Jimmy Carter - "State of the Union Addresses of Jimmy Carter"

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John Payne - "Tales from the Arabic Volume 1"

Victor Appleton - "Tom Swift And His Submarine Boat"

The Whirlpool

G >> George Gissing >> The Whirlpool




'I confess,' said Harvey, 'I don't quite see why she waited after
twenty-one.'

'Because she is a good, gentle girl, and could not bear to make her
father and mother unhappy. The blame is all theirs -- mean, shallow,
grovelling souls!'

'What about her mother now?'

'Oh, she was never so obstinate as the old jackass. She'll have little
enough to live upon, and we shall soon arrange things with her somehow.
Is it credible that human beings can be so senseless? For years now,
their means have been growing less and less, just because the snobbish
idiot _would_ keep up appearances. If he had lived a little longer, the
widow would have had practically no income at all. Of course, she shared
in the folly, and I'm only sorry she won't suffer more for it. They
didn't enjoy their lives -- never have done. They lived in miserable
slavery to the opinion of their fellow-snobs. You remember that story
about the flowers at their silver wedding: two hundred pounds -- just
because Mrs. Somebody spent as much -- when they couldn't really afford
two hundred shillings. And they groaned over it -- he and she -- like
people with the stomachache. Why, the old fool died of nothing else; he
was worn out by the fear of having to go into a smaller house.'

Harvey would have liked to put a question: was it possible that the
daughter of such people could be endowed with virtues such as become the
wife of a comparatively poor man? But he had to ask it merely in his own
thoughts. Before long, no doubt, he would meet the lady herself and
appease his curiosity.

Whilst they were talking, there came a knock at the door; the shopman
announced two ladies, who wished to inquire about some photographic
printing.

'Will you see them, Rolfe?' asked Cecil. 'I don't feel like it -- indeed
I don't. You'll be able to tell them all they want.'

Harvey found himself equal to the occasion, and was glad of it; he
needed occupation of some kind to keep his thoughts from an unpleasant
subject. After another talk with Morphew, in which they stuck to
business, he set off homeward.

Here news awaited him. On his arrival all seemed well; Ruth opened the
door, answered his greeting in her quiet, respectful way, and at once
brought tea to the study. When he rang to have the things taken away,
Ruth again appeared, and he saw now that she had something unusual to
say.

'I didn't like to trouble you the first thing, sir,' she began -- 'but
Sarah left yesterday without giving any notice; and I think it's perhaps
as well she did, sir. I've heard some things about her not at all nice.'

'We must find someone else, then,' replied Harvey. 'It's lucky she
didn't go at a less convenient time. Was there some unpleasantness
between you?'

'I had warned her, for her own good, sir, that was all. And there's
something else I had perhaps better tell you now, sir.' Her voice, with
its pleasant Welsh accent, faltered ominously. 'I'm very sorry indeed to
say it, sir, but I shall be obliged to leave as soon as Mrs. Rolfe can
spare me.'

Harvey was overwhelmed. He looked upon Ruth as a permanent member of the
household. She had made herself indispensable; to her was owing the
freedom from domestic harassment which Alma had always enjoyed -- a most
exceptional blessing, yet regarded, after all this time, as a matter of
course. The departure of Ruth meant conflict with ordinary servants, in
which Alma would assuredly be worsted. At this critical moment of their
life, scarcely could anything more disastrous have happened. Seeing her
master's consternation, Ruth was sore troubled, and hastened to explain
herself.

'My brother's wife has just died, sir, and left him with three young
children, and there's no one else can be of help to him but me. He
wanted me to come at once, but, of course, I told him I couldn't do
that. No one can be sorry for his wife's death; she was such a poor,
silly, complaining, useless creature; he hasn't had a quiet day since he
married her. She belonged to Liverpool, and there they were married, and
when he brought her to Carnarvon I said to myself as soon as I saw her
that _she_ wouldn't be much use to a working-man. She began the very
first day to complain and to grumble, and she's gone on with it ever
since. When I was there in my last holiday I really wondered how he bore
his life. There's many women of that kind, sir, but I never knew one as
bad as her -- never. Everything was too much trouble for her, and she
didn't know how to do a thing in the house. I didn't mean to trouble you
with such things, sir. I only told you just to show why I don't feel I
can refuse to go and help him, and try to give him a little peace and
quiet. He's a hard-working man, and the children aren't very healthy,
and I'm sure I don't know how he'd manage ---- '

'You have no choice, Ruth, I see. Well, we must hope to find some one in
your place -- _but_ ----'

Just as he shook his head, the house-bell rang, and Ruth withdrew to
answer it. In a minute or two the study door opened again. Harvey looked
up and saw Alma.

'I was obliged to come,' she said, approaching him, as he rose in
astonishment. 'I thought at first of asking you to come on to
Basingstoke, but we can talk better here.'

No sign of pleasure in their meeting passed between them. On Harvey's
face lingered something of the disturbance caused by Ruth's
communication, and Alma understood it as due to her unexpected arrival;
the smile with which she had entered died away, and she stood like a
stranger doubtful of her reception.

'Was it necessary to talk?' asked Rolfe, pushing forward a chair, and
doing his best to show good humour.

'Yes -- after your reply to my letter this morning,' she answered
coldly.

'Well, you must have some tea first. This is cold. Won't you go and take
your things off, and I'll tell Ruth. By-the-bye, we re in confusion.'

He sketched the position of things; but Alma heard without interest.

'It can't be helped,' was her absent reply. 'There are plenty of
servants.'

Fresh tea was brought, and after a brief absence Alma sat down to it.
Her health had improved during the past week, but she looked tired from
the journey, and was glad to lean back in her chair. For some minutes
neither of them spoke. Harvey had never seen an expression on Alma's
features which was so like hostility; it moved him to serious
resentment. It is common enough for people who have been several years
wedded to feel exasperation in each other's presence, but for Rolfe the
experience was quite new, and so extremely disagreeable, that his pulses
throbbed with violence, and his mouth grew dry. He determined to utter
not a word until Alma began conversation. This she did at length, with
painful effort.

'I think your answer to me was very unkind.'

'I didn't mean it so.'

'You simply said that you wouldn't do as I wished.'

'Not that I wouldn't, but that it was impossible. And I showed you the
reasons -- though I should have thought it superfluous.'

Alma waited a moment, then asked ----

'Is this house let?'

'I don't know. I suppose not.'

'Then there is no reason whatever why we shouldn't stay here.'

'There is every reason why we shouldn't stay here. Every arrangement has
been made for our leaving -- everything fully talked over. What has made
you change your mind?'

'I haven't really changed my mind. I always disliked the idea of going
to Gunnersbury, and you must have seen that I did; but I was so much
occupied with -- with other things; and, as I have told you, I didn't
feel quite the same about my position as I do now.'

She expressed herself awkwardly, growing very nervous. At the first sign
of distress in her, Harvey was able to change his tone.

'Things are going horribly wrong somehow, Alma. There's only one way out
of it. Just say in honest words what you mean. Why do you dislike the
thought of our moving?'

'I told you in my letter,' she answered, somewhat acridly.

'There was no explanation. You said something I couldn't understand,
about having a _right_ to ask me to stay here.'

She glanced at him with incredulous disdain.

'If you don't understand, I can't put it into plainer words.'

'Well now, let _me_ put the whole matter into plainer words than I have
liked to use.' Rolfe spoke deliberately, and not unkindly, though he was
tempted to give way to wrath at what he imagined a display of ignoble
and groundless jealousy. 'All along I have allowed you to take your own
course. No, I mustn't say "allowed", the word is inapplicable; I never
claimed the right to dictate to you. We agreed that this was the way for
rational husband and wife. It seemed to us that I had no more right to
rule over you than you to lay down the law for me. Using your freedom,
you chose to live the life of an artist -- that is to say, you troubled
yourself as little as possible about home and family. I am not
complaining -- not a bit of it. The thing was an experiment, to be sure;
but I have held to the conditions, watched their working. Latterly I
began to see that they didn't work well, and it appears that you agree
with me. This is how matters stand; or rather, this is how they stood
until, for some mysterious reason, you seemed to grow unfriendly. The
reason is altogether mysterious; I leave you to explain it. From my
point of view, the failure of our experiment is simple and natural
enough. Though I had only myself to blame, I have felt for a long time
that you were in an utterly false position. Now you begin to see things
in the same light. Well and good; why can't we start afresh? The only
obstacle is your unfriendly feeling. Give me an opportunity of removing
it. I hate to be on ill terms with you; it seems monstrous,
unaccountable. It puts us on a level with married folk in a London
lodging-house. Is it necessary to sink quite so low?'

Alma listened with trembling intensity, and seemed at first unable to
reply. Her agitation provoked Harvey more than it appealed to his pity.

'If you can't do as I wish,' she said at length, with an endeavour to
speak calmly, 'I see no use in making any change in my own life. There
will be no need of me. I shall make arrangements to go on with my
professional career.'

Harvey's features for a moment set themselves in combativeness, but as
quickly they relaxed, and showed an ambiguous smile.

'No need of you -- and Ruth going to leave us?'

'There oughtn't to be any difficulty in finding someone just as good.'

'Perhaps there ought not to be; but we may thank our stars if we find
anyone half as trustworthy. The chances are that a dozen will come and
go before we settle down again. I don't enjoy that prospect, and I shall
want a good deal of help from you in bearing the discomfort.'

'What kind of help? Of course, I shall see that the house goes on as
usual.'

'Then it's quite certain you will have no time left for a "professional
career".'

'If I understand you, you mean that you don't wish me to have any time
for it.'

Harvey still smiled, though he could not conceal his nervousness.

'I'm afraid it comes to that.'

So little had Alma expected such a declaration, that she gazed at him in
frank surprise.

'Then you are going to oppose me in everything?'

'I hope not. In that case we should do much better to say good-bye.'

The new tone perplexed her, and a puzzled interest mingled with the
lofty displeasure of her look.

'Please let us understand each other.' She spoke with demonstrative
calmness. 'Are we talking on equal terms, or is it master and servant?'

'Husband and wife, Alma, that's all.'

'With a new meaning in the words.'

'No; a very old one. I won't say the oldest, for I believe there was a
time when primitive woman had the making of man in every sense, and
somehow knocked a few ideas into his head; but that was very long ago.'

'If I could be sure of your real meaning ----.' She made an irritated
gesture. 'How are we going to live? You speak of married people in
lodging-houses. I don't know much about them, happily, but I imagine the
husband talks something like this -- though in more intelligible
language.'

'I dare say he does -- poor man. He talks more plainly, because he has
never put himself in a false position -- has never played foolishly with
the facts of life.'

Alma sat reflecting.

'Didn't I tell you in my letter,' she said at length, 'that I was quite
willing to make a change, on one condition?'

'An impossible condition.'

'You treat me very harshly. How have I deserved it? When I wrote that, I
really wished to please you. Of course, I knew you were dissatisfied
with me, and it made me dissatisfied with myself. I wrote in a way that
ought to have brought me a very different answer. Why do you behave as
if I were guilty of something -- as if I had put myself at your mercy?
You never found fault with me -- you even encouraged me to go on ----'

Her choking voice made Harvey look at her in apprehension, and the look
stopped her just as she was growing hysterical.

'You are right about my letter,' he said, very gravely and quietly. 'It
ought to have been in a kinder tone. It would have been, but for those
words you won't explain.'

'You think it needs any explanation that I dislike the thought of Hughie
going to Mrs. Abbott's?'

'Indeed I do. I can't imagine a valid ground for your objection.'

There was a word on Alma's tongue, but her lips would not utter it. She
turned very pale under the mental conflict. Physical weakness, instead
of overcoming her spirit, excited it to a fresh effort of resistance.

'Then,' she said, rising from the chair, 'you are not only unkind to me,
but dishonest.'

Harvey flushed.

'You are making yourself ill again. We had far better not talk at all.'

'I came up for no other purpose. We have to settle everything.'

'As far as I am concerned, everything is settled.'

'Then I have no choice,' said Alma, with subdued passion. 'We shall live
as we have done. I shall accept any engagement that offers, in London or
the country, and regard music as my chief concern. You wished it, and so
it shall be.'

Rolfe hesitated. Believing that her illness was the real cause of this
commotion, he felt it his duty to use all possible forbearance; yet he
knew too well the danger of once more yielding, and at such a crisis.
The contest had declared itself -- it was will against will; to decide
it by the exertion of his sane strength against Alma's hysteria might be
best even for the moment. He had wrought himself to the point of
unwonted energy, a state of body and mind difficult to recover if now he
suffered defeat. Alma, turning from him, seemed about to leave the room.

'One moment ----'

She looked round, carelessly attentive.

'That wouldn't be living as we have done. It would be an intolerable
state of things after this.'

'It's your own decision.'

'Far from it. I wouldn't put up with it for a day.'

'Then there's only one thing left: I must go and live by myself.'

'I couldn't stand that either, and wouldn't try.'

'I am no slave! I shall live where and how I choose.'

'When you have thought about it more calmly, your choice will be the
same as mine.'

Trembling violently, she backed away from him. Harvey thought she would
fall; he tried to hold her by the arm, but Alma shook him off, and in
the same moment regained her -strength. She faced him with a new
defiance, which enabled her at last to speak the words hitherto
unutterable.

'How do you think I can bear to see Hughie with _those_ children?'

Rolfe stood in amaze. The suddenness of this reversion to another stage
of their argument enhanced his natural difficulty in understanding her.
'What children?'

'Those two -- whatever their name may be.'

'Wager's boy and girl?'

'You call them so.'

'Are you going crazy? I _call_ them so? -- what do you mean?'

A sudden misgiving appeared in Alma's eyes; she stared at him so
strangely that Harvey began to fear for her reason.

'What is it, dear? What have you been thinking? Tell me -- speak like
yourself ----'

'Why do you take so much interest in them?' she asked faintly.

'Heavens! You have suspected ----? What _have_ you suspected?'

'They are your own. I have known it for a long time.'

Alarm notwithstanding, Rolfe was so struck by the absurdity of this
charge that he burst into stentorian laughter. Whilst he laughed, Alma
sank into a chair, powerless, tearful.

'I should much like to know,' exclaimed Harvey, laying a hand upon her,
'how you made that astounding discovery. Do you think they are like me?'

'The girl is -- or I thought so.'

'After you had decided that she must be, no doubt.' Again he exploded in
laughter. 'And this is the meaning of it all? This is what you have been
fretting over? For how long?'

Alma brushed away her tears, but gave no answer.

'And if I am their father,' he pursued, with resolute mirthfulness,
'pray, who do you suppose their mother to be?'

Still Alma kept silence, her head bent.

'I'll warrant I can give you evidence against myself which you hadn't
discovered,' Rolfe went on -- 'awful and unanswerable evidence. It is I
who support those children, and pay for their education! -- it is I, and
no other. See your darkest suspicion confirmed. If only you had known
this for certain!'

'Why, then, do you do it?' asked Alma, without raising her eyes.

'For a very foolish reason: there was no one else who could or would.'

'And why did you keep it a secret from me?'

'This is the blackest part of the whole gloomy affair,' he answered,
with burlesque gravity. 'It's in the depraved nature of men to keep
secrets from their wives, especially about money. To tell the truth, I'm
hanged if I know why I didn't tell you before our marriage. The infamous
step was taken not very long before, and I might as well have made a
clean breast of it. Has Mrs. Abbott never spoken to you about her cousin,
Wager's wife?'

'A word or two.'

'Which you took for artful fiction? You imagined she had plotted with me
to deceive you? What, in the name of commonsense, is your estimate of
Mrs. Abbott's character?'

Alma drew a deep breath, and looked up into her husband's face. 'Still
-- she knew you were keeping it from me, about the money.'

'She had no suspicion of it. She always wrote to me openly,
acknowledging the cheques. Would it gratify you to look through her
letters?'

'I believe you.'

'Not quite, I fancy. Look at me again and say it.'

He raised her head gently.

'Yes, I believe you -- it was very silly.'

'It was. The only piece of downright feminine foolishness I ever knew
you guilty of. But when did it begin?'

Alma had become strangely quiet. She spoke in a low, tired voice, and
sat with head turned aside, resting against the back of the chair; her
face was expressionless, her eyelids drooped. Rolfe had to repeat his
question.

'I hardly know,' she replied. 'It must have been when my illness was
coming on.'

'So I should think. It was sheer frenzy. And now that it's over, have
you still any prejudice against Mrs. Abbott?'

'No.'

The syllable fell idly from her lips.

'You are tired, dear. All this sound and fury has been too much for you.
Lie down on the sofa till dinner-time.'

She allowed him to lead her across the room, and lay down as he wished.
To his kiss upon her forehead she made no response, but closed her eyes
and was very still. Harvey seated himself at his desk, and opened two or
three unimportant letters which had arrived this morning. To one of them
he wrote an answer. Turning presently to glance at Alma, he saw that she
had not stirred, and when he leaned towards her, the sound of her
breathing told him that she was asleep.

He meditated on Woman.

A quarter of an hour before dinner-time he left the room; on his return,
when the meal was ready, he found Alma still sleeping, and so soundly
that it seemed wrong to wake her. As rays of sunset had begun to fall
into the room, he drew the blind, then quietly went out, and had dinner
by himself.

At ten o'clock Alma still slept. Using a closely-shaded lamp, Harvey sat
in the room with her and read -- or seemed to read; for ever and again
his eyes strayed to the still figure, and his thoughts wandered over all
he knew of Alma's life. He wished he knew more, that he might better
understand her. Of her childhood, her early maidenhood, what conception
had he? Yet he and she were _one_ -- so said the creeds. And Harvey
laughed to himself, a laugh more of melancholy than of derision.

The clock ticked on; it was near to eleven. Then Alma stirred, raised
herself, and looked towards the light.

'Harvey ----? Have I been asleep so long?'

'Nearly five hours.'

'Oh! That was last night ----'

'You mean, you had no sleep?'

'Didn't close my eyes.'

'And you feel better now?'

'Rather hungry.'

Rolfe laughed. He had seated himself on the couch by her and held her in
his arms.

'Why, then we'll have some supper -- a cold fowl and a bottle of
Burgundy -- a profligate supper, fit for such abandoned characters; and
over it you shall tell me how the world looked to you when you were ten
years old.'


CHAPTER 4


Alma returned to Basingstoke, and remained there until the new house was
ready for her reception. With the help of her country friends she
engaged two domestics, cook and housemaid, who were despatched to
Gunnersbury in advance; they had good 'characters', and might possibly
co-operate with their new mistress in her resolve to create an admirable
household. Into this ambition Alma had thrown herself with no less
fervour than that which carried her off to wild Wales five years ago;
but her aim was now strictly 'practical', she would have nothing more to
do with 'ideals'. She took lessons in domestic economy from the good
people at Basingstoke. Yes, she had found her way at last! Alma saw it
in the glow of a discovery, this calm, secure, and graceful middle-way.
She talked of it with an animation that surprised and pleased her little
circle down in Hampshire; those ladies had never been able to illumine
their everyday discharge of duty with such high imaginative glory. In
return for their humble lessons, Alma taught them to admire themselves,
to see in their place and functions a nobility they had never suspected.

For a day or two after her arrival at Gunnersbury, Harvey thought that
he had never seen her look so well; certainly she had never shown the
possibilities of her character to such advantage. It seemed out of the
question that any trouble could ever again come between them. Only when
the excitement of novelty had subsided did he perceive that Alma was far
from having recovered her physical strength. A walk of a mile or two
exhausted her; she came home from an hour's exercise with Hughie pale
and tremulous; and of a morning it was often to be noticed that she had
not slept well. Without talking of it, Harvey planned the holiday which
Alma had declared would be quite needless this year; he took a house in
Norfolk for September. Before the day of departure, Alma had something
to tell him, which, by suggesting natural explanation of her weakness,
made him less uneasy. Remembering the incident which had brought to a
close their life in Wales, he saw with pleasure that Alma no longer
revolted against the common lot of woman. Perhaps, indeed, the
announcement she made to him was the cause of more anxiety in his mind
than in hers.

They took their servants with them, and left the house to a caretaker.
Pauline Smith, though somewhat against Harvey's judgment, had been
called upon to resign; Alma wished to have Hughie to herself, save
during his school hours; he slept in her room, and she tended him most
conscientiously. Harvey had asked whether she would like to invite any
one, but she preferred to be alone.

This month by the northern sea improved her health, but she had little
enjoyment. After a few days, she wearied of the shore and the moorland,
and wished herself back at Gunnersbury. Nature had never made much
appeal to her; when she spoke of its beauties with admiration, she
echoed the approved phrases, little more; all her instincts drew towards
the life of a great town. Sitting upon the sand, between cliff and
breakers, she lost herself in a dream of thronged streets and brilliant
rooms; the voice of the waves became the roar of traffic, a far sweeter
music. With every year this tendency had grown stronger; she could only
marvel, now, at the illusion which enabled her to live so long, all but
contentedly, in that wilderness where Hughie was born. Rather than
return to it, she would die -- rather, a thousand times. Happily, there
was no such danger. Harvey would never ask her to leave London. All he
desired was that she should hold apart from certain currents of town
life; and this she was resolved to do, knowing how nearly they had swept
her to destruction.

'Wouldn't you like to take up your sketching again?' said Harvey one
day, when he saw that she felt dull.

'Sketching? Oh, I had forgotten all about it. It seems ages ago. I
should have to begin and learn all over again. No, no; it isn't worth
while. I shall have no time.'

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