The Whirlpool

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Edited by Charles Aldarondo Aldarondo@yahoo.com

George Gissing

The Whirlpool

Part the First

CHAPTER 1

Harvey Rolfe was old enough to dine with deliberation, young and healthy
enough to sauce with appetite the dishes he thoughtfully selected. You
perceived in him the imperfect epicure. His club had no culinary fame;
the dinner was merely tolerable; but Rolfe's unfinished palate flattered
the second-rate cook. He knew nothing of vintages; it sufficed him to
distinguish between Bordeaux and Burgundy; yet one saw him raise his
glass and peer at the liquor with eye of connoisseur. All unaffectedly;
for he was conscious of his shortcoming in the art of delicate living,
and never vaunted his satisfactions. He had known the pasture of
poverty, and the table as it is set by London landladies; to look back
on these things was to congratulate himself that nowadays he dined.

Beyond the achievement of a vague personal distinction at the
Metropolitan Club, he had done nothing to make himself a man of note,
and it was doubtful whether more than two or three of the members really
liked him or regarded him with genuine interest. His introduction to
this circle he owed to an old friend, Hugh Carnaby, whose social
position was much more clearly defined: Hugh Carnaby, the rambler, the
sportsman, and now for a twelvemonth the son-in-law of Mrs. Ascott
Larkfield. Through Carnaby people learnt as much of his friend's history
as it concerned anyone to know: that Harvey Rolfe had begun with the
study of medicine, had given it up in disgust, subsequently was 'in
business', and withdrew from it on inheriting a competency. They were
natives of the same county, and learnt their Latin together at the
Grammar School of Greystone, the midland town which was missed by the
steam highroad, and so preserves much of the beauty and tranquillity of
days gone by. Rolfe seldom spoke of his own affairs, but in talking of
travel he had been heard to mention that his father had engineered
certain lines of foreign railway. It seemed that Harvey had no purpose
in life, save that of enjoying himself. Obviously he read a good deal,
and Carnaby credited him with profound historical knowledge; but he
neither wrote nor threatened to do so. Something of cynicism appeared in
his talk of public matters; politics amused him, and his social views
lacked consistency, tending, however, to an indolent conservatism.
Despite his convivial qualities, he had traits of the reserved, even of
the unsociable, man: a slight awkwardness in bearing, a mute shyness
with strangers, a hesitancy in ordinary talk, and occasional bluntness
of assertion or contradiction, suggesting a contempt which possibly he
did not intend. Hugh Carnaby declared that the true Rolfe only showed
himself after a bottle of wine; maintained, moreover, that Harvey had
vastly improved since he entered upon a substantial income. When Rolfe
was five and twenty, Hugh being two years younger, they met after a long
separation, and found each other intolerable; a decade later their
meeting led to hearty friendship. Rolfe had become independent, and was
tasting his freedom in a twelvemonth's travel. The men came face to face
one day on the deck of a steamer at Port Said. Physically, Rolfe had
changed so much that the other had a difficulty in recognising him;
morally, the change was not less marked, as Carnaby very soon became
aware. At thirty-seven this process of development was by no means
arrested, but its slow and subtle working escaped observation unless it
were that of Harvey Rolfe himself.

His guest this evening, in a quiet corner of the dining-room where he
generally sat, was a man, ten years his junior, named Morphew: slim,
narrow-shouldered, with sandy hair, and pale, delicate features of more
sensibility than intelligence; restless, vivacious, talking incessantly
in a low, rapid voice, with frequent nervous laughs which threw back his
drooping head. A difference of costume -- Rolfe wore morning dress,
Morphew the suit of ceremony -- accentuated the younger man's advantage
in natural and acquired graces; otherwise, they presented the contrast
of character and insignificance. Rolfe had a shaven chin, a weathered
complexion, thick brown hair; the penumbra of middle-age had touched his
countenance, softening here and there a line which told of temperament
in excess. At this moment his manner inclined to a bluff jocularity, due
in some measure to the bottle of wine before him, as also was the tinge
of colour upon his cheek; he spoke briefly, but listened with smiling
interest to his guest's continuous talk. This ran on the subject of the
money-market, with which the young man boasted some practical
acquaintance.

'You don't speculate at all?' Morphew asked.

'Shouldn't know how to go about it,' replied the other in his deeper
note.

'It seems to me to be the simplest thing in the world if one is content
with moderate profits. I'm going in for it seriously -- cautiously -- as
a matter of business. I've studied the thing -- got it up as I used to
work at something for an exam. And here, you see, I've made five pounds
at a stroke -- five pounds! Suppose I make that every now and then, it's
worth the trouble, you know -- it mounts up. And I shall never stand to
lose much. You see, it's Tripcony's interest that I should make
profits.'

'I'm not quite sure of that.'

'Oh, but it _is_! Let me explain --'

These two had come to know each other under peculiar circumstances a
year ago. Rolfe was at Brussels, staying -- his custom when abroad -- at
a hotel unfrequented by English folk. One evening on his return from the
theatre, he learnt that a young man of his own nationality lay seriously
ill in a room at the top of the house. Harvey, moved by compassion,
visited the unfortunate Englishman, listened to his ravings, and played
the part of Good Samaritan. On recovery, the stranger made full
disclosure of his position. Being at Brussels on a holiday, he had got
into the company of gamblers, and, after winning a large sum (ten
thousand francs, he declared), had lost not only that, but all else.
that he possessed, including his jewellery. He had gambled deliberately;
he wanted money, money, and saw no other way of obtaining it. In the
expansive mood of convalescence, Cecil Morphew left no detail of his
story unrevealed. He was of gentle birth, and had a private income of
three hundred pounds, charged upon the estate of a distant relative; his
profession (the bar) could not be remunerative for years, and other
prospects he had none. The misery of his situation lay in the fact that
he was desperately in love with the daughter of people who looked upon
him as little better than a pauper. The girl had pledged herself to him,
but would not marry without her parents' consent, of which there was no
hope till he had at least trebled his means. His choice of a profession
was absurd, dictated merely by social opinion; he should have been
working hard in a commercial office, or at some open-air pursuit.
Naturally he turned again to the thought of gambling, this time the
great legalised game of hazard, wherein he was as little likely to
prosper as among the blacklegs of Brussels. Rolfe liked him for his
ingenuousness, and for the vein of poetry in his nature. The love affair
still went on, but Morphew seldom alluded to it, and his seasoned friend
thought of it as a youthful ailment which would pass and be forgotten.

'I'm convinced,' said the young man presently, 'that any one who really
gives his mind to it can speculate with moderate success. Look at the
big men -- the brokers and the company promoters, and so on; I've met
some of them, and there's nothing in them -- nothing! Now, there's
Bennet Frothingham. You know him, I think?'

Rolfe nodded.

'Well, what do you think of him? Isn't he a very ordinary fellow? How
has he got such a position? I'm told he began just in a small way -- by
chance. No doubt _he_ found it so easy to make money he was surprised at
his success. Tripcony has told me a lot about him. Why, the "Britannia"
brings him fifteen thousand a year; and he must be in a score of other
things.'

'I know nothing about the figures,' said Rolfe, 'and I shouldn't put
much faith in Tripcony; but Frothingham, you may be sure, isn't quite an
ordinary man.'

'Ah, well, of course there's a certain knack -- and then, experience --'

Morphew emptied his glass, and refilled it. Nearly all the tables in the
room were now occupied, and the general hum of talk gave security to
intimate dialogue. Flushed and bright-eyed, the young man presently
leaned forward.

'If I could count upon five hundred, she would take the step.'

'Indeed?'

'Yes, that's settled. What do you think? Plenty of people live very well
on less.'

'You want my serious opinion?'

'If you _can_ be serious.'

'Then I think that the educated man who marries on less than a thousand
is either mad or a criminal.'

'Bosh! We won't talk about it.'

They rose, and walked towards the smoking-room, Rolfe giving a nod here
and there as he passed acquaintances. In the hall someone addressed him.

'How does Carnaby take this affair?'

'What affair?'

'Don't you know? Their house has been robbed -- stripped. It's in the
evening papers.'

Rolfe went on into the smoking-room, and read the report of his friend's
misfortune. The Carnabys occupied a house in Hamilton Terrace. During
their absence from home last night, there had been a clean sweep of all
such things of value as could easily be removed. The disappearance of
their housekeeper, and the fact that this woman had contrived the
absence of the servants from nine o'clock till midnight, left no mystery
in the matter. The clubmen talked of it with amusement. Hard lines, to
be sure, for Carnaby, and yet harder for his wife, who had lost no end
of jewellery; but the thing was so neatly and completely done, one must
needs laugh. One or two husbands who enjoyed the luxury of a housekeeper
betrayed their uneasiness. A discussion arose on the characteristics of
housekeepers in general, and spread over the vast subject of domestic
management, not often debated at the Metropolitan Club. In general talk
of this kind Rolfe never took part; smoking his pipe, he listened and
laughed, and was at moments thoughtful. Cecil Morphew, rapidly consuming
cigarettes as he lay back in a soft chair, pointed the moral of the
story in favour of humble domesticity.

In half an hour, his guest having taken leave, Rolfe put on his
overcoat, and stepped out into the cold, clammy November night. He was
overtaken by a fellow Metropolitan -- a grizzled, scraggy-throated,
hollow-eyed man, who laid a tremulous hand upon his arm.

'Excuse me, Mr. Rolfe, have you seen Frothingham recently?'

'Not for a month.'

'Ah! I thought perhaps -- I was wondering what he thought about the
Colebrook smash. To tell you the truth, I've heard unpleasant rumours.
Do you -- should you think the Colebrook affair would affect the
"Britannia" in any way?'

It was not the first time that this man had confided his doubts and
timidities to Harvey Rolfe; he had a small, but to him important,
interest in Bennet Frothingham's wide-reaching affairs, and seemed to
spend most of his time in eliciting opinion on the financier's
stability.

'Wouldn't you be much more comfortable,' said Rolfe, rather bluntly, 'if
you had your money in some other kind of security?'

'Ah, but, my dear sir, twelve and a half per cent -- twelve and a half!
I hold preference shares of the original issue.'

'Then I'm afraid you must take your chance.'

'But,' piped the other in alarm, 'you don't mean that --'

'I mean nothing, and know nothing. I'm the last man to consult about
such things.'

And Rolfe, with an abrupt 'Goodnight,' beckoned to a passing hansom. The
address he gave was Hugh Carnaby's, in Hamilton Terrace.

Twice already the horse had slipped at slimy crossings, when, near the
top of Regent Street, it fell full length, and the abrupt stoppage
caused a collision of wheels with another hansom which was just passing
at full speed in the same direction. Rolfe managed to alight in the
ordinary way, and at once heard himself greeted by a familiar voice from
the other cab. His acquaintance showed a pallid, drawn, all but
cadaverous visage, with eyes which concealed pain or weariness under
their friendly smile. Abbott was the man's name. Formerly a lecturer at
a provincial college, he had resigned his post on marrying, and taken to
journalism.

'I want to speak to you, Rolfe,' he said hurriedly, 'but I haven't a
moment to spare. Going to Euston -- could you come along for a few
minutes?'

The vehicles were not damaged; Abbott's driver got quickly out of the
crowd, and the two men continued their conversation.

'Do you know anything of Wager?' inquired the journalist, with a
troubled look.

'He came to see me a few evenings ago -- late.'

'Ha, he did! To borrow money, wasn't it?'

'Well, yes.'

'I thought so. He came to me for the same. Said he'd got a berth at
Southampton. Lie, of course. The fellow has disappeared, and left his
children -- left them in a lodging-house at Hammersmith. How's that for
cool brutality? The landlady found my wife's address, and came to see
her. Address left out on purpose, I dare say. There was nothing for it
but to take care of the poor little brats. -- Oh, damn!'

'What's the matter?'

'Neuralgia -- driving me mad. Teeth, I think. I'll have every one
wrenched out of my head if this goes on. Never mind. What do you think
of Wager?'

'I remember, when we were at Guy's, he used to advocate the
nationalisation of offspring. Probably he had some personal interest in
the matter, even then.'

'Hound! I don't know whether to set the police after him or not. It
wouldn't benefit the children. I suppose it's no use hunting for his
family?'

'Not much, I should say.'

'Well, lucky we have no children of our own. Worst of it is, I don't
like the poor little wretches, and my wife doesn't either. We must find
a home for them.'

'I say, Abbott, you must let me go halves at that.'

'Hang it, no! Why should you support Wager's children? They're relatives
of ours, unfortunately. But I wanted to tell you that I'm going down to
Waterbury.' He looked at his watch. 'Thirteen minutes -- shall I do it?
There's a good local paper, the _Free Press_, and I have the offer of
part-ownership. I shall buy, if possible, and live in the country for a
year or two, to pick up my health. Can't say I love London. Might get
into country journalism for good. Curse this torment!'

In Tottenham Court Road, Rolfe bade his friend goodbye, and the cab
rushed on.

CHAPTER 2

It was half past ten when Rolfe knocked at the door in Hamilton Terrace.
He learnt from the servant that Mr. Carnaby was at home, and had
company. In the room known as the library, four men sat smoking; their
voices pealed into the hall as the door opened, and a boisterous welcome
greeted the newcomer's appearance.

'Come to condole?' cried Hugh, striding forward with his
man-of-the-wide-world air, and holding out his big hand. 'No doubt
they're having a high old time at the club. Does it please them? Does it
tickle them?'

'Why, naturally. There's the compensation, my boy -- you contribute to
the gaiety of your friends.'

Carnaby was a fair example of the well-bred, well-fed Englishman --
tall, brawny, limber, not uncomely, with a red neck, a powerful jaw, and
a keen eye. Something more of repose, of self-possession, and a slightly
more intellectual brow, would have made him the best type of conquering,
civilising Briton. He came of good family, but had small inheritance;
his tongue told of age-long domination; his physique and carriage showed
the horseman, the game-stalker, the nomad. Hugh had never bent over
books since the day when he declined the university and got leave to
join Colonel Bosworth's exploring party in the Caucasus. After a boyhood
of straitened circumstances, he profited by a skilful stewardship which
allowed him to hope for some seven hundred a year; his elder brother,
Miles, a fine fellow, who went into the army, pinching himself to
benefit Hugh and their sister Ruth. Miles was now Major Carnaby, active
on the North-West Frontier. Ruth was wife of a missionary in some land
of swamps; doomed by climate, but of spirit indomitable. It seemed
strange that Hugh, at five and thirty, had done nothing particular.
Perhaps his income explained it -- too small for traditional purposes,
just large enough to foster indolence. For Hugh had not even followed up
his promise of becoming an explorer; he had merely rambled, mostly in
pursuit of fowl or quadruped. When he married, all hope for him was at
an end. The beautiful and brilliant daughter of a fashionable widow, her
income a trifle more than Carnaby's own; devoted to the life of cities,
wherein she shone; an enchantress whose spell would not easily be
broken, before whom her husband bowed in delighted subservience -- such
a woman might flatter Hugh's pride, but could scarce be expected to draw
out his latent energies and capabilities. This year, for the first time,
he had visited no wild country; his journeying led only to Paris, to
Vienna. In due season he shot his fifty brace on somebody's grouse-moor,
but the sport did not exhilarate him.

An odd and improbable alliance, that between Hugh Carnaby and Harvey
Rolfe. Yet in several ways they suited each other. Old-time memories had
a little, not much, to do with it; more of the essence of the matter was
their feeling of likeness in difference. Ten years ago Carnaby felt
inclined to call his old school-fellow a 'cad'; Harvey saw nothing in
Hugh but robust snobbishness. Nowadays they had the pleasant sense of
understanding each other on most points, and the result was a good deal
of honest mutual admiration. The one's physical vigour and adroitness,
the other's active mind, liberal thoughts, studious habits, proved
reciprocally attractive. Though in unlike ways, both were impressively
modern. Of late it had seemed as if the man of open air, checked in his
natural courses, thrown back upon his meditations, turned to the
student, with hope of guidance in new paths, of counsel amid unfamiliar
obstacles. To the observant Rolfe, his friend's position abounded in
speculative interest. With the course of years, each had lost many a
harsher characteristic, whilst the inner man matured. That their former
relations were gradually being reversed, neither perhaps had consciously
noted; but even in the jests which passed between them on Harvey's
arrival this evening, it appeared plainly enough that Hugh Carnaby no
longer felt the slightest inclination to regard his friend as an
inferior.

The room, called library, contained one small case of books, which dealt
with travel and sport. Furniture of the ordinary kind, still new, told
of easy circumstances and domestic comfort. Round about the walls hung a
few paintings and photographs, intermingled with the stuffed heads of
animals slain in the chase, notably that of a great ibex with
magnificent horns.

'Come, now, tell me all about it,' said Rolfe, as he mixed himself a
glass of whisky and water. 'I don't see that anything has gone from this
room.'

'Don't you?' cried his host, with a scornful laugh. 'Where are my
silver-mounted pistols? Where's the ibex-hoof made into a paperweight?
And' -- he raised his voice to a shout of comical despair -- 'where's my
cheque-book?'

'I see.'

'I wish _I_ did. It must break the record for a neat house-robbery,
don't you think? And they'll never be caught -- I'll bet you anything
you like they won't. The job was planned weeks ago; that woman came into
the house with no other purpose.'

'But didn't your wife know anything about her?'

'What can one know about such people? There were references, I believe
-- as valuable as references usually are. She must be an old hand. But
I'm sick of the subject; let's drop it. -- You were interrupted,
Hollings. What about that bustard?'

A very tall, spare man, who seemed to rouse himself from a nap, resumed
his story of bustard-stalking in Spain last spring. Carnaby, who knew
the country well, listened with lively interest, and followed with
reminiscences of his own. He told of a certain boar, shot in the
Sierras, which weighed something like four hundred pounds. He talked,
too, of flamingoes on the 'marismas' of the Guadalquivir; of punting day
after day across the tawny expanse of water; of cooking his meals on
sandy islets at a fire made of tamarisk and thistle; of lying wakeful in
the damp, chilly nights, listening to frogs and bitterns. Then again of
his ibex-hunting on the Cordilleras of Castile, when he brought down
that fine fellow whose head adorned his room, the horns just
thirty-eight inches long. And in the joy of these recollections there
seemed to sound a regretful note, as if he spoke of things gone by and
irrecoverable, no longer for him.

One of the men present had recently been in Cyprus, and mentioned it
with disgust. Rolfe also had visited the island, and remembered it much
more agreeably, his impressions seeming to be chiefly gastronomic; he
recalled the exquisite flavour of Cyprian hares, the fat francolin, the
delicious beccaficoes in commanderia wine; with merry banter from
Carnaby, professing to despise a man who knew nothing of game but its
taste. The conversation reverted to technicalities of sport, full of
terms and phrases unintelligible to Harvey; recounting feats with
'Empress' and 'Paradox', the deadly results of a 'treble A', or of
'treble-nesting slugs', and boasting of a 'right and left with No. 6'.
Hugh appeared to forget all about his domestic calamity; only when his
guests rose did he recur to it, and with an air of contemptuous
impatience. But he made a sign to Rolfe, requesting him to stay, and at
midnight the two friends sat alone together.

'Sibyl has gone to her mother's,' began Hugh in a changed voice. 'The
poor girl takes it pluckily. It's a damnable thing, you know, for a
woman to lose her rings and bracelets and so on -- even such a woman as
Sibyl. She tried to laugh it off, but I could see -- we must buy them
again, that's all. And that reminds me -- what's your real opinion of
Frothingham?'

Harvey laughed.

'When such a lot of people go about asking that question, it would make
_me_ rather uneasy if I had anything at stake.'

'They do? So it struck me. The fact is, we have a good deal at stake.
The dowager swears by Frothingham. I believe every penny she has is in
the "Britannia", one way or another.'

'It's a wide net,' said Rolfe musingly. 'The Britannia Loan, Assurance,
Investment, and Banking Company, Limited. Very good name, I've often
thought.'

'Yes; but, look here, you don't seriously doubt --'

'My opinion is worthless. I know no more of finance than of the Cabala.
Frothingham personally I rather like, and that's all I can say.'

'The fact is, I have been thinking of putting some of my own -- yet I
don't think I shall. We're going away for the winter. Sibyl wants to
give up the house, and I think she's right. For people like us, it's
mere foolery to worry with a house and a lot of servants. We're neither
of us cut out for that kind of thing. Sibyl hates housekeeping. Well,
you can't expect a woman like her to manage a pack of thieving, lying,
lazy servants. The housekeeper idea hasn't been a conspicuous success,
you see, and there's nothing for it but hotel or boarding-house.'

'If you remember,' said Rolfe, 'I hinted something of the kind a year
ago.'

'Yes; but -- well, you know, when people marry they generally look for a
certain natural consequence. If we have no children, it'll be all
right.'

Rolfe meditated for a moment.

'You remember that fellow Wager -- the man you met at Abbott's? His wife
died a year ago, and now he has bolted, leaving his two children in a
lodging-house.'

'What a damned scoundrel!' cried Hugh, with a note of honest
indignation.

'Well, yes; but there's something to be said for him. It's a natural
revolt against domestic bondage. Of course, as things are, someone else
has to bear the bother and expense; but that's only our state of
barbarism. A widower with two young children and no income -- imagine
the position. Of course, he ought to be able to get rid of them in some
legitimate way -- state institution -- anything you like that answers to
reason.'

'I don't know whether it would work.'

'Some day it will. People talk such sentimental rubbish about children.
I would have the parents know nothing about them till they're ten or
twelve years old. They're a burden, a hindrance, a perpetual source of
worry and misery. Most wives are sacrificed to the next generation -- an
outrageous absurdity. People snivel over the deaths of babies; I see
nothing to grieve about. If a child dies, why, the probabilities are it
_ought_ to die; if it lives, it lives, and you get survival of the
fittest. We don't want to choke the world with people, most of them
rickety and wheezing; let us be healthy, and have breathing space.'

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