attain the end by more dignified means, it might be as well; but the
grandest of heroines occasionally shed tears; so I suppose it is the
best known method of making one's self comfortable; and harmless enough
when used with discretion--as heroines use it.'
'Ah, Mary, you are not talking like yourself. When you talk like that,
I sometimes think it is to conceal'----
'Well, dear; why do not you go on? To conceal what--that I am _not_
a heroine?' I asked in a jesting tone, only too glad to be able to
draw her sufficiently away from painful reflection for a little
nonsense-talk.
'I sometimes think that having larger needs than other people'----
'Well, dear?'
'Which needs have not been satisfied'----
'There is something still required to make a complete sentence, you
know.'
'Are large needs ever quite satisfied, Mary?'
'Dear Lilian--dear sister--perhaps not.'
'Mary, you said _sister_!' A soft flush in her face, and eager love in
her eyes.
'Because I meant it, I suppose, dearie; I can give no other reason,' I
said, trying still to keep the jesting tone. 'If you do not object to
an elderly sister?'
'Not if elder sisters do not put themselves out of reach of the
sympathy of the younger.'
'Put themselves,' I repeated musingly. 'May not circumstances do that
for them?'
'When will you tell me--dear Mary, when will you let me feel that you
really are like a sister to me?'
At which I morbidly shrank back into my shell again. 'When my
love-story is finished you shall hear it.'
'Finished! As though a love-story ever _could_ be finished--as though
you or I would care to have one, if it could! But you have not told me
even the beginning.'
'You have found out that for yourself, darling.'
'And am I right in thinking--I hope I am not; but---- Dear Mary, am I
to say exactly what I think?'
'Exactly.'
'Then sometimes I think that one you loved---- Mary, is he dead?'
Dead! Philip dead! I laughed in spirit. If he were dead, should I be
alive--in this way? I did not reflect that my silence and the few
tears which stole down my cheeks might seem to bear out her theory
as to my having something to regret. But I presently shook myself
free of sentiment, smilingly observing that we could not afford the
luxury of analysing our feelings just then. Sentiment would be only a
stumbling-block in our way, when we needed all the nerve, courage, and
steady self-control we could muster.
'To begin with: would you like me to make matters smooth and pleasant
with Mrs Tipper before dinner, Lilian? You would then perhaps find less
difficulty in broaching the subject to Mr Trafford, if, as I fancy, you
prefer doing so in our presence?'
'Yes; I do prefer that, ever so much; and I shall be glad if you will
tell auntie, Mary.'
As I had anticipated, we found no difficulty in bringing the dear
little lady to our way of thinking. As soon as she had in some degree
recovered her astonishment at the revelation, she expressed her
entire approval of what had been done. She was not a little shocked
and distressed to find her brother had been less perfect than she had
imagined him to be; but it appeared to her a natural and right thing
that Marian Reed should be asked to come to reside at Fairview. Even my
little 'aside,' which I thought necessary, lest her expectations should
be unduly raised, to the effect that we did not as yet feel quite sure
Marian would be a desirable person to live with, had no weight with
Mrs Tipper. She could only look at the question from one point of
view--whether it was right to do as Lilian had done. Whether the other
would be more or less pleasant to get on with, was, in her estimation,
beside the matter. There were no more complications in Mrs Tipper's
estimate of right and wrong, than there were in her niece's.
Our real difficulty was to come; and although she said no word about
it, I knew Lilian felt that it was. Arthur Trafford was dining with us;
he very rarely missed coming since Mr Farrar's death. But it was not
until after dinner, when we had returned to the morning-room (we all
preferred its cosiness to the drawing-room splendour, now), that the
subject was approached.
In reply to her lover's question, which had been asked more than once
during dinner, and was now repeated, as to how she had got through the
day, Lilian drew nearer to me and murmured: 'Mary and I went to town,
Arthur.'
'To town! What for? Why in the world did you not tell me you were
going? It was not like you, Lilian, to say no word to me about your
intention last night;' with, I fancied, a rather suspicious glance
towards me as he went on: 'I do not like the idea of your running about
like a mere'----
She looked very pale, seeking, I think, in her mind for the best way of
commencing.
'I was obliged to go; and you must try not to blame me for having said
nothing about it to you first, Arthur,' she said, in a low tremulous
tone, which I saw flattered his vanity, as proof of his power, and the
timid yielding spirit, which he was pleased to think so characteristic
of her. Not that he wished her to be timid and yielding to any one
but himself; or was ready to make sufficient allowance for her acting
according to her nature, upon all occasions.
'Blame you, darling! I am only anxious that you should be _properly_
protected'--with an emphasis and glance in my direction, which would
have given me some reason to quake, had Mr Trafford's friendship been
of great moment to me. But I was quite aware that little as I had
been in favour before, I had been steadily and surely declining in
his estimation since Mr Farrar's death; and being, therefore, quite
prepared for what was to come, I took no offence at the 'properly.'
Lilian slipped her hand into mine. 'We were quite safe, Arthur; it
is not that'---- She hesitated a moment; then added, crimsoning
to her temples: 'There is something to tell you. Poor papa made
a--communication to Mary and me, the night--at the last, Arthur.'
'A communication!' I saw he was now really disturbed; too much so
to make objection to the 'Mary and me.' 'What do you mean, Lilian?
The--will'----
'The property was to have been shared' (she again carelessly used
the word 'shared,' in her indifference to the monetary part of the
question) 'between me and--another, if papa had lived to sign his will,
Arthur.'
'But he did _not_ live to sign it!' he ejaculated, heaving a great sigh
of relief, and, somewhat to my amusement, glancing triumphantly towards
me.
I saw now that he had jumped to the conclusion that I was the 'other'
alluded to.
'No; but his last wishes would be binding to me, Arthur; even if I had
not given a promise,' said Lilian.
To spare her--I could see that he was on the verge of giving expression
to what was in his thoughts, which would have unnecessarily pained as
well as astonished her--I came to her assistance.
'Mr Farrar made a revelation to Lilian and me during his last moments,
Mr Trafford. There is another daughter living; and he begged Lilian to
do the justice which he himself was not spared to do; though the will
was prepared in which Marian was provided for.'
'Another daughter! Share!'
In his first astonishment and dismay, he was only able to compass those
two facts. But he presently added: 'He must have been raving. It would
be the height of folly to take such a statement as that seriously; of
course he did not know what he was saying.'
'It has been proved to be true, Mr Trafford. There _is_ another
daughter; and Lilian and I have seen her.'
He had had a few moments for reflection, and something of the truth, I
think, began to dawn upon him. Looking towards me, he said: 'I never
heard that Mr Farrar was married more than once, and I know Lilian was
her mother's only child.'
'Lilian's sister is three or four years older than she is, Mr
Trafford,' I explained.
He understood now, and said: 'In that case, Mr Farrar could never
seriously have contemplated allowing her to share his property with
his lawful child, Miss Haddon.--And it is all the more to be regretted
that you did not take me into your confidence at once, Lilian;' turning
reproachfully towards her. 'Such matters are generally, and very
properly, left to the management of gentlemen; and the lawyer and I
could have spared you being brought into contact with'----
'Papa left it to me to do, Arthur,' said Lilian, in a low voice.
'Because he was not at the time capable of judging what was best to
be done, and he had no male friend at hand. I can never sufficiently
regret happening to be out of the way that night. But you will learn in
time to understand the matter rightly. It would be wrong to his wife
and child--altogether false sentiment--to talk about doing more than is
customary in such cases. Proper provision should, of course, be made;
but I entirely set my face against raising a person of that kind above
the station to which she doubtlessly belongs.'
'Papa begged me to be good to her, and I must obey his last wishes.--A
moment, Arthur? It is indeed too late to draw back now. I have already
seen my--sister, and have asked her to come to live at Fairview.'
'To live! Here--with you? Lilian, have you taken leave of your senses?'
'I have told you--I promised papa to be good to her,' repeated Lilian
with a gentle persistence, for which I think he was entirely unprepared.
'Nonsense, Lilian!' he replied, with an angry glance in my direction.
'You have been badly advised, I fear. You may be good to the girl
without going to such unnecessary lengths as you seem to contemplate
doing. Besides, something is surely due to me in the matter.
Considering our relation towards each other, I have just grounds for
thinking myself very unfairly treated in not being informed of all this
before, and allowed some voice in the matter.'
Had he been anyway different from himself, I might have agreed with
him; but then Lilian would have acted very differently. Though she
knew it not, she had acted as she had done because he was what he was,
and not from any other reason. She had intuitively shrunk from telling
him until it was too late for interference; and he himself had been to
blame for that. And though she was now rather uncomfortably conscious
that, in her anxiety to carry out her father's wishes, she had
overstepped the limits of prudence, it was not because Arthur Trafford
pointed it out to her that she was conscious of it.
'I was so desirous to do what is right,' she murmured.
'And that was the best thing you could desire, my dear,' cheerily put
in Mrs Tipper. 'Never fear but good will come of it; and I really can't
see why we shouldn't all be comfortable together.'
'A sort of happy family, cats, bats, and owls!' angrily ejaculated
Arthur Trafford. 'I am afraid I should not be found sufficiently tame
for such a dove-cot, Mrs Tipper!'
Lilian laid her hand upon his arm, looking with a pained expression
into his face: 'Are you really angry with me, Arthur? Do you give me
credit for _wishing_ to vex you?'
'I am hurt at your want of confidence in me, Lilian. I do not see how
you could expect me to be otherwise.'
These were better tactics. He saw that they were, and kept up the
injured tone. Presently he asked her to go out into the grounds. I
believe he fancied that he had now found the way to influence her,
and that it only needed to get her away from our vicinity, to bring
her entirely round to his own way of thinking. He did not know Lilian
Farrar.
An hour later, she came in looking more wearied and sad, but not
worsted. Moreover, by her absolute silence respecting what had taken
place between them, I knew that she had had me as well as herself to
defend. But, as I had expected, he had not succeeded in inducing her
to alter her plans; and the first shadow of the truth had fallen upon
both. They knew that they were each something different from what the
other had supposed.
During the intervening ten days, the subject of Marian Reed's expected
arrival was touched upon as little as possible between us; though I
believe we could none of us think of anything else, we avoided anything
like discussion upon it. The only words which passed between Lilian
and me on the subject were with reference to the room which was to be
prepared for her, and one hesitating remark to the effect that Marian
might perhaps prefer the relationship not being made known, since she
could only be called Miss Reed.
Arthur Trafford had had time for reflection; and had, I think, come to
the conclusion that his wisest course was to make no more objections
for the present, but to quietly await the issue. Dear old Mrs Tipper
looked anxious and nervous, though she made one or two attempts to
smooth matters, amiably opining that the new-comer might prove an
agreeable acquisition to our circle, and so forth. But it was evident
that she dreaded the arrival of Marian Reed as much as the rest of us.
As to the financial part of the question, she judged that in her own
unconventional fashion, Lilian would be none the less happy for some
diminution being made in her large fortune. Her brother had never been
quite so happy in affluence as when he was working his way to it; and
as to herself, she had more than once confided to me that existence at
Fairview was not to be compared to the old times, when she had been
busy from morning to night keeping her little cottage-home in order.
In truth, such society as she had seen at Fairview had no attraction
for her; and her sympathies were entirely on the side of a modest
competence.
Lilian grew at length so restless and anxious, that for her sake I
was quite relieved when the day fixed for Marian Reed to make her
appearance amongst us arrived. Anything was better than the suspense
we were all in, or rather I thought so then. Lilian had received a
note from Miss Reed, saying that we might expect her the following day
by the mid-day train, and reminding the former of her promise about
sending the carriage. It was written in the orthodox boarding-school,
pointed, illegible style; signed 'Your Affectionate Sister,' and
evidently meant to be an elegant specimen of Miss Reed's epistolary
powers. It must, I think, have cost her no little trouble to join
together so many fine words to convey the intelligence that we might
expect her.
Lilian tried hard to overcome the dread, not to say antipathy, she
felt; honestly tried; but it was no use; first impressions had been
terribly against Marian Reed. The poorest cottager's child seemed a
more desirable inmate for Fairview than the elegant Miss Reed. The
nervous way with which Lilian reminded me: 'You have promised not to
forsake me, Mary,' when the time at length arrived, would have told
me how much she dreaded what was to come, had I not already known. I
made no profession--none was needed between us. She understood, and was
satisfied with my quiet way now.
We nevertheless found it necessary to clasp hands, and look for a
moment into each other's eyes, as a tacit reassurance that whatever
might come to pass we two were to hold together, when the carriage drew
up before the railway station.
We had no difficulty in recognising Miss Reed. The young lady in deep
mourning, her dress trailing half a yard behind her on the ground,
haughtily giving directions to the porter to see to her luggage, was
unmistakable.
'And, look after the carriage; I expect a carriage is'---- She
turned, and caught sight of us advancing towards her. 'Oh, here is
my sister! I thought you would be waiting, dear' (kissing Lilian
very demonstratively; I was uncharitable enough to suspect, more for
the edification of the people standing about the platform, than from
exuberance of feeling). 'Did you come in the carriage?'
'Yes; we drove over.'
This I fancy suggested the idea of a small chaise to Miss Reed; and she
expressed her fear that her boxes 'and all that' would be more than we
could take. Lilian explained that a luggage-cart was in waiting for
that purpose.
'Oh, of course!' And with a negligent air Miss Reed went through the
booking-office with us.
But the first sight of 'the carriage' was almost too much for her
philosophy. She uttered an involuntary ejaculation of astonishment
when she saw the barouche with a couple of spirited horses, and
men-servants. She, however, very quickly recovered her self-possession,
sinking back into her seat with a graceful languor, which seemed to
indicate that if she had not gone through the process before, she had
watched others doing it. She was quite at ease; and as she proceeded
to make talk about the weather, the country we were passing through,
and so forth, I saw that Lilian was much less self-possessed than was
Marian Reed, gladly leaving me to answer for her.
Much as she desired to do right, it would take Lilian some time yet to
feel that this was a sister. Her very anxiety lest she should not be
kind and considerate enough, made her appear nervous and ill at ease.
At the outset Marian Reed had placed us awkwardly, by shewing that
she meant to force the sistership upon every one's notice. I know now
that she herself experienced no sort of shame or delicacy respecting
the relationship; whilst Lilian by her very nature felt so much, and
could not in the least perceive the true cause of the other's attitude.
Indeed the very self-assertion seemed to Lilian but assumed as a sort
of self-defence against people's want of charity in such cases.
CURIOSITIES OF THE RAILWAY-TICKET MANUFACTURE.
In an article on 'Railway Tickets' in this _Journal_ for September 23,
1876, it was stated that all the railway tickets for the whole world,
except North America, are made in one establishment in the north of
England. This statement we have since found requires correction, and
in the correcting we gladly avail ourselves of an opportunity for
noticing a celebrated factory in London, which by the courtesy of the
proprietors, Messrs Waterlow and Sons (now a Company, 'Limited'), we
are enabled to do.
Like many other great establishments, Messrs Waterlow's has grown from
a small affair to gigantic proportions. Beginning with law-stationery,
then advancing to account-book manufacture, then to various kinds of
commercial printing, it has gone on step by step, until at present it
gives employment to between three and four thousand persons. Where the
several factories and commercial offices are situated would be hardly
intelligible save to Londoners; suffice it to say that most of them are
near Finsbury Square.
One of the factories, consisting of lofty buildings surrounding an open
quadrangle, is devoted to ticket making and printing, chiefly railway
tickets; and to the process as carried on there, we will now direct our
readers' attention.
The cardboard for tickets is made of a slightly spongy texture, well
fitted to take paste. It is known technically as 'middles,' and is the
foundation for two external surfaces of paper, white or coloured as
the case may be. The primitive paste-brush has long been discarded.
A cleverly constructed machine pours out a stream of paste on two
rollers, under or over which pass two sheets of paper, each of which
becomes thoroughly pasted on one side. These are then quickly applied
to the surfaces of the 'middle.' The paste-caldrons, in a compartment
by themselves, have a vigorous appetite for flour, alum, and water, and
pour forth volumes of steam. To shew what a 'bit of paste' may become
when multiplied by millions, it will suffice to say that thirteen sacks
of flour _per week_ are used in this one factory! After the pasting,
each sheet of cardboard, large enough for one hundred and twenty-five
railway tickets, is, with others of the same kind, subjected to
flat-pressure, rolling-pressure, and heat, until the surface-papers
are firmly and smoothly attached to the 'middle;' exposure to a high
temperature in heated chambers thoroughly dries them. Cutting-machines
sever the sheets into single tickets, the well-known railway-ticket
size, all precisely alike in dimensions.
Next comes the printing. Messrs Waterlow adopt four different
commercial systems in the supply of these tickets. In the first system
they manufacture the tickets throughout for the railway Companies, who
issue them ready for use to the booking-clerks at the several stations.
In the second, they partially print the tickets, leaving the Companies
to finish them according to the varying exigences of the traffic. In
the third, they sell the blank tickets, properly prepared and cut, to
the Companies; the printing in this case being wholly carried on by the
Companies. And in the fourth, they sell the machines to the Companies,
with a license to use them. To specify the railway Companies that adopt
one or other of these systems would be tedious detail. The principal
machine is a beautiful contrivance invented and patented many years
ago by Mr Lewthwaite, of Halifax, Yorkshire; and various improvements
and new adaptations have been made in it from time to time by Messrs
Waterlow.
A pile of about five hundred blank tickets is placed in an upright tube
or hopper, with just room to sink down readily. The bottom of the tube
is open, allowing the lowermost blank to rest upon a flat metal plate.
A slider, with a rapid reciprocating horizontal motion, strikes the
lowermost blank dexterously aside to a spot where it can be printed on
the back with those cautions, instructions, and references to by-laws
which most of the Companies deem proper to communicate to the public.
Another sharp stroke drives the blank farther on, where the printing
and numbering of the front or principal surface are effected. When
the blank is printed on both surfaces it is struck onward again, and
comes underneath an exit or delivery-tube, just the same height and
dimensions as the hopper or feeding-tube. Up this it is driven by
a series of jerks, until a pile of (say) five hundred is finished.
In travelling horizontally from tube to tube, and vertically up the
delivery-tube, each ticket acts as a kind of cardboard policeman,
saying to its predecessor: 'Move on, if you please.' And they _do_ move
on, all undergoing some process or other at each stage of the movement.
As the pile in one tube lessens, so does that in the other increase in
height, like the two columns of liquid in a syphon. The whole pile can
be removed from the delivery-tube at once by a dexterous hand; but woe
betide the luckless wight who 'makes pie' (as the printers call the
dropping and disordering of types in 'composing' or 'distributing');
for if a single ticket be disarranged, extra trouble is given in the
after checking and correction.
As to the various _colours_ displayed on railway tickets, some depend
on the use of coloured sheets of paper in the first instance; some on
the production of stripes of colour in a way bearing a resemblance
to the making of coloured stripes on earthenware or stoneware in the
pottery district; and some by a process more nearly resembling ordinary
printing. One of the Companies adopts a particular diagonal red line on
all tickets, distinguishing them from other tickets which have to pass
through the railway clearing-house.
The automatic action of the machine or machines is very beautiful. For
_numbering_ each ticket, a peculiarly constructed wheel is used, which
changes its particular digit every time a new blank is presented to it;
and thus the consecutive numbers are produced on a series of tickets
with unerring accuracy. A tell-tale index and a tell-tale bell, both
automatically worked, give information as to the number of tickets
printed, and the readiness of the machine to take in more food; but it
is a matter of practical detail whether and when these tell-tales shall
be deemed necessary. To give the reader an idea of how nicely this
mechanism is adjusted, it refuses to work unless all the tickets are
exactly of equal size, nicely squared, and in perfect order. It strikes
one as being almost like a thing of life to see the machine detect a
ticket from which a piece has purposely been torn off one end; its
language is virtually, 'Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther,' for it
prints as far as the defective ticket, and there stops.