CHAPTER VIII.

THE THREATENED INVASION.

Though no true-hearted Englishman believed for a moment in the possibility of his country becoming a French province, all knew that the threatened invasion might take place.

Many indeed regarded the attempt as almost certain, feeling sure that Napoleon would never be convinced of his own inability to conquer England, until he had tried and failed. And while the final result of such an attempt might be looked upon as a foregone conclusion, yet no doubt much personal loss and distress would be caused by even the most unsuccessful invasion of our shores.

On one point all were agreed--that safety lay and could only lie in getting ready beforehand.

At that date steamboats and railways were unknown, and telegraphs did not exist. There was happily time, through the slowness with which affairs moved, after the note of alarm had been sounded, to make preparations.

An extraordinary burst of enthusiasm throughout the whole country was the response to Napoleon's threat. Large supplies of money were freely voted and eagerly given. The regular army was increased, and the militia was called out; while a volunteer force sprang into being, with such rapidity that it soon numbered about four hundred thousand men.

These "citizen-soldiers," as it was the fashion to call them, were all over the country, each place having its own corps. But the regular troops, drawn from all parts, were stationed chiefly where the danger seemed to be greatest, between London and the south coast, Sir David Dundas being in command.

Along the shore were erected batteries and martello towers--the latter remaining to this day. And since Boulogne was the headquarters of the French army of invasion, an advanced corps was placed on the opposite coast, near Sandgate, under General Moore, in readiness to repel the first onslaught. There the General occupied his time in such splendid training of the regiments under his control that throughout the long years of the Peninsular War, after he himself had passed away, the stamp of his spirit rested upon them, the impress of his enthusiasm and of his magnificent discipline made them the foremost soldiers in the British Army. These were the regiments who, as the "Reserve," bore the brunt of the fighting in Moore's famous "Retreat," and who were known in Spain and at Waterloo as Wellington's unequalled and invincible "Light Brigade." Wellington used those regiments for the saving of Europe; but Moore made them what they were.

To the delight of Jack an opportunity offered itself whereby he might exchange into one of the Shornecliffe regiments, and he grasped at it eagerly.

He had for Moore the half-worshipping admiration which is sometimes seen in a young man towards an older man. Jack would be none the worse for his hero-worship, since happily he had fixed upon a worthy object. As yet he had seen little personally of the General, having met him but two or three times. But long before they came together, he had cherished an intense interest in the man, an interest awakened first in more boyish days by Ivor's vivid descriptions of campaigns in the West Indies and in Egypt, descriptions of which Moore was always the central figure. Jack had seized with avidity upon all such details.

When at length the two met he could feel no surprise at Ivor's intense and reverent love for his chief. The soldierly bearing of Moore, his grace of manner, the power of his unique personality, together with his chivalrous devotion to his mother and his courteous kindness towards all with whom he came in contact--these things from the first made a profound impression upon Jack; and the more he learnt to know of Moore, the more that impression was deepened. He counted himself thenceforward ready to live or to die for the General; and one day in a fit of confidence he said so to Polly.

"Nay, Jack; live for him; do not wish to die for him," pleaded Polly. "That will be the best."

Jack was not so sure. His imagination had been fired long before by the story, told to him by Ivor, of a certain heroic Guardsman--a man who, in the West Indies, had flung himself between Moore and the musket aimed at him, thus giving his life for that of his officer. But it was not needful for Jack to explain how much he longed to do the same. He merely smiled, and remarked, "In all England there is no other his equal. Of that I am convinced."

To the great disappointment of Jack, the General had been quickly summoned away on important duty; and intercourse between them came for the moment to a close. The young subaltern, however, found it possible to pursue acquaintance with the General's mother and sister; and gentle old Mrs. Moore had a great deal to say about this most idolised son of hers, where she found a sympathetic listener. Few listeners could have been more sympathetic than Jack Keene, who never grew tired of the subject. Mrs. Moore had other sons beside the General, but it was noticed that when she referred to him he was always distinctively, "My son!" not "My eldest son," or "My son John!" This did not touch the close friendship between Moore and his brothers, one of whom was a Naval officer of note.

Through those summer weeks of 1803 Polly was longing for Captain Ivor to come home. It was sad to think of him as a prisoner, forced to stay against his will in a foreign land. She knew, too, that any day Jack might be ordered off elsewhere; and one day, as she had feared, he rushed in, to tell them that he would be leaving immediately for Shornecliffe Camp, there to await Napoleon's first attempt to land on English soil.

The news was less a matter of congratulation for them than for Jack himself. At Sandgate he would be in the very forefront of the peril which threatened the land. Mrs. Fairbank had to rub her large horn spectacles more than once; and she was disposed to blame Jack for not referring the question to herself, before he accepted the offer of an exchange. Molly looked curiously at Jack, and asked--

"Are you glad to say good-bye to us all?"

"Not glad to say good-bye, but glad to be going. People must say good-bye sometimes, Molly. And I shall be fighting under one of the best and bravest men that ever lived. Would not you like that?"

Molly shook her head. "If Roy was here, I should never want to go away," she said decisively. "But if you care more for General Moore than for us----"

"Pooh! What nonsense!" retorted Jack; and Polly exclaimed--

"Molly, how can you say such a thing? Jack wants to be one of the first to fight in defence of England. Do you not see? It is but right. He would be no true soldier, otherwise. If Captain Ivor were but free to do the same! Yes, indeed, I do wish it! It is terrible for him to be cut off from action--but not for Jack to wish to be foremost. O fie, Molly dear, you must have more sense."

"Polly always understands," murmured Jack; and Molly would have given much at the moment to have had those words spoken of herself. She hung her head and was mute. Tender-hearted Polly could never endure to see anyone sad or abashed, and her hand stole into Molly's as she went on--

"But Molly will understand now. Jack, she and I have this morning learnt by heart a verse of Mr. Walter Scott's, which 'tis said he has but just writ. Molly, you shall say the words to Jack, for they are brave words. Hold up your head, dear, and speak out, as an Englishwoman should."

Molly obeyed, not sorry for the chance to redeem her previous error, and to re-establish herself in Jack's good graces, for which she cared more than she quite allowed to herself. She held her head well up, therefore, and spouted with considerable effect--

"'If ever breath of British gale Shall fan the tricolour, Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore, Then farewell, home! and farewell, friends! Adieu, each tender tie! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To conquer or to die.'"

"Come, that is good. That was well said. You understand too, I see, Molly. I e'en thought it must be so--you, a British Colonel's daughter! And you'll both bid me God-speed. And when Napoleon is beaten, and old England is again in safety, I'll come back, and be grannie's home-boy once more. Eh, ma'am?"

"Yes, yes, Jack; yes, my dear boy." Mrs. Fairbank did her best to control her voice, and as usual when agitated she knitted at railway speed. "You will do your duty, Jack. I am sure of it. And General Moore will be a good friend to you."

"But now I have somewhat else to show you all, in return for Molly's poetry," observed Jack in cheerful tones, anxious to prevent a breakdown on the part of his grandmother. "What do you think it may be, Molly? Guess, all of you. Must I tell? Well, 'tis nought less than two letters about our Hero, which his mother let me see. They are writ some four years since to the General's father, Dr. Moore; the one from Sir Ralph Abercrombie, and the other from Sir Robert Brownrigg, who was secretary to the Duke of York, and Adjutant-General. Nay, these are not the originals, for I can assure you 'twould be no easy task to get them out of Mrs. Moore's keeping. But she permitted me to take copies of the same, and they are here. The engagement spoken of was that on the second of October, in 1799, between the English and the French in Holland; and General Moore was wounded early in the action, but nevertheless he fought on until wounded a second time. These, to his father afterwards, both make mention of his wounds. Shall I read?"

"Pray do so, my dear Jack," said Mrs. Fairbank; and, "O do, Jack!" entreated Polly.

Jack obeyed.

"'Headquarters. Zuper Sluys, Holland. October 4th, 1799.

"'MY DEAR SIR--I cannot suffer the accompanying letter from my dear friend, your son, to go to you, without assuring you that the wounds he has received are attended with no danger. Mr. Knight, the Duke's surgeon, attends him, and gives hope of his speedy recovery. The wound in his thigh he received early in the action, but it did not prevent him from continuing his exertions for two hours afterwards, when a wound in his face obliged him to leave the field. It is through the cheek, and I understand has not wounded the bone. His conduct in the serious action of the 2nd, which perhaps may be ranked among the most obstinately contested battles that have been fought this war, has raised him, if possible, higher than he before stood in the estimation of this army. Everyone admires and loves him; and you may boast of having as your son the most amiable man and the best General in the British service; this is a universal opinion, and does not proceed from my partiality alone.

"'God bless you, my dear Sir. I hope in a few days to have it in my power to tell you that considerable progress is made in Moore's cure; and believe me, with great respect and regard,

"'Very faithfully yours, "'ROBERT BROWNRIGG.'"

Jack paused, and repeated thoughtfully, "'Everyone admires and loves him--the most amiable man and the best General in the British service!' Yet by nature his is no easy temper, ma'am; of that his mother could assure me. She said that her son--ever the best of sons to her--gave her in his boyhood many an anxious hour, by reason of his hot and impulsive moods, and his readiness to fight. But listen now to the letter of Sir Ralph himself--

"'Egmond-on-the-Sea, Oct. 4th.

"'MY DEAR SIR--Although your son is wounded in the thigh and in the cheek, I can assure you he is in no sort of danger; both wounds are slight. The public and myself are the greatest sufferers by these accidents.

"'The General is a hero, with more sense than many others of that description, in that he is an ornament to his family and to his profession. I hope Mrs. Moore and his sister will be easy on his account, and that you are proud of such a son.

"'Yours, "'RALPH ABERCROMBIE.'"

This time it was Mrs. Fairbank who quoted words from the letter. She said, "'With more sense than many others of that description.' Pray, my dear Jack, what think you Sir Ralph might have meant to signify?"

"Why, ma'am, I take it thus. Many a man is brave and fights well, who in fact is nought else beside. Whereas General Moore is a man of extraordinary genius and great nobility of character, one who shines in whatever society he may find himself, and above all, who is ardently beloved by everybody that knows him. What else might Sir Ralph signify?"

"To my mind, 'tis a somewhat droll mode of expressing himself, though, none the less, 'tis clear what he thinks of the General. Were he my son, I could fain be proud of him. Not that pride is so suitable a feeling as thankfulness."

"In truth, ma'am, his mother is proud and thankful too. She thinks that all the whole world holds no man equal to her brave son. And I--I am disposed to think the same."

Then Jack carefully folded his precious letters, stowed them in his pocket, and stood up. "Come, Polly and Molly," he said. "There is time yet for a turn before dinner? We will go to the Pump Room."

Molly looked anxiously for leave, and flew to obey. A walk with Jack was always delightful. They entered the old Pump Room together, finding there, as usual, a large assemblage of gaily-dressed ladies and fashionably-attired gentlemen, some walking about, some lounging on seats. The ladies wore short-waisted gowns, chiefly of white or figured muslin, with short cloaks or mantles of bright hues, or short spencers of silk or coloured crape, and great feathered hats or bonnets, and plenty of large gilt and silver buttons; and many of the gentlemen were in tights and long flowered waistcoats and silver-buckled shoes, while others wore blue coats with brass buttons. Pig-tails too might still be seen, though soon to be discontinued.

Jack gazed about for several minutes in vain; and then they came face to face with Mrs. Bryce, Admiral Peirce being her attendant cavalier.

Both were immensely interested to hear Jack's news--how, in less than a week, he would be off to Sandgate, there to be under the command of General Moore; and there also, as Jack hoped, to be called upon to bear the first brunt of Napoleon's invasion.

"Not you, my dear sir," objected the Admiral, with beaming face. "Before ever Boney reaches English shores, depend on't, he'll render a good account of himself to our ships of war. Trust gallant Nelson for that, since he's on the look-out. I doubt me, Boney won't contrive to give our Navy the slip."

Jack had no wish to get into a discussion. "Well, sir, well, our Navy and our Army too will both of them do their best," he said. "But he would be a foolish fellow who should trust all his eggs in one basket, as the saying is. And should by any chance the slip be given, and Boney arrive on our shores, why, then the Army will make him render his account, fairly! Has anybody seen Mrs. Moore, ma'am?" and he turned to Mrs. Bryce.

Mrs. Bryce had not the least intention of parting hastily with her second cavalier. To walk about the Pump Room, in view of all her Bath acquaintances, with a gentleman on either side, was highly desirable. So Polly and Molly were adroitly dropped behind, and she set off.

"If not Mrs. Moore, Jack, I have seen someone else of passable interest," she remarked. "Her name is Miss Jane Austen--a well-bred young woman, I do assure you. And only to think--the good lady has writ a book, which may by chance be one day printed. 'Twas told my husband in strictest confidence; and if I had not wormed it out of him----Ah, ha! Jack--wait till you get you a wife, and then you'll not smile on that side of your mouth."

"I have found my bride, ma'am. 'Tis my profession," declared Jack.

"Nay, nay, nothing of the sort, my dear sir. Wait a while, and you'll find your affections engaged in another fashion. Can you be so hard-hearted as to hold out even now, in the face of all this youth and elegance? See--there goes a bewitching young woman, though 'tis true she wears a shocking unbecoming gown! But she's a prodigious favourite, and she can dance as tolerable a minuet as any young female present. Then there's young Susie, yonder--something of a hoyden, may be, and calls herself 'a dasher,' but uncommonly pretty, and prodigiously good spirits. And if you'd sooner have a blue-stocking--why, I've but to introduce you to Miss Jane Austen herself."

(_To be continued._)

METHODS OF MOUNTING FOR GIRL CYCLISTS.

BY MRS. EGBERT A. NORTON.

Nothing else, I think, affords one such a good opportunity of judging of a girl's general capabilities or style in riding as the way in which she mounts her machine.

In this matter as in so many others a "good start is most important."

Having already mastered the principle of steering, the mystery of the mount is a matter of balance only.

There are several points which, if borne in mind, will considerably help the beginner in first attempts, namely--

1. To select a road inclining slightly down-hill.

2. Stand on rather higher ground than the bicycle.

3. Incline the front wheel slightly to the right.

4. Be careful not to check the motion of the machine by too much pressure on the pedal after it passes its lowest point.

5. Do not catch the left pedal too quickly, or apply pressure before it passes the top centre.

There are five distinct methods of mounting for skirted riders, two of which are suitable for beginners only, the other three for more advanced riders.

I.

Imagine an individual who has some knowledge of riding, but who is unable to mount alone; refusing all offers of assistance she determines to assert her independence.

Standing on the left side of the machine with the right pedal just past its highest point, she steps across the frame, and places her right foot securely on the pedal, the saddle being so low that she is able to take her seat easily, the left foot being still on the ground. Then putting as much pressure as possible on the right pedal and pushing off with the left foot, she starts the machine--not perhaps without a few failures first, but _nil desperandum_. Independence must cost something, and if she will consider, I have no doubt her failure can be traced to one or the other of the above mentioned causes. But how tiring the ride will be, and how awkward the whole position, the knees moving most ungracefully high with each revolution of the pedal--all defects caused by the saddle being adjusted much too low.

II.

Now if she would only listen, I should advise her to raise her saddle inches higher until it is nearly on a level with the turn of the hip, and, if still determined to learn alone, wheel the machine to the kerbstone or other eminence, to enable her to seat herself in the saddle, and then push off as before. Her appearance once mounted is now greatly improved, and when I tell her so, after enjoying a nice little run with none of the previous feeling of tiredness, she is quite ready to listen to what further I have to say on the subject. Seeing that it is quite impracticable to always depend on the help of the friendly kerbstone, we will try and master mount

III.

Having already learnt the importance of the height of saddle or length of reach from pedal to saddle, first ascertain that this is adjusted correctly. When sitting erect in the saddle with the leg straight and pedal at its lowest point, the heel of the foot should be able to rest on the centre bar of the pedal with ease. The saddle is now so high that it is impossible to sit on it with the foot still on the ground, so for this reason "The Spring Mount" is the term generally given to this method of mounting. Taking a fold of the skirt in the right hand, pass the right foot over the frame and place it securely on the right pedal when it is about half-way between its highest and lowest point, the left foot resting on the ground close to the machine and well before the left pedal, stand quite central with the body perfectly free from the saddle, then by standing on the right pedal the machine moves forward, the body is raised and drops gently back on to the saddle, the other pedal rises under the left foot ready for the next thrust forward, and the deed is done, easily, steadily, gracefully, but from the first there must be no hurry, no quick jump for the saddle, or scramble for the left pedal, but first the weight on the right pedal, then the saddle moves forward under one, and the downward thrust with the left foot preserves the balance. This is the mount most generally adopted, with more or less degree of efficiency, and on the whole is really difficult to improve upon; the only thing that can be said against it is, that the first position standing with the leg across the frame and the foot raised is not particularly graceful. Personally I much prefer mount

IV.

The near-side mount. It is more uncommon and infinitely prettier in my opinion when well done, than either of the others, but it requires a little practice to get the skirt to fall well. Stand close to the machine with the left foot on the left pedal, then firmly holding the handles throw all the weight on the pedal, at the same time springing forwards and sideways to the saddle. In first attempts all the fulness of the skirt invariably falls to the left; this can be remedied as the machine is in motion by a little forward movement throwing the weight on pedals and handle-bar, then as the skirt falls straight down, move centrally backwards to the saddle again. Be in no hurry to reach the saddle and the skirt will adjust itself. Move well forward with the downward movement of the pedal, throw the weight on the handles as it rises, the peak of the saddle will then divide the skirt as you take your seat and give your first thrust to the right pedal.

This is worth a little practice, as correctly done the skirt needs no arrangement with the hand, and the mount is certainly quicker and more graceful than any other.

V.

Is somewhat similar, but is done while the machine is in motion, and is therefore pre-eminently the mount for busy thoroughfares.

Walking on the left of the machine, give a quick hop with the right foot, placing the left on the pedal when in any position, then a sudden pull on the handles, will lift one forward on to the saddle without checking the motion of the machine.

This is a most useful mount for traffic and for all occasions where a quick mount is necessary. It will probably require considerable practice to accomplish successfully, but the feeling of complete mastery it gives one over the machine is worth some little trouble to acquire, and when the feat is accomplished, I think you will look back on the learning of a new method of mounting as another pleasure added to the many enjoyments of cycling.

FILED--FOR REFERENCE!

He had let love and life slip past him, and now he lay a-dying, and love and life lay behind him for evermore.

Lying in his narrow bed, in the room which in all his days of grinding work, he had never troubled to make homelike or comfortable, his thoughts wandered back over the years with wearisome persistency. He had been a successful man. The name of John Saunders was known far and wide as the name of the shrewdest solicitor of his day; hard-headed, keen, practical--feared by friend and enemy alike; loved, men said, by none.

They called him "old Dryasdust" in his own office; they declared that his heart had withered away in the atmosphere of work and in the squirrel round of business in which he had lived. Some, indeed, went so far as to say that Nature had never provided him with a heart at all.

And now he lay dying--a lonely man, in his lonely chambers, looking wearily back across his life.

His grey head moved uneasily upon the pillows, arranged by his valet into clumsy discomfort; his eyes glanced restlessly round the room, turning almost impatiently from its severe dreariness, towards the window, through which he could just see a glimpse of a tree-top in the square garden.

He was tired, most dreadfully tired. It was a weariness to think, yet the busy brain, that in all his busy life had never learnt to rest, refused now to be stilled. Thick and fast there crowded before his mind memories of long forgotten cases, recollections of clients long since dead, worrying details of business, that had long ago been settled and done with.

His head moved again impatiently. He turned to look for the lemonade which should have been on the table by his bedside. An angry exclamation broke from him. The table with the lemonade was placed exactly where he could not reach it; what was the use of all his years of labour, of all the wealth he had acquired, if now he could not even obtain the common necessaries of life?

The electric bell beside the bed was close to his hand. He rang it furiously, and his valet arrived, panting and breathless.

"Why can't you put the things within my reach?" the old man asked irritably. "Am I to die of thirst, because you are careless?"

The servant moved the table nearer to his master, handed him the tumbler, and, in his own mind, considered the pros and cons of giving warning on the spot. A dim hope of a possible legacy gave the cons the victory, but the man did not remain in the sick-room a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. As he confided to the wife of the porter, in the basement, "Old Saunders was getting that unbearable in his illness, it was hard to stand him."

The sick man lay quiet after the servant had left him, his eyes fixed upon the waving green of the tree-tops in the square. A faint curiosity as to what tree it was that he could see, ran through his mind. Was it an elm, he wondered?

There had been elms in the meadow behind the old Rectory garden where he had played as a boy--great elms in which the rooks had built year after year. It was a long, long time since he had heard the soft cawing of the rooks. He had a faint remembrance of picking daisies and buttercups in those fields under the elms, whilst the rooks cawed soothingly overhead.

A little smile flickered across his hard old face. Perhaps the tree in the square was not an elm after all. It might be a lime. There had been limes in another garden, and the bees had hummed amongst their blossoms on that summer's day when--when---- Why, how many years ago was it? Forty? Fifty? Could it be forty years? He had been a young fellow then, at the beginning of his career, and life had been less crammed with work and business.

He moved restlessly.

Yes! He had been able then to notice the sweetness of a girl's eyes, to heed the music of a girl's voice.

Pshaw! It was utter folly to let his thoughts wander to so remote a past. What was the good of remembrance?

And yet---- If he had not been so wrapped up in his work, to the exclusion of everything human and loveable, he might now have had other hands than those of Richard his valet to tend him. A woman would have made his room look less like a prison cell. A woman would not have put his things just out of his reach. She would not have been in such a hurry to leave him to himself!

Again he stirred irritably. He hated the sight of those rustling leaves now, even though they held some strange fascination for him; but they reminded him too strongly of youth, and love, and happiness. And he had wilfully put them all away from him with his own hands. Ah! fool and blind that he had been! And now--now, he was old and dying--and alone!

The door opened softly. Richard stepped quietly in, and seeing that his master's eyes were shut, laid a note upon the table, and as quietly departed again.

"Bother the man!" old John Saunders muttered. "He seems afraid to stay with me. A letter for me? Strange--very strange." And he stretched out his hand and took up the envelope.

A faint sense of something familiar stirred within him as he glanced at the handwriting--a something which he could not quite recall out of the past. He opened the envelope and drew out the letter almost rapidly. It was very short.

"DEAR JOHN,--I wonder if I may still call you that, after all the years that have gone by? I would not have troubled you with a letter now, but that I heard, only to-day, that you are ill and alone. And I thought I must write to you for auld lang syne, and ask you whether you would let me come and see you. We are both old people now, John; but let me come to see you, for old sake's sake.

"Yours, as ever, "JOAN BENTLEY.

"P.S.--Did you never get the letter I wrote you more than thirty years ago?"

The letter dropped from his hands. The keen grey eyes grew dim.

It was strange that this should have come just when the remembrance had returned to him of the lime-trees in her father's garden, of the bees that had hummed among them forty years ago.

His dreary room faded from his sight. It was as if the walls melted into space, and he could feel the warm air of July blowing round him, smell the fragrance of the lime-flowers, step upon the softness of the smooth turf beneath his feet.

He was young again! A man with his life before him, and love within his grasp.

He could see the tall hollyhocks by the gate--the hollyhocks she loved. There were tall white lilies there as well. The sweetness of them filled the air, mingling with the scent of roses that clambered up the old red wall. The wood-pigeons cooed gently in the copse across the road, and the rooks cawed as they swung upon the boughs of the lime-trees.

And Joan's clear eyes looked into his; Joan's voice was in his ear.

"Oh, John, will it be long?" he heard her say. And his own voice, young and strong, replied:

"No, no, my dear--not long. How could I let it be long, when I shall be working for you? When I have made enough money I shall come and claim you. Your father is quite right not to allow a formal engagement till then. But we understand each other, Joan--my Joan!"

Strange! How the years had rolled away, and the world seemed full again, as it had seemed then, of Joan--Joan, and only Joan!

The vision slowly faded; the walls of the dull room returned to their places, the noise of the irritating clock on the mantelpiece replaced the soft voices of the wood-pigeons; he was an old man again, an old man who was alone--and dying!

But Joan had not forgotten. Joan's letter lay upon his bed. She had remembered for forty years; whilst he had forgotten everything, except the work to which he was a slave.

He picked up the letter once more and read the postscript first--

"Did you never get the letter I wrote you more than thirty years ago?"

Had he received it? What then had happened to it? A puzzled frown puckered his brow, as he struggled to recall the long past incident.

"I remember now," he exclaimed suddenly and aloud--"I remember! She wrote to me when I was in the midst of a press of work! Her letter was filed for reference--my Joan's letter filed for reference!"

His bell pealed through the house, and when Richard appeared, he found his master partially raised in bed, excited and breathless.

"Send to the office at once," he said; "tell them to send me up the files of the year ---- immediately! And who brought this letter?"

"A lady called with it, sir. She said she would return for the answer in about an hour."

"Did she leave her name?"

"Yes, sir--Miss Joan Bentley, she wished me to say."

"When she comes back, bring her up to me"--and the old man sank exhausted on his pillows, his eyes closed, but a faint smile upon his lips.

It was less than an hour later when a little tap on the door aroused him.

"Come in," he said, not opening his eyes, till he heard the soft rustle of a dress beside his bed. Then he looked up, but it was the woman who spoke first.

"Why, John," she said brokenly--"why, John!" And all at once the shyness that had assailed her as she climbed the stairs slipped from her; the gulf of years that had seemed impassable became as nothing, and she dropped on her knees by the bed, looking into the tired old face upon the pillow, with wistful yearning eyes.

He put out his hand almost timidly, and laid it upon hers.

"How sweet the limes smelt, dear," he whispered, "and the bees hummed all the time among the flowers."

She thought for a moment that he was wandering, but he went on quietly.

"It was your letter that brought it all back. You have been faithful--all these years--and I--was a fool!"

Her clasp on his hand tightened.

"Did you forget," she asked--"did you forget? Was there someone else?"

The smile flickered out again upon his face.

"No, no, my dear, there was no someone else. There was nothing but my work--it wrapped me round, it has made me a successful man--and it--has spoilt my life! They call me Dryasdust, you know," his weak voice went on. "Somebody told me once that I had no heart."

"Ah, but it wasn't true," she said.

"Wasn't it? I don't know; I was a fool, and blind--I--but now it is too late, my Joan."

The little caressing words came strangely from the thin lips, but the hard, old face had softened in some unaccountable fashion.

"Is it ever too late for love?" she asked, and her hand touched gently the thin grey hair upon his temples.

"I have wasted my life, and yours," he answered drearily. "We might have been together all these years--all the long, long years--with our children round us--and now--it is nearly over. I am old, and dying, and you----"

"I am old too, my dear; perhaps it will not be long before--before----" her voice faltered and broke.

"Are you old?" he said; "your eyes are just what I remember, and your voice--it seems to me you are just the same as when I said good-bye to you under the lime-trees."

"Did you never get my other letter, John?" she said, after a moment or two. "I sent it to you ten years after you left me, because--because the silence was unbearable. Did you get it?"

"Yes, I got it; and I was busy--very, very busy. It brought me the scent of the garden, and the memory of you; and then--then I set it aside for a more convenient season, and it--ah, Joan!--it was filed for reference. Forgive me--Joan!"

Her caressing hand stroked his hair more tenderly, though her eyes filled with tears.

"We shall find it here," he said a little later, when Richard had deposited a great pile of letters beside him. "I was always methodical in my work--the letter will be here. Will you look for it?" His voice was so much weaker, that she looked at him with startled eyes, and the valet, returning, held a glass of cordial to his lips.

The two were alone again after that. Amongst the pile of old and faded letters the woman had found her own--the tiny girlish scrap, written impetuously, in a girl's impatient misery of long ago.

"Send me just one word," it ran--"only one word, to tell me that you have not forgotten."

A little bitterness surged up within her as she read again the scrap of faded writing, the old agony out of the past stirred once more at her heart.

"If I might make a daisy-chain for you, Joan--my Joan! How the rooks caw to-night! Do you hear them, dear?" The weak voice spoke dreamily; the bitterness in her heart died away. She laid her face softly against the tired face on the pillow.

"My poor boy," she whispered--"my poor boy!"

"And the limes--are so sweet," he rambled on. "I think--it is--the bees--that hum so loudly in my ears. Give me a rose, sweetheart. It--is getting dark--so dark for you--out here in the garden. You must go in. The wood-pigeons are quiet now, only how white the lilies shine--against the darkness; and the bees--the bees are humming still, and the--limes--are--so sweet."

For a moment the tired voice stopped, then began again:

"Never a someone else, my Joan, only you. And the years slipped, and I forgot how fast they went; we will have hollyhocks--in our own garden, dear."

The doctor, summoned by Richard, had entered the room, but he shook his head sadly, and moved towards the door.

"There is nothing to be done," he whispered to the servant, "we had better leave them alone. There is nothing we can do."

The room was very still, save only for the laboured breathing of the dying man. The woman's hand still softly stroked his hair; he lay so quietly that she thought he had passed out of consciousness into that strange borderland which is Death's ante-chamber.

The setting sunlight streamed into the room and across his face; the twittering of the birds in the square, the soft rustling of the wind in the tree-tops, were borne in at the half-open window.

Suddenly the dying man opened his eyes in full consciousness.

"I knew you would not leave me," he whispered. "I--said--a woman would stay--with me, it was--you I meant. I--have wasted my life--God forgive me! You have forgiven, my dear--a faithful woman--has forgiven--I think--God--will forgive--too--I--am taking"--his voice almost failed--"my wasted life--with me--to be--to be"--a little whimsical smile stole over his face--"to be--filed--for--reference."

L. G. MOBERLY.

OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

BY CHARLES PETERS.

For the last three months cut blossoms of _Lilium Speciosum_ have decorated our table in the centre of London, and have afforded our friends and us real delight, creating subject for discussion at the dinner-table such as we have never known in connection with any other cut flowers.

Perhaps this has arisen from the fact that the floral decorations consisted of flowers of one botanical group only, making a truly consistent nosegay, and creating from its very uniqueness fit subject for special questionings and interest. Of course in the group there were several colours. The _Speciosum Album_ and the varieties of white, the _Speciosum Roseum_ with its varieties of lovely rose-colour, and finally the deep and rich _Speciosum Melpomone_. Nothing in the way of table decoration could be more æsthetic and cheerful-looking than an arrangement of such blossoms, in which we find real white mingled with a lovely purple red, and with nothing but the right gradations of colour between.

In the days of old it was the custom to group flowers of every conceivable colour--reds, blues, pinks, yellow, and others; but now we know better, two colours or three being the most effective scheme for table or bouquet effect, and in all our experience we have never found any general appearance more pleasing than that of our group of _Lilium Speciosum_.

One of the greatest testimonies to the value of these flowers is that the buds will develop and open into blossoms of their natural size while in water in a close room of a London square, and another reason for their value is that they last two or three weeks if attended to about every other day, that is, longer than any other cut flower of our cultivation.

A month ago we took up to town a bunch of _Lilium Speciosum_ from our little country garden to garnish the dinner-table of a well-known doctor on the day of his golden wedding. There were, we were told, many other groups of flowers sent by friends for such an interesting occasion, but although many were from hot-houses, and some were valuable orchids, the group of _Lilium Speciosum_, so easy and so inexpensive to rear, had the place of honour, was admired the most, and lasted the longest number of days.

But we must not forget to mention an incident which happened to us while carrying this particular bunch through a City street from the railway terminus. We became conscious of a footstep close behind us, and felt that someone was keeping close to the flowers as they dangled at our side; but walking on unheeding, we presently relaxed our speed, when the follower made a semi-circle round the bouquet, watching it greedily until he faced it and us; then he turned and hastily disappeared, but not before we recognised in the London-dressed man a young and handsome Japanese! The flowers came from his distant land, and maybe reminded him of a home, a mother, or a sweetheart, and all so far away. We have ever since been ashamed of ourselves for not offering him one of the blossoms for a buttonhole.

The discouraging news given at the end of our first chapter led us to think: "Lilies will not grow in pots, but some kinds do fairly well in the open." "Lilies though suitable for pot plants are unsatisfactory for the flower-bed." Surely it is impossible to reconcile these two statements. Either one or both opinions must be incorrect. We must settle this point, and we can easily do so by growing lilies, both in pots and in the open ground.

We have before told you that we have ourselves grown eighty-seven distinct kinds of lilies. We have grown them in pots and in the open. We have obtained great satisfaction from both.

Few flowers are easier to grow in pots than lilies, and as they form probably the finest of all pot plants the culture of lilies in pots deserves more attention than it has heretofore received.

There are two ways of potting lilies, each of which has its advantages and uses, so we will describe both methods.

The first method is the simplest. Take a large flower-pot. No lily should be grown in a pot less than six inches in diameter. Of course the pot must vary in size with the size of the plant it has to contain. _Lilium Concolor_ and _Elegans_ grow well in six-inch pots; _L. Auratum_ or _Speciosum_ should have an eight or ten-inch pot, while _L. Giganteum_ will require the largest sized pot procurable or a small tub.

One bulb only should be placed in each pot if absolutely perfect plants are desired; but very pretty effects can be obtained by growing two or three bulbs in a large pot or tub.

See that the pot is perfectly clean. Place about an inch depth of crocks, stones, etc., at the bottom, then put three inches of the prepared soil in the pot, and over this place a thin layer of peat, mixed with sharp sand and pieces of charcoal. Take the bulb, examine it, remove diseased scales and wash it in lime water, as you did in the case of the lilies you planted out last month. Dust it over with powdered charcoal and place it in the pot surrounded with sharp sand and peat. Then fill up the pot with the prepared soil.[1]

In potting lilies, deep potting is to be aimed at. No bulb should be placed at a less depth than four inches below the surface. Large bulbs require to be six, eight, or even twelve inches below the surface of the soil. The reason for this deep potting is that the flower stems send out roots above the bulb, and it is essential that these roots should be below the surface of the soil.

The second method of potting bulbs is similar in all respects to the above, except that the pots are not filled up at once. When you have placed the bulb in the pot you add a little soil, but leave the top of the bulb exposed. When growth commences, which will be shown by the appearance of roots and flower stems, you fill up the pots with the prepared soil.

Established bulbs and bulbs of the hardier lilies are best potted by the former method, but for bulbs received from abroad, especially those of the more tender species, the second method of potting is to be preferred.

Now that you have potted your lilies the question arises, Where shall you keep the pots? For the majority of lilies the best place is either a garden or a balcony. Lilies are too tall growing for window plants and it is totally unnecessary to coddle them up in rooms.

There are some lilies which will not come to perfection out of doors in our uncertain climate, except in very favourable seasons. These kinds, many of them among the finest of the tribe, will, however, grow admirably in a conservatory or room.

If lilies are grown in rooms, they should be put out of doors every fine day, as they require sun to mature their flowers.

The lilies which are not sufficiently hardy for the open air are, _Wallichianum_, _Harrisii_, _Philippinense_, _Neilgherrense_, _Formosanum_, _Nepaulense_, and _Catesbaei_. (With the exception of _Neilgherrense_, all these lilies will grow well out of doors in our southern counties in exceptionally fine seasons.)

November is over; our lilies are planted. How are we to treat them before the flowering season arrives?

Lilies out in the ground require but very little attention until the shoots appear. In severe winters _Lilium Giganteum_, _Cordifolium_, _Speciosum_, and one or two others, should be protected by bracken or other litter; but lilies stand the frost remarkably well, and rarely suffer from this cause before the flower shoots appear. Lilies grow all through the winter, forming roots. _Lilium Candidum_ puts up an autumn growth of leaves, and occasionally other lilies do the same. When the shoots appear more attention is required. Those kinds which send up shoots in January, February, or March may need slight protection, such as a hand light, from frosts. As the season advances you must guard against two great enemies--slugs and drought. A dry April, not at all an unusual occurrence, will often do great damage in the lily garden.

During growth lilies require a very large amount of water. In a dry season it is a good plan to water them every day. An insufficient supply of water is one of the commonest causes of failure with lilies.

With lilies in pots only an occasional watering will be required before the shoots appear. As soon as this stage is reached they should be watered daily until the flower-buds appear.

If only we could guard against slugs! These are the greatest of all pests to the lily grower, and though there are many infallible preventives against slugs used and sold, not one of them answers its purpose. Soot is usually regarded as the best agent to use to prevent slugs from eating the tender spring growth of lilies. The soot is thickly dusted round the plant, and as slugs very much dislike any powder which adheres to their slimy bodies, they will not venture across the sooty track. No, they will not cross the soot--at least not until the soot gets damp, as it does after the first heavy dew or shower of rain. As soon as the soot gets wet it is no longer a deterrent to slugs. Lime is also recommended to be used in the same way as soot; but it, too, fails to serve its purpose when it has once become damp.

Then have we no way to keep down the ravages of slugs? Yes!--we have one way, a very excellent way, but a most tedious and unpleasant one to carry out. The only effective way of thwarting the ravages of the slugs is to pick off by hand the culprits, while they are gorging themselves in the evening.

Go out as soon as the sun is set with a lanthorn and a gallipot filled with strong brine, and visit each lily-shoot in succession. You will see the slugs congregated on your pets by hundreds, from the little tiny fellow of one-quarter of an inch long, who is eating your best lilies in order that he may grow into a larger and more capacious enemy, to the slimy monster of six inches long, who is attempting to fill his vast maw with lilies of great value. All are there, all devouring your best specimens, as though you were their most hated enemy--as indeed you will be if you want your garden to look gay. These slugs are not, as one would suppose, dirty feeders, but they are gourmands of the deepest dye. They are not content with the outside or decaying leaves--not they--they want the very tenderest tops of the young shoots! When the lilies are about a foot high, they will not eat the leaves at the base, they must needs crawl up the stem to feed on the tender growing top of the plants. But now you can have your revenge. Pick off with your fingers[2] every slug you can see, be he little or great, and put him into the brine. The brine kills and dissolves them in a very short time.

Some gardeners place cabbage-leaves, etc., on the ground as "traps" for slugs, but alas! the tender lily shoot is far more tickling to the palate of a slug than any cabbage-leaf!

The damage which slugs can do to lilies is incredible, and unless these pests are summarily dealt with, every lily in a garden may be decapitated ere the summer commences. One reason why lilies in pots do so well is that it is not so easy for the slug to get at them.

The lilies are singularly exempt from the ravages of animals other than slugs. The aphides or green flies are, however, often very troublesome. We will refer to this pest when talking of the treatment of lilies just before and during the flowering stage.

The leaves of some lilies are sometimes eaten by the larvæ of the Lily Beetle (_Crioceris Merdigera_), but as this insect is a great rarity in England, we will not describe it.

There is neither animal nor plant which is exempt from disease, and the lily has inherited this universal tendency to disease. There are not many common diseases of lilies, and very few even of these do much damage to more than one or two kinds. But some of these diseases give great trouble to the lily grower, and often tax his patience to the utmost.

Some lilies are very prone to a form of mildew which, beginning as a minute spot of discolouration on one leaf, eventually destroys the whole of the foliage and flower-buds, and turns a beautiful, well-grown, apparently healthy lily into a brown slimy stick.

This disease usually begins to show itself about the middle of May. A small grayish transparent spot appears on one leaf, and in about a month it has spread and completely destroyed the plant. Not all lilies suffer from this disease, and of those which are liable to be attacked, not all suffer to the same extent. Of all lilies, _Lilium Candidum_ is the most frequently attacked, and in this lily the disease usually destroys the deciduous portion of the plant altogether. The other members of the Eulirion group of lilies: _L. Brownii_, _Wallichianum_, _Washingtonianum_, etc., are also frequently attacked, but are rarely much injured by it. It also occurs on _L. Speciosum_, _L. Superbum_, _L. Canadense_, and, indeed, most kinds of lily; but in these it rarely attacks the flower-head and does not, in our experience, do much harm. We have never seen the disease in _L. Auratum_, _L. Tigrinum_, or _L. Longiflorum_.

Of the cause of this calamity we know but little, but we rather think that it is often due to growing lilies in soils which are too poor or are exhausted. This, indeed, seems highly probable in the case of _Lilium Candidum_, the most frequently attacked of all lilies, for it is grown by most people without any care being given to it, and made to shift in a dry sandy garden exposed to the full blaze of the sun and scarcely ever watered. Where lilies can have a good rich soil, with plenty of water, the disease is very uncommon.

Once established, this disease is very difficult to cure. Syringing with solution of sulphuretted potash, or of sulphur boiled in lime water, will sometimes stop it, but too frequently the disease runs its course to the bitter end. If you uproot the plant and examine its bulb and root, you will find both quite healthy-looking.

There is another disease which, though not so devastating to the lily garden as the last, is yet very exasperating and even more fatal in its results.

Here is a beautiful strong growing _Lilium Auratum_, eight feet high, just showing its flower buds, and showing a large series of beautiful glossy leaves. Next week we notice that the lower two or three leaves are yellow and withered. Every day more and more leaves die, and eventually what was once a beautiful plant is now a naked stalk with a girdle of fallen yellow leaves and buds around it. Dig up the plant and examine its bulb and roots. The base of the bulb is gone! And its place is taken by a mass of evil-smelling pulp. Swarms of little thread-like worms will be seen twisting about all over the diseased portion. It seems natural to think that these worms are the cause of the evil, but we do not think that this is so. The worms are the result, not the cause of the disease.

_Lilium Auratum_ and _L. Speciosum_ are the two lilies which mainly suffer from this disease, but other kinds are occasionally attacked. When once manifest, no treatment has any effect. Take up the plant as soon as you are certain that this disease has started, thoroughly wash the bulb in water, and let it soak in lime water for three days. Then thickly cover with powdered charcoal, and replant. If you do this the bulb may recover, and send up a good spike of blossoms next year. If you have bought good bulbs, and have planted them as we directed last month, you need not fear that you will lose many plants from this disease. Of one hundred and six lilies which we had in pots this year we have only lost one from this cause.

Yet another disease to irritate and discourage the lily grower! Look at this _Lilium Humboldti_. Its leaves are well developed, and it already shows five flower-buds, but on closer observation you will see that the stalks which support these buds are black and withered. Or see this _L. Martagon_, which shows a head of twenty blossoms. Touch these blossoms, or gently shake the stem, and five or six buds drop off! These buds, you will observe, have a black rotten base!

This disease is caused by three or four causes. If the bulbs have been planted in a poor or dry soil, or if the spot is unsuitable, you will lose many of your lilies from this cause. Bulbs which have not been properly ripened often disappoint you in this way. Again, if you delay planting your bulbs till February or March, you must expect to be treated in this way. But the most common cause of all is the presence of mildew among the scales. You can guard against this by paying attention to the methods described in our last number.

There are three other ways by which lilies may disappoint you. They may either not come up at all, or they may come out but fail to produce flowers, or they produce flowers which are damaged and are deformed or discoloured.

The first of these untoward results is usually due to the bulb having rotted in the ground. You can do nothing for this but bear the loss philosophically. You should remember, however, that some lilies, especially _Lilium Longiflorum_, often lie dormant for a year, but come up the next year better than ever.

No lily will flower every year, and some lilies require a year or two to get accustomed to a new home. These will not flower the first year. As a rule, when a bulb does not send up a flowering shoot, the bulb itself grows to a very large size.

It is most annoying to see a lily which promises well belie itself and produce either a deformed or a cankered flower. The cause of the first is almost always green fly. To this we will refer later. The cause of the latter is either too poor soil, abuse of liquid manure, or continuous rain just before the flowers open.

Lilies like the rain. If the weather were arranged to please a lily, it would rain every day from the time when the shoot appears till the flowering period has arrived. But lilies object to rain from the time that the buds begin to change from green to white, or whatever colour the bud will eventually become, until the flower is fully opened. It is here that lilies grown in pots have the pull over those grown in the open ground, for if a spell of rainy weather occurs at the wrong time, the pots can be taken indoors or placed under shelter, which is impossible in the case of lilies grown in the open. But something can be done for the lilies which are exposed to the weather. The buds can either be wrapped round with oiled paper, or else they can be sheltered by an old umbrella tied to a stick. By this latter means we have saved many valuable lilies from disaster.

Lilies vary much in their powers of enduring excessive rain at the flowering period. _Lilium Auratum_, _Candidum_, and some others are nearly always ruined when they happen to flower in a spell of rainy weather. _Lilium Giganteum_, _Concolor_, _Tigrinum_, and many others stand rain at their flowering time with ease.

Do not be frightened at this chapter of possible calamities. Although it comes so early in our series, do not let it damp your enthusiasm. These diseases have to be described, and we have described them, but though they are, unfortunately, far from uncommon, if you grow lilies carefully you will not lose many from any of these causes. We have grown many hundred lilies, we have seen all these adverse conditions, but they have not damped our ardour. We lose a few lilies every season, but then there are plenty which give us full satisfaction; and lilies are such gorgeous plants! If you were to lose half of your stock, and the other half were satisfactory, you would not complain at the result, for the good half would delight you and your friends as no other flowers would.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] In our last number we will give a tabulated account of the various prepared soils necessary for each species both when grown in pots and in the open ground.

[2] Some persons very naturally object to taking hold of such slimy customers with their hands, but their enthusiasm for their plants will soon overcome such scruples. It is very tedious work to remove these pests with sticks or forceps.

THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.

BY FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.