Eustace Hale Ball - "The Voice on the Wire"

Friedrich de la Motte Fouque - "Undine"

John Richardson - "Wacousta"

William Shakespeare - "The Tragedie of Anthonie, and Cleopatra"

The Whirlpool

G >> George Gissing >> The Whirlpool




After a few conversations, he gained an inkling of Buncombe's motive in
taking a house so much larger than he needed. This magnificence was
meant as an attraction to the roaming wife, whom, it was clear, Buncombe
both wished and hoped to welcome back before very long. She did
occasionally visit the house, though only for an hour or two; just to
show, said Buncombe, that there was no ill-feeling. On his part,
evidently, there was none whatever. An easy-going, simple-minded fellow,
aged about forty, with a boyish good temper and no will to speak of, he
seemed never to entertain a doubt of his wife's honesty, and in any case
would probably have agreed, on the least persuasion, to let bygones be
bygones. He spoke rather proudly than otherwise of Mrs. Buncombe's
artistic success.

'It isn't every woman could have done it, you know, Mr. Rolfe.'

'It is not,' Harvey assented.

Only those rooms were furnished which the little family used, five or
six in all; two or three stood vacant, and served as playgrounds for the
children in bad weather. Of his relatives at the top, Buncombe never
spoke; he either did not know, or viewed with indifference, the fact
that Mrs. Handover served his lodger in a menial capacity. About once a
month he invited three or four male friends to a set dinner, and
hilarity could be heard until long after midnight. Altogether it was a
strange household, and, as he walked about the streets of the
neighbourhood, Harvey often wondered what abnormalities even more
striking might be concealed behind the meaningless uniformity of these
heavily respectable housefronts. As a lodger he was content to dwell
here; but sometimes by a freak of imagination he pictured himself a
married man, imprisoned with wife and children amid these leagues of
dreary, inhospitable brickwork, and a great horror fell upon him.

No. In his time he had run through follies innumerable, but from the
supreme folly of hampering himself by marriage, a merciful fate had
guarded him. It was probably the most remarkable fact of his life; it
heightened his self-esteem, and appeared to warrant him in the assurance
that a destiny so protective would round the close of his days with
tranquillity and content.

Upon this thought he lay down to rest. For half an hour Basil Morton's
letter had occupied his mind: he had tried to think out the problem it
set forth, not to leave his friend quite unanswered; but weariness
prevailed, and with it the old mood of self-congratulation.

Next morning the weather was fine; that is to say, one could read
without artificial light, and no rain fell, and far above the house-tops
appeared a bluish glimmer, shot now and then with pale yellowness.
Harvey decided to carry out his intention of calling upon Mrs. Abbott.
She lived at Kilburn, and thither he drove shortly before twelve
o'clock. He was admitted to a very cosy room, where, amid books and
pictures, and by a large fire, the lady of the house sat reading.
Whatever the cause, it seemed to him that his welcome fell short of
cordiality, and he hastened to excuse himself for intruding at so early
an hour.

'I received a letter last night which I thought you had better know of
without delay.'

'From that man -- Mr. Wager?' said Mrs. Abbott quickly and hopefully, her
face brightening.

'Yes. But there's nothing satisfactory in it. He writes from Liverpool,
and merely says that the children are at his lodgings, and he can do no
more for them.'

Mrs. Abbott set her lips in an expression almost of sullenness. Rolfe had
never seen her look thus, but it confirmed a suspicion which he had
harboured concerning her. Why, he hardly knew -- for she always
presented a face of amiability, and talked in gentle, womanly tones --
doubt as to Abbott's domestic felicity haunted his mind. Perhaps he now
saw her, for the first time, as she commonly appeared to her husband --
slightly peevish, unwilling to be disturbed, impatient when things did
not run smoothly.

'You saw my husband yesterday?' was her next remark, not very graciously
uttered.

'We met in the street last night -- before I got Wager's letter. He was
suffering horribly from neuralgia.'

Harvey could not forbear to add this detail, but he softened his voice
and smiled.

'I don't wonder at it,' returned the lady; 'he takes no care of
himself.'

Harvey glanced about the room. Its furnishing might be called luxurious,
and the same standard of comfort prevailed through the house.
Considering that Edgar Abbott, as Rolfe knew, married on small means,
and that he had toiled unremittingly to support a home in which he could
seldom enjoy an hour's leisure, there seemed no difficulty in explaining
this neglect of his own health. It struck the visitor that Mrs. Abbott
might have taken such considerations into account, and have spoken of
the good fellow more sympathetically. In truth, Harvey did not quite
like Mrs. Abbott. Her age was about seven and twenty. She came of poor
folk, and had been a high-school teacher; very clever and successful, it
was said, and Harvey could believe it. Her features were regular, and
did not lack sweetness; yet, unless an observer were mistaken, the last
year or two had emphasised a certain air of conscious superiority,
perchance originating in the schoolroom. She had had one child; it
struggled through a few months of sickly life, and died of convulsions
during its mother's absence at a garden-party. To all appearances, her
grief at the loss betokened tenderest feeling. When, in half a year's
time, she again came forth into the world, a change was noted; her
character seemed to have developed a new energy, she exhibited wider
interests, and stepped from the background to become a leader in the
little circle of her acquaintances.

'Have you read this?' asked his hostess abruptly, holding up to him a
French volume, Ribot's _L'Heredite Psychologique_.

'No. That kind of thing doesn't interest me much.'

'Indeed! I find it _intensely_ interesting.'

Harvey rose; he was in no mood for this kind of small-talk. But no
sooner had he quitted his chair, than Mrs. Abbott threw her book aside,
and spoke in another tone, seriously, though still with a perceptible
accent of annoyance.

'Of course that man's children are here, and I suppose it is our duty to
provide for them till some other arrangement is made. But I think we
ought to put the matter in the hands of the police. Don't you, Mr
Rolfe?'

'I'm afraid there's small chance of making their father support them. He
is certainly out of England by now, and won't easily be caught.'

'The worst of it is, they are anything but _nice_ children. What could
one expect with such a father? Since their poor mother died, they have
been in the hands of horrible people -- low-class landladies, no doubt;
their talk shocks me. The last amusement they had, was to be taken by
somebody to Tussaud's, and now they can talk of nothing but "the hunted
murderer" -- one sees it on the walls, you know; and they play at being
murderer and policeman, one trying to escape the other. Pretty play for
children of five and seven, isn't it?'

Rolfe made a gesture of disgust.

'I know the poor things can't help it,' pursued Mrs. Abbott, with softer
feeling, 'but it turns me against them. From seeing so little of their
father, they have even come to talk with a vulgar pronunciation, like
children out of the streets almost. It's dreadful! When I think of my
cousin -- such a sweet, good girl, and _these_ her children -- oh, it's
horrible!'

'They are very young,' said Harvey, in a low voice, perturbed in spite
of himself. 'With good training ----'

'Yes, of course we must put them in good hands somewhere.'

Plainly it had never occurred to Mrs. Abbott that such a task as this
might, even temporarily, be undertaken by herself; her one desire was to
get rid of the luckless brats, that their vulgarity might not pain her,
and the care of them encumber her polite leisure.

After again excusing himself for this call, and hearing his apology this
time more graciously received, Harvey withdrew from the cosy study, and
left Mrs, Abbott to her _Heredite Psychologique_. On his way to lunch in
town, he thought of the overworn journalist groaning with neuralgia, and
wondered how Mrs. Abbott would relish a removal to the town of Waterbury.


CHAPTER 4


Uncertain to the last moment, Harvey did at length hurry into his dress
clothes, and start for Fitzjohn Avenue. He had little mind for the
semi-fashionable crowd and the amateur music, but he could not answer
Mrs. Bennet Frothingham with any valid excuse, and, after all, she meant
kindly towards him. Why he enjoyed so much of this lady's favour it was
not easy to understand; intellectual sympathy there could be none
between them, and as for personal liking, on his side it did not go
beyond that naturally excited by a good-natured, feather-brained, rather
pretty woman, whose sprightliness never passed the limits of decorum,
and who seemed to have better qualities than found scope in her
butterfly existence. Perhaps he amused her, being so unlike the kind of
man she was accustomed to see. His acquaintance with the family dated
from their social palingenesis, when, after obscure prosperity in a
southern suburb, they fluttered to the northern heights, and were
observed of the paragraphists. Long before that, Bennet Frothingham had
been known in the money-market; it was the 'Britannia' -- Loan,
Assurance, Investment, and Banking Company, Limited -- that made him
nationally prominent, and gave an opportunity to his wife (in second
marriage) and his daughter (by the first). Three years ago, when Carnaby
(already lured by the charms of Sibyl Larkfield) presented his friend
Rolfe as 'the man who had been to Bagdad', Alma Frothingham, not quite
twenty-one, was studying at the Royal Academy of Music, and, according
to her friends, promised to excel alike on the piano and the violin,
having at the same time a 'really remarkable' contralto voice. Of late
the young lady had abandoned singing, rarely used the pianoforte, and
seemed satisfied to achieve distinction as a violinist. She had founded
an Amateur Quartet Society, whose performances were frequently to be
heard at the house in Fitzjohn Avenue.

Last winter Harvey had chanced to meet Alma and her stepmother at
Leipzig, at a Gewandhaus concert. He was invited to go with them to hear
the boys' motet at the Thomaskirche; and with this intercourse began the
change in their relations from mere acquaintance to something like
friendship. Through the following spring Rolfe was a familiar figure at
the Frothinghams'; but this form of pleasure soon wearied him, and he
was glad to escape from London in June. He knew the shadowy and
intermittent temptation which beckoned him to that house; music had
power over him, and he grew conscious of watching Alma Frothingham, her
white little chin on the brown fiddle, with too exclusive an interest.
When 'that fellow' Cyrus Redgrave, a millionaire, or something of the
sort, began to attend these gatherings with a like assiduity, and to win
more than his share of Miss Frothingham's conversation, Harvey felt a
disquietude which happily took the form of disgust, and it was easy
enough to pack his portmanteau.

Through the babble of many voices in many keys, talk mingling with
laughter more or less melodiously subdued, he made his way up the great
staircase. As he neared the landing, there sounded the shrill squeak of
a violin and a 'cello's deep harmonic growl. His hostess, small,
slender, fair, and not yet forty, a jewel-flash upon her throat and in
the tiara above her smooth low forehead, took a step forward to greet
him.

'Really? How delightful! I shot at a venture, and it was a hit after
all!'

'They are just beginning?'

'The quartet -- yes. Herr Wilenski has promised to play afterwards.'

He moved on, crossed a small drawing-room, entered the larger room
sacred to music, and reached a seat in the nick of time. Miss
Frothingham, the violin against her shoulder, was casting a final glance
at the assembly, the glance which could convey a noble severity when it
did not forthwith impose silence. A moment's perfect stillness, and the
quartet began. There were two ladies, two men. Miss Frothingham played
the first violin, Mr. AEneas Piper the second; the 'cello was in the
hands of Herr Gassner, and the viola yielded its tones to Miss Dora
Leach. Harvey knew them all, but had eyes only for one; in truth, only
one rewarded observation. Miss Leach was a meagre blonde, whose form,
face, and attitude enhanced by contrast the graces of the First Violin.
Alma's countenance shone -- possibly with the joy of the artist, perhaps
only with gratified vanity. As she grew warm, the rosy blood mantled in
her cheeks and flushed her neck. Every muscle and nerve tense as the
strings from which she struck music, she presently swayed forward on the
points of her feet, and seemed to gain in stature, to become a more
commanding type. Her features suggested neither force of intellect or
originality of character: but they had beauty, and something more. She
stood a fascination, an allurement, to the masculine sense. Harvey Rolfe
had never so responded to this quality in the girl; the smile died from
his face as he regarded her. Of her skill as a musician, he could form
no judgment; but it seemed to him that she played very well, and he had
heard her praised by people who understood the matter; for instance,
Herr Wilenski, the virtuoso, from whom -- in itself a great compliment
-- Alma was having lessons.

He averted his eyes, and began to seek for known faces among the
audience. His host he could not discover; Mr. Frothingham must be away
from home this evening; it was seldom he failed to attend Alma's
concerts. But near the front sat Mrs. Ascott Larkfield, a dazzling
figure, and, at some distance, her daughter Mrs. Carnaby, no shadow of
gloom upon her handsome features. Hugh was not in sight; probably he
felt in no mood for parties. Next to Mrs. Carnaby sat 'that fellow',
Cyrus Redgrave, smiling as always, and surveying the people near him
from under drooping brows, his head slightly bent. Mr. Redgrave had thin
hair, but a robust moustache and a short peaked beard; his complexion
was a rifle sallow; he lolled upon the chair, so that, at moments, his
head all but brushed Mrs. Carnaby's shoulder.

Long before the close of the piece, Rolfe had ceased to listen, his
thoughts drifting hither and hither on a turbid flood of emotion. During
the last passage -- _Allegro molto leggieramente_ -- he felt a movement
round about him as a general relief, and when, on the last note, there
broke forth (familiar ambiguity) sounds of pleasure and of applause, he
at once stood up. But he had no intention of pressing into the throng
that rapidly surrounded the musicians. Seeing that Mr. Redgrave had
vacated his place, whilst Mrs. Carnaby remained seated, he stepped
forward to speak with his friend's wife. She smiled up at him, and
lifted a gloved finger.

'No! Please don't!'

'Not sit down by you?'

'Oh, certainly. But I saw condolence in your face, and I'm tired of it.
Besides, it would be mere hypocrisy in you.'

Harvey gave a silent laugh. He had tried to understand Sibyl Carnaby,
and at different times had come to very different conclusions regarding
her. All women puzzled, and often disconcerted, him; with Sibyl he could
never talk freely, knowing not whether to dislike or to admire her. He
was not made on the pattern of Cyrus Redgrave, who probably viewed
womankind with instinctive contempt, yet pleased all with the flattery
of his homage.

'Well, then, we won't talk of it,' he said, noticing, in the same
moment, that her person did not lack the adornment of jewels. Perhaps
she had happened to be wearing these things on the evening of the
robbery; but Rolfe felt a conviction that, under any circumstances,
Sibyl would not be without rings and bracelets.

'They certainly improve,' she remarked, indicating the quartet with the
tip of her fan.

Her opinions were uttered with calm assurance, whatever the subject. An
infinite self-esteem, so placid that it never suggested the vulgarity of
conceit, shone in her large eyes and dwelt upon the beautiful curve of
her lips. No face could be of purer outline, of less sensual
suggestiveness; it wore at times an air of cold abstraction which was
all but austerity. Rolfe imagined her the most selfish of women, thought
her incapable of sentiment; yet how was her marriage to be accounted
for, save by supposing that she fell in love with Hugh Carnaby? Such a
woman might surely have sold herself to great advantage; and yet -- odd
incongruity -- she did not impress one as socially ambitious. Her
mother, the ever-youthful widow, sped from assembly to assembly, unable
to live save in the whirl of fashion; not so Sibyl. Was she too proud,
too self-centred? And what ambition did she nourish?

Or was it all an illusion of the senses? Suppose her a mere graven
image, hollow, void. Call her merely a handsome woman, with the face of
some remarkable ancestress, with just enough of warmth to be subdued by
the vigorous passion of such a fine fellow as Carnaby. On the whole,
Rolfe preferred this hypothesis. He had never heard her say anything
really bright, or witty, or significant. But Hugh spoke of her fine
qualities of head and heart; Alma Frothingham made her an exemplar, and
would not one woman see through the vacuous pretentiousness of another?

Involuntarily, he was gazing at her, trying to read her face.

'So you think we ought to go to Australia,' said Sibyl quietly,
returning his look.

Hugh had repeated the conversation of last night; indiscreet, but
natural. One could not suppose that Hugh kept many secrets from his
wife.

'I?' He was confused. 'Oh, we were talking about the miseries of
housekeeping ----'

'I hate the name of those new countries.'

It was said smilingly, but with what expression in the word 'hate'!

'Vigorous cuttings from the old tree,' said Rolfe. 'There is England's
future.'

'Perhaps so. At present they are barbarous, and I have a decided
preference for civilisation. So have you, I am quite sure.'

Rolfe murmured his assent; whereupon Sibyl rose, just bent her head to
him, and moved with graceful indolence away.

'Now she hates _me_,' Harvey said in his mind; 'and much I care!'

As a matter of courtesy, he thought it well to move in Miss
Frothingham's direction. The crowd was thinning; without difficulty he
approached to within a few yards of her, and there exchanged a word or
two with the player of the viola, Miss Leach -- a good, ingenuous
creature, he had always thought; dangerous to no man's peace, but rather
sentimental, and on that account to be avoided. Whilst talking, he heard
a man's voice behind him, pretentious, coarse, laying down the law in a
musical discussion.

'No, no; Beethoven is not _Klaviermaszig_. His thoughts ate symphonic --
they need the orchestra. . . . A string quartet is to a symphony what a
delicate water-colour is to an oil-painting. . . . Oh, I don't care for
his playing at all! he has not -- what shall I call it? -- _Sehnsucht_.'

Rolfe turned at length to look. A glance showed him a tall, bony young
man, with a great deal of disorderly hair, and shaven face;
harsh-featured, sensual, utterly lacking refinement. He inquired of Miss
Leach who this might be, and learnt that the man's name was Felix Dymes.

'Isn't he a humbug?'

The young lady was pained and shocked.

'Oh, he is very clever,' she whispered. 'He has composed a most
beautiful song -- don't you know it? -- "Margot". It's very likely that
Topham may sing it at one of the Ballad Concerts.'

'Now I've offended _her_,' said Rolfe to himself. 'No matter.'

Seeing his opportunity, he took a few steps, and stood before Alma
Frothingham. She received him very graciously, looking him straight in
the face, with that amused smile which he could never interpret. Did it
mean that she thought him 'good fun'? Had she discussed him with Sibyl
Carnaby, and heard things of him that moved her mirth? Or was it pure
good nature, the overflowing spirits of a vivacious girl?

'So good of you to come, Mr. Rolfe. And what did you think of us?'

This was characteristic. Alma delighted in praise, and never hesitated
to ask for it. She hung eagerly upon his unready words.

'I only show my ignorance when I talk of music. Of course, I liked it.'

'Ah! then you didn't think it very good. I see ----'

'But I _did_! Only my opinion is worthless.'

Alma looked at him, seemed to hesitate, laughed; and Harvey felt the
conviction that, by absurd sincerity, he had damaged himself in the
girl's eyes. What did it matter?

'I've been practising five hours a day,' said Alma, in rapid, ardent
tones. Her voice was as pleasant to the ear as her face to look upon;
richly feminine, a call to the emotions. 'That isn't bad, is it?'

'Tremendous energy!'

'Oh, music is my religion, you know. I often feel sorry I haven't to get
my living by it; it's rather wretched to be only an amateur, don't you
think?'

'Religion shouldn't be marketable,' joked Harvey.

'Oh, but you know what I mean. You are so critical, Mr. Rolfe. I've a
good mind to ask Father to turn me out of house and home, with just
half-a-crown. Then I might really do something. It would be splendid! --
Oh, what do you think of that shameful affair in Hamilton Terrace? Mrs
Carnaby takes it like an angel. They're going to give up housekeeping.
Very sensible, I say. Everybody will do it before long. Why should we be
plagued with private houses?'

'There are difficulties ----'

'Of course there are, and men seem to enjoy pointing them out. They
think it a crime if women hate the bother and misery of housekeeping.'

'I am not so conservative.'

He tried to meet her eyes, which were gleaming fixedly upon him; but his
look fell, and turned as quickly from the wonderful white shoulders, the
throbbing throat, the neck that showed its colour against swan's-down.
To his profound annoyance, someone intervened -- a lady bringing someone
else to be introduced. Rolfe turned on his heel, and was face to face
with Cyrus Redgrave. Nothing could be suaver or more civil than Mr
Redgrave's accost; he spoke like a polished gentleman, and, for aught
Harvey knew, did not misrepresent himself. But Rolfe had a prejudice; he
said as little as possible, and moved on.

In the smaller drawing-room he presently conversed with his hostess. Mrs
Frothingham's sanguine and buoyant temper seemed proof against fatigue;
at home or as a guest she wore the same look of enjoyment; vexations,
rivalries, responsibilities, left no trace upon her beaming countenance.
Her affections were numberless; her ignorance, as an observer easily
discovered, was vast and profound; but the desire to please, the tact of
a 'gentlewoman, and thorough goodness of heart, appeared in all her
sayings and doings; she was never offensive, never wholly ridiculous.
Small-talk flowed from her with astonishing volubility, tone and subject
dictated by the characteristics of the person with whom she gossiped;
yet her preference was for talk on homely topics, reminiscences of a
time when she knew not luxury. 'You may not believe it,' she said to him
in a moment of confidence, 'but I assure you I am a very good cook.'
Rolfe did not quite credit the assurance, but he felt it not improbable
that Mrs. Frothingham would accept a reverse of fortune with much
practical philosophy; he could imagine her brightening a small house
with the sweetness of her disposition, and falling to humble duties with
sprightly goodwill. In this point she was a noteworthy exception among
the prosperous women of his acquaintance.

'And what have you been doing?' she asked, not as a mere phrase of
civility, but in a voice and which a look of genuine interest.

'Wasting my time, for the most part.'

'So you always say; but it can't be true. I know the kind of man who
wastes his time, and you're not a bit like him. Nothing would gratify my
curiosity more than to be able to watch you through a whole day. What
did you think of the quartet?'

'Capital!'

'I'm sure they would make wonderful progress, and Alma does work so
hard! I'm only afraid she may injure her health.'

'I see no sign of it yet.'

'She's certainly looking very well,' said Mrs. Frothingham, with manifest
pride and affection. Of Alma she always spoke thus; nothing of the
step-mother was ever observable.

'Mr. Frothingham is not here this evening!'

'I really don't know why,' replied the hostess, casting her eyes round
the room. 'I quite expected him. But he has been dreadfully busy the
last few weeks. And people do worry him so. Somebody called whilst we
were at dinner, and refused to believe that Mr. Frothingham was not at
home, and made quite a disturbance at the door -- so they told me
afterwards. I'm really quite nervous sometimes; crazy people are always
wanting to see him -- people who really ought not to be at large. No
doubt they have had their troubles, poor things; and everybody thinks my
husband can make them rich if only he chooses.'

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