The Whirlpool

'Mrs. Carnaby,' said Rolfe, 'there must be an end of it. You had better ask Alma what she has against you.'

Sibyl, summoning all her cold dignity, stood before the half-distraught woman, and looked her in the eyes.

'What harm or wrong have I done you, Mrs. Rolfe, that you hate me so?'

'None that I know of, until you brought me here today.'

'But you have said that you think me no better than a guilty hypocrite, and isn't it natural that I should defend myself?'

'Quite natural. You have done it very cleverly till now, and perhaps you will to the end. I feel sure there is no evidence against you, except the word of the woman who told your husband; and even if she comes forward, you have only to deny, and keep on denying.'

'Then why do you believe that woman rather than me?'

Alma answered only with a frivolous laugh. Sibyl, turning her head, looked an appeal to the listeners.

'Mrs. Rolfe,' said Hugh, in a rough, imploring voice, 'have you no other answer? You can't ruin people's lives like this, as if it were sport to you.'

Alma gazed at him, as if she had but just observed his face.

'You have gone through dreadful things,' she said earnestly. 'I'm sorry to cause you more trouble, but the fault is hers. She got that secret from you, and it delighted her. Go on believing what she says; it's the best way when all's over and done with. You can never know as I do.'

She laughed again, a little spurt of joyless merriment. Upon that, in the same moment, followed a loud hysterical cry; then sobs and wailing, with movements as if to tear open the clothing that choked her. Sibyl hastened away, and returned with her vinaigrette, which she handed to Rolfe. But already the crisis was over. Alma lay back in a chair, sobbing quietly, with head bent aside.

Carnaby and his wife, after an exchange of signals, silently left the room. Rolfe paced backwards and forwards for a minute or two, until he heard his name spoken; then he drew near, and Alma looked at him with her own eyes once more.

'I won't go back home unless you wish, Harvey.'

'Do you feel able to go?'

'If you wish me. If not, I'll go somewhere else.'

He sat down by her.

'Are you yourself, Alma? Do you know what you are saying?'

'Yes—indeed I do. I know I lost myself; my head went round; but I am well again now.'

'Then tell me in a word—is there any reason why you should not go home with me?'

'What's the use? You won't believe me. You can't believe me!'

He grasped her hand, and spoke imperatively, but not unkindly.

'Stop that! Answer me, and I will believe what you say.'

'There is no reason. I have done no wrong.'

'Then come, if you feel able to.'

She rose without help, and walked to a mirror, at which she arranged her dress. Harvey opened the door, and found all quiet. He led her through the passage, out into the common staircase, and down into the street. Here she whispered to him that a faintness was upon her; it would pass if she could have some restorative. They found a four-wheeled cab, and drove to a public-house, where Rolfe obtained brandy and brought it out to her. Then, wishing to avoid the railway station until Alma had recovered her strength, he bade the cabman drive on to Notting Hill Gate.

'May I sit at your side?' she asked, bending towards him in the darkness, when they had been silent for a few minutes.

Harvey replied by changing his own place.

'I want to tell you,' she resumed, her face near to his. 'I can't wait, and know you are thinking about me. There isn't much to tell. Are you sure you can believe me?'

'I have promised that I will.'

'I don't ask you to be kind or to love me. You will never love me again. Only believe that I tell the truth, that's all. I am not like that woman.'

'Tell me,' he urged impatiently.

'I wanted to make use of Mr. Redgrave to use his influence with people in society, so that I could have a great success. I knew he wasn't to be trusted, but I had no fear; I could trust myself. I never said or did anything—it was only meeting him at people's houses and at concerts, and telling him what I hoped for. You couldn't take any interest in my music, and you had no faith in my power to make a success. I wanted to show you that you were wrong.'

'I was wrong in more ways than one,' said Harvey.

'You couldn't help it. If you had tried to make me go another way, it would only have led to unhappiness. At that time I was mad to make my name known, and, though I loved you, I believe I could have left you rather than give up my ambition. Mr. Redgrave used to invite people to his house in the summer to afternoon tea, and I went there once with a lady. Other people as well—a lot of other people. That's how I knew the house. I was never there alone until that last evening.—Don't shrink away from me!'

'I didn't. Go on, and be quick.'

'I suspected Sibyl from the moment you told me about her husband and Mr Redgrave. You did, too, Harvey.'

'Leave her aside.'

'But it was because of her. I saw she was getting to dislike me, and I thought she knew Mr. Redgrave was doing his best for me, and that she was jealous, and would prevent him—do you understand? He was my friend, nothing else; but she would never believe that. And a few days before my recital he seemed to lose interest, and I thought it was her doing. Can you understand how I felt? Not jealousy, for I never even liked him. I was living only for the hope of a success. Do you believe me, Harvey?' 'Easily enough.'

Thereupon she related truly, without omission, the train of circumstances that brought her to Wimbledon on the fatal night, and all that happened until she fled away into the darkness.

'It would be silly to say I oughtn't to have gone there. Of course, I knew all I was risking; but I felt I could give my life to detect that woman and have her in my power.

'It's just that I don't understand. If it had been ordinary jealousy—why, of course–'

'Men never can understand why women hate each other. She thought herself so superior to me, and showed it in every look and word; and all the time I knew she was a wicked hypocrite.'

'How did you know that?' Rolfe broke in vehemently, staring into her white face as a ray from the street illumined it.

'Oh, I can't tell you!' she replied, in a moaning, quivering voice. 'I knew it—I knew it—something told me. But I don't ask you to believe that. Only about myself—can you believe about myself?'

He replied mechanically, 'Yes.' Alma, with a sigh as much of hopelessness as of relief, lay back and said no more.

At Notting Hill Gate they waited for a train. Alma wandered about the platform, her head bent, silent and heeding nothing. In the railway carriage she closed her eyes, and Harvey had to draw her attention when it was time to alight. On entering the house she went at once upstairs. Harvey loitered about below, and presently sat down in the study, leaving the door ajar.

He was trying to persuade himself that nothing of much moment had come to pass. A doubt troubled him; most likely it would trouble him for the rest of his life; but he must heed it as little as possible. What other course was open to a sensible man? To rave and swear in the high tragic style would avail nothing, one way or the other; and the fact was—whatever its explanation—that he felt no prompting to such violence. Two years had passed; the man was dead; Alma had changed greatly, and was looking to new life in new conditions. His worst uneasiness arose from the hysteria which had so alarmingly declared itself this evening. He thought of Bennet Frothingham, and at length rose from his chair, meaning to go upstairs. But just then a step sounded in the hall; his door was pushed open, and Alma showed herself.

'May I come?' she asked, looking at him steadily

He beckoned with his head. She closed the door, and came slowly forward, stopping at a few paces from him.

'Harvey–'

'Well?'

'I want you to decide tonight. If you think it would be better for both of us, let me go. I shouldn't part from you unkindly; I don't mean that. I should ask you to let me have money as long as I needed it. But you know that I could support myself very soon. If you think it better, do say so, and we'll talk about it as friends.'

'I don't think anything of the kind. I shouldn't let you go, say what you might.'

'You wouldn't? But if you find that you can't believe me–'

'It would make no difference, even that. But I do believe you.'

She drew nearer, looking wistfully into his face.

'But she has made her husband believe her. You will always think of that—always.'

'You must remember, Alma, that I have no serious reason for doubting her word.'

She uttered a cry of distress.

'Then you doubt mine!—you doubt mine!'

'Nonsense, dear. Do try to think and talk more reasonably. What is it to you and me whether she was guilty or not? I may doubt your judgment about her, and yet believe perfectly all you tell me about yourself.'

'Then you think I have slandered her?'

'There's no earthly use in talking about it. You can give no reasons; you have no reasons. Your suspicion may be right or wrong; I don't care the toss of a button. All I know is, that we mustn't talk of it. Sit down and be quiet for a little. Oughtn't you to eat something before you go up?'

Alma put her hands upon his shoulders, bending her face so as to hide it from him.

'Dear—if you could just say that you believe me; not about myself—I know you do—but about her. Could you say that?'

He hesitated, all a man's common-sense in revolt against the entreaty; but he saw her quiver with a sob, and yielded.

'Very well, I will believe that too.'

Her touch became an embrace, gentle and timid; she threw her head back, gazing at him in rapture.

'You will never again doubt it?'

'Never again.'

'Oh, you are good!—you are kind to me, dear! And will you love me a little? Do you think you can, just a little?'

His answer satisfied her, and she lay in his arms, shedding tears of contentment. Then, for a long time, she talked of the new life before them. She would be everything he wished; no moment's trouble should ever again come between him and her. Nothing now had any charm for her but the still, happy life of home; her ambitions were all dead and buried. And Harvey answered her with tenderness; forgetting the doubt, refusing to look forward, knowing only that Alma had a place for ever in his heart.

Tonight she must sleep. Whilst undressing she measured the familiar draught of oblivion, and said to herself: 'The last time.' She lay down in darkness, closed her eyes, and tried to think only of happy things. But sleep would not come, and quiet thoughts would not linger with her. More than an hour must have passed, when she heard Harvey come upstairs. His step paused near her door, and she raised herself, listening. He went on, and his own door closed.

Then, for a short time, she lost herself, but in no placid slumber. Startled to wakefulness, she found that she had left her bed and was sitting on the chair beside it. She felt for the matches, and lit a candle. A great anguish of mind came upon her, but she could not shed tears; she wished to escape from her room to Harvey's, but durst not look out into the dark passage.

When her heart grew quieter, she went again to the drawer in which she kept her remedy for insomnia. Saying to herself, 'The last time—I shall be well again after tomorrow,' she measured another dose, a larger, and drank it off. Trembling now with cold, she crept into bed again, and lay watching the candle-flame.

Half an hour after this—it was about two o'clock—the handle of her door was turned, and Rolfe quietly looked in. He had awoke with an anxious feeling; it seemed to him that he heard Alma's voice, on the borderland of dream, calling his name. But Alma lay asleep, breathing steadily, her face turned from the light. As the candle had nearly burnt down, he blew it out, and went back to his bed.

At breakfast time Alma did not appear. The housemaid said that, half an hour ago, she was still sleeping. When he had had his meal with Hughie, Rolfe went up and entered his wife's room. Alma lay just as he had seen her in the night. He looked close—laid his hand upon her–

A violent ringing of the bedroom bell brought up the servant. Harvey met her at the door, and bade her run instantly to the doctor's house, which was quite near.

The doctor could only say, 'We warned her.'

CHAPTER 13

Sicut umbra praeterit dies.

The dial on the front of the old house was just shadowing four o'clock. Harvey Rolfe and his friend Morton sat on the lawn, Harvey reading aloud from a small volume which he had slipped into his pocket before walking over this afternoon. From another part of the garden sounded young voices, musical in their merriment.

It was a little book called 'Barrack-Room Ballads'. Harvey read in it here and there, with no stinted expression of delight, occasionally shouting his appreciation. Morton, pipe in mouth, listened with a smile, and joined more moderately in the reader's bursts of enthusiasm.

'Here's the strong man made articulate,' cried Rolfe at length. 'It's no use; he stamps down one's prejudice—what? It's the voice of the reaction. Millions of men, natural men, revolting against the softness and sweetness of civilisation; men all over the world; hardly knowing what they want and what they don't want; and here comes one who speaks for them—speaks with a vengeance.'

'Undeniable.'

'But——'

'I was waiting for the but,' said Morton, with a smile and a nod.

'The brute savagery of it! The very lingo—how appropriate it is! The tongue of Whitechapel blaring lust of life in the track of English guns!– He knows it; the man is a great artist; he smiles at the voice of his genius.—It's a long time since the end of the Napoleonic wars. Since then Europe has seen only sputterings of temper. Mankind won't stand it much longer, this encroachment of the humane spirit. See the spread of athletics. We must look to our physique, and make ourselves ready. Those Lancashire operatives, laming and killing each other at football, turning a game into a battle. For the milder of us there's golf—an epidemic. Women turn to cricket—tennis is too soft—and tomorrow they'll be bicycling by the thousand;—they must breed a stouter race. We may reasonably hope, old man, to see our boys blown into small bits by the explosive that hasn't got its name yet.'

'Perhaps,' replied Morton meditatively. 'And yet there are considerable forces on the other side.'

'Pooh! The philosopher sitting on the safety-valve. He has breadth of beam, good sedentary man, but when the moment comes—The Empire; that's beginning to mean something. The average Englander has never grasped the fact that there was such a thing as a British Empire. He's beginning to learn it, and itches to kick somebody, to prove his Imperialism. The bully of the music-hall shouting "Jingo" had his special audience. Now comes a man of genius, and decent folk don't feel ashamed to listen this time. We begin to feel our position. We can't make money quite so easily as we used to; scoundrels in Germany and elsewhere have dared to learn the trick of commerce. We feel sore, and it's a great relief to have our advantages pointed out to us. By God! we are the British Empire, and we'll just show 'em what that means!'

'I'm reading the campaigns of Belisarius,' said Morton, after a pause.

'What has that to do with it?'

'Thank Heaven, nothing whatever.'

'I bore you,' said Harvey, laughing. 'Well, I read little or nothing, except what I can use for Hughie. We're doing the geography of Asia, and I try to give him a few clear notions. Do you remember the idiotic way in which they used to teach us geography? I loathed the lesson.—That reminds me; Henrietta Winter is dead.'

'Is she? How did it remind you?'

'Why, because Morphew is going to New Zealand. I had a letter from him this morning. Here it is. "I heard yesterday that H. W. is dead. She died a fortnight ago, and a letter from her mother has only just reached me in a roundabout way. She had been ailing for some time. They suspected drains, and had workmen in, with assurance that all had been put right. Since H.'s death the drains have again been examined, and it was found that the men who came before so bungled and scamped their work that an abominable state of things was made much worse."—Those fellows will shout nobly for the Empire one of these days!—"I never saw her, but she spoke of me just before the end; spoke very kindly, says her mother. Damnation! I can write no more about it. I know you don't care to hear from me, but I'll just say that I'm going out to New Zealand. I don't know what I shall do there, but a fellow has asked me to go with him, and it's better than rotting here. It may help me to escape the devil yet; if so, you shall hear. Goodbye!"'

He thrust the letter back into his pocket.

'I rather thought the end would be pyrogallic acid.'

'He has the good sense to prefer ozone,' said Morton.

'For a time, at all events.—Look behind you. The young rascal is creeping this way. He'd rather sit and listen to our talk than be with the other youngsters. That's wrong, you know.'

Morton look round, and saw Hugh Rolfe. Seven years old now; slight, and with little or no colour in his cheeks; a wistful, timid smile on the too intelligent face. He was gazing towards his father, and evidently wished to draw near, yet feared that his presence might not be welcome. Morton beckoned him, and at once he ran and threw himself upon the grass by his father's side.

'Tired of playing?' asked Harvey, with voice and look which betrayed a tenderness he was always trying to conceal.

'A little tired. We are going to have tea soon.—May I look at this book, Father?'

'No pictures.'

'I don't mind.—Yes, there's a picture; a soldier!'

Interest quickened in the boy's eyes, and he turned eagerly from title-page to text. But just then there came a loud calling of his name from the other end of the garden.

'They want you,' said Harvey. 'Off you go. You can have the book another time.'

Hughie obeyed without hesitation, but his face had a weary look as he walked away to join the other children.

'I must send him to the Grammar-School next year,' said Rolfe. 'It won't do; he must be among boys, and learn to be noisy. Perhaps I have been altogether wrong in teaching him myself. What right has a man to teach, who can't make up his mind on any subject of thought? Of course I don't talk to him about my waverings and doubtings, but probably they affect him.'

'Don't bother your head so much about it,' replied Morton. 'He'll be all right as he grows stronger.'

A servant had brought out two little tables; tea was going to be served in the garden. When it was ready, Mrs. Morton appeared; the men rose as she came towards them, a newspaper in her hand.

'Have you noticed this?' she asked of Rolfe, with a smile, pointing out a paragraph to him.

He read it; first to himself, then aloud.

'Yesterday, at Lady Isobel Barker's house in Pont Street, a meeting was held of ladies interested in a project for the benefit of working-class women in the West End. It is proposed to arrange for a series of lectures, specially adapted to such an audience, on subjects of literary and artistic interest. Unfortunately, Lady Isobel herself was unable to take part in the proceedings, owing to sudden indisposition; but her views were most suggestively set forth by Mrs. Hugh Carnaby, who dwelt on the monotony of the lives of decent working-class women, and showed how much they would be benefited by being brought into touch with the intellectual movements of the day. Practical details of the scheme will shortly be made public.'

Morton chuckled quietly.

'Splendid idea,' said Rolfe. 'Anyone who knows anything of the West End working-class woman will be sure to give it warm support.'

The tea-bell rang; the children came running. Morton's eldest boy, who had been busy in his workshop, exhibited a fine model schooner, just finished. Presently, the hostess asked Rolfe whether he had heard of late from Mr. Carnaby.

'A week ago; the first time for a year. The demand for shares in their company was tremendous, and they are turning out the new bicycle at the rate of hundreds a week.'

'Has he quite got over that illness?'

'Says he suffers much from dyspepsia; otherwise, fairly well. The prospect of money-making on a great scale seems pleasant to him.'

'To Mrs. Carnaby, also, I dare say.'

'No doubt,' replied Rolfe absently.

After tea, a trio of little singers, one of whom was Hughie, gave the songs they had newly learnt with Mrs. Morton, she accompanying them on the piano. Rolfe sat in a corner of the room and listened, as always, with keen pleasure.

'One more,' he asked, when they were about to cease.

They sang that which he liked best–

Fear no more the heat o' the sun

After it there came a minute's silence; then Harvey rose.

'Say goodbye, Hughie; we must be going home.'

Hand in hand, each thinking his own thoughts, they walked homeward through the evening sunshine.