off to the best advantage. At first, indeed, she had had a qualm. Suppose that Granville, in spite of his apparent indifference, should take a fancy to this penniless teacher. What would become of all his sister’s ambitious schemes for his promotion by a marriage with Lord Mayne’s sister, a scheme not utterly absurd in the face of that lady’s marked esteem for him? That, indeed, would be a disastrous ending to Margaret’s benevolent plans, and she determined to avert it by a little talk with her new friend. She read Catherine through and through, and knew that she was one of those women who take a highly idealistic view of love and marriage; who conceive that even a suspected preference of a man for a particular woman makes him sacred to her, and who would shrink from desiring another girl’s lover as they would shrink from a robbery. If she could convey to Catherine that Granville’s affections were already engaged, she knew that she would have little to fear.
They were sitting out on the verandah after dinner, reviewing the delightful experiences of the day, spent in the ascent of a neighbouring hill.
“And to-morrow we will go into the valley for a change. Wouldn’t it be nice to go on the lake? Granville rows splendidly; he was in his college boat the last year at Oxford,” said Margaret.
“Don’t you think you two had better go alone?” asked Catherine. “I am sure you would enjoy it more, and I can easily find something else to do.”
“Oh, but you must come,” urged Margaret. “You would be frightfully dull alone, and I want you.”
“It’s awfully good of you, but——”
“But what?”
“I don’t think your brother likes the trouble of always having another person to look after.”
Margaret laughed.
“Oh, you mustn’t think that; he really likes you very much, but you are rather incomprehensible to him. He would be so distressed if he thought that you stayed away on that account.” Secretly Margaret thought, “Rather a dangerous symptom, that she should be so sensitive to his indifference.”
“Granville is not quite an ordinary person, you know,” added his sister, speaking very fast, in order to cover Catherine’s confusion. “It takes a long time for him to get to like people, but when he has once formed a friendship no one could be more loyal. I envy Lady Blanche.”
“Lady Blanche?” asked Catherine. “Who is she?”
“Oh, she is Lord Mayne’s sister. Long ago, before our father died, Granville and Maurice—Lord Mayne, you know—were at Oxford together. They were great chums, and Granville used to spend most of his vacations at Grimshaw. He and Lady Blanche were certainly very good friends, and I think there might have been an engagement had not my father died suddenly, leaving his affairs in an inextricable muddle. He was overwhelmed with debt; and instead of inheriting a large fortune, as we had imagined would be the case, Granville and I found ourselves with only a comparatively small capital. The interest on that is still going to pay off the debts. Of course, Granville couldn’t speak then, and it was fortunate for him that Lord Mayne entered Parliament at that time, and insisted on his becoming his secretary. Between ourselves it was quite equally fortunate for Lord Mayne, because Granville is ten times as clever as he is; and when people praise his speeches, and talk of him as the ‘most brilliant of our younger politicians,’ I hug myself and think that he is inspired by my brother.”
“But how sad!” cried Catherine sympathetically. “And did Lady Blanche care for him all the time?”
“That I can’t tell, but though all this is seven years ago, she is still unmarried, and if Granville ever recovered any of our fortune I am sure he would ask her. It would be a splendid thing for him, for Blanche has heaps of money of her own. Think—he could go into Parliament and make quite as great a figure as Lord Mayne.”
“That would be splendid,” cried the girl enthusiastically, “but if she loves him, surely she would be glad to marry him without the money.”
“No doubt; but he can’t ask her, at least, not yet. But sometimes I hope that by some lucky chance they may come to an understanding, and the difficulty may be solved. Come, we must say ‘Good night’ now, if we are to start early to-morrow.”
Margaret’s stratagem had quite succeeded in one way, and the girl looked on Granville henceforth as an engaged man. But this made an enormous difference to her. Absurdly conscious of her lack of means, and fearful lest anyone should think that she looked forward to matrimony as a deliverance from her daily toil, her manner to the few men she had met had been almost repellant. But if Mr. Gray were engaged, he could not (she thought, in the innocence of her heart) imagine that she had any designs on him. And so the constraint which had hitherto affected her manner to him wore off; she met him as frankly and as unaffectedly as she did his sister.
Margaret had given him a hint to persuade Catherine to come with them the next day, and as she came downstairs, she found him waiting in the hall.
“Why, are you not ready yet?” he asked, seeing that she was without her hat.
“I—did not think of coming to-day,” she said, hesitating, and smiling to conceal the disappointment in her tone.
“Oh, but you must, please! Margaret will be so disappointed—we shall both be disappointed if you don’t. Look outside; can you resist it?”
The sun was shining on the twin peaks at the head of the valley, the sky was a brilliant blue, the air dry and clear with that sweet freshness peculiar to mountainous places. Catherine wavered in her decision.
“Come,” said Granville decidedly, “run up and get your hat, and I will have coffee for you by the time you come down. We have only ten minutes before we must start.”
The girl, feeling half ashamed of her own weakness, yet, at the same time, happy and pleased, returned in a minute, equipped for the day. Margaret’s confidences and Granville’s own cordiality had broken down the barrier. Catherine soon found herself talking quite easily and naturally to the brother of her friend, while he, on his part, realised that his early prejudices were fast disappearing. How fresh and unaffected the girl was, and how simplicity and wisdom mingled in her conversation! They talked of books, and he was surprised to find how apt and sympathetic her criticisms were, though they betrayed at every moment the speaker’s ignorance of the world, and her extravagantly ideal view of human nature. Margaret, walking beside them, would listen quietly, now and then putting in some shrewd comment or witty parenthesis, which set them all laughing, and relieved the strain of a too intense conversation.
So five days passed, the intimacy deepening hourly, while every evening brought its gift of quiet converse on the starlit verandah, and every morning its glad summons to another day of enthusiastic activity. Catherine counted these days as a miser counts his gold. The High School, and all the premature anxieties and responsibilities that poverty had laid upon her seemed so far away. Now, for the first time, she realised what life might mean, what for some few it did mean.
“Only seven days more!” she sighed, as she bound her hair before the looking-glass, just a week after her arrival. “What a glorious week it has been! If only the next is as good!”
Brilliant weather still smiled upon them. They were to go that day for a longer excursion than any they had as yet undertaken, a long climb, which involved the aid of guides, and which was to be shared by some of the other visitors.
Margaret was waiting for Catherine on the verandah.
“How lovely you are!” she exclaimed, in a sudden burst of admiration, as the sun caught the girl’s bright brown hair, and bathed her figure in a kind of golden glory. “Do you know, if you were not you, I might be afraid”—she added in a whisper, looking significantly at Granville who was some yards away, talking to the guide.
Catherine’s face crimsoned. “Oh, how can you say such things?” she asked indignantly.
“Forgive me, dear, it was too bad. But I never knew a girl less conscious of her own power, or less of a coquette than you. I would trust you not only with my brother, but with my lover, if by any possibility one should fall to my share.”
“Margaret! When everyone loves you!” cried her friend.
“Now we are getting sentimental, and we had better join the others,” laughed Margaret. And so at last they started, a merry chattering party, up the steep ascent to the mountains.
Catherine never forgot that day; the first few miles of shady forest, where ferns and bilberries nestled by quiet springs of water, and the shy inhabitants of the pine-trees fled away with a rustling of branches and nimble feet at their approach. And then the gradual cool emergence on wide green fields, in whose hollows lay the quiet blue lakes, troubled only by the gentle hoofs of the dainty bell-adorned cattle. Here they found, by bubbling springs, bright patches of blue gentian, that outrivalled the sky in brilliancy, and bade defiance to the vanishing mantle of half-melted snow that lay around them. All these things Catherine seemed to see in a kind of glorified vision, and though Granville was beside her, neither spoke much; the rest of the party had hastened on with mirth and laughter; Margaret especially had discovered that one of the guides was a most interesting companion, and was chattering gaily to him in German.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” asked Catherine’s companion suddenly, and there was a new accent in his voice, that was an imperative summons to her subdued emotions.
“Immensely!” she replied, sighing.
“Then why sigh?” he asked, laughing; and then, looking down, he saw that her eyes were full of tears.
“I believe you are tired!” he exclaimed remorsefully. “Suppose we sit down and have a little rest.”
“No, really, I am not at all tired; only everything is so perfect.”
“Then let us prolong perfection,” he answered. “We are nearly at the top now, and we shall soon find the others again. Here is a comfortable place; you can lean against this rock, and I will put a stone for your feet.”
But at that moment, there was a sudden sound of falling rock, a rush of loosened stones and gravel, and just within an ace of her shoulder a huge fragment of rock broke away, and was hurled down the slope beneath them, followed by a mass of mingled snow and débris.
His arm went quickly round her, and drew her from the spot.
“My darling! What an escape! And you didn’t even scream!” he said, not withdrawing his arm. “There, don’t tremble; it’s all right,” he continued, soothing her as he would a frightened child, and for a moment his lips rested on hers.
This recalled Catherine to her senses.
“Oh, you mustn’t,” she cried, breaking from him in an agony of shame. One clear thought possessed her mind; either that kiss was treason to Lady Blanche, or he had taken advantage of her defenceless position to insult her. To her intense relief, as she hurried forwards round the turning of the path, she came upon all the others, who had stopped to drink at a little wayside spring.
“Oh, did you hear that noise?” asked Margaret. “I suppose it was a miniature avalanche.”
“Not a very insignificant one,” said Granville, who was close behind. “It nearly knocked us over. However, all’s well that ends well,” he added gaily. “Miss West, do you want a drink?”
His light, conversational tone struck on Catherine’s overstrained emotions with a sudden chill. How could he manage such a sudden transition? But she summoned all her self-control, and took the cup in as matter-of-fact a way as he handed it to her.
For the rest of the day she clung close to Margaret. She felt that to let Granville approach her would be treason to the friend who had reposed so much confidence in her. Suppose Margaret should think that she had been trying to attract her brother’s attention! And then, again, with a sudden pang came the cruel thought that his conduct might imply no real attachment to her; that he had merely given way to the impulse of the moment, or, worse still, was a deliberate flirt. And yet she could not believe this; all that she knew of him militated against such a view; she could not think that she had been so greatly mistaken in her estimate of his character, nor that he could thus belie the traditions of a gentleman. Her heart confirmed her faith in him, and amidst the tumultuous emotions of the moment, she was surprised and ashamed to recognise an irrepressible elation, and a strange absence of that feeling of angry humiliation which she supposed to be the correct state of mind under the circumstances. Notwithstanding this, when the hotel was again reached, she pleaded fatigue, and slipping away to her own room, did not reappear that evening.
Granville was walking up and down the verandah in a state of suppressed excitement, longing to see the flutter of her skirt in the doorway, yet conscious that her manner to him since the episode of the avalanche had been a tacit reproof. How stupid he had been to frighten her so; and yet, although he was not a vain man, he could not pretend to think that she had been very angry with him. She had permitted his embrace, and that from a girl of her stamp was a sufficient avowal of the state of her feelings. His honour as well as his inclination required that he should make a definite claim to her affection, and if Catherine had ventured to come down that evening he would have done so. But her absence gave him time for reflection, and as the wave of emotion subsided, he realised how fatal such a step would be to his career. He was an extremely ambitious man, and success to him would involve either a long celibacy, or a rich marriage. Hitherto his intellect had been developed at the expense of his affections, and except for his warm attachment to his sister, and a loyal friendship for Lord Mayne, his heart had remained untouched. He had dallied with the idea of a marriage with Blanche, but had not regarded it with much seriousness; from a worldly point of view it would certainly be advantageous, but, on the whole, he preferred the independence of the bachelor state. He remained on cordial terms with the heiress, and awaited the development of affairs without the least impatience, only laughing at his sister’s frequent hints as to Lady Blanche’s inclination for him. Perhaps, little as he suspected it, he was all the while guided by his own nobility of heart, which withheld him from the sacrilege of a loveless marriage. And would his heart now vindicate its authority over his intellect and triumph over the closely-laid schemes, the absorbing aims, the ceaseless industry of years? Supposing that Catherine should confirm her unspoken confession, was he prepared to relinquish for her his long-cherished ambitions, and resign himself to a life of insignificance and dependence?
But in the midst of the conflict something happened which revealed to him the strength of his passion, and brought him to a swift decision. His sister at this moment came running to him, her face flushed with excitement, holding a letter and telegram in her hand.
“What do you think?” she cried. “A letter from Blanche! Actually, she is at Interlaken, and wants to meet us there. She has been travelling with the Brookes, but they are going back through Paris, which she hates. The telegram has just come, too. She would like us to go there to-morrow, and bring her back with us.”
Secretly Margaret was thinking, “What a stroke of luck! Could anything be more favourable to an explanation than all these circumstances?” But Granville’s first exclamation was not promising.
“What a nuisance!” he cried.
Margaret looked at him with mingled dismay and surprise, and his next words were not reassuring.
“What is to become of Miss West if we go away? She will be all alone.”
“Nonsense, Granville, what absurd objections you do make! We need not be away more than two days, and Catherine is quite able to take care of herself.”
“Poor little girl!” he began, and then bit his lip at his own indiscretion. “Very well, I suppose we must go. I’ll find the time-table.”
But how unwelcome to him at this moment was the thought of the new arrival! Though his conscience was quite clear with regard to her, he felt that Blanche would prove a discordant element. He did not for a moment suppose that his engagement would be the least trouble to her; but he would have preferred to conduct his wooing under less vigilant eyes; besides, if he did not speedily acquaint Margaret with the true state of affairs, he knew that she would be continually planning to leave him and Blanche together, and the opportunities for seeing Catherine by herself would be rendered much fewer. After much thought he determined that as soon as he saw the latter he would come to some definite understanding with her; but this could not be till after their return from Interlaken, as they would have to start early the next morning, probably before she was up. He would therefore send her a note explaining his absence, and expressed in such a manner as to leave no doubt as to his attachment; and having written this, and seen about its safe delivery, he turned in, prepared to bear the vexations of the morrow with as good a grace as possible.
Margaret had meanwhile run up to Catherine’s room and tapped gently at the door. The girl opened it with trembling hands.
“Oh, you mustn’t get up, dear,” said Margaret. “I only came to tell you something. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, but Granville and I are obliged to go to Interlaken to-morrow. We shall be away all day, and I don’t want you to get up to see us off, so I thought I would come and say good-bye now.”
Catherine, whom she had forced down on the couch again, raised herself on one elbow, and looked at her in some bewilderment.
“Going away? I don’t quite understand. Do you mean that you are going home?”
“My dear child! What an idea! Haven’t we promised to look after you, and take you with us when that unhappy day does arrive? No, but Lady Blanche has telegraphed to us to meet her at Interlaken; she wants to join us here. Now, congratulate me, dear. She is evidently not averse to my pet scheme; and what could be more favourable to an understanding than these romantic surroundings? Oh, I hope very much that the engagement will be definitely announced as soon as we get back.”
“You think it would be a good thing for your brother?” asked Catherine, glad that the darkening room hid her face.
“What a question to ask! It would be his making. Blanche is just the wife for him—a tall, clever girl, who would make a capital hostess, and help him in his political career. If it hadn’t been for his horrid pride, which makes him dread the mere suspicion of interested motives, the thing would have come off long ago. And now I think I may promise you a ticket for the Ladies’ Gallery when he makes his maiden speech.”
“Is he so very proud? Does he really care for her?” faltered Catherine.
“Well, I don’t pretend that he is passionately in love. He is so reserved and so self-controlled, and all his interests are intellectual; love would never play an absorbing part in his life, though, if he once made up his mind, no one would be more loyal. Oh, I think Lady Blanche will be very happy, and if I didn’t think the main advantage would be with her, I wouldn’t try so hard to bring it about. Now, good-bye, dear; only for a day, you know. And mind you have a good rest while we are away.”
Margaret disappeared, and Catherine did the obvious and feminine thing under the circumstances; she buried her face in the sofa cushion and burst into tears. Till then, she felt, she had never known what grief was. “But it is much better for him,” she sobbed. “How could I help him, or ever do anything for him? It was all a mistake—and how silly I am!”
Presently she dried her tears, and carefully bathing her eyes and brushing her hair, she exchanged her dressing-gown for the dress she had travelled in. Then she dragged out her portmanteau, and began to fold her clothes, preparatory to packing them in it. In the midst of these preparations, there came another knock at the door. This time it was the chambermaid with a note.
Catherine took it with a feeling that almost amounted to dread, and tore it open.
“Dearest,” it ran, “I am obliged to be away to-morrow, and shall not be able to see you before I start. I shall try to be back in the evening. Good-bye for a little while.
“G. G.”
This was the signal for a fresh burst of tears. She held the letter to her lips for a minute, and then folded it away in the bosom of her dress. Then she went on with her packing. In another hour it was all done.
Ten o’clock. She wondered whether Margaret and Granville were still up. Even tourists go to bed early in Switzerland, and, considering their plans for the next day, she thought it doubtful. So she slipped downstairs, and told the porter that she was obliged to go away suddenly, and would like to leave by the first train in the morning. Which was it?
“Ah, there is one at sigs o’clock, mees,” he said. “There is a party leaving at five to catch it. Ze young lady will perhaps like to travel with them?”
On further inquiry Catherine found that the train she would go by left the station half an hour after the one by which the Grays would travel. She determined to remain in her room till they had started, and thus manage her departure unobserved. She went upstairs again, and wrote two little notes, one to Margaret and one to Granville.
“Dearest Margaret,” said the first, “please don’t think me ungrateful for going away like this. I shall never forget you or your kindness. Perhaps some day I shall be able to thank you, but for the present I implore you not to try to find out where I am gone.”
The other was more difficult of composition; but after two or three attempts she produced the following—
“Please do not think me unkind if I say that I think it better for both of us not to meet again. I cannot explain why, but I am sure that I am right. Good-bye, my dear.”
She could not refrain from the little touch of tenderness at the end, though afterwards she would have given worlds to recall it. “After all,” she argued, “he must know that I do care; and I would rather he thought that than that he should believe I let him behave so, without loving him.”
And so it happened that the next morning she was on her way back to England, a week before she had anticipated; certainly her holiday had not failed to bring her adventures.
(To be continued.)
Rachel M. Westlake (New Zealand).—Many thanks for your pleasant letter.—1. The joyous keeping of Christmas itself (for which see Chambers’s Book of Days) is responsible for the sending of Christmas cards. Just as we send birthday cards to greet our friends on their birthdays, so we send cards to greet those to whom we cannot personally wish “A happy Christmas.” We do not think there is any ancient origin of the custom.—2. Boys at public schools are “taught so much about the heathen gods and goddesses” because to understand Greek and Latin literature it is necessary to understand mythology. Homer, for instance, cannot be understood without knowing about Zeus, Pallas Athênê, and the other inhabitants of Olympus “who hold the wide heaven.” The whole subject of the value of classical education is far too vast to enter upon here.
St. Patrick.—1. We will consider your request as to the article on “Burnt Wood Work.”—2. We are afraid there is no way of restoring the colour in question; but careful washing will do much to prevent its conversion into green in the first instance.
An Ignorant Musician.—1. There is no royal road to success in reading music at sight. The only way is to practise constantly reading new music. A distinguished professor, whom we know, advises also reading the notes by the eye, without the piano.—2. Both your methods of treating the bass chords are equally correct, but you should beware of consecutive octaves.
If “Country Lass” were to write to Mrs. Sole, Crudwell Rectory, Malmesbury, she might receive help of a practical kind.
A Reader Abroad (New Zealand).—We are glad to tell you something of what we know about Berry Pomeroy Castle. It is said to have been founded by Ralph de la Pomeroie, one of William the Conqueror’s knights, who received from his sovereign fifty-eight manors in all, among them that of Berry, in Devonshire. The castle remained in the possession of the Pomeroy family until the middle of the sixteenth century, when Sir Thomas Pomeroy, who had been a ringleader in the Rising in the West, and had as a punishment for rebellion been deprived of many of his estates, sold it to Lord Seymour. The Seymour family built an imposing structure within the older part of the castle, but never brought it to perfection. A fire, caused by lightning, so injured the building in the early part of the eighteenth century that it was abandoned to decay. Prince, the author of The Worthies of Devon, describes the castle as very magnificent, and so vast “that it was a good day’s work for a servant but to open and shut the casements.” It is now, owing to the luxuriant setting of thick foliage and ivy and its beautiful situation, one of the most picturesque of English ruins; and it is interesting to observe the difference in architecture of its composite parts. We advise you to apply for a photograph to Crauford’s Library, Dartmouth; or Westley’s Library, Torquay.
Ellen.—The sentence, “There is sorrow on the sea,” occurs in a verse of the Bible—Jeremiah xlix. 23.
G. R. and Mary Priscilla Cunningham.—G. R. inquires for a “Practising Society,” and Miss Cunningham writes at the same time to mention one, so we commend our correspondents to each other. The “Honour Bright” Practising Society encourages regular practice, awards prizes, and levies fines. Address, for a copy of rules, the Secretary, Miss Cunningham, 1, Bloemfontein Villas, Dalling Road, Hammersmith, W. We may add for G. R.’s benefit that she will see other Practising Societies mentioned if she scans this column for the past few months, e.g., Mrs. Walker’s, Litlington Rectory, Berwick, Sussex, and Miss Isabella Kent’s, Lay Rectory, Abington, Cambridge.
Opal.—1. Your quotation is not correctly given. The verse—
will be found in Tennyson’s “Merlin and Vivien,” Idylls of the King.—2. Eugene Field’s poems are published by Scribner’s Sons, New York, and John Lane, London.
Anne Weinhäupt (Innspruck).—1. We have a great many subscribers in Austria, but must not give the exact numbers.—2. A “gooseberry-picker” gathers a very thorny fruit for others to eat, having only the trouble for his share. So a third person who accompanies a pair of lovers for propriety’s sake has all the trouble and none of the pleasure of the expedition. This at least is the explanation we have read of the phrase, “to play goose-berry.” We may add that the expression is seldom used nowadays. Many thanks for your kind letter.
K. K.—Your poems are far above the average of those we receive for criticism. In the first verse of “Only” we should demur to the use of the present tense “ends” for the sake of rhyme, in one instance. The tense should be kept the same throughout one statement. In “Happiness,” “best” and “happiness” do not rhyme. We thoroughly agree with the sentiment of your concluding verse. We can quite understand that your work has found acceptance for publication, but we have our own staff of writers, and should not at present have use for your poems. Many thanks for your good wishes.
“A Dutch Girl.”—As the author you admire is still living, there is no biography published of her. Biographies, as a rule, are not compiled until people are dead. Write to her publishers for any information you desire, and they will give it to you if it is in accordance with her wishes.
Mildred.—You do not give us your address, so all we can advise you to do is to write to the Secretary, Technical Education Board, St. Martin’s Lane, London, W.C., inquiring for the nearest school where you can study “black and white.” As to the length of the time it would take you to learn to illustrate books, all depends on your previous knowledge of drawing and natural capacity.
Winton writes to tell Cherea of an Early Rising Society; secretary, Mrs. Eastes, 2, Church Hill, Walthamstow, Essex.
Pink.—We applaud your courage in wishing to learn Spanish, if your hours of work are from 8 A.M. to 8.30 P.M. The First Spanish Book, by A. M. Bower, is published at 2s. (actual cost, 1s. 6d.). There are also Hossfield’s New Method of Spanish, and Sauer’s Spanish Grammar, published at 3s. and 5s. (4s.) respectively. At any large second-hand book-shop you would probably pick up a Spanish grammar for a few pence.
Mab.—An excellent book on the subject you name is Woman’s Work and Woman’s Culture, edited by Mrs. Josephine Butler, and published by Macmillan, but it is not new. Modern books are, Pursuits of Women, by Frances Power Cobbe; The Duties of Women, by the same author; The Woman Question of Europe, edited by Theodore Stanton; Women in English Life, from Mediæval to Modern Times, by Georgina Hill, 2 vols.
Jeanne Müller (France).—1. We can only advise you to write to some registry office of good standing, saying what you wish to do. Address, Société des Professeurs de Français en Angleterre, 20, Bedford Street, Strand, London, W.C., or the Agency for Foreign Governesses and Home, 3, Colville Houses, Talbot Road, London, N., superintended by M. le pasteur du Pontet de la Harpe, French Parsonage, Bayswater. It would be very wise of you to come to England to perfect your knowledge of English.—2. Apply to any English bookseller, e.g., Messrs. Sotheran, Strand, London, for the books in question.
Hilde (Geneva).—1. We advise you also to write to a good agency; for instance, Association of German Governesses in England, 16, Wyndham Place, Bryanston Square, London, or Miss Hug’s Registry for Foreign Governesses, 21, Baker Street, London, W., or the Army and Navy Auxiliary, Francis Street, Westminster. You might also advertise in the Morning Post. Have you no friends in England? Private inquiry is by far the best way of finding a home on reciprocal terms. Can any reader suggest one?—2. We are willing to tell Sybil that you advise her to eat three oranges a day, and La Petite that you recommend her to place her pressed flowers in cotton wadding to preserve the colour.
A Lover of Music.—As you truly observe, we cannot, without hearing you play, judge as to the chances of your passing an examination. We advise you to write to the Secretary, Trinity College, Mandeville Place, Manchester Square, W., for details as to the standard of proficiency required, etc. The fee is from 10s. 6d. upwards. We commend your perseverance in practising without lessons.
Azzie.—Thanks also for your reply to “Winton.” We know of no cure for the trouble you speak of but time, patience, and attention to the general health.
Midget.—Your writing is too “scratchy,” and looks as though you wrote with the edge of your pen, or too fine a nib. Try to form your letters more accurately. We think it would do you good to practise copying some model of handwriting. Thanks for your information.
Geisha.—You had better consult Mrs. Watson’s articles on “Self-Culture for Girls.” We will certainly criticise anything you send in six months’ time. Have you ever thought of joining an essay club? We occasionally mention such in our columns.
Helen (A Constant Reader).—The inability to talk often arises from shyness and nervousness, or fatigue after a hard day’s work may cause you to relapse into silence. You can do a great deal to overcome the habit by forcing yourself to express your thoughts. You must have many things pass through your mind—recollections of the past, hopes for the future—that people who care for you would be interested to hear; then put them into language. Or take some special book or subject in which you are interested, and talk about it. Do not be discouraged; it is better to be quiet than to talk nonsense; and above all, never try to talk brilliantly. Simple and natural conversation will “come of itself” in time.
Daffodil (Cork).—1. Your version of Wordsworth’s couplet—
is found in the best edition, Dr. Knight’s, in eight volumes, and in Moxon’s 6-vol. edition. But in the small 1-vol. edition we read—
Poets occasionally change the form of their work, but you can certainly consider the first quoted is the more correct of the two renderings.—2. Your writing is too large and childish for your age. Keep a regular space between your lines; do not make the downstrokes black, and try to reduce it all to a smaller uniform size. Some letters now are much larger than others.
Hawthorn.—The various fruit salts, effervescing salines, effervescing citrate of magnesia, etc., are all pleasant modifications of seidlitz powders. You could make one for yourself by mixing together bicarbonate of soda, citric acid, tartaric acid, oxide of magnesia, and sugar. Heat these ingredients carefully in an earthenware pot and stir until the mass assumes a granular appearance. But why make it yourself? You can buy it ready-made cheaply enough. It is only the patent preparations which are expensive, for they have to pay for the stamp and advertisements.
Dark Despair.—We think most probably you did dislocate your jaw. Such an accident always leaves behind it some stiffness and pain on movement, but by exercising the joint these gradually disappear. A small blister over the joint, occasionally, will help to relieve the stiffness. Friction over the joint will also do good. But it is exercise that is most essential and movement to the point of pain, for the object of the movement is to break down adhesion within the joint, and it is these adhesions that cause the pain and stiffness.
Porcupine.—1. Errors of the refraction of the eyes more often cause squint than every other of its causes put together. And very frequently, if the squint is slight or fairly recent, wearing glasses will cure it. If it has gone further than this, an operation is necessary.—2. Go to the dentist at once; your teeth want to be thoroughly overhauled.
A Factory Girl.—Phossy-jaw is a rare disease now, and we cannot recollect ever having seen a case. It used to be fairly common, but the stringent laws relating to match-workers have done much to stop the disease. It is said that the phosphorus affects the jaw through decayed teeth, and that if the teeth are perfect phossy-jaw does not occur.
Alabama.—Decidedly girls can suffer from gout. But recently we saw a girl of seventeen who had typical acute gout in her great toe joint. It certainly is not very common for it to show itself before middle life, but it is not so uncommon as is usually supposed. Gout is far more frequent in England than in any other country, but it is less common than it used to be, possibly because port wine is drunk less than it was formerly. A curious fact in connection with the heredity of gout is, that gout and rheumatism often alternate in families; one generation suffers from gout, the next from rheumatism, the third from gout, etc. But more commonly gout is regularly hereditary. It is considerably more common in men than in women.
A Perplexed Girl.—Most probably your troubles are due to anæmia; the stoutness and puffiness of the face, the flushings and high colour of the cheeks, are very commonly met with in that condition. It by no means follows that because the blood is deficient the cheeks will be pale. The whites of the eyes, the inside of the lips, etc., will be pale in anæmia, but it is almost as frequent to find the face ruddy as pale. We therefore feel pretty confident that anæmia causes your trouble; but whether that condition is simply the ordinary “green-sickness” or due to some other cause we cannot say without examining you. It is unnecessary for us to describe the treatment for anæmia as we have done so, so frequently before.
Inquirer.—There has just been another inquiry into the question of the spread of infectious disease by oysters; and the very question you ask us was discussed at length. Green oysters apparently belong to three classes: firstly, those that are free from disease or from metallic salts—these are perfectly healthy; secondly, those that owe their green colour to salts of copper. It used to be thought that the green colour of some oysters was due to iron salts, but the present inquiry has proved beyond question that copper, and not iron, salts cause the green colour. Thirdly, the most important group of all from the medical standpoint, there are green oysters which owe their colour to some disease of the blood. What disease is not known; nor do we know if eating these oysters would injure the human body. Still, it is safer to avoid eating green oysters at all. A very significant fact is that in no single instance was the typhoid germ found in the oyster; and if by chance the germ did get into the oyster it was speedily destroyed, because it appears that fresh sea-water kills the bacillus altogether. This last fact certainly is rather upsetting to the commonly-held view that oysters can only become infected with typhoid germs by means of sewers; indeed, the whole investigation casts doubt upon the opinion that oysters can convey typhoid fever at all, but it by no means disproves it.
Anxious Inquirer.—Discharge of matter from the ear is a condition which requires very careful treatment, for it is one of those simple, everyday affairs which not uncommonly lead to the most terrible diseases. It is not in itself very dangerous, and if properly treated scarcely ever ends in trouble, but the danger lies in neglect. Discharge from the ear is always a very chronic affair, and though a person may rigorously wash out her ears for a month or so, she begins to doubt whether the syringing does any good. She gets careless, misses a day or so, and eventually gives up treatment altogether. And then may begin, by slow and insidious steps, or suddenly, in the course of a few hours, one of those fearful diseases of which only a physician can conceive the malignancy, diseases which, if unrelieved by prompt surgery, end fatally without fail in a few days. But as we said before, if the discharge from the ears is treated, the dangers of these calamities is practically nothing. The treatment for the condition is to syringe out the ears twice a day with a weak antiseptic. Condy’s fluid diluted with warm water to the tint of pink blotting-paper will do very well. It is also advisable to have your throat examined, for chronic throat trouble is particularly likely to cause chronic discharge from the ears.
[From photo: By C. Read, Wishaw.
WE FOUR!
[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text:
Page 661: Mondodelphum to Monodelphum—“ally to L. Monodelphum”.
Page 668: kimself to himself—“knew himself to be”.
lone to tone—“a very low tone.”
Page 669: musn’t to mustn’t—“mustn’t think that”.]