Elster's Folly, Mrs. Henry Wood [ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt] 📗

Element. Like Kipling's Cat It Walks

By Its Wild Lone.

 

It Is Not So Bad As Argon The Lazy And The Other Celibate Gases Of That

Family,  Where Each Individual Atom Goes Off By Itself And Absolutely

Refuses To Unite Even Temporarily With Any Other Atom. The Nitrogen

Atoms Will Pair Off With Each Other And Stick Together,  But They Are

Reluctant To Associate With Other Elements And When They Do The

Combination Is Likely To Break Up Any Moment. You All Know People Like

That,  Good Enough When By Themselves But Sure To Break Up Any Club,

Church Or Society They Get Into. Now,  The Value Of Nitrogen In Warfare

Is Due To The Fact That All The Atoms Desert In A Body On The Field Of

Battle. Millions Of Them May Be Lying Packed In A Gun Cartridge,  As

Quiet As You Please,  But Let A Little Disturbance Start In The

Neighborhood--Say A Grain Of Mercury Fulminate Flares Up--And All The

Nitrogen Atoms Get To Trembling So Violently That They Cannot Be

Restrained. The Shock Spreads Rapidly Through The Whole Mass. The

Hydrogen And Carbon Atoms Catch Up The Oxygen And In An Instant They Are

Off On A Stampede,  Crowding In Every Direction To Find An Exit,  And

Getting More Heated Up All The Time. The Only Movable Side Is The Cannon

Ball In Front,  So They All Pound Against That And Give It Such A Shove

That It Goes Ten Miles Before It Stops. The External Bombardment By The

Cannon Ball Is,  Therefore,  Preceded By An Internal Bombardment On The

Cannon Ball By The Molecules Of The Hot Gases,  Whose Speed Is About As

Great As The Speed Of The Projectile That They Propel.

 

[Illustration: (C) Underwood & Underwood

 

The Hand Grenades Which These Women Are Boring Will Contain Potential

Chemical Energy Capable Of Causing A Vast Amount Of Destruction When

Released. During The War The American Government Placed Orders For

68,000,000 Such Grenades As Are Here Shown.]

 

[Illustration: (C) International Film Service,  Inc.

 

Women In A Munition Plant Engaged In The Manufacture Of

Tri-Nitro-Toluol,  The Most Important Of Modern High Explosives]

 

The Active Agent In All These Explosives Is The Nitrogen Atom In

Combination With Two Oxygen Atoms,  Which The Chemist Calls The "Nitro

Group" And Which He Represents By No_{2}. This Group Was,  As I Have

Said,  Originally Used In The Form Of Saltpeter Or Potassium Nitrate,  But

Since The Chemist Did Not Want The Potassium Part Of It--For It Fouled

His Guns--He Took The Nitro Group Out Of The Nitrate By Means Of

Sulfuric Acid And By The Same Means Hooked It On To Some Compound Of

Carbon And Hydrogen That Would Burn Without Leaving Any Residue,  And

Give Nothing But Gases. One Of The Simplest Of These Hydrocarbon

Derivatives Is Glycerin,  The Same As You Use For Sunburn. This Mixed

With Nitric And Sulfuric Acids Gives Nitroglycerin,  An Easy Thing To

Make,  Though I Should Not Advise Anybody Wish You'd Go Out And Buy Me One," Said Val.

 

"I'll Go With Pleasure,  My Lord. But Suppose Any One Comes To The Door?"

 

"Oh,  I'll Answer It. They'll Think Carr Has Taken On A New Clerk."

 

Mr. Taylor Laughed,  And Went Out. Hartledon,  Tired Of Sitting,  Began

To Pace The Room And The Ante-Room. Most Men Would Have Taken Their

Departure; But He Had Nothing To Do; He Had Latterly Shunned That Portion

Of The World Called Society; And Was As Well In Mr. Carr's Chambers As

In His Own Lodgings,  Or In Strolling About With His Troubled Heart.

While Thus Occupied,  There Came A Soft Tap To The Outer Door--As Was

Sure To Be The Case,  The Clerk Being Absent--And Val Opened It. A

Middle-Aged,  Quiet-Looking Man Stood There,  Who Had Nothing Specially

Noticeable In His Appearance,  Except A Pair Of Deep-Set Dark Eyes,  Under

Bushy Eyebrows That Were Turning Grey.

 

"Mr. Carr Within?"

 

"Mr. Carr's Not In," Replied The Temporary Clerk. "I Dare Say You Can

Wait."

 

"Likely To Be Long?"

 

"I Should Think Not. I Have Been Waiting For Him These Two Hours."

 

The Applicant Entered,  And Sat Down In The Clerk's Room. Lord Hartledon

Went Into The Other,  And Stood Drumming On The Window-Pane,  As He Gazed

Out Upon The Temple Garden.

 

"I'd Go,  But For That Note Of Carr's," He Said To Himself. "If--Halloa!

That's His Voice At Last."

 

Mr. Carr And His Clerk Had Returned Together. The Former,  After A Few

Moments,  Came In To Lord Hartledon.

 

"A Nice Fellow You Are,  Carr! Sending Me Word To Be Here At Eleven

O'clock,  And Then Walking Off For Two Mortal Hours!"

 

"I Sent You Word To Wait For Me At Your Own Home!"

 

"Well,  That's Good!" Returned Val. "It Said,  'Be Here At Eleven,' As

Plainly As Writing Could Say It."

 

"And There Was A Postscript Over The Leaf Telling You,  On Second Thought,

_Not_ To Be Here,  But To Wait At Home For Me," Said Mr. Carr. "I

Remembered A Matter Of Business That Would Take Me Up Your Way This

Morning,  And Thought I'd Go On To You. It's Just Your Careless Fashion,

Hartledon,  Reading Only Half Your Letters! You Should Have Turned It

Over."

 

"Who Was To Think There Was Anything On The Other Side? Folk Don't Turn

Their Letters Over From Curiosity When They Are Concluded On The First

Page."

 

"I Never Had A Letter In My Life But I Turned It Over To Make Sure,"

Observed The More Careful Barrister. "I Have Had My Walk For Nothing."

 

"And I Have Been Cooling My Heels Here! And You Took The Newspaper With

You!"

 

"No,  I Did Not. Churton Sent In From His Rooms To Borrow It."

 

"Well,  Let The Misunderstanding Go,  And Forgive Me For Being Cross. Do

You Know,  Carr,  I Think I Am Growing Ill-Tempered From Trouble. What

News Have You For Me?"

 

"I'll Tell You By-And-By. Do You Know Who That Is In The Other Room?"

 

"Not I. He Seemed To Stare Me Inside-Out In A Quiet Way As I Let Him In."

 

"Ay. It's Green,  The Detective. At Times A Question Occurs To Me Whether

That's His Real Name,  Or One Assumed In His Profession. He Has Come To

Report At Last. Had You Better Remain?"

 

"Why Not?"

 

Mr. Carr Looked Dubious.

 

"You Can Make Some Excuse For My Presence."

 

"It's Not That. I'm Thinking If You Let Slip A Word--"

 

"Is It Likely?"

 

"Inadvertently,  I Mean."

 

"There's No Fear. You Have Not Mentioned My Name To Him?"

 

"I Retort In Your Own Words--Is It Likely? He Does Not Know Why He Is

Being Employed Or What I Want With The Man I Wish Traced. At Present He

Is Working,  As Far As That Goes,  In The Dark. I Might Have Put Him On A

False Scent,  Just As Cleverly And Unsuspiciously As I Dare Say He Could

Put Me; But I've Not Done It. What's The Matter With You To-Day,

Hartledon? You Look Ill."

 

"I Only Look What I Am,  Then," Was The Answer. "But I'm No Worse

Than Usual. I'd Rather Be Transported--I'd Rather Be Hanged,  For That

Matter--Than Lead The Life Of Misery I Am Leading. At Times I Feel

Inclined To Give In,  But Then Comes The Thought Of Maude."

 

 

Chapter 22 (Somebody Else At Work)

They Were Shut In Together: The Detective Officer,  Mr. Carr,  And Lord

Hartleplan For Raising The Quality Of National School Teaching By Introducing

Into The Ranks Of The Teachers Young Gentlewomen Unprovided By Fortune.

She Advised No More Than She Would Have Done,  And All She Said Was Good,

If Bessie's Circumstances Had Been What She Assumed. But Bessie,

Conscious That They Were About To Suffer A Change,  Felt Impelled At

Last To Set Lady Latimer Right. Her Shy Face Mitigated The Effect Of Her

Speech.

 

"I Have Kindred In Woldshire,  My Lady,  Who Want Me. I Am The Only Child

In This Generation,  And My Grandfather Fairfax Says That It Is Necessary

For Me To Go Back To My Own People."

 

Lady Latimer's Face Suddenly Reflected A Tint Of Bessie's. But No

After-Thought Was In Bessie's Mind,  Her Simplicity Was Genuine. She

Esteemed It Praise To Be Selected As A Fit Child To Teach Children; And,

Besides,  Whatever My Lady Had Said At This Period Would Have Sounded

Right In Bessie's Ears. When She Had Uttered Her Statement,  She Waited

Till Lady Latimer Spoke.

 

"Do You Belong To The Fairfaxes Of Kirkham? Is Your Grandfather Richard

Fairfax Of Abbotsmead?" She Said In A Quick Voice,  With An Inflection Of

Surprise.

 

"Yes,  My Lady. My Father Was Geoffry,  The Third Son; My Mother Was

Elizabeth Bulmer."

 

"I Knew Abbotsmead Many Years Ago. It Will Be A Great Change For You.

How Old Are You,  Bessie? Fourteen,  Fifteen?"

 

"Fifteen,  My Lady,  Last Birthday,  The Fourth Of March."

 

Lady Latimer Thought To Herself,  "Here Is An Exact Little Girl!" Then

She Said Aloud,  "It Would Have Been Better For You If Your Grandfather

Had Recalled You When You Were Younger."

 

Bessie Was Prepared To Hear This Style Of Remark,  And To Repudiate The

Implication. She Replied Almost With Warmth,  "My Lady,  I Have Lost

Nothing By Being Left Here. Beechhurst Will Always Be Home To Me. If I

Had My Choice I Would Not Go To Kirkham."

 

Lady Latimer Thought Again What A Nice Voice Bessie Had,  And Regarded

Her With A Growing Interest,  That Arose In Part Out Of Her Own

Recollections. She Questioned Her Concerning Her Father's Death,  And The

Circumstances Of Her Adoption By Mr. And Mrs. Carnegie,  And Reflected

That,  Happily,  She Was Too Simple,  Too Much Of A Child Yet,  For Any But

Family Attachments--Happily,  Because,  Though Bessie Had No Experience To

Measure It By,  There Would Be A Wide Difference Between Her Position As

The Doctor's Adopted Daughter Amongst A House Full Of Children,  And As

Heiress Presumptive Of Mr. Fairfax Of Abbotsmead.

 

"Have You Ever Seen Abbotsmead,  Bessie?" She Said.

 

"No,  My Lady,  I Have Never Been In Woldshire Since I Was A Baby. I Was

Born At Kirkham Vicarage,  My Grandfather Bulmer's House,  But I Was Not A

Year Old When We Came Away. I Have A Drawing Of Abbotsmead That My

Mother Made--It Is Not Beautiful."

 

"But Abbotsmead Is Very Beautiful--The Country Round About Is Not So

Delicious As The Forest,  For It Has Less Variety: It Is Out Of Sight Of

The Sea,  And The Trees Are Not So Grand,  But Abbotsmead Itself Is A

Lovely Spot. The House Stands On A Peninsula Formed By A Little Brawling

River,  And In The Park Are The Ruins That Give The Place Its Name. I

Remember The Garden At Abbotsmead As A Garden Where The Sun Always

Shone."

 

Bessie Was Much Cheered. "How Glad I Am! In My Picture The Sun Does Not

Shine At All. It Is The Color Of A Dark Day In November."

 

The Concise Simplicity Of Bessie's Talk Pleased Lady Latimer. She

Decided That Mrs. Carnegie Must Be A Gentlewoman,  And That Bessie Had

Qualities Capable Of Taking A Fine Polish. She Would Have Held The Child

In Conversation Longer Had Not Mrs. Wiley Come Up,  And After A Word Or

Two About The Success Of The Feast,  Bade Bessie Run Away And See That

Her Little Brothers Were Not Getting Into Mischief. Lady Latimer Nodded

Her A Kind Dismissal,  And Off She Went.

 

Six O'clock Struck. By That Time The Buns Were All Eaten,  The Prizes

Were All Distributed,  And The Cream Of The Company Had Driven Or Walked

Away,  But Cricket Still Went On In The Meadow,  And Children's Games In

The Orchard. One Or Two

Face Somewhat Turned From Them,  As Though The Business Did Not Concern

Him.

 

"And Now I Will Relate To You What More I Know Of Gordon," Resumed Mr.

Carr,  Moving His Chair Nearer The Detective,  And So Partially Screening

Lord Hartledon. "He Was In London Last Year,  Employed By Kedge And Reck,

Of Gray's Inn,  To Serve Writs. What He Had Done With Himself From The

Time Of The Mutiny--Allowing That He Was Identical With The Gordon Of

That Business--I Dare Say No One Living Could Tell,  Himself Excepted. He

Was Calling Himself Gorton Last Autumn. Not Much Of A Change From His Own

Name."

 

"George Gorton," Assented The Detective.

 

"Yes,  George Gorton. I Knew This Much