[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 29.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, JULY 19, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
SOME CHEERING ASPECTS OF MORTALITY.
When eminent men die, we are accustomed to say that the world has lost
something; that their country or party is poorer; that none are left
to fill their place, and other such expressions. But very seldom do we
hear it said that the world gains when great men die; yet we have no
hesitation in saying that the world often gains more by the death of
leading men than it would do by their living indefinitely, or even much
beyond ‘the allotted span.’ Again, it is not our custom to look forward
to the day of our own death as a gain either to ourselves or the world.
We somehow think that no one could exactly fill our shoes or act the
part we have done; but as a matter of fact, our shoes may be better
filled and our part better acted by the generation which follows. This
fact ought to humble us a bit; and perhaps we need humbling, for there
is just the trace of a tendency among moderns to underrate the men who
have immediately preceded them, or who may be going off the far end of
the stage as we take our places at the near.
Noble lives have often been spent to little purpose so far as their
contemporaries were concerned. The fact is, ‘No man is a hero to his
valet,’ nor is any man ‘a prophet in his own country;’ and as ‘distance
lends enchantment to the view,’ it is only when the world’s best men
have been hid from sight in the greedy grave, that their influence has
been felt in all its power. We are apt to hold even the oldest and best
of our contemporaries in light esteem; but we reverence the ancients.
Nay, many of earth’s noblest sons have been bitterly blamed, and held
up to scorn and derision in their lifetime; and not till death stepped
in and took them away, did the world discover its mistake.
A poor shoemaker rises while others sleep, and searches among the
wayside weeds of his native lanes, his only inspiration being his
thirst for knowledge, and the joy of adding a few plants to the known
flora of his native land. His neighbours deride him, are doubtful of
his sanity, and think his life a sad warning to the peasant lads around
who may show signs of leaving the beaten path of the monotonous life
their fathers trod. Unmindful of scorn, in defiance of fate, he goes
forward in the thorny path he has chosen for himself, gaining knowledge
that is quite new, making discoveries that were reserved for such as
he, and at last becomes possessed of an herbarium famous for containing
specimens to be found in no other. All the while he is unheard of,
or heard of unfavourably; but when he grows old, and, tottering on
the brink of the grave, hands over his precious scraps to the nearest
university, he becomes famous. A coterie of appreciative men in
far-away London collect something to relieve his pressing necessities,
and—the matter ends. But he dies, and _then_ the world gains—not the
blood and toil stained herbarium, but the stimulating example of a
hero’s life, which, though it repelled the youth of his own time and
district, becomes a burning and a shining light to lighten the path
and fire the noble ambition of every youth who reads the story of the
heroic struggles which bore him above the swamping waves of prejudice,
of poverty, and of scorn.
When that amiable young man the Prince Imperial fell, done to death by
Zulu assegais, there arose from nearly every heart in the civilised
world a sigh of sympathy for his bereaved mother, and a tear was
dropped by many, as they thought of the far-reaching possibilities
blotted out by African savages. Yet who can doubt that that tragedy
saved a whole nation of men, perhaps for generations, from a host of
plotters against the destiny of their own country, not for Bonapartism,
but for ends at once selfish, unpatriotic, and unworthy.
In the backwoods of America is born the son of a struggling farmer, who
dies ere his son can earn a crust to sustain life. A noble woman, his
mother, has a hard battle to fight in the rearing of her family; but
bitter though the conflict is, her heroism gains the victory for her
in the unequal contest with want and weakness. Her son, sharing his
mother’s hard lot, showing her nobleness of character, determines to
‘be somebody;’ to serve the world in his day and generation; and, by
efforts such as only heroes make, rises step by step in learning and in
every art that dignifies man. From being a backwoodsman’s son and from
a condition of penury, he rises ‘from high to higher,’ till he fills
the seat of a great Republic, and becomes
The pillar of a nation’s hope,
The admiration of the world.
His influence for good is immense, and he promises to use it well.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, a ruffian’s shot lays him on his deathbed. The
world, first shocked, and then moved by pity, cannot help exclaiming
that this is indeed a kingly man. Bright as shone his light, it only
lighted one nation before; but the flash of that pistol made him the
observed of distant peoples. He dies; and the dead Garfield wields an
influence for good such as a thousand living Garfields never could.
But it is not alone by the rich legacies of well-spent lives which
men leave us when they die, that we gain. It is often necessary that
even good men should be removed, to allow of the world’s progress—much
more bad men, especially if they wield a far-reaching influence. Of no
men is this more true than of statesmen. When in Europe one man once
heads a party, he generally remains leader while he lives. The world
would not suffer from this, if the leaders of parties would move as the
world moves; but they are apt to lag behind. When this is the case—and
it is constantly occurring—a country may be brought to the very brink
of revolutionary overthrow. At times, nations and dynasties have been
saved, simply because death stepped in and removed the obstacle with
which the body-politic threatened to come into collision.
Sometimes men pursue a certain course, not that it is right, not even
that they think it is right, but because they stand committed to it.
Oftener, men hold upon a course that everybody but themselves sees is
wrong, believing it to be right; but it is only prejudice that blinds
them. This is very apt to be true of us all. When once we have chosen
our way, we generally keep on till death stops us. Our religion, our
politics, our very prejudices, we rarely modify; and we seldom inquire
why we hold certain religious or political creeds. Occasionally, a more
than ordinarily strong-minded man has courage to think for himself,
and even goes the length of acting for himself; but such cases are
comparatively rare. Were men not mortal, were men even to live as long
as did the antediluvians, progress in the world would be very slow.
Threescore years and ten we may hold the world back, but no longer. We
hold very different opinions from our grandfathers; but had they lived
till now, it is doubtful if they would have greatly modified theirs.
Enlightened as we think ourselves, it is quite probable that the
generation that acts a century hence may wonder how we managed to rub
along in our benightedness!
Many men are morbidly fearful of being thought inconsistent, and will
rather hide their opinion than run the risk of being thought so.
Though a man may cling thus to what he may have reason to believe is
not quite correct, for fear of being inconsistent, nobody will blame
his son, far less his grandson, for maintaining exactly the opposite to
his father’s opinion. Thus, as men die, errors die; as they are swept
from the stage of life, their opinions are replaced by more forward
ones, held by the men who fill the shoes of those that went before.
As the Angel of Death is the destroyer of prejudices, so is he the
healer of national animosities. The Scotsmen and the Englishmen who
fought so fiercely and hated so bitterly at Bannockburn and at Flodden
are long since gone, and in their place there is a living race of
Scotsmen and Englishmen who belong to one nation, and are proud of each
other. Eighty years ago, Frenchmen and Englishmen hated and fought
as fiends hate and fight; but death has taken the haters away, and a
new race of Englishmen and a new race of Frenchmen to-day regard each
other in a very different way. To-day, the Frenchman spends his surplus
hate on the Prussian, and the Prussian returns it with not a little
insolence, by way of interest. But Death has a drug that is potent
enough to quench even _their_ animosities; and when he has had time
to practise his art, there will remain Germans and Frenchmen ready to
acknowledge that there is room enough in Europe for both; to respect
the greatness of each other, and to exchange, not rifle-shots, but
friendly greetings.
For centuries, misgovernment has sown evil seed in unhappy Ireland,
and the result is a race of Irishmen smarting under a sense of wrong,
and crying out accordingly. Were men to live for ever, were memories
to live for ever, Ireland never would be pacified. Bit by bit, justice
is being done to Ireland, and man by man, death is removing those in
whose breast the sense of wrong swelled till it has developed into
fury. By-and-by their hatred will be extinguished; in course of time,
the animosities between landlord and tenant will be buried. Death sits
final arbiter in many a strife.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.—WHIRLWINDS.
Miss Hadleigh was always effusive in her welcomes, and on the present
occasion she was more effusive than ever in her reception of Madge.
‘I have been dying with anxiety to see you, dear; and if you had not
come to-day, I should have gone to Willowmere, or sent for you.’
‘I am glad to have come at the proper moment, then—when you wanted me.’
‘Oh, it is most, most fortunate!’ (She found a difficulty in
discovering a sufficient superlative, and so doubled the one at her
command.) ‘And it concerns you as much as us, for it is about Philip
and his uncle.’
Madge had not been excited with curiosity about the cause of Miss
Hadleigh’s anxiety to see her; and even now she was not disturbed,
although more interested, when she learned that Philip had something to
do with it.
‘Has anything particular happened?’
‘We don’t know yet, dear; that is what vexes us. Philip has not been
here for—oh, ever so long; and such strange things are being said
about them in the city, that a friend of mine’ (a pretty simper here)
‘considered it to be his duty to come out expressly to tell me and ask
if I knew anything.’
‘But what is being said and who has told you?’ inquired Madge, still
undisturbed, and even inclined to smile, having experience in the young
lady’s way of revelling in exaggerations on the most trivial occasions.
‘Alfred—that is Mr Crowell, you know.’
The correction was made with a little self-conscious smile, as if she
were saying: ‘Of course you know that I have the right to call him
Alfred.’
Madge bowed.
‘Well, Alfred tells me that people are saying that Mr Shield’s great
fortune is a great bubble swindle; and something about bulls and bears,
that I don’t understand; and that poor Philip will never be able to
meet the engagements he has made in the belief that this man possessed
millions. He has been dreadfully deceived; but nobody will believe
that; and Philip will have to suffer all the blame, because the thing
has been so cunningly done that nobody can touch Mr Shield. He is not a
partner, and is in no way responsible for what Philip said or did....
It is perfectly frightful, and has made me so nervous that I really
don’t know what I am doing ever since Alfred went away. Alfred is so
generous and so brave—he has gone to search for Philip, and see if
anything can be done to help him out of the mess.’
Making all allowance for probable and possible exaggerations, this
news was startling, and it was rendered more so by the excited
interjectional manner in which it was conveyed. But it obtained
additional significance when she remembered what Philip himself had
said of his worries, and what had passed between her and Mr Beecham.
No doubt, Philip, desiring to spare her anxiety, had made too little
of his difficulties, had avoided details, and left her to believe that
they were only of such a nature as to involve temporary embarrassment,
which could be overcome by coolness and resolution. Alfred Crowell,
being under no constraint, had blurted out the truth—or rather, he had
found the rumours of such importance as to induce him to make a special
journey to Ringsford to inquire into their truth. That he should make
the rumours an excuse for an extra visit to his betrothed was out of
the question. He came and went at will.
If it were true, then, that Philip had fallen into or been led
into such desperate trouble, what was she to think of Mr Beecham’s
assurances that no harm should come to him? And she had pledged herself
to remain silent!
These things passed through her mind as the panorama of a whole life
appears in one picture to the eyes of a man who is drowning. But with
the same rapidity came the suggestion of what should be done.
‘You ought to seek the advice of your father.’ The voice was a little
husky, but the manner was decisive.
Miss Hadleigh moved her hands—they were neat hands, and she was fond of
displaying them—gently upward and stared in despondent astonishment.
‘We dare not speak to papa about anything connected with Mr Shield. You
can’t know how badly papa has been treated by him, or you would never
think of such a thing.’
‘Then I must do it.’
She rose and made a pace towards the door as she spoke.
‘Oh, you must not do it, dear, for your own sake!’ cried Miss Hadleigh,
alarmed at the idea of anybody venturing to speak to her father on a
subject which he had absolutely forbidden to be mentioned. ‘You will
bring us all into trouble if you do. You _do_ know that papa did not
want Philip to have any dealings with this dreadful person, and Philip
would take his own way. You could not expect papa to be pleased with
his disobedience; and you _cannot_ expect him to be ready to give
advice now, when his former advice was neglected. If you have any
notion of papa’s way, you must understand that he would only be angry,
and say that he spoke at the right time, and it was no use speaking
now.’
‘I shall not bring any trouble upon you,’ said Madge quietly; ‘and
although I see how unpleasant the subject must be to your father, I
wish to speak to him. Do not be afraid, Beatrice.’
She took Miss Hadleigh’s hand in both her own and looked kindly in the
flushed face. But although Miss Hadleigh was afraid of her father, she
could not endure to be assured by another that she need not be so.
Consequently, her shoulders went up, and her chin went up, and her
brows came down a little, whilst her tone became slightly supercilious.
‘Oh, it is not on my own account that I advise you not to speak to him
about this most painful business. _I_ was thinking of _you_; for it
_will_ be a little awkward if you make him angry and refuse to help
Philip, even when he has got rid of this most extremely disagreeable
relative. But of _course_ you can please yourself. I do not think my
brother will be grateful to you afterwards, when he learns how careful
I was to warn you.... Shall I inquire where papa is?’
‘If you please,’ said Madge, attempting to smile; ‘but you are not to
be vexed with me, Beatrice.’
‘Not at all, dear,’ was the response, in a slightly hysterical note, as
the bell was rung with emphasis; ‘my anxiety is entirely to save you
disappointment.’
‘I must risk that.’
The servant who answered Miss Hadleigh’s summons informed her that Mr
Hadleigh was in the library.
‘He spends nearly all his time there now,’ said Miss Hadleigh, when
the servant had departed with his message; ‘he goes to town seldom, and
often does not go out of the house all day.’
She was interrupted by the appearance of her father; and he was so
rarely seen in the drawing-room, except for a few minutes before
dinner—and not always then, unless when there were guests present—that
she was startled by the sudden apparition. Moreover, she had calculated
that he would send a message to the effect that he was engaged, or that
he would see the visitor in the library, and in either case, she would
have been protected from the suspicion of having any share in bringing
about the interview. She was determined that she should not be forced
to take any active part in it, and not being prepared with an excuse,
she said plainly: ‘Madge wants to speak to you,’ and went out of the
room.
Mr Hadleigh’s cold face never indicated the emotions of his mind or
heart; but his eyes, which followed Miss Hadleigh until the door closed
upon her, turned slowly to Madge, met hers, and noting her disturbed
expression, seemed to ask for explanation.
‘You so rarely ask to see me, Miss Heathcote, that I am afraid
something unpleasant has occurred.’
‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ she began quietly, but the undercurrent of
agitation was revealed by the hesitating awkwardness of her manner.
‘You ought rather to say that you know I am willing to be disturbed
whenever you wish to see me,’ he rejoined, with that suggestion of a
smile which appeared at times to her and to no one else.
‘Thank you—thank you. But have you not heard that Philip is in
difficulties?’
‘What kind of difficulties—about money?’
‘Yes, yes; and his uncle, it is said, will not help him, or cannot. But
you can, and will, if it should be true.’
Her hand touched his arm trustfully, as if to signify that her hope of
safety lay in him. He placed his hand on hers.
‘I know nothing of Philip’s affairs, and have forbidden any one in the
house to speak about them to me. He and I have settled matters between
us: he has chosen his course, and is to abide by it. You are aware that
it is not the course I should have liked him to follow; and being as it
is, I cannot interfere with him.’
‘But if you learn that he has been deceived and is on the brink of a
great misfortune—of ruin, which will bring disgrace with it—you would
not refuse to guide him!’
For an instant there was a gleam in the man’s eyes, as if he rose in
triumph over a fallen foe.
‘You must tell me what you mean,’ he said, controlling whatever evil
passion had stirred within him and speaking in his ordinary measured
tone. ‘What you say would be very alarming, if I did not think that you
must be mistaken in regard to Mr Shield. As for Philip’s speculation, I
did not think it had much chance of success, although it seemed to me
worth trying, if it afforded him pleasure, and if—as I understood—the
success or failure of his project was provided for. Has he told you
that the failure has come so quickly?’
‘No; he has not told me that failure has come upon him, but that he
feared it. The men, the work, and all the calculations of expenses
seemed to have gone wrong when he last spoke to me. Within this hour,
I learned that it was reported in the city that he would be unable to
meet the engagements he has made.’
‘You must not mind city reports about new concerns, Miss Heathcote,
for they are frequently the result of nothing more than the whispers
of rivals who speak of what they wish to happen. Rumours are seldom
circulated about an old established business without some good grounds
for them. But for Philip’s business, you will have to prepare yourself
for all sorts of ridiculous rumours. You must admit that his experiment
is peculiar enough to provoke them.’
‘Then you do not think they can be true,’ she said, drawing a long
breath of relief.
‘That would depend upon their source, as I am trying to make you
understand. You need not in any case be anxious until you have definite
information from Philip himself. I do not like to speak about Mr
Shield; but, eccentric as he is, I do not think he would leave him in
the lurch, when he knows that so long as Philip continues to hold the
position of his heir, I shall do nothing for him.’
‘Not even if Philip had been deceived?’
‘Not even then.... But I will do anything for you.’
‘And that will be the same thing,’ she said, her face brightening.
‘Not quite,’ he observed with a coldness that was almost harsh.
But she did not observe the difference of tone and manner: she
only felt that here was the opportunity to make Philip’s rumoured
misfortunes the means of bringing about what Philip most desired—the
reconciliation of his father and Austin Shield.
‘You say you would do anything for me,’ she said after a moment’s
reflection, her expression becoming very serious as she lifted her eyes
to his with pensive inquiry.
‘I have said it.’ The coldness had left his voice, and in its stead
there was a subdued fervour, which indicated how much he was in earnest.
Then she looked at him steadily for a minute—still with that pensive
inquiry in her eyes.
‘You were kind—most kind and generous to me, when you desired that I
should stop Philip from going to Mr Shield. You were kind, too, in the
calmness with which you accepted my explanation why it was that I could
not comply with your request. I am grateful.’
‘Do not speak in this formal way,’ he interrupted—a very unusual breach
of manners for him. ‘Tell me what it is you want, and if it is in my
power, it shall be done.’
‘It is quite within your power’—she was speaking very slowly—‘but as I
understand, you will find the task a most disagreeable one.’
‘That does not matter. Try me.’
‘Your readiness to promise makes me afraid to speak.’
‘That is not fair to me, when you say that the task is quite within my
power.’
‘It is, it is; and it has been in my mind for months to ask you to do
it.’
‘If it is to serve you, have no hesitation in asking.’
‘It will be a great service to me, because it will add very much to
my happiness and to Philip’s. I know—I have been told by yourself and
others—that your relations with Mr Shield were of an unpleasant nature.’
As she made an awkward pause, he bowed his head slightly, and the cold
expression was beginning to appear on his face again. Her voice was not
quite so steady as at first when she continued:
‘Well, will you prove to me that there was something more than a mere
good-natured desire to please, when you said that you were ready to
do anything for me? Will you agree to forget, or forgive, whatever
misunderstandings there were between you in the past, and consent to
offer your hand in friendship to your wife’s brother?’
Mr Hadleigh stood quite still and silent for a little. Whatever
surprise or displeasure he might be feeling, there was no indication
of either on his face. He was again the hard stern man he appeared
to the people around him. Madge did not like this change, and became
pale as she remembered the terrible charge which was laid against him.
She almost trembled with fear lest she should find it true; and then
there was a flush of anger with herself for pitying one who could be so
heartlessly cruel.
‘Do you know the man?’ he asked quietly by-and-by.
‘Yes; I have met him.’
‘And like him?’
‘I do; and believe him to be our friend, no matter what may be said
about him.’ Even in her present excitement she was surprised at the
singular coincidence in the nature of the questions asked by Mr Beecham
and Mr Hadleigh about her acquaintance with them.
‘Is it at his suggestion that you have made this proposal to me?’
‘He is entirely ignorant that I had any such intention.’
‘And if you had told him, he would have scoffed at the idea that I
was capable of saying—even for your sake—Yes; I am ready to give him
my hand in all friendliness, if he is willing to accept it.’ The sad
smile which lightened and softened his features appeared again. ‘Have I
satisfied you that I am ready to do anything for you?’
She was astounded by his sudden change of manner and ready consent to
become reconciled to his enemy. Then her face brightened, and there was
something approaching to an hysterical note of joy in her voice as she
exclaimed: ‘Then you are innocent! It is not true that you had any part
in the ruin of his friend George Laurence—it is not true that you had
anything to do with the report of Mr Shield’s marriage which destroyed
my mother’s happiness! Oh, I am glad—glad and grateful!’
And in the impulse of her gladness, she would have clasped his hands;
but he looked startled and drew back, as a guilty man might do. Her
astonishment took another turn: was it possible that he yielded so
readily to her proposal because he wished to make atonement for the
past?
He recovered himself instantly, and took her hand.
‘I see, Miss Heathcote, that Mr Shield has told you his version of
these unhappy events,’ he said anxiously; ‘and in justice to myself, I
must tell you mine.’
ELECTRICITY FOR NOTHING!
We recently received an invitation to witness, in London, a new method
of producing electricity for lighting and other purposes ‘free of
cost.’ The announcement that anything, with the exception, perhaps,
of the air we breathe, can in these days be had for nothing, tempted
us without delay to pay a visit to 31 Lombard Street, where, at the
offices of Mr H. A. Fergusson, the new system was to be seen at
work. Here we found a number of the now familiar incandescent globes
dispersed about a large room, together with some small motors for
driving sewing-machines, &c., the whole or any number of which could
be put into operation by the turn of various switches. These lamps
and motors all derived their electrical energy from a primary battery
contained in a cupboard. Upon looking into this cupboard, we saw a
number of wooden trays, lined with sheet-copper, piled one above
the other like a nest of drawers; and we were told that each tray
represented one cell of the battery. Further examination showed that
the constituents of each cell were a plate of zinc, placed horizontally
above a dark layer of oxide of copper in a solution of caustic potash.
Coming to the question of cost, or rather of alleged freedom from cost,
we learned that the cells were easily charged in the first instance,
and that when once charged, would remain without attention for at least
a month. During this time the battery would furnish a current. In the
process, the copper would be gradually exhausted; but by a simple
operation, could be brought back to its pristine state, and would be
ready once more for another month’s work. Meanwhile the zinc would
gradually be dissolved to form oxide of zinc. Now, one ton of metallic
zinc can be transformed in this way to a ton and a quarter of oxide—a
valuable white pigment—and as the oxide sells for a greater price than
the original zinc, the promoters have some ground for their statement
that electricity can be produced by this battery free of cost.
Unfortunately, recent experience of electric-lighting schemes has
made the public very cautious in their reception of any new thing of
an electrical nature, and there is little doubt that for some time
really promising schemes will suffer for the shortcomings of their
predecessors. It is, too, by no means the first time that a battery has
been brought forward with the intimation that it will pay its own cost
by the value of its by-products. But the effect upon the price of such
by-products of glutting the market with them, is generally omitted from
the calculations. Hitherto, such schemes have proved illusory; though
it by no means follows that they must always do so. We have the example
of gas manufacture before us, where, by careful working, the cost of
the gas could be more than covered by the value of the other products
of the coal.
A great deal of valuable information on the subject of primary
batteries for electric lighting may be gleaned from a paper recently
read before the Society of Arts, London, by Mr Isaac Probert, and
which has since been published in that Society’s _Journal_. (We may
here point out that the word ‘primary,’ as applied to batteries,
has become necessary in quite recent times, to distinguish those
which furnish a direct current from those which, under the name of
accumulators, storage or secondary batteries, require charging, in the
first instance, from another battery, or dynamo-machine. The current so
stored can be afterwards utilised, as convenience may dictate.) This
paper records in a lucid manner the numberless attempts which have
been made to utilise primary batteries; but, except for experimental
purposes, the cost has always proved prohibitive. The unhealthy fumes
given by such batteries as those of Grove and Bunsen—which were, until
lately, practically the only forms that could be used for electric
lighting—also limited their use to situations where the fumes could
do no harm. In process of time, Faraday’s grand discovery, that
electricity could be generated by a magnet, and the ultimate outcome of
that discovery—the introduction of the Gramme machine and its hosts of
fellows—gave for a time the _coup de grace_ to battery projects, and
for a long time they were heard of no more. But why was this? Let the
question be answered by the practical illustration given by Mr Probert,
which we must quote—for want of space—in a very condensed form.
Let it be supposed that a house is furnished with one hundred
incandescent lamps, the electric energy for which is provided by
a dynamo-machine and its necessary companion, a steam-engine. The
mechanical energy required for the work is, say, twelve and a half
horse-power. This is of course derived from the combustion of so much
coal; and if there were such a thing as a perfect engine where no heat
was wasted, the amount of fuel required would be very small indeed.
But, as a matter of fact, with an ordinary engine the weight of coal
required to furnish the power given would be about fifty-six pounds
per hour—costing, say, sixpence. Giving the lights a working period of
five hours a day all the year round, we have a cost for fuel alone of
forty-five pounds. Then we have to take into account the first cost
of the machinery, the interest on that cost, annual depreciation, and
attendance. We need not dwell on the separate estimate for each item,
but may state the total yearly cost of the installation at one hundred
and forty-seven pounds, or nearly thirty shillings per lamp.
Now, let us assume that instead of a dynamo-machine and its motor, a
galvanic battery is employed, and that the amount of energy furnished
is the same as before. In this case, we shall owe our energy to the
combustion of zinc in lieu of coal; and instead of obtaining the oxygen
for the process from the air, which costs nothing, we must of necessity
get it from an acid, which costs a great deal. The total amount of zinc
dissolved per hour in the acid, to furnish the current required for our
one hundred lamps, will be about thirteen pounds-weight, the cost being
nearly three shillings. Added to this sum must be the amount expended
on acids, the cost of attendance, prime cost of apparatus, interest,
depreciation, &c., bringing up the total annual charge to seven
hundred and fifty-nine pounds ten shillings, or seven pounds eleven
shillings and eightpence per lamp.
These figures will be both interesting and instructive to many persons
who wish to have some idea of the probable cost of changing their old
lamps for new ones; but they serve our present purpose in pointing out
the reason why the battery current has been superseded for lighting
purposes by the far more economical dynamo-machine. Still, it is not
every one who requires so many as a hundred lamps; and for smaller
installations, an efficient, easily managed, and cheaply working
battery would have a wide application. But it must be remembered that
electricity can now be had at comparatively little cost to light a
dozen lamps or so by employing a small dynamo-machine driven by a
gas-engine. Inventors of batteries must, therefore, remember that they
have rivals in the field, and that if they would successfully compete
with them, they must offer something as cheap and efficient. Hitherto,
this something has not appeared. But human nature is sanguine, and
the most sanguine of mortals perhaps is one in whom the inventive
faculty is highly developed. In spite of previous failures, no fewer
than one hundred and fifty patents for primary batteries have been
taken out during the past three years. Some of these are acknowledged
improvements upon past models. Many batteries now before the public
cannot be critically examined, for they employ fluids the nature of
which are kept secret. (Of course this objection cannot apply to a
patented invention, for one of the conditions of granting protection is
that the invention must be so described in the specification that any
intelligent workman can understand its nature and construction.) Others
cannot be well described without diagrams and technical details of no
interest to the majority of our readers.
To return to the primary cell of Mr Fergusson—which, by the way, is
called the Domestic Primary Battery—and putting aside all its claims to
produce electricity for nothing, we may broadly state that it possesses
many advantages. It is compact enough to be put away in any odd corner;
it is constant in its action; it seldom requires recharging, and such
recharging is a simple operation; and lastly, it has the very rare
merit of giving off no fumes whatever.
TERRIBLY FULFILLED.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER III.
Thursday evening came, and with it Captain Ferrard; and the two shook
hands with a certain guarded cordiality, as of prize-fighters about
to ‘get to business.’ But the dinner was a good one; Ferrard thawed
considerably under the influence of a bottle of old Johannisberg, and
enjoyed himself more than he had anticipated. His host treated him with
much deference, and seemed considerably impressed by his conversation.
The captain was consequently in great good-humour with himself and all
the world, and exerted himself—as, to do him justice, he well knew
how—to be agreeable and amusing and to make a favourable impression.
He was surprised also to find that this auctioneering father-in-law
of his was really a very entertaining fellow. He overflowed with
anecdote of a certain highly flavoured kind, and was full of curious
experiences; he talked a good deal of ‘shop,’ about pictures and
precious stones and such matters in the way of his trade, but it was
amusing ‘shop,’ and served to introduce many strange and out-of-the-way
facts and incidents.
The truth was that Mr Cross was taking a good deal more wine than
usual, whereby he was ably seconded in his loyal resolve to think
as well of his son-in-law and to be as friendly and open with him
as possible. The pleasingly insinuating ways of the gallant captain
were not without their effect, and the auctioneer began to feel more
favourably disposed towards him than he had at one time thought
possible. He appeared, now that one knew him, to be an open-hearted,
good-humoured sort of fellow, one who was nobody’s enemy but his own,
who was more sinned against than sinning, and so on. In his then
condition, it seemed to Mr Cross that he had perhaps been rather too
hasty and prone to think evil. His daughter, as he well knew, had her
‘little tempers,’ and might herself to some extent have contributed to
her wedded unhappiness. No doubt the young man would be amenable to
reason, and with judicious management and some outlay, might make a
tolerable son-in-law after all.
The talk at last centred itself upon diamonds, and Ferrard was in the
midst of an animated description of those belonging to certain family
connections of his own, when the auctioneer interrupted him.
‘I know all about the Frayer diamonds,’ he said—‘no one better. But I
wouldn’t mind laying you a wager that I could show you some, and not
far off either, that would beat them hollow.’
‘I think you would lose your money,’ said Ferrard.
The auctioneer regarded him with vinous solemnity. ‘Look here, my boy,’
he suddenly said; ‘I’ve taken a fancy to you, and I’m sorry we should
have been at odds so long. Perhaps I may have something else to say to
you to-morrow, and perhaps you may be glad to hear it—I can’t tell.
Anyhow, to prove to you that I’m in earnest, I’ll show you to-night
what I wouldn’t show to any other man alive. Just you come with me.’
‘Are you going to let me have a sight of the wonderful diamonds?’
laughed Ferrard, as he followed his host into the hall.
‘That’s just what I am going to do, and a little more besides. But
first of all, you give me your word as an officer and a gentleman that
you’ll tell nobody about anything you may see to-night. Promise!’
‘By all means—of course,’ assented Ferrard carelessly. He was becoming
a little bored, and had no expectation of seeing anything out of the
common.
‘That’s all right. Put on your hat,’ said Mr Cross, taking his lantern
from a cupboard and opening the hall-door.
They were absent about half an hour. When they returned, Ferrard was
in a state of dazzled amazement. He did not in truth know which most
to wonder at—the number and beauty of the gems, the ingenuity of their
safe keeping, or the fatuous folly of the man who, even under the
influence of wine, could impart such a secret to a person of whom he
knew next to nothing, except that—as the captain frankly confessed to
himself—he did not bear the best of characters. And he fairly hugged
himself at the thought, that if he played his cards well, the wealth
which was capable of affording such surprises as this might one day be
his own.
‘I am glad we did not bet, Mr Cross,’ he said, ‘for I cannot afford to
lose. They are far the most splendid diamonds I have ever seen. I must
really thank you for giving me such a sight, and especially for the
confidence you have placed in me, which I hope is an earnest of our
future friendship.’
‘Wait till to-morrow—that’s all I say—wait till to-morrow,’ said the
auctioneer thickly. ‘I’m hardly fit to talk business just now. But I
_will_ say,’ he continued, laying a heavy hand on Ferrard’s shoulder,
‘though I always knew, of course, that you were quite the gentleman,
I never thought I should have taken to any man, least of all to you,
as I have done. We had best be going to bed—it’s late; and I must
have an hour in the City to-morrow, before I meet Amy at London
Bridge.—Good-night, and pleasant dreams, my boy.’
Some men, the worship of Bacchus visits with heavy and dreamless
slumber; others it renders wakeful and uneasy. This latter was the case
with Mr Cross. He tossed and turned, courting sleep in vain; and thirst
and dyspepsia supervened on excitement. His thickly crowding thoughts
took a gloomy and despondent tone. Now that he was sober and sorry, he
anathematised his folly in betraying the secret of his safe, so closely
guarded through long years, even from his nearest friends, only to be
blurted out in a moment of ill-judged confidence to a mere stranger,
of whom he knew nothing but ill. All his old dislike and distrust of
Ferrard returned, intensified by the consciousness that that gentleman
had gained a distinct advantage over him. He determined that, although
he would not altogether go back from his implied promise, he would
hedge its fulfilment about with such conditions as should insure an
entire change in Ferrard’s habits and mode of life, and should oblige
him to cast in his lot with the class to which his wife belonged. In
this way alone, he considered, could he ascertain whether it would be
possible to trust the man and to secure peace, if not happiness, for
Amy; and at the same time to patch up to some extent her husband’s
shattered plans. At last he rose from an almost sleepless bed, feeling
ill and worried, and more disposed than ever to repeat his wish for
Captain Ferrard’s speedy dissolution.
When guest and host met at the breakfast-table, the manner of the
latter, to Ferrard’s surprise, had totally changed. He was nervous
and irritable; he complained that he was growing old, and said that a
bottle or two of wine overnight would not once have affected him in
this way. He ate little, but drank a good deal of coffee, and kept
fussing nervously with several keys which lay beside his plate, putting
them into his pockets, taking them out again, dropping them on the
floor, and grumbling at his own awkwardness; altogether, behaving like
a man considerably off his balance.
‘I’ve been up and about, for all I took too much last night,’ he said;
‘and sent my traps off to the cloak-room at London Bridge before you
were out of your bed, young man. I’ve found time to take a look at the
sparklers too,’ he added, holding up two of the keys, fastened together
by a ring. ‘Always do, every day of my life, before I leave in the
morning, and the last thing at night. Wouldn’t leave it undone for
anything you could mention. These diamonds—I meant them for Amy, poor
girl; and if—— But never mind about that just now.’
‘As I understood you last night,’ said Ferrard, who was growing
impatient, ‘you had something of importance to say to me this morning
touching our mutual relations.’
‘Well, I don’t know—I don’t know,’ replied the auctioneer. ‘You mustn’t
take everything for gospel a man says when he’s had a glass.’
The captain’s face grew long.
‘Oh, you needn’t look so glum. I’m not going back upon what I intended,
though perhaps it may not be all you were expecting. I have felt
uncommon sore about this business, Ferrard, I can tell you; and if you
and I are to patch up a bad job, you’ll have to make a fresh start
altogether, and that’s flat.’
Ferrard remained silent.
‘I’m pretty plain-spoken, and I tell you straight that I can’t bear
an idle man, and won’t have anything to do with one, if I can help
it. All the same, I want to be friends with you, and let bygones be
bygones; and so this is what I offer. Cut the West End, and racing and
billiards and gallivanting, and come into the City. I’ll employ you in
the business. If you give your mind to it and work hard, you’ll soon
find your feet; and then I’ll take you into partnership. When I go,
you will have it all to yourself; and a very pretty penny it will be
in your pocket. Your father will stop your allowance, of course; but
you and Amy can live here with me, free; that’ll save you a good bit;
and giving up your expensive habits will save you a lot more. Till you
are in the business, I’ll allow you—ah, I’ll allow you three hundred
a year; and altogether, you’ll be better off in this way than you’ve
been for some time.—Don’t say anything now’ (not that the captain had
any such intention, being stricken literally dumb); ‘think it over, and
make up your mind by the time I come back.’
He gathered his keys together with a good deal of unnecessary clatter,
and locked them into a leathern wallet, muttering something about
leaving them at his bank. Then he looked at his watch. ‘Hillo! I have
not got another minute. You must excuse me, captain—don’t hurry over
your breakfast, but I must leave you at once—there’s a deal to be seen
to before we start. Good-bye; don’t move; and think it over—think it
over.’
He had shaken hands, talked himself into the hall, and slammed the
front-door, before the captain had been able in the slightest degree
to grasp the situation, so utterly confused and astounded was he at
this sudden wreck of his hopes. Anger had no place whatever in his
mind. At another time, he might have been both amused and indignant
at the offer which had been made him and at the manner of its making.
The picture of himself as an auctioneer’s clerk, with the prospect of
becoming in time, if he were good, a real auctioneer, might have struck
him as exquisitely ludicrous; yet, though a gambler, a spendthrift, a
debauchee, he was no fool; and it was just possible that, considering
the splendid reward in prospective, he might at anyrate have seemed
to assent, in the hope of making better terms after a while. But now,
there was no room for any such speculations, for absolute ruin stared
him in the face. The auctioneer had supposed him to be hard pressed for
money; but what was the real nature of the pressure, he was far from
imagining. In a short while, a certain acceptance for a heavy amount
would fall due, renewal of which had been definitely and decidedly
refused on the very day of Amy’s visit to her father. Unless that
acceptance were taken up on presentation, it would forthwith be known
that the signature of one of the indorsers had never been written by
that gentleman; and in that case, the career of the Honourable James
Ferrard would be most unpleasantly terminated. This was more than
suspected by the holders of the bill; it was their reason for refusing
renewal; and it was their intention to use it as a lever for extorting
from the captain or his family, not only payment of the debt, but a
goodly sum, by way of hush-money, into the bargain. Money he must
have somehow, and that immediately, even if he had to appeal to his
father; a last resource which, though audacious enough in general,
he could not contemplate without dismay. Besides, the earl’s affairs
were themselves so desperate, and the amount was so large, that he had
little expectation that assistance would be possible, even if the will
to afford it were good. A faint hope of escape had been held out to
him by the auctioneer’s visit; and last night, from the friendliness
of his host’s manner and the extraordinary mark of his confidence, he
had fully expected that, with a little management, the money would be
forthcoming. But this chance was now utterly gone; and flight, suicide,
or penal servitude seemed to be the only alternatives left to him.
At this stage of his meditations, he became aware of three keys in a
ring which were lying under the edge of his host’s plate. He continued
to gaze abstractedly at them for some moments, half-unconsciously
noting certain peculiarities in the shape of the larger of them. All
at once he came to himself with a start. They were the keys of the
strong-room and the iron box; overlooked, of course, by the auctioneer
when he put the others into the locked-up wallet. To do him justice,
Ferrard’s first thought was to snatch them up, take a cab into the
City, and restore them to their owner. Mechanically he stretched out
his hand, then drew it quickly away, and fell back in his chair,
horrified at the thought which had at that moment seized upon him. He
had written the name of another man; it was done in a minute, and was
comparatively easy. But it is not easy, for the first time at least, to
take the goods of another man—to steal.
There they lay, close to his hand as it were, utterly in his power.
All that sweet and desirable money, frozen into a few crystals, the
property of this plebeian, who had so poor an idea of enjoying it, so
hateful an objection to parting with it. He tingled with envious rage
at the thought. Why, a poor dozen of them, like angels of light, would
put to the rout his persecuting demons of difficulty and danger; yet to
help himself to them would be—theft. He looked at his watch. Half-past
ten. The train was to leave at ten minutes to eleven. No doubt Cross
would discover his oversight, and return with all speed to remedy it.
He sat on and on, and gazed at the fatal keys until they seemed to
fill his eye and brain. Once a footstep approached the door of the
room. Without knowing why, he hastily moved the plate so as completely
to hide them. A servant looked in, and seeing him still there, begged
pardon and withdrew, wondering when he would have finished breakfast.
Then he softly moved the plate back, and again sat looking at the keys.
One thought ebbed and flowed continually in his mind, flowing more
and more fiercely, ebbing with surely decreasing force. To take the
diamonds—theft. Not to take them—ruin.
Half-past eleven. No cab at the door, no hurried step in the hall.
Cross must now be well on his way to Brighton, and under the idea that
the keys were safe at his bank. At anyrate, the things must not be left
lying there. Clearly, it was his duty to take charge of them until they
could be restored to their owner.
Ferrard presently rose from his chair, and put the keys in his
waistcoat pocket. Then he left the house, stealthily, like one in fear.