Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 730

The hours passed on, the blazing sun arose, and Ralph went out into the burning glare with bent head and staggering footsteps, while words he had heard long since seemed floating round him in letters of fire: 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend.' – 'Is there none greater?' he thought. 'Is there nothing I can do to repay – nothing?'

CHAPTER I. – ASKED

The years were well on in their teens since that melancholy scene was enacted in the Indian tent – since Wrayworth consigned his only child to the guardianship of the friend whose life, at the expense of his own, he had saved on the battle-field. A carriage rolled along the snowy high-road through the cold clear air; the short winter's day was drawing to its close, and up in the darkening sky the stars were beginning to shine upon the world's most joyful season, upon Christmas eve. The world's most joyful season? We call it so, this festival, more than eighteen hundred years old; but does the world think it so? – the world, with its thousand cares and crosses, its deep and hidden sorrows, its partings and its tears? Of those amongst the myriads who keep the Yule-tide feast, how many hold it with a chastened joy! For on that day most of all our thoughts go back to other years, to other faces, to other lips that have wished us 'a merry Christmas;' to other hands, which have clasped ours so loyally, to those who have loved us so long ago!

But Major Loraine had no sad memories connected with the season as he drove up to the old house, from which duty had so frequently called him, and which he had not seen for five years. In the wide, dark, panelled hall his step-mother stood waiting to welcome him, as gladly as though he had been her own son. He was only a boy when she first came there, when the pink was fresh on her cheek and the gold bright in her hair; they had been drawn to each other then; and through the long years of her widowhood his loving care had helped to lighten her load of sorrow; so it was not wonderful that for months past she had been eagerly looking forward to his return.

The greetings over, they sat down side by side, talking, as those talk after long separation, of past, present, and future; of their acquaintances married, dead, or far away; of things on the estate, prosperous or failures; of the ball to be given next month, of the one they were going to, to-night; of how much Emma was improved since she 'came out,' how Katharine was considered one of the handsomest girls in the place, and how she might marry Sir Michael Leyland with thirty thousand a year if she liked.

'But why ever doesn't she like?' asked the Major, astonished at this new phase in the character of his worldly-minded sister.

'That is just what troubles me,' answered Mrs Loraine. 'They are all at the church now, helping to decorate. Louise wanted to stay at home to welcome you, but I sent them all off, so as to have you to myself for an hour. You will see a great alteration in Louise, Ralph.'

'Shall I, mother?' he said smiling. 'I think not. Her letters are the same always; they have altered in style a little of course in the last year or two, but it is the same spirit – the same creature.'

'But not the same face, Ralph. Remember you have not seen her for five years, which have not altered you, but which have changed her from an unformed girl of fourteen to a lovely woman; with that bright changing beauty, which has more charm for a man than regularity of feature. It is a very difficult question.'

'What is a difficult question?' asked Ralph, as his mother paused.

'What to do with Louise.'

'You hinted something of the kind in your last letter, mother,' he said gravely. 'I am sorry, but I must confess this house seems large enough for four women. You know how I am situated; you know the promise which binds me. But tell me,' he added smiling, 'what has Louise done? She seemed to me gentle and tractable enough when I was last at home.'

'I have not the slightest fault to find,' Mrs Loraine replied; 'you know I am very fond of her. You will think my difficulty very womanish; simply, Louise is too pretty.'

'And some one has told her so,' said Ralph, laughing. 'Go on.'

'It is not that; but I cannot bear to see my own child's happiness destroyed by another, who, if not a stranger, has at least no claim upon her.'

Ralph frowned slightly. 'Perhaps not,' he answered; 'the claim is upon me, and it is a sacred one. So,' he continued, 'it is a case of rivals, I see.'

'Simply this, Ralph. You remember the Levesons of Leigh Court, where we are going to-night? Their eldest son is in the – th Dragoons, and has been home on leave. Louise was away when he first came here, and he appeared very much struck with Katharine; and no wonder; she is very handsome. Well – don't laugh at me; I don't like match-making as a rule; but I thought as she seemed interested in him, there was no harm in inviting him sometimes. But as soon as Louise came home, he transferred his attentions to her. Katharine says nothing; but it makes a kind of awkwardness between them. I know she feels it, poor child; though indeed I believe Vere Leveson is simply flirting with Louise.'

Major Loraine laughed. 'Poor mother!' he said, 'you will have enough to do if you take all your children's love affairs to heart so seriously. These things always right themselves, you know. But I confess I am surprised to hear of Katharine going in for sentiment; I should have thought Sir Michael more in her line. Is that all, mother?'

'No; only the first of my difficulties,' she answered half sadly. 'You know what my health has been for the last few years; you know – Well, you do not wish me to speak of that; but it is better to look in the face of possibility. Suppose anything happened to me, Ralph, what would become of Louise?'

'You speak of what I hope may be far distant, mother,' he answered tenderly. 'But why should you be uneasy about her? In the event of her not marrying, she would always have a home here with me.'

Mrs Loraine shook her head. 'Turn round and look in the glass,' she said; 'thirty-nine is not such a very formidable age.'

He turned, and contemplated his bronzed face in the glass; such a handsome, noble face, telling of a nature that could not act falsely or meanly. The broad square forehead, marred by a sabre-cut, and the dark hair flecked here and there, by the Indian sun, with gray; nothing else to find fault with in the frank kind smile, the fine regular features, the dark true eyes.

'I think there is no fear of my being taken for younger than I am, mother,' he said, smiling.

'It is an awkward position for you, though,' she answered; 'and as I said, a difficult question what to do. We must hope for the best, Ralph. You are going to join the others now, I suppose?'

'Yes; I think I can find my way.'

He went out into the keen frosty air, walking slowly, though it was unpleasantly cold to one accustomed to tropical climates. He was thinking over his mother's words, and knew she was right as to the awkwardness of the position. He saw the peace of the household was troubled, without knowing how to set matters right, and he thought of the old friend who had trusted his child to him. He had vowed she should be happy, and now it seemed a difficult vow to keep; but for the sake of the man who had died for him sixteen long years ago, the pledge then given must be redeemed.

Louise Wrayworth's life had been a bright one hitherto; her guardian's home was the only one she could remember, and he had striven to fill in some degree her father's place. To him, from infancy to womanhood, she had looked up with loving grateful reverence, regarding him, present or absent, as the noblest of created beings.

He reached the old church, and made his way round to the open vestry door. The steps were encumbered with bundles of evergreens; the voices of the workers, who had finished their task, were audible. He pushed the door further open, and went in. The floor was covered with boughs, and around the pillars were wreathed holly and other evergreens in honour of the joyous season. Some of the choristers stood waiting for the choir-practice, and the organist was softly playing Adeste Fideles.

'Ralph!' cried a young fresh voice; and a slight fair girl with a merry face sprang up from the floor, with her hands full of the scarlet berries, which fell hither and thither in bright-hued rain, as with complete indifference to the by-standers, she gave the returned soldier a sisterly embrace. 'You dear old thing to come for us!' she exclaimed.

'Emma, Emma!' exclaimed Ralph, laughing and disengaging himself; 'you have not learned to behave any better in five years.'

But his young sister had vanished, and he turned to greet the vicar; and one or two of the ladies he recognised. In a few minutes Emma reappeared; and behind her came a tall fair girl with masses of golden hair, and great beautiful cold blue eyes. She greeted Major Loraine affectionately, but with the quiet stately grace habitual to her. Five years had not changed Katharine Loraine; at twenty-four she was still the same majestic Queen Katharine as at nineteen, with whom he had always had so little sympathy, whose nature he had found so difficult to understand.

'Where is Louise?' he asked presently. 'Is she not here?'

'She went into the churchyard just now,' answered Emma, 'to put a wreath on Nellie Bryant's grave. You remember her, Ralph?'

'Louise's friend? Yes.'

'A triste employment for Christmas eve,' observed one of the gentlemen decorators to Katharine, as he stooped to disentangle her dress from a long sprig of ivy.

'Oh, Mr Leveson went to hold a lantern for her,' Katharine answered, with the slightest possible shade of contempt in the silvery tones of her voice; 'and Louise is never triste, unless she is by herself.'

The choir was now fully assembled; the organist struck up the anthem, the rest were silent to listen, and Ralph Loraine went out to look for his ward. He came round the east end of the old church, and stood still for a moment in the shadow. There were two people standing at the edge of the path, looking down on the grave at their feet, where the lantern's light shewed the shining holly upon the upright marble cross. It shewed too the face of his friend's child; a beautiful face, as his step-mother had said, with large dark eyes and wavy dusky hair, a clear delicate complexion with a little rose-flush on the cheeks, and full red lips half-parted by the sweetest smile he had ever seen; with the same erect carriage of the head, the same fearless straight regard which had characterised her father.

It was so strange to see her there a woman, whom he had left a mere girl; and as he looked on the fair face, something seemed to whisper that the ideal beauty he had so often dreamed of was before him at last. They moved away, and came slowly nearer, and paused again where he could see her companion; and for a moment he almost hated the man for his youth, and his handsome face, and the deep-blue eyes aflame with passion-fire as they rested on the child of his dead friend; and another whisper which silenced the first, told him how fitted was each for the other.

'If I were lying there,' said Vere Leveson, and Ralph could hear every one of the foolish, softly spoken words, 'would you ever make wreaths for me, I wonder?'

'I don't know.'

'Don't you? I wish you did; for I thought just now I should be glad to be lying there, if you would remember me.'

Ralph had heard enough, and tried to slip away unseen; but the gravel crunched under his feet and betrayed him.

Louise started, and a bright vivid blush covered her face as she sprang forward. 'Lorrie! Oh, how glad I am to see you again!' she cried, as she took both his hands in hers and lifted her cheek for his kiss.

He felt half sorry she had done so; that and the old childish name put him immediately in his place as guardian, and made him ashamed of his thoughts. 'How you are altered, Louise!' he said, looking down at her admiringly. 'I think I should hardly have known you!'

'I should have known you, Lorrie, anywhere,' she said reproachfully.

'That is rather different,' he said; 'when we once get old, we don't change so quickly.'

'You would not like it if I said you were old, Lorrie. But tell me, am I altered for the worse? or' —

'You have no need to come to me for compliments, surely,' he said smiling.

'I should think more of yours than of any one's,' she whispered, with that sweet dangerous smile; a smile which a man like Ralph Loraine should have taken as a warning not to feel its influence too often.

'How rude I am!' she said at last. – 'Mr Leveson, do you know my guardian?' She turned to her companion, who stood holding the lantern a few yards from them.

'I had the honour of dining in your company once, Major Loraine,' he answered, stepping forward. 'It is some time ago, when I first joined at Madras; but I well remember my anxiety to see such a distinguished soldier as yourself.'

There was a ring of truth and honest admiration in the words, which raised them above an ordinary compliment, and which made Ralph hold out his hand and answer cordially: 'I have a bad memory for faces, or I think I should have remembered yours.'

'Thanks,' said Vere, laughing. 'We shall have the pleasure of seeing you to-night, I hope?'

'Yes; my mother told me of the invitation.'

'Of course he is coming,' said Louise. 'And you will dance with me all the evening, Lorrie; won't you?'

'Not quite all, Miss Wrayworth; please, don't forget my waltzes,' said Vere, holding out his hand. 'I must be off now; so good-bye for the present. You won't forget?'

She looked up quickly. 'Perhaps,' the lips said laughingly; but the dark eyes gave a sweet silent answer Ralph did not see, though he was watching them. But after Vere Leveson had gone, he walked home beneath the Christmas stars, with Louise's hand resting on his arm, dreaming as he went, a fair, fond, foolish dream.

The Christmas-eve ball at Leigh Park was a regular institution, one which Sir Harry Leveson had kept up for years. It was a pretty sight, Ralph thought, as he stood leaning against a window, and looking round to select a partner. And amongst all the fair women, the one he thought the fairest was his young ward Louise Wrayworth, in her white floating dress, with its wreaths of holly, and the red clustering berries in her dark hair.

Ralph had been watching Vere Leveson, trying to decide in his own mind whether Mrs Loraine's verdict of flirtation was a just one; and he judged that it was; for the attentions of the young officer were apparently equally divided between Louise and Katharine. Ralph did not happen to be near when, later on, he led Louise to one of the cool empty rooms, where through the open window could be heard the merry Christmas bells. He did not see the hand-clasp or the light that flashed in the eyes of each. He did not hear the hurried whisper: 'Louise, you won't forget me, you will trust me till next Christmas-time?'

The ball was over, the rooms were dark and silent; the whole world waited for the sun to rise on Christmas-day.

IS THE TELEPHONE A PRACTICAL SUCCESS?

In September last appeared in this Journal an article entitled 'Singing and Talking by Telegraph;' and in that paper we attempted to describe the mechanism of that wonderful little instrument the telephone. It is now our purpose to say something regarding the progress that has been made towards perfecting the invention; but in order to make the article as clear as possible, we venture once more upon a few words explanatory of the instrument.

The telephone as it is now made is an exceedingly simple-looking apparatus similar in appearance to a stethoscope; to the handle of a girl's skipping-rope; or better still, to a large-sized penny wooden trumpet. Inside this hollow cylinder, and within an inch or so of the wider end, is fixed a plate of iron as thin as a well-worn sixpence, and about the size of a half-crown piece. This is called the diaphragm. Behind the diaphragm, nearly touching it, and extending to the narrower end of the cylinder, is a piece of 'soft' iron enveloped in wire coils, with a permanent magnet beyond. Outside the narrower end of the cylinder, and communicating with the coils that surround the iron inside, are attached two screws or 'terminals,' which are 'joined up' to a main wire, communicating with the distant or receiving telephone wherever that may be, and which is precisely similar to the one we have described. When we apply our mouth to the bell-shaped end of the apparatus, and speak or shout or sing, we set the diaphragm vibrating as in a tuning-fork; the vibrations thus created are electrically communicated through the wire to a distant telephone, and are repeated on its diaphragm with more or less distinctness.

It is known that the motion of an iron plate contiguous to the poles of a magnet creates a disturbance of electricity in coils surrounding those poles; and the duration of this current will coincide with the vibratory motion of the plate or diaphragm. When, therefore, the human voice (or any other suitable sound) impinges through the tube against this diaphragm, the diaphragm begins to vibrate, and awakens, so to speak, electrical action in the coils of wire surrounding the poles of the magnet; not a current, but a series of undulations, something like those produced by the voice in the air around us. In short the telephone is an apparatus designed to transmit sound through a wire of indefinite length; the voice being, so to speak, 'converted into electricity at one end, the electricity becoming voice at the other.'

With these few explanatory remarks, we now proceed to offer to our readers the following interesting experiments made by a gentleman well skilled in telegraphy.

'Journalists,' he says, 'with no special knowledge of the difficulties the invention has to encounter as a telegraph instrument, have expatiated in such enthusiastic terms upon the results said to have been achieved by the telephone, that a somewhat exaggerated notion of its powers and capabilities has been accepted by the general public. It appears, therefore, to the writer of those lines that a statement of the experiences of a person practically engaged in the work of telegraphy may assist in placing the phenomena of the telephone on a proper footing.

'Scientifically, the telephone is a great and undoubted success; and a person would be grievously in error if, because of some undoubted hindrances to its practical use, he pronounced it unworthy of further experiment. The emergence of telegraphy from the domain of experiment into that of daily practical use is a fact so undoubted, and one with which we are now so familiar, that it is impossible to say at what moment the telephone, at present a scientific toy, may become a daily necessity not only of telegraphic but of ordinary commercial work.

'Being engaged in daily contact with a large telegraphic centre, and in association with men who have the command of every means of testing the invention in a practical work-a-day manner, the writer was able to gauge pretty accurately the range within which the telephone can work. It must be understood, however, that in recording the effects observed by him and his associates, he has no desire to invalidate, or even to call in question the experiences of others who may have been able to arrive at better results. The telephone is in the hands of some of the first electricians and telegraphists of the day, and differences of conditions (not to speak of differences of capacity on the part of the operator) may give variety in the observations made. The very difficulties and drawbacks now to be recorded will no doubt some day suggest to a master-mind the method by which they may be overcome. But till that day arrives, the telephone must be content to remain where the writer leaves it, an undoubted success from a scientific point of view, but overwhelmed with obstacles to its practical use, in this country at least, in general telegraphy.

'When a telegraphist first gets into his hand this beautifully simple and electrically delicate instrument, his first inclination is to test its carrying-power. This is of course a closet experiment, not working with actual telegraph line, but with "resistance" equivalent to a telegraph line of stated length. An experiment of this nature gives better results than could be obtained by a veritable line, because the insulation is, so to speak, perfect. No leakage at undesigned points of contact, or disturbance from unfavourable atmospheric conditions, is felt, and the experiment is entirely under the observer's control. The apparatus used is designed to offer the same labour for the electric current to overcome, as would be offered by a stated length of outside telegraph line. This artificial resistance is nicely graduated, and as the method of testing was suggested by Ohm, a German electrician, the unit of resistance is, as we once previously explained, termed an "ohm." Removing the telephone to such a distance that the two observers were "out of earshot," the test with resistance was tried, and with a resistance of one thousand ohms – roughly speaking, equal to seventy miles of a well-constructed line – the sound was perfect, although not very loud. Every articulation of the speaker at the other end could be distinguished so long as silence was maintained in the room, or so long as no heavy lorry rumbling over the stones outside sent in harsh noises which drowned the faint whisper of the instrument. The resistance was gradually raised to four thousand ohms – nearly three hundred miles – with like favourable results; and for some little distance beyond, articulation could still be made out. But by the time ten thousand ohms had been applied, putting the speaker at a distance of, say, seven hundred miles, sound only, but not articulate sound, reached the ear. The tone was there, and every inflection of the voice could be followed; but articulation was absent, although the listener strove every nerve to catch the sound, which the speaker, as was afterwards ascertained, was shouting in a loud clear voice. The prolonged notes of an air sung could be heard with the resistance named, but again no words could be distinguished. The voice, whether in speaking or singing, has a weird curious sound in the telephone. It is in a measure ventriloqual in character; and with the telephone held an inch or two from the ear, it has the effect as if some one were singing far off in the building, or the sound were coming up from a vaulted cellar or through a massive stone wall.

'Proceeding to our next experiment, we joined up the telephones in one office to several wires in succession, putting ourselves in circuit with lines going to various distances and working with different instruments. When this was done, the real obstacle to telephonic progress at once asserted itself in the shape of "induction." The first wire experimented with was partly "overhouse" and partly underground, and the offices upon it were working Wheatstone A B C instruments. It is difficult to render clear to the person ignorant of telegraphic phenomena the idea expressed by the word induction. Briefly it may be put thus, that when a strong electric current is passing on a wire, it has the faculty of setting up a current of opposite character in any wire not then working, or working with a feebler current, that may be in its vicinity. The why or the wherefore cannot be explained, but there is the fact.

'In various recent articles on the telephone, mention has been made of "contact" as the cause of disturbance. This word, however, although it has been used by telegraphists, is misleading, and can only be used as an endeavour to express popularly an electric fact. Actual contact of one wire with another would spoil the business altogether. A wire bearing an electric current seems to be for the time surrounded, to an undefined distance, by an electric atmosphere, and all wires coming within this atmosphere have a current in an opposite direction set up in them. This is as near an explanation of the phenomena of induction as the state of telegraph science at present affords. Now the telephone works with a very delicate magnetic current, and is easily overpowered by the action of a stronger current in any wire near which the telephone wire may come. To work properly it "requires a silent line."