Ohm's Law

Margaret Hartwell sat in the wooden chair facing Father McKenzie's desk, her traveling bag at her feet and the committal papers spread between them like a bridge she was about to burn. Through the stained glass window, the last natural light faded into darkness, leaving only the oil lamp's flickering glow to illuminate what might be her final act as Edmund's wife.

"You have chosen wisely, Mrs. Hartwell." Father McKenzie rested his weathered hands upon the documents, his voice carrying the gentle certainty she had grown to both need and fear. "Though I know this brings you little comfort."

Margaret smoothed her black gloves with deliberate care. "Comfort seems... a luxury I can no longer afford."

"Not a luxury, child. A gift that awaits on the other side of this difficult passage." The priest leaned forward, lamplight carving deep shadows beneath his eyes. "The Good Book teaches us that we must sometimes wound in order to heal. That love itself may require us to act against our natural inclinations."

"For the greater good." Margaret spoke the words as if tasting something bitter. "Yes, Father. You have impressed this upon me many times."

"Because the truth bears repeating, does it not? Your husband's... condition touches more than merely your household. The entire parish has watched his decline with mounting concern." Father McKenzie touched the papers with something approaching reverence. "These arrangements shall ensure Edmund receives proper guidance whilst protecting our community from influences that might lead others astray."

Margaret studied the priest's face in the amber light. "What manner of influences do you mean?"

"Surely you have observed the changes in him? These unnatural hours he keeps, this obsession with electrical contrivances, the manner in which he speaks of his work as though it were..." Father McKenzie paused, as if choosing his words with great care, "as though it were revelation itself."

"And you believe my husband suffers from spiritual corruption?"

"I believe he has fallen prey to that most ancient of sins—the desire to be as God Himself. To command forces beyond mortal understanding, to work by artificial illumination when the Almighty provides natural darkness for rest and reflection." The priest's eyes grew intense with righteous concern. "Tell me, what manner of Christian man chooses the harsh glare of electrical light over the gentle rhythm of creation?"

Margaret's fingers found the clasp of her traveling bag, where three months of careful preparation lay folded and waiting. The clothes, the jewelry, the letter to her sister—everything required to disappear from a marriage that had become as foreign to her as the electrical apparatus that hummed through their walls each night.

"A man who has lost his way," she said quietly.

"Precisely so. And sometimes, Mrs. Hartwell, the most Christian thing we can do is to prevent a wandering soul from straying further into darkness." Father McKenzie slid the papers closer across the polished wood. "These provisions shall offer Edmund both medical care and spiritual guidance. The institution maintains an excellent reputation for restoring men to their proper relationship with both the Almighty and their earthly duties."

Margaret lifted the pen, testing its weight between her fingers. "You have visited this institution yourself?"

"Indeed I have. The directors are men of deep faith who understand that certain obsessions often mask more troubling spiritual ailments." His voice carried quiet satisfaction. "They have achieved remarkable success with cases similar to your husband's—men who have lost themselves in pursuits that draw them away from their obligations to family and to God."

"And what becomes of their... work? Their research?"

Father McKenzie waved his hand as though brushing away cobwebs. "My dear child, if such work possessed genuine merit, would not properly trained men have already accomplished it? The notion that your husband, laboring alone with makeshift equipment, might discover something of consequence..." He shook his head with paternal indulgence. "It speaks to the very grandiosity that characterizes his condition."

Margaret set the pen down without signing. "Grandiosity."

"The belief that one possesses insights denied to educated men. It is quite common among those afflicted with intellectual pride." Father McKenzie's tone grew more animated, like a teacher warming to a familiar lesson. "Your husband claims his electrical calculations shall revolutionize communication, does he not? As though the finest engineers in all of England have not already explored such possibilities with proper equipment and training."

"And have they? Explored them successfully, I mean?"

"Mrs. Hartwell, telegraph communication serves our needs quite adequately within its natural boundaries. To suggest otherwise is to imply that the Lord's design of the physical world is somehow... insufficient." The priest's voice took on a subtle hardness. "Surely you recognize the spiritual peril in such thinking?"

Margaret's hand stilled on her glove. "Natural boundaries."

"Precisely. Electrical signals weaken over distance because such is how Providence ordained the properties of matter. To attempt circumventing such divine limitations through mathematical manipulation..." Father McKenzie shook his head with practiced sorrow. "It demonstrates a fundamental misunderstanding of man's proper place within creation."

"But if these limitations might be calculated with precision—if the relationship between voltage, current, and resistance could be expressed as law—"

"My child, you begin to sound rather like your husband." Father McKenzie's reproof carried gentle alarm. "Such talk of electrical laws and mathematical relationships—this is precisely why separation has become necessary. His delusions have begun to infect your own reasoning."

Margaret rose and walked to the narrow window. Gaslight from the street mingled with the dying remnants of sunset, and she could almost imagine Edmund bent over his calculations in their parlour, the electric bulb casting its steady glow over work that might save lives or destroy everything they had built together.

"Father, might I ask how you have become so well-versed in the technical aspects of Edmund's work?"

"A shepherd must understand the nature of the temptations that beset his flock. I have consulted with several concerned members of our parish who possess expertise in such matters." Father McKenzie's voice assumed careful neutrality. "They have helped me comprehend the... extent of Edmund's departure from sound thinking."

"Concerned members."

"Men of standing who worry about the influence your husband's claims might exert upon impressionable minds. Telegraph communication serves our community quite faithfully as it presently stands. Suggestions that it might be dramatically improved could raise false hopes, or worse yet, inspire others to pursue similar dangerous experiments."

Margaret turned from the window. The oil lamp's flame wavered, casting Father McKenzie's shadow across the wall like a question mark. "Dangerous to whom, precisely?"

"To anyone foolish enough to attempt them, naturally. Electrical forces are not playthings for amateur enthusiasts." Father McKenzie shifted slightly in his chair. "But more importantly, dangerous to the soul. When mortal man attempts to transcend the boundaries established by divine wisdom, he invites corruption into his very heart."

"And if those boundaries represent misunderstanding rather than divine ordinance?"

Father McKenzie's expression grew stern. "Mrs. Hartwell, I fear your husband's influence has penetrated more deeply than I had realized. Listen to your own words—questioning divine wisdom, suggesting that human calculation might improve upon the Lord's design."

Margaret returned to her chair but remained standing. Her traveling bag sat at her feet like an accusation. "Tell me, Father, what precisely do these concerned parishioners fear might occur should Edmund's calculations prove sound?"

"Prove sound?" Father McKenzie released a laugh devoid of warmth. "My dear child, we speak of the fantasies of a man who believes mathematical formulas can overcome physical laws. The question of proof hardly enters into it."

"Yet hypothetically—"

"Hypothetically, if some amateur inventor claimed he could revolutionize established systems through basement tinkering, he would undermine confidence in institutions that have served our community with faithful reliability." Father McKenzie's voice grew more pointed. "Such claims might damage the livelihoods of good Christian men who provide dependable telegraph services within their proper limitations."

Margaret's fingers tightened on the pen. "I see."

"Do you?"

"Indeed." Margaret lifted the pen once more. Her hand was steady now. "Please continue, Father. You were explaining how Edmund's work threatens the spiritual order."

"Precisely so. When a man convinces himself that his amateur calculations surpass the labors of trained professionals, he demonstrates the very pride that leads souls to perdition." Father McKenzie leaned forward with evident eagerness. "Your signature upon these documents represents an act of Christian mercy—preserving your husband from further spiritual corruption whilst protecting others from his dangerous influence."

Margaret examined the committal papers more carefully, noting details that had escaped her attention in previous readings. The legal language was dense, but certain phrases stood out with new clarity. "Father, I observe that these documents grant conservatorship of Edmund's person and property to the church rather than to his blood relations."

"A necessary provision, given your... emotional attachment to his delusions. The church can provide the objective guidance required for his recovery."

"Objective guidance. Including decisions regarding his research materials?"

"Such materials shall be properly disposed of, naturally. We cannot risk them falling into the hands of other susceptible souls." Father McKenzie's satisfaction became more apparent. "The institution's directors possess considerable experience in purging harmful influences from their patients' environments."

Margaret set the pen down once again. A memory surfaced—Edmund kneeling beside Sophie's fevered bed, his face gray with exhaustion, whispering promises about making the world better. "Father, might I share something Edmund confided to me recently?"

"By all means, child."

"He told me his calculations began four months past, when our daughter Sophie nearly perished from scarlet fever. We waited six days for medical counsel from London—six days whilst our child suffered because knowledge could travel no faster than a horse might carry it." Margaret's voice remained steady, though her eyes burned with remembered anguish. "He has been laboring to ensure no other family must endure such helplessness."

Father McKenzie's expression did not waver. "A sentiment noble in intention, yet corrupted by spiritual pride. If the Almighty intended medical knowledge to travel instantly across great distances, He would have provided the means."

"Perhaps He has provided the means. Perhaps Edmund is merely discovering them."

"Mrs. Hartwell, you demonstrate precisely the dangerous thinking against which I have cautioned you. Your husband has convinced you that his electrical fantasies serve divine purposes, when in truth they serve only his own grandiose estimation of himself."

Margaret walked to the small crucifix on Father McKenzie's wall. The carved Christ watched her with wooden eyes. "Tell me, Father, what would transpire if Edmund's calculations enabled a physician in London to consult instantly with doctors anywhere in England? If the relationship between electrical voltage and resistance could carry urgent messages faster than any horse? If parents need never again watch their children suffer whilst life-saving knowledge crawls across the countryside at a snail's pace?"

"Such speculation serves no purpose. Human communication possesses limitations ordained by divine wisdom."

"Or limitations imposed by human ignorance masquerading as divine wisdom." Margaret turned to face the priest directly. "Which do you suppose our Savior would choose, Father? Preserving comfortable systems that permit children to perish, or embracing innovations that might save their lives?"

Father McKenzie's composure showed its first crack. "Mrs. Hartwell, you venture into perilous theological territory."

Margaret approached her chair but did not sit. Her traveling bag waited below, packed with three months of careful planning. "Edmund labors eighteen hours each day not from pride, but from desperate hope that his understanding of electrical law might spare other families the agony we have endured."

"His motivations remain beside the point. The spiritual danger—"

Margaret lifted the pen for what she knew would be the final time. "Father, how much did the Manchester Telegraph Company contribute to our church building fund this year?"

Father McKenzie's face darkened. "Mrs. Hartwell, I find your implication most offensive—"

"I ask directly." The pen hovered above the signature line. "For surely a man of God would desire complete transparency regarding any financial relationships that might influence his pastoral guidance."

The vestry fell silent. Through the window came the distant sounds of Manchester settling into evening—carriages on cobblestones, voices calling goodnight.

"The church receives support from many faithful parishioners," Father McKenzie said.

"Including faithful parishioners who profit from telegraph communication remaining within its present... limitations?"

"Mrs. Hartwell, you make serious accusations—"

Margaret positioned the pen above the signature line. The ink caught the lamplight. "About a priest who employs scriptural authority to advance commercial interests whilst claiming to save souls." She paused, the pen steady in her hand. "Yet perhaps the Lord works in mysterious ways, Father. Perhaps your very attempts to convince me of Edmund's madness have taught me something vital about the relationship between force and resistance."

Father McKenzie leaned forward urgently. "My child, sign those papers. For your marriage, for your husband's salvation, for the good of our entire community—"

Margaret signed her name. Each letter formed with the same precision Edmund gave to his calculations.

Father McKenzie exhaled. "You have done what is right, Mrs. Hartwell. The arrangements shall be finalized within—"

Margaret slid the papers across the desk. "I fear there has been some misunderstanding, Father." "These documents commit Edmund Hartwell to the care and custody of his legal guardian—which, according to provisions he filed with the Crown Court three months past, is his wife, Margaret Hartwell."

Father McKenzie's face went white. "Impossible. Wives cannot serve as legal guardians under English law—"

Margaret gathered her traveling bag. "English wives cannot, this is true. Scottish wives married under specific legal provisions may do so, particularly when their husbands have taken care to file proper documentation." The bag felt different in her hand now—lighter somehow. "Edmund may be consumed with electrical calculations, Father, but he proves quite methodical regarding legal ones."

"This constitutes fraud! The church has made arrangements—"

Margaret walked toward the door. "The church has made assumptions. About women's legal standing, about wives' intellectual capacity, about the ease of appropriating innovations from inconvenient inventors." "Edmund's work shall proceed under my protection, and any attempts at interference shall be met with legal action for conspiracy to defraud."

Father McKenzie rose abruptly. "Mrs. Hartwell, you do not comprehend the forces you oppose—"

"I comprehend them with perfect clarity. Commercial interests disguised as moral authority, employing religious language to mask financial motivation." Margaret paused at the threshold. "The only question remaining is whether you understand what you have permitted yourself to become, Father."

"This matter is far from concluded—"

"Indeed it is not. For tomorrow, Edmund shall demonstrate his resistance calculations before every telegraph company in England. And parents throughout our nation shall finally gain access to the instant medical consultations that might preserve their children's lives." Margaret's voice carried quiet steel. "All because you labored so diligently to convince me his work was perilous that you succeeded instead in convincing me it was vital."

She opened the door, then turned back one final time. The oil lamp's flame guttered in the draft from the hallway, throwing wild shadows across the priest's stricken face. "Oh, and Father? You might wish to prepare your telegraph company sponsors for some rather uncomfortable conversations about their investment in preventing innovations that serve God's children."

Margaret stepped into the October evening, leaving Father McKenzie alone with his flickering lamp and his shattered conspiracy. Behind her, the vestry door closed upon more than a failed scheme—it closed upon the old world of comfortable limitations and opened onto a future where signals would travel faster than death, carrying hope across distances that once seemed impossible to bridge.

Her traveling bag accompanied her now on a different journey entirely. Inside, alongside the clothes she had folded with such careful sorrow, lay the signed papers that transformed her from abandoned wife to guardian of innovation. At home, Edmund bent over his calculations, unaware that the fundamental relationship between current and resistance had altered beyond all recognition.