THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

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[Transcriber's Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]

"OUR HERO." OUR LILY GARDEN. ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE. THE OLD YEAR'S GRIEF. "SISTER WARWICK": A STORY OF INFLUENCE. THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS. ART IN THE HOUSE. THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN. OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: A PUZZLE-SOLVER. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

"OUR HERO."

By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "The Girl at the Dower House," etc.

All rights reserved.]

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CHAPTER XII.

ORDERED TO VERDUN.

"Mamma! Mother!" cried Roy, bursting into the sitting-room at Fontainebleau one wintry day. "Ma'am, what do you think?"

Roy had by this time quite recovered from his illness, though his face still bore evidence of the same in the shape of several small red pits, which had not yet had time to lose their prominence. His eyes sparkled with excitement. Mrs. Baron was on the sofa, resting after a walk with her husband, and Colonel Baron sat near, book in hand. Ivor, who happened to be in rear of them both, made a silencing gesture, but Roy was much too eager to attend, or to read his meaning.

"Only think, ma'am. Do but hear! All of us are ordered off from Fontainebleau to Verdun. Verdun! Why, that is where Mademoiselle de St. Roques lives. We shall see her again. And I shall like that, though I don't like going farther away from England. That is horrid. Everybody is saying what a shame it is! Must we go, do you think, Den? Verdun is a fortified town, they say, and we are to be in stricter keeping, all of us prisoners."

Roy liked to speak of himself as a prisoner, even while he chafed furiously against the restraints of imprisonment. He could not make up his mind to the indignity of being looked upon as too young to be worth detention. Thirteen years old!—with a Commission in His Majesty's Army already secured! Roy was very conscious of his prospective position. "I am quite as old already as lots of middies," he would declare, "and only two years younger than General Moore when he began to be a soldier."

"You should not startle your mother, Roy," the Colonel said gravely, as Mrs. Baron sat up, her eyes wide and terrified. "It is necessary sometimes to think of other people before yourself. You understand?"

"I'm sorry, sir; but is it true?" asked Roy, too much excited to be penitent for more than three seconds. "Are we really and truly going to Verdun?"

"It is true, unfortunately. Den and I were told this morning of the order at appel. But you should have waited until I spoke."

Roy began to see the nature of his blunder, too late for reticence.

"Then we really are going! I shall like to see Mademoiselle de St. Roques again, only I would rather, ever so much, be going home. Shall we do it by diligence, papa, or poste, or will you have a carriage? Only four of us, and they say we may do it any way we like."

Colonel Baron made up his mind to take the bull by the horns there and then. He would have preferred to tell his wife quietly, with no spectators, but since Roy had hurried matters on, he felt that it was best to speak out at once.

"I shall probably have a carriage for your mother and Denham and myself, Roy," he said slowly.

"And me!"

Colonel Baron was silent, with a silence which spoke more plainly to his wife than to Roy. Mrs. Baron knew what it meant, while Roy merely supposed his own name to have been inadvertently left out.

"What does all this mean, Roy?" his mother was asking, in a low voice. "Tell me."

"Why, mamma, I suppose old Nap wants to have us all more out of the way. Perhaps he thinks Nelson will come and set us free some day." Roy laughed. "Lots of détenus and prisoners are ordered off to Verdun, from here and other places too. And everybody says it is such a tremendous shame, this cold weather? Why couldn't they settle things sooner? It's horrid of him."

Mrs. Baron stood up, and with her slow graceful step she moved across to Roy. Colonel Baron waited silently. He knew that in her mind, as in his, was the promise she had given months before, that if they should have to go farther away from England, she would then consent to Roy's immediate return home. The dread of this had been on her all through the autumn, and now abruptly the blow had fallen.

Mrs. Baron would not draw back from her word—Colonel Baron knew this—but neither would she try to hide what the keeping of it would cost her. The détenus had pretty well ceased to hope for any speedy release from their captivity, and she could not but be aware that a parting from her boy at this juncture might mean long separation. If Mrs. Baron idolised her husband, she idolised her son only one degree less. It was hard to be away from Molly, but in that respect Colonel Baron was the greater sufferer of the two, since he had always especially doted on his little girl. To send Roy away would be to Mrs. Baron simply heart-breaking. Yet she felt that it would have to be. She had promised, and Colonel Baron would not let her off her promise.

She laid one slender hand on either of the boy's shoulders, looking into his face with a fixed wistful gaze, while tears gathered heavily in her eyes. Roy was puzzled.

"Why, ma'am, you don't mind it so much as all that! I would not cry for old Napoleon!"—forgetting a certain little past scene in an upstairs Paris bedroom. "And I'm tired of Fontainebleau. Aren't you? I think I sha'n't mind a new place. I wonder what Verdun is like. Please don't cry, mamma," entreated Roy, holding himself very upright.

"My dear Harriette!" remonstrated the Colonel.

He came close, and she turned from Roy to lean against him, breaking into bitter sobs.

"My dear heart, you must think of the boy—not of ourselves. Think how much better for him to be at school in England. But for Den, this life would be ruination for him." For Ivor, after acting as Roy's nurse, had made himself tutor and guardian and companion to the lad; and Roy by this time was ready to maintain against a world in arms that his equal for either lessons or play did not exist on earth. It had been, indeed, Ivor's chief consolation in captivity to look after Roy, and the two were warmly attached.

"How soon?" Mrs. Baron tried to ask, her voice half strangled with tears.

"In a few days. Not directly. There is time for arrangements. We must find an escort for him, if possible."

"Am I to go home?" Roy inquired, as the meaning of his father's words and his mother's distress dawned upon him. "Will Napoleon let me?"

An exchange of glances took place between the gentlemen.

"I hope so," Colonel Baron replied cheerfully. "You are not a détenu, Roy, and there is no reason why any difficulty should be made. I must apply at once for a passport." Colonel Baron's mind misgave him as he spoke, for he had heard lately of more than one instance in which such an application for a passport had proved a failure. Although English ladies and boys under eighteen were not avowedly prisoners, yet every possible hindrance was beginning to be placed in the way of the return of anyone to England. This made him only the more desirous not to put off any longer getting Roy across the Channel.

Roy stood thinking.

"And I shall see Molly again," he observed. "I shall like that. It does seem an awful long while since I left her. Shall I go to school at once, sir, and shall I spend my holidays in Bath till you and mamma come back?"

Mrs. Baron hid her face.

"Yes, of course. I see—I ought to go," pursued Roy. "It wouldn't do for me to stop on here. In two years I've got to be a soldier, and then Napoleon would think he had a right to keep me altogether. That would stop me from fighting, and I should have to give my parole, I suppose, and to be a regular prisoner. Yes; I'd much better be off. How soon, I wonder? And I'll take letters home. It will be jolly to see Molly again."

Roy was making matters worse, and Ivor stood up, throwing aside his book.

"Come!" he said shortly, with an imperative sign, and Roy followed, not knowing why. Outside the house Ivor said, "You must be more careful. You have to think of your mother's feelings."

Roy looked up in surprise.

"Did I say something wrong? Why, what was it?"

"Could you not see? She is breaking her heart at the thought of losing you. Just imagine what it will be to her, not to have her boy any longer. Don't let her think you are pleased to go."

"But I'm not glad to leave her—of course not. I'm only glad to go to England, and to see Molly, and to be able to fight. I should think she understood."

A curious expression crossed the other's face. "You can hardly expect her to want you to fight. That's not the way with mothers, you know. The last thing she would wish would be for you to hold back, but still, she will be unhappy. And, Roy, don't you see yet that a brave man has to be kind as well as brave, especially where women are concerned? You can't possibly know what{179} the parting will be to her, but still, you can manage to be kind."

Roy showed signs of being impressed. He knew Denham to be so gallant a soldier that words of this sort coming from him had especial weight. Neither spoke again directly. Roy walked fast, doing his best as usual to match Ivor's long stride, though compelled now and then to make a droll little extra step, if he would not be left behind. His face had taken a look of supreme seriousness.

"Yes, of course," he said, at length. "I see. I suppose that's what we men have to do. I mean—we have to try not to make women unhappy. I used to set Molly off crying sometimes. I didn't mean to, but I did, you know. She thought I meant things I didn't mean, and I used to call that stupid. But I daresay it's only that she's a girl, and so she can't help it. When I get back, I mean to do my very best never to say one single word that can make her cry. Because I'm ever so much the strongest, and I'm very nearly a man now. But Den, it won't be going home. I suppose my home will be in Bath, won't it—like Molly?"

"Until your father can return—yes. The London house is let for the present."

Roy's face fell somewhat.

"It won't be the same thing at all, will it? And I shall miss you all too; but I suppose I ought to go."

The application for Roy's passport was duly made, and a formal reply promised attention to the application. There the matter stood still. Days passed, and the time for their start drew near. Colonel Baron deferred their journey as long as possible, hoping that Roy's passport might arrive in time. He took further steps meanwhile, urging upon the officials a speedy compliance; but his efforts were fruitless. He had found an English lady, who also was anxious to return to England, and she had promised to take charge of Roy. But her passport, as well as that of Roy, was not forthcoming. It became evident that obstructions were deliberately placed in the way of their leaving France.

Some discussion took place as to the possibility of leaving Roy behind in Fontainebleau, for the chance of a passport being sent soon, but this was felt to be too great a risk. Such friends as the Barons had made were among the English détenus, and these, like themselves, were ordered to Verdun. A good deal of kindness had been shown to English prisoners by French residents at Fontainebleau, but there was no one with whom the Barons could contentedly leave Roy. They slowly made up their minds that he must go with them to Verdun. Not Colonel Baron only, but his wife also, by this time regretted greatly not having sent Roy home at the first, when passports had been more readily granted.

Roy rebelled angrily. He had liked to talk of himself grandly as a "prisoner of war," all the time feeling that he was free. It was another matter to find himself in truth not free, but almost as much of a prisoner in France as those who were compelled to give their parole.

"It's too beastly disgusting," he declared to his chief confidant, having managed in his mother's presence to restrain his regrets. "That old beast of a Boney! I wish I could shoot him!"

"Roy, you must be more careful; walls have ears in France. If you abuse the First Consul, you will some day get yourself into serious trouble. This is not a land of free speech, like England. Your father and I could do little for you if you fell into the hands of the gendarmes. We are prisoners ourselves."

"But isn't it hateful? Only think—if I'm kept on here for two years I sha'n't be able to go into the Army directly I'm sixteen."

"We may have peace long before three years are over. No use to look forward so long."

"He hasn't any right to keep me. I've a right to go home."

"I'm afraid the First Consul cares little for any man's rights, except his own. But you must be brave and not give way. Think of your mother, not of yourself. We are all sufferers together. And, after all, the passport may arrive later. You could return home from Verdun, though it would be a longer journey. It will not do for us to delay starting any more. We have barely allowed ourselves time to reach Verdun by the latest day specified."

"Den, don't you want to go home?"

Did he not want it? The handsome bronzed face, which had of late grown thinner than its wont, looked quietly at Roy. "Sometimes I would give my right hand to get away," he confessed. "Yes, I want it—more than you can know, perhaps. But these things do not come of themselves. They are allowed, for some good purpose."

"You don't mean that God wants Napoleon to behave in such a way?"

"No; certainly not. But it may be His will that you and I should have this opportunity to be patient and brave. It's a great trouble for both of us—no use to deny that. And to be brave in captivity is much harder than to be brave in fighting. But it will come to an end in time. Napoleon will not be allowed to go on always unchecked."

"I suppose he is angry because he can't make England do whatever he chooses, as he makes Germany and Prussia and Austria and all the other countries. And so he punishes us."

"That may be it. My own belief is that Britain is called upon to save all Europe from a hopeless thraldom, and that in time we shall see her successful. But we may have to wait a while first. Only, while we wait, we mustn't forget that God really is over all. He sometimes lets bad men have their way for a time, but in the end truth and justice and freedom will conquer."

"I don't think mamma is sorry that I'm going to Verdun," Roy said.

"She is sorry for your sake, not for her own. That is much what I feel about it."

Roy looked up quickly.

"Would you have been sorry? Would you have missed me?"

"Much more than you can imagine. I have been wondering what I should do with myself without my friend Roy."

The boy flushed up.

"Den, am I your friend truly? Do you like to have me?" He clutched the young Guardsman's arm, with a quick gesture. "Would you be sorry if I went?" He read a plain answer in the other's face. "Oh, then I don't mind, then I'll be glad I haven't got a passport. I don't care, if you like to have me. I thought I was just a bother."

"I'm not so selfish as to wish to keep you here, and if a passport comes I shall be glad. But you have been no bother. It is bad enough anyhow, going to Verdun. It would be ten times worse if we were leaving you behind. You are the one bit of cheer left to us."

Another furtive clutch on his arm.

"I'm glad. I'd rather be your friend than anybody's. And I promise to work hard and to do whatever you like." Then, in the same breath, "How soon shall we see Mademoiselle de St. Roques?"

"I have had a letter from her. That is one little piece of good news. I wrote to ask if she could recommend us where to go for rooms, and she tells me that the old people with whom she lives would be glad to let the upstairs floors. She promises that they would do their best to make us comfortable, and suggests that we should go there on our first arrival, to try how we like the accommodation."

"And shall we?"

"Your father seems willing. Even if it does not do for a permanency, we shall have time to look out. But probably it will do very well. Prisoners must not be over particular."

"And are the people she lives with noblesse too?" asked Roy, who had heard a good deal about the old French noblesse and their sufferings in the Revolution, during the last few months. "Will they wait upon us? It would be funny to have an old nobleman handing the plates at table."

"No; I think M. and Mme. Courant are bourgeois. But evidently they have been very good to Mademoiselle de St. Roques, whose parents really did belong to the old noblesse. Probably they may keep a servant to wait upon us, and we must not mind if things are rather rough."

"I shall like to see her again. But I would rather go home to Molly—much rather!" murmured Roy, his face falling. "Except for staying with you and the others."

One day later, passports being still withheld, Roy started, in company with his parents and Denham, on the cold and dismal journey to Verdun. The Colonel secured a large roomy old coach or chariot, which had once belonged to some well-to-do person,—probably a nobleman, since decapitated. With relays of horses, even though the horses in question were somewhat sorry beasts, they made fairly quick advance.

(To be continued.)

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OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

By CHARLES PETERS.

The life history of the lily is one of perpetual growth. The lily never lies dormant.[1] In the severest frost, or in periods of great drought, this plant is ever developing. As soon as the flower-stem has died down, the bulb begins to form fresh roots and continues to do so until the time comes round again for it to send up its flower spikes. Lilium Candidum throws up a winter crop of leaves during the autumn, but the other lilies perform all their winter labours below ground.

Let us follow the life of the lily through the year and see how each particular season has its special work and dangers.

We have planted our bulbs in November. They will do nothing but form roots till about March. During this period most bulbs will stand any frost that we are likely to have, but those of L. Wallichianum, L. Catesbaei, and one or two others, occasionally die during severe frost. Though cold does not appreciably injure lily-bulbs, it is far otherwise with wet. As we have said before, lilies love rain when the stems are growing, but when the bulbs are making root in winter they do not like much moisture. If the soil is perfectly well drained, we much doubt whether any quantity of rain would cause the bulbs to rot. But in soils where stagnant water can lie about the bulbs, the result of a wet winter is often disastrous.

"Our soil is a stiff clayey loam, but we wish to have lilies. What can we do to render our ground a fit place wherein to grow them?" You can do one of two things. Either you can provide that the lilies are well drained by digging deeply and filling in with crocks, stones, etc., and mixing plenty of sharp sand with the soil; or else you can follow the Japanese plan of placing the lily bulbs on their sides. Bulbs with large, open scales, such as those of L. Brownii, suffer much more from wet than such compact bulbs as those of L. Umbellatum, etc.

The second stage in the growth of lilies dates from the appearance of the shoot till the opening of the flower-buds. We have already described the treatment necessary at this stage. It is at this time that you must guard against drought and slugs, and look out for diseases.

The opening of the flower-buds is the most anxious but also the most exciting period in the life of the lily. When the buds have begun to change colour a good drenching of the roots with very weak liquid manure will materially help to develop the flowers. Do not give liquid manure before this time, and never give more than two doses to any plant.