KITCHEN COURTSHIPS.
Lucy secured “a girl” at last. The girl called herself “a girl,” the
registry office keeper called her “a girl,” and Lucy said within
herself that she could not very well call her anything else. What else
was she? She had not the appearance or manner of the trained servant.
She gave no sign of the habits or nature which Lucy would have rejoiced
over in “a maid.” She was “a girl,” ready to do work for a wage. She
was but a bundle of negations. Yet Lucy felt bound to take her, not
only because time pressed, but because there was really no reason why
she should reject her.
The girl gave “a reference” to a house not very far from Pelham Street.
She had been servant there for two years. So Lucy locked up the little
house with the verandah, took Hugh by the hand, and went off to inquire
“the character” of “Jane Smith.”
The house at which her journey ended was dismally dim and genteel. It
was not dirty or neglected, but it was not bright nor cared for. Jane
Smith herself opened the door. It was the last day of her “notice”
month.
The lady who received Mrs. Challoner was a limp faded personage who
listened to Lucy’s errand with such unsmiling weariness that Lucy felt
quite sorry to have disturbed her.
“Oh, Jane Smith? Well, Jane Smith is very fair—as servants go nowadays.
I think she has been with me two years. She gave me notice herself. I
forget why, really—some trifle it was. I thought it may be as well—for
when they stay too long in one place they get careless.”
“I don’t think two years is very long, and they ought to grow more
valuable the longer they stay,” said Mrs. Challoner.
“Oh, yes, of course they should, but they don’t. Two years is a very
reasonable time as things are nowadays.”
“And you found her perfectly honest and truthful and reliable?” asked
Lucy, who somehow felt shy in making these inquiries. It seemed to her
queer that the mere fact that our servants require to earn their bread
in our houses, should entitle one to ask searching questions about them
such as we never ask before admitting acquaintances to our society!
“Honest? Yes, I have no reason to think her otherwise. I never missed
anything, and any outlays she made always seemed correct. Truthful?
Well, I never ask my servants questions, I make a point of that.
I form my own conclusions about anything that happens. Reliable?
Reliable?”—the lady echoed those words with significant notes of
interrogation and exclamation—“I scarcely know how far you mean that
word to go. I found no fault with her. I never care to get acquainted
with my servants. If they do their work and give me no cause for
displeasure that is enough for me.”
There was an awkward pause.
“Do you know anything about Jane Smith’s own people?” asked Lucy.
The lady shook her head.
“No,” she replied. “I have never found it necessary to make any
inquiries. I allow no visitors. I give my servants one half-day off
every week, but I don’t give it always on a regular day. I think that
is a good plan. They get out on Sunday evening, when I expect them to
go to the pew which I occupy in the morning. I think that is giving
them every opportunity to be steady and respectable if they desire to
be so.” The mistress herself prepared to show Mrs. Challoner to the
door. She checked herself, however, to ask if her visitor would like
to see Jane then or to have a call from her that evening, and Lucy
accepted the latter alternative.
Three hours later Jane Smith came up to Mrs. Challoner’s house to hear
the result of the inquiries about her. Lucy resolved to have a little
conversation with the girl, to see if she could discover any bit of
genuine human nature beneath the professional automaton which was all
that her last mistress had required. Indeed she felt she must learn
something more about the girl than that mistress had ever known.
“Do you belong to London?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” answered Jane with a slight hesitancy, for which it seemed
hard to account. Could some mistress have raised an objection to
country girls?
“To what part of the country do you belong?” Lucy went on.
“I didn’t belong to the country, ma’am,” she said. “I’ve always lived
in a town. I come from Hull.”
“Oh, I understand,” Lucy replied. “Have you any relatives or friends in
London?”
Again the curious hesitancy.
“No relatives here, ma’am.”
Lucy began to think she understood.
“Nor any friends?” she pressed. “No friends at all? Are you engaged to
be married or likely to be so?”
Jane Smith’s expression changed.
“Well, yes, ma’am,” she admitted.
“And does the young man live in London?”
“If you please, yes, ma’am.”
“Do your people know him?” Lucy persisted.
Jane Smith looked at her timidly.
“They’ve never seen him yet, ma’am. He hopes to go down there with a
cheap trip next Easter. It’s a long way for poor folks.”
“If this is a real serious love affair, Jane—no mere silly flirting, I
shall give you leave to let him come to see you once a week,” said Lucy.
“Thank you, ma’am,” answered Jane.
Then for the first time in the whole interview she volunteered a remark.
“The last mistress—the one you saw—she didn’t allow followers. That was
why I gave her notice.”
“But she might have made a concession if you had asked her specially,”
Lucy remarked, with a laudable desire to be loyal to her own order.
“You did not do so?” she added interrogatively.
Jane Smith shook her head.
“’Twouldn’t have been no use, ma’am,” she answered decidedly. “Three
weeks running my evening out had been pouring with rain, but she took
me up sharp because she saw me speaking to him for a minute or two at
the area gate one morning.”
“Well, naturally mistresses are particular concerning who comes about
their houses,” Lucy answered staunchly. “Your mistress said she had no
fault to find with you. She told me you had dismissed yourself. Have
you known the young man long?”
“More than a year, ma’am. He’s a carpenter working in Messrs.
Muggeridge’s shop”—she named a large place of business about midway
between her former situation and Mrs. Challoner’s house.
“Well, Jane, I decide to engage you, and after a week or two, if all
goes rightly, he may come to see you once a week. Carpenters get away
from their work rather early, so all that I shall ask is that he never
stays later than nine o’clock, when you bring up my supper tray. And
I am sure you will take care I shall never regret giving you this
permission.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Jane. “Please, ma’am, you never shall.” She
seemed to take her new form of bliss very sedately.
Then a sudden thought struck Lucy. She remembered the speed of Pollie’s
wooing.
“You are not thinking of getting married very soon, I suppose?”
“Oh, dear, no, ma’am,” answered Jane. “His wage will have to rise a
bit. He’s got to do something for his mother.”
“You can understand that I shouldn’t like you to come into my service
merely to go out of it again,” observed Lucy. But her silent
reflection was that household regulations which prevent a comfortable
courtship must surely do much to promote regardless, rash, improvident
marriage.
“No, ma’am, I’ve no such thought,” said Jane soberly.
“Then can you enter on your duties to-morrow?” asked Mrs. Challoner
rather anxiously, for to-morrow was the last day of the old year, and
New Year’s Day falling on Sunday, St. George’s Institute would open on
Monday, though duties there might not be very stringent for a day or
two later.
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” answered Jane, with more vivacity than she had shown
over her love affairs. “For my time is up to-morrow morning, and it
costs a girl a good deal if she has to pay for board and lodging
between her places.”
So Jane Smith in a cab, with a big brown box, duly arrived on Friday
about noon. She was soon installed in her duties, and when Mrs. Brand
arrived to pay her sister a call on the last day of the year, Jane
“opened the door” with the dull propriety of one who has done it for
months. Mrs. Brand was startled.
“What! Is the prodigy gone?” she exclaimed as Jane showed her into the
parlour, “or have you hired a girl to help her? Lucy, that would be a
brilliant idea, for the poor old thing is too old for running about,
and yet I suppose she is a good figure-head for you to leave at home,
when you are to be so much away. I always said you ought to have two.
You’ve done too much servant’s work.”
Lucy drew her sister within the parlour.
“I have not two, certainly not,” she answered patiently, “but I had
a terrible disappointment with Mrs. Morison, and she had to go. She
drank.” Lucy spoke in the low impressive voice which marked her horror
of the discovery.
Mrs. Brand laughed.
“Oh, I expected that,” she said. “It’s the commonest thing in London
cooks. Yes, I know it’s very bad, but there are faults in everybody.
She did cook well, Luce; I noticed that when I took a little supper
with you, and I’ve said to Jem since what a comfort it was to me to
know you were getting decent food. I don’t think you should have been
so hard on her. What has become of your Christian charity? You might
have told her that if it ever happened again, you would give her
straight over to the police. That would have pulled her up and kept
her in check for a time, and you would have got the good of her in the
meantime. It’s too bad not to have had a little patience with a poor
sinner. I’m shocked at you.”
“My dear Florence,” cried Lucy in dismay, “you think me uncharitable
for discharging a servant for drunkenness and I have known you to
dismiss one for burning a pudding!”
“Oh, that’s quite a different thing,” said Florence easily, “and I
don’t know that I should have done that if it had not been that we had
visitors, and I was very much put out.”
“It would have been all the same to me if I made my sad discovery in
the strictest privacy,” observed Lucy, “but as it happened, I made it
at my Christmas dinner time.”
Florence gave a curious deprecatory smile.
“Poor old Miss Latimer and that crippled man!” she exclaimed. “Surely
they would not be very severe censors? You could have trusted them not
to make much game of your mishap, and I should have thought it was
quite in your province to have patience with a sinner and try to reform
her.”
“It might have been,” returned Lucy, “had Charlie been at home, and had
Charlie and I been alone together. But there is a time and a place for
everything. No drunkard should be in any house where a child is, and I
am left in charge of my husband’s property, and must not expose it to
unnecessary risks. We must not do wrong as a beginning of doing good.
That is the first step on a very slippery path.”
When Lucy got upon principles, Florence was generally silenced, not
because she was convinced, but because she could not understand
connecting practice with principle. With the latter, Florence never
troubled herself. The former she directed by the expediency of the
moment.
Presently she spoke again, with a change of subject.
“You got my note this morning, I suppose, Luce,” she said, “and you
know what I’ve come for. Mrs. Bray is quite hurt at not having seen you
for so long, and I promised to bring you ‘before the year was out.’ So
this is your last chance.”
“It has not been my fault,” Lucy observed soberly. “Nor can I go with
you this afternoon, Florence, unless Hugh can accompany us.”
Florence made a little grimace.
“Isn’t this girl respectable either?” she said. “Have you a written
character with her too?”
“No,” Lucy answered. “But she is a perfect stranger. I cannot leave my
child with her.”
“Very well, bring him along by all means. I own he is a credit to take
out—not like my little monkeys—for he behaves prettily and obeys at a
word. The dear old dame will be quite pleased to see him. She will say
he is like the children of her youth, and that’s her highest praise. I
daren’t take my girls; they would disgrace me in ten minutes.”
Lucy would have made the journey in an omnibus, but Florence called a
cab. The visit involved going across London to a western district far
beyond the solemn gloom of the region where Lucy had visited Dr. Ivery.
The cab was not very pleasant, the presence of Hugh as a third having
compelled them to take a four-wheeler, while otherwise Florence would
have hired a dashing hansom.
“Such a fusty smell!” Florence cried. Then, in a few minutes more:
“What a noise the windows make!” Next: “And we are crawling like
snails. But it’s always the way with a ‘growler.’”
Lucy said nothing, but innocent Hugh administered a reproof.
“Are four-wheelers called ‘growlers,’ auntie, because they make people
grumble?” he asked.
“Oh, you are too clever for anything, child!” said the auntie.
Hugh looked up astonished.
“It isn’t clever to want to know, is it?” he returned. “It’s clever
when you do know.”
The cab stopped at last; but Florence would not dismiss it.
“Let it wait,” she said. “Mrs. Bray’s hot rooms will take so much out
of me that I shall just want to drop into it when we come out.”
Of course, Lucy had nothing to do but consent. Florence often
complained that Lucy held back from mutual expeditions. Little matters
of this sort were at the root of Lucy’s reserve. Extravagances always
went on which she would never dream of, and though Florence let none of
their expense fall upon her, that was not pleasanter for Lucy, since it
forced her to accept, as favours, indulgences and luxuries which seemed
to her not only unnecessary, but even harmful for two young vigorous
women.
The exterior of the house they entered differed little from other
pretty residences of its fashionable little quarter, nestled down
beside the most aristocratic of our London parks. But once within
the door, the house had a character all its own. The pretty little
entrance hall was cut across by a broad flight of steps leading to an
upper hall, whence the public rooms opened. Of the walls of this upper
hall scarcely a quarter of a yard of the middle part remained visible,
being thickly covered with old and rare engravings and prints, the
interstices between pictures of varied size being filled by bits of
blue china and other curios. Even the portion approaching the ceiling
was decorated, though more sparsely, by ancient weapons and shields.
A ladylike maid with a pale, tired face admitted them, and led them
straight into Mrs. Bray’s presence.
Mrs. Bray was almost the last of the friends of the mother of Florence
and Lucy. What was more, she had been that lady’s ideal. The sisters
had heard their mother praise her with a warmth in which she had seldom
clothed her commendations. They had seen their mother sitting beside
Mrs. Bray actually holding her hand! As they advanced to greet their
old friend, Lucy remembered the astonishment with which that sight had
filled her girlish breast—astonishment, not at Mrs. Bray’s power to
charm, but at her mother’s self-surrender to it.
For this was a wonderful old lady. One felt at once that one was in
presence of a personality. She rose very slightly to greet them, for
she was both aged and feeble. Yet there was something in gesture and
countenance which gave assurance of warmest welcome.
“My dear Florence, sit down there where I can look at you, and peep
into the world of modern fashion. And my little Lucy, my little truant
Lucy, come and sit on this low chair at my side—the very chair your
mother always used, my child.”
Immediately the one guest was flattered and the other was gratified,
and each was put upon the best footing possible with each nature.
“Ah, but there is a third visitor!” cried the old lady, beaming down
on Hugh. “Oh, my dear Lucy, this child is so like both your father and
your husband! Look, your father’s strong chin to the very life, and
your husband’s kind, laughing eyes! Yes, Lucy, and it is you that have
thus moulded two good men into one. Now where is this young man to
sit? I know he wants to sit close beside mamma, and he shall have this
little stool; and there he is, a knight at the feet of his queen. And
now, Florence, how are Mr. Brand and the daughters?”
“Jem is quite well, thanks,” said Florence. “He sends his dutiful
regards and best wishes for the New Year. He would have come himself
but he is so busy.”
As a matter of fact, Jem had not heard or uttered the old lady’s name
for months, did not know that his wife was visiting her, and had
himself gone that afternoon to Wimbledon for a game of golf.
Mrs. Bray laughed gaily.
“I expected you both this afternoon,” she said. “I remembered your
promise to bring Lucy before the year was out. So I put aside a bit of
china for Mr. Brand to take away with him. Oh, a trifle, my dear, very
awkward in shape and very heavy! I’ll not think of troubling you with
it, but it’s the kind I know he likes, and it can wait till he comes
for it. But I tell you, Florence, I must give myself the pleasure of
showing you the dress Mr. Bray has given me for the great dinner-party
to-morrow, when we dine with the Lord Chief Justice. I’m sure you like
to see pretty frocks—you have such pretty ones yourself.” She rang the
bell while she spoke, and the genteel, tired maid came in.
“Rachel, bring down my dinner-dress again. I’m afraid you’ve just got
it put away? But I must have it down again, please!” and the maid went
off.
“I’d just been showing it to an old friend,” Mrs. Bray explained. “But
she made me cross by asking whether I was not afraid of a dinner-party
for my rheumatism. A _memento mori_, my dears. But,” she said, turning
to Lucy, “here’s a grave face saying to itself that I am a foolish and
naughty old woman to care for such frivolities!”
“Oh, no!” protested Lucy. “I was only so sorry that the maid had just
put it nicely away.”
“It is all in her duty,” said the old lady with a dash of hauteur.
“Rachel is here to do what she is told. It need not matter to her what
that is.” Then, as the maid entered with the magnificent robe flung
over her arm, the stately old dame gave her instructions how to spread
it over an ottoman so as to display its costly lace and elaborate
embroidery to the best advantage.
Mrs. Brand exclaimed with admiration, adjusting the folds, and
fingering the soft fabric as a connoisseur in its perfections.
Mrs. Bray had drawn Lucy’s hand into her lap, and was stroking it
softly.
“Ah, my dear,” she said, “don’t be hard on me for my vanity! Wait till
you’ve been married fifty years yourself, and your husband brings you
such a dress, and tells you that he does not think anybody but you
would do it justice! Think of that, my dear! I see that sweet speech
written between all the flounces and furbelows. How can you expect me
to keep my eyes off such finery as that?”
“It is very beautiful!” murmured Lucy. But the old lady knew that her
real answer was in the quivering clasp of the hand lying in her own.
“How would you like to see mamma in such a dress as that, Hugh?” asked
Mrs. Brand.
Hugh gave his head a quaint little shake, as if such an idea was very
grand; but he added—
“I shouldn’t be able to sit on her knee.”
“Ah, but you’ll be a grown-up man before your mamma will deserve such
a dress!” answered the old lady archly. “Ay, my dear,” she whispered
aside to Lucy, “if my little ones had lived to give me grandchildren
and great-grandchildren to come crowding round me, maybe I should not
have cared so much for this dress, and maybe, too, Mr. Bray would not
have been able to afford to give it to me.”
“I’m glad to see Rachel is still with you!” said Mrs. Brand, as the
maid once more took away the gorgeous garment. “I remember hearing
something about her being engaged to be married, and, as I didn’t see
her the last time I was here—it was at a reception, so I could not ask
questions—I thought maybe the event had come off.”
Mrs. Bray shook her head.
“No,” she said, “the event has not come off—it will not come off. The
man is dead—died in India. He was a non-commissioned officer, you know.
I daresay it is all for the best for Rachel. I tell her so. He had been
away more than three years, and, as I say to her, who knows what habits
he may have acquired. A change of service would have been very trying
to me. Now I daresay we shall rub on together to the end, and Rachel
can trust us to provide for her. She’s generally very sensible, poor
thing, and reasonable. I’ve never had to put my foot down firmly but
once, which was when he went to India, and she wanted to wear a ring he
gave her. A decent enough ring—nothing but engraved gold—it would have
done for her keeper-ring if they had ever got married. But, of course,
I could not allow such a thing, and she fretted a little—it was after
he had gone—and she gave me notice, and said she should take a place in
a shop. Then she got letters from him, and I think he advised her to
stay in the place where he had left her.”
“She knew where she was well off,” interpolated Mrs. Brand.
“Very likely he did not want it on his conscience that she had given up
a snug place for his ring. If he had ever wanted to change his mind,
it would have made things harder for him. I think he was a decent,
considerate sort of man,” the old lady went on. “At any rate, Rachel
stayed. It is a little depressing for me now, always seeing her sad
face. I gave her a holiday for a while, hoping she’d come back all
right. But really her face seems set that way, and perhaps it does not
mean that she feels so much as it looks.”
“It is not pleasant to have grieving people about,” assented Florence.
“It is very kind of you to be so patient and forbearing. But, then, you
have such a big and tender heart.”
“No, I haven’t,” said the old lady calmly. “I know better than that. At
any rate, you don’t know that I have,” she added with a brisk change of
manner; “for, if I have, I keep it so close shut up that I quite forget
it, and it is in danger of being starved, like naughty children’s pet
canaries. But it gives a little chirp sometimes. I am sorry for Rachel,
and that’s why I like to fancy the man wouldn’t have turned out well,
and that’s why I’ve given her all my black silk dresses. The cook
says he’s had ‘noble mournings, such as the likes of he couldn’t have
expected.’ She says, too, that Rachel wears that ring tied round her
neck. That’s rank idolatry! But I suppose they have some feelings like
ours. When I’m gone people will find among my treasures queer cuttings
out of newspapers and tags of old programmes that they’ll wonder over.
And must you really be going, my dears? So soon? A cab waiting! Fie!
Is that the way to treat an old friend? Give my love to your husband
when you write to him,” she said, drawing down Lucy’s face and kissing
it fondly, “and tell him we dine with the Lord Chief Justice on New
Year’s Day—it’s in his own professional line, you know—and that he is
to come home and follow in our footsteps, especially in Mr. Bray’s when
he bought me that dress! And good-bye, little man! And there’s a nice,
weeny, tiny coin to remember an old woman by. And you’re not to show it
to mamma till you are out of this house. And good-bye, Florence”—with a
little peck of a kiss. “And keep Jem up to the mark in sending pretty
messages. Tell him about the china. No, no, you sha’n’t take it! Ladies
didn’t carry parcels for gentlemen in my young days. Good-bye, all!”
There was weary Rachel waiting in the hall. Lucy could not pass her
without a word—it was a habit of hers never to pass a servant without
some friendly recognition. Instinctively she said—
“Thank you. I wish you a good New Year!”
The worn face flashed into tenderness. And the door closed upon it so.
(_To be continued._)
OUR LILY GARDEN.
PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.
BY CHARLES PETERS.
Although we have no true lily indigenous to our island, there is at
least one species which has established itself in England, and by this
time can claim to be called a British wild flower. This lily is the
_Martagon_ or Turk’s cap, a flower long cultivated in English gardens,
and, after the Madonna lily, the most familiar of the whole genus.
The fifth group of lilies, the _Martagons_, is the most extensive of
all. It includes over twenty species which differ widely from each
other in most particulars. The usual description of the members of
this group (“perianth cernuous, with the segments very revolute,
stamens diverging on all sides”) is certainly applicable to all the
_Martagons_, but it is equally so to the tiger-lily or _L. Speciosum_.
Most of the _Martagons_ are remarkable rather for the number of their
blossoms than for the size of the individual flowers. There are,
however, many exceptions to this; _Lilium Monadelphum_ bears blossoms
in large numbers, but the individual flowers are large and showy. _L.
Medeoloides_ and _L. Avenaceum_ bear but one or two blossoms of small
size.
The prevailing colours of the flowers of the _Martagons_ are yellow,
orange and red. A few are purple, and one rare variety of the common
_Martagon_ is white.
In a former article we sub-divided this group of lilies into several
smaller sections. We do not advance any scientific reason for so
classifying them. The divisions are adopted merely for convenience of
description.
The first of our sub-divisions is the group of lilies which we have
called _True Martagons_. This group contains ten species. In all the
members except one the bulb is perennial, and does not bear a rhizome.
They are all natives of the Old World, being for the most part natives
of Central Europe.
The leaves of the true _Martagons_ are narrow, but vary in width from
those of _L. Martagon_, which are three-quarters of an inch across, to
those of _L. Tenuifolium_, which are scarcely more than the tenth of an
inch wide. In some species the leaves are arranged in whorls, in others
they are scattered.
The flowers of this group of lilies are mostly small but numerous. In
all except _L. Hansoni_, _L. Avenaceum_, and _L. Medeoloides_, the
segments of the perianth are very revolute, which fact has given to
these lilies the name of “Turk’s cap,” from the resemblance of the
fully-opened blossom to a turbaned cap.
The true _Martagons_ are among the easiest of the lilies to cultivate,
but they have one or two peculiarities which would seem to negative
this statement. For instance, these lilies very much dislike being
meddled with. Consequently they rarely do well the first year they are
planted. It is very annoying after having bought fifty bulbs of _L.
Pomponium_ not to have a single blossom the first season. But you have
only got to wait until the bulbs have established themselves, when they
will flower year after year and increase at a prodigious rate.
All the true _Martagons_ like a cool loamy soil. On the whole they
object to peat. Many kinds, as the common _Martagon_, for instance,
like chalk, and are seen to perfection when grown in heavy loam on a
limestone bottom. The heavy, black loam of London suits the _Martagons_
very well, and we have seen these lilies in greater perfection in
suburban gardens than anywhere else.
First among the true _Martagons_ stands the lily which has given its
name to the group—_Lilium Martagon_, or _the_ Turk’s-cap lily. This
lily has a very wide range, being found wild throughout Central Europe
and Siberia. We have said that it also grows wild in England, but our
readers can hardly expect ever to see the plant growing wild in our
island. It used to be fairly plentiful in Surrey, Devonshire and the
Isle of Wight, but the rage for collecting specimens has pretty well
exterminated the species from our shores. It is, however, occasionally
met with, especially in Surrey.
The _Martagon_ lily is one of our oldest garden flowers. When once
established, it is very loath to go and very free to increase, so
in many gardens this lily has come up and flowered every year for
centuries.
The bulb of _Lilium Martagon_ is about the size of a hen’s egg, and
of the ordinary ovoidal shape. It is very compact and usually stained
on the outside with bright yellow or purple. The leaves are of a
greyish-green colour and are arranged in whorls. The flower-head is
visible when the plant is but a few inches high. It consists of from
four to forty little buds closely packed together. The lily flowers in
July, and a well-grown specimen is a very pretty object.
The flower spike forms a perfect cone or pyramid. The blossoms are
very small—about one and a quarter inches across—and borne on stalks
which grow out at right angles to the main stem. These stalks gradually
diminish in length as they get towards the top, thus producing the
characteristic cone shape. The nodding blossoms are of a lilac-purple,
splashed and spotted with claret colour. The pollen is red, the
segments of the perianth are fleshy and very much curled.
There are several well-marked varieties of the _Martagon_ lilies. The
variety _Dalmaticum_, as its name implies, is found in Dalmatia. It is
a finer plant than the type. The leaves are deep glossy green, and the
flowers are very dark purple. In another variety called _Cattaneae_,
the flowers are still darker, appearing in some lights to be quite
black.
There is a white variety of the _Martagon_ lily, a lovely little gem,
which, though rare, is one of the easiest culture. It is curious that
this is the only variety in the whole group of _Martagons_ which bears
white flowers. It is of garden origin, and is not found in the wild
state.
Then there is the double _Martagon_, about the stupidest flower which
owns the name of lily. It is extraordinary the rage people have for
double flowers. It is very rarely that a double flower has half the
beauty of the single variety. In the rose, the chrysanthemum, the aster
and other composite flowers, the double varieties are indeed vastly
superior to the single flowers. But to us all the double bulbous plants
are incomparably inferior to the single ones. In the lilies, the double
varieties are scarcely worth growing.
_Lilium Martagon_ and its varieties should be grown in masses or as a
thick border. Beyond seeing that the plants are well watered, they give
no trouble and should never be disturbed.
_Lilium Pomponium_, or, as it is sometimes called, _Lilium Pomponicum_,
is another well-known lily from Central Europe. It resembles the last
in many particulars, but the leaves are linear and scattered, and the
blossoms are not nearly so numerous as are those of _L. Martagon_.
From three to ten flowers are produced on each stem. The flowers are
nodding with the segments much recurved, and are about an inch across.
In the type the colour is a dullish-red, but there are also orange and
yellow varieties.
This lily looks well in big masses, for the blossoms are very graceful,
though perhaps rather disappointing for a lily.
_Lilium Pyrenaicum_, or the yellow Turk’s cap, is by some authorities
considered to be only a variety of the last; by others to be a distinct
species. As its name tells you, it comes from the Pyrenees, and it is
not known as a wild plant in other parts of the continent. Yet, by
the way, we see that it is sometimes included among the British wild
flowers from some apparently wild examples having been found in the
Isle of Wight. Probably these are simply garden escapes; still it is
possible that they are indigenous to that island.
Except in the colour of its flowers, the Pyrenean Martagon exactly
resembles the Pompon lily. The flowers are slightly larger than are
those of _L. Pomponicum_, and are of a fine yellow colour, spotted with
purple. The outside of the tube is red.
Lately this lily has become very popular, but it is not altogether a
desirable plant as the blossoms exhale a rank and disagreeable odour.
In the Japanese Islands is found a _Martagon_ lily, differing very
markedly from the European species, which we have just described.
This lily, _Lilium Hansoni_ by name, is very rare and not often seen
in cultivation. But we believe that in a short time it will become a
well-known and popular plant.
A well-grown specimen of Hanson’s lily stands about five feet high and
bears a pyramidal spike of yellowish-orange blossoms. The flowers are
not nearly so much recurved as are those of the other _Martagons_. The
segments are thick and fleshy, of a bright orange slightly spotted with
purple. The flowers are about two inches across. From three to fifty
are present in each spike.
This lily is one of the first to blossom in favourable seasons, coming
into flower in the first week of June.
It is also perfectly hardy, and shows no tendency to degenerate if it
is provided with suitable soil. A rich but light loam with abundance of
leaf-mould and a little peat and sand is the proper compost in which to
grow _Lilium Hansoni_.
Another lily from Japan, _Lilium Medeoloides_, somewhat resembles
Hanson’s lily, but is much smaller, rarely exceeding twelve inches in
height, and the blossoms are far fewer and smaller.
_L. Medeoloides_ is very imperfectly known. The bulb consists of a
large number of small oat-shaped scales very loosely packed together.
The leaves are in whorls. The blossoms are frequently upright, and for
this reason the plant is often included among the _Isolirions_.
Except as a curiosity, this lily is certainly not worth growing. It is
very difficult to manage, and the bulbs almost invariably rot in the
winter.
[Illustration: A LILY-GROWER.]
_Lilium Avenaceum_ is another Japanese species which very closely
resembles the last; but the flowers invariably bend downwards, and
are very slightly spotted. Like the last, it is not worth growing
except as a curiosity.
Resembling _L. Pomponium_ in many points, but of far smaller
dimensions, and with much more brilliant blossoms is the little
_Lilium Tenuifolium_. This little lily inhabits Siberia and differs
from most of the species in that the bulb is not truly perennial. Some
authorities state that the bulb is annual, but this we do not believe
to be correct. It is more likely a triennial species.
This lily must be grown from seed. Fortunately the plant produces
seed in abundance, and the seeds germinate freely, often producing a
flowering bulb in two years.
In this plant the leaves are extremely thin. The blossoms are about an
inch across, of the colour of red sealing-wax. Rarely are more than
three blossoms present on each stem. It is a pretty little flower, and
makes a good pot-plant.
_Lilium Callosum_, the callous-bracted lily, is something like a
magnified version of the last. The leaves are broader and less numerous
than in _L. Tenuifolium_. The flowers about an inch and a quarter
across, of a vivid scarlet or orange. The bracts are thick and horny, a
characteristic which has given the plant its name.
The callous lily likes a rich peaty soil, but it is very accommodating
and will grow in most good soils. It is perfectly hardy, and is of
little difficulty to cultivate.
We now come to a lily which will always be famous, not so much for
its intrinsic beauty—though, to be sure, it is a beautiful plant—but
because it is the flower which has generally been considered to be the
“lily of the fields,” the only plant mentioned by name by our Saviour.
The lily to which we refer is the scarlet _Martagon_, lily of the
fields, lily of Chalcedony, or _Lilium Chalcedonicum_.
It is doubtful whether we shall ever know for certain which flower was
referred to by Christ as “the lily of the fields.” Why the scarlet
_Martagon_ should have borne the honour for so long is difficult to
see. As far as we have been able to discover, this lily does not grow
in Palestine, and though of course we cannot be certain that it did not
inhabit the Holy Land in the time of Christ, it is very unlikely that
it did, for the lily of Chalcedony knows how to take care of itself,
and it is unlikely that it would have become exterminated.
We have no real reason for supposing that the lily of the fields was a
true lily—that is, a member of the genus _lilium_. Even in England at
the present day we call a host of liliaceous plants “lilies,” and in
the East they are very lax in floral nomenclature.
That the plant referred to was one of superior beauty is probable, but
even the meanest flower would answer to the description that “Solomon
in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”
It is commonly held now that the plant referred to was either the
yellow star-lily (_Amaryllis Lutea_) or else an anemone. But it may
well be that our Saviour meant no special blossom, but by “the lily of
the field” He intended any flower to be taken.
Before it became the fashion to “bed out” the gardens of the wealthy,
the scarlet _Martagon_ graced alike the palaces of the rich and the
cottages of the poor. Throughout England this magnificent lily was
one of the commonest of garden flowers. But when the finest gardens
were turned into puzzle pictures, manufactured out of geraniums, blue
lobelias and yellow calceolarias, all the fine old garden plants were
rooted up and destroyed, and many plants ceased to know England as
their home.
How thankful we all are that the formal garden has left us! Now it is
considered in its true light, as a vulgar waste of soil.
We have returned to the old-fashioned garden, but alas! we cannot make
old gardens at a day’s notice. We have reinstated our old herbaceous
plants, and now we are attempting to place the lily of the fields in
its old position, as queen of the flower-bed.
Unfortunately this lily is difficult to establish, though when once it
is established it gives no trouble and will grow for centuries. But we
do not often see it now in gardens, and it is doubtful if it will ever
again become a constant inhabitant of every garden, as it was of old.
The bulb of _Lilium Chalcedonicum_ is about the size of a duck’s egg,
and is very compact and heavy. The outer scales are stained with a
bright yellow colour.
The growth of this lily is peculiar and unlike any other. Good plants
grow to about four and a half feet high, and bear from four to eight
blossoms in a cluster at the top.
The lower leaves of this species are long and lance-shaped. The upper
leaves, which are extremely numerous, are small and linear and embrace
the stem, giving the plant a curious resemblance to a Maypole.
The flowers are borne in a cluster with very short pedicles. They are
of a brilliant sealing-wax red, usually unspotted, quite scentless, and
about two inches across. The segments are very revolute, and altogether
this lily resembles a much glorified edition of _Lilium Pomponium_.
There is a variety with yellowish-orange flowers. This plant blossoms
at the beginning of August.
To cultivate this lily successfully is by no means an easy matter. It
delights in a rich heavy loam of great depth and with a chalk basis.
It dislikes peat and manures. If it can have the soil it likes, it
does best when exposed to the sun all day long. This lily rarely does
well for the first year or two, but when established gives no trouble
whatever. It is a native of Greece and the Ionian Isles.
Closely resembling the last lily is the nodding red lily of Carniola
(_Lilium Carniolicum_). Comparing this lily with the last, we see
that it is altogether smaller, the leaves fewer and the blossoms less
lividly red, but spotted and usually solitary. It inhabits South
Europe, and flowers in June.
(_To be continued._)
SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen
Sisters,” etc.