The Whirlpool Part 67

Determined to have done once for all with a task she loathed, Alma wrote out her advertis.e.m.e.nts for cook, house-parlourmaid, and nurse, and sent them to half a dozen newspapers. After three weeks of correspondence with servants and mistresses--a correspondence which, as Rolfe said, would have made a printed volume of higher sociological interest than anything yet published, or likely to be--the end of her patience and her strength compelled her to decide half desperately, and engage the three young women who appeared least insolent. At the same time she had to find a new boy for boots, windows, knives, and coals, the youngster hitherto employed having been so successful with his 'book' on Kempton Park and Hurst Park September meetings that he relinquished menial duties and devoted himself wholly to the turf; but this was such a simple matter, compared with the engaging of indoor domestics, that she felt it almost a delight. When a strong, merry-looking lad presented himself, eager for the job, and speaking not a word that was beside the point, Alma could have patted his head.

She amused Harvey that evening by exclaiming with the very accent of sincerity----

'How I like men, and how I detest women!'

Her nerves were so upset again that, when all was over, she generally slept pretty well, but now her insomnia returned, and had to keep her bed for a day or two. At the sea-side she had once more she had recourse to the fas.h.i.+onable specific. Harvey knew nothing of this; she was careful to hide it from him; and each time she measured out her dose she a.s.sured herself that it should be the last.

Oh, but to lie through those terrible small hours, her brain feverishly active, compelling her to live again in the scenes and the emotions she most desired to forget! She was haunted by the voice of Cyrus Redgrave, which at times grew so distinct to her hearing that it became an hallucination. Her memory reproduced his talk with astonis.h.i.+ng fidelity; it was as though she had learnt it by heart, instead of merely listening to it at the time. This only in the silence of night; during the day she could not possibly have recalled a tenth of what her brain thus treacherously preserved.

In sleep she sometimes dreamt of him, and that was perhaps worse; for whilst the waking illusion only reproduced what he had actually said, with all his tricks of tone, his suavities of expression, sleep brought before her another Redgrave. He looked at her with a smile, indeed, but a smile of such unutterable malignity that she froze with terror. It was always the same. Redgrave stood before her smiling, silent; stood and gazed until in a paroxysm of anguish she cried out and broke the dream. Once, whilst the agony was upon her, she sprang from bed, meaning to go to her husband and tell him everything, and so, it might be, put an end to her sufferings. But with her hand upon the door she lost courage. Impossible! She could not hope to be believed. She could never convince her husband that she had told him all.

Upon _her_ lay the guilt of Redgrave's death. This had entered slowly into her consciousness; at first rejected, but ever returning until the last argument of self-solace gave way. But for her visit to the bungalow that evening, Hugh Carnaby would not have been maddened to the point of fatal violence. In the obscurity he had mistaken her figure for that of Sibyl; and when Redgrave guarded her retreat, he paid for the impulse with his life.

On the Sunday before her concert, she had thought of going to see Redgrave, but the risk seemed too great, and there was no certainty of finding him at home. She wished above all things to see him, for there was a suspicion in her mind that Mrs. Strangeways had a plot against her, though of its nature she could form no idea. It might be true that Redgrave was purposely holding aloof, whether out of real jealousy, or simply as a stratagem, a new move in the game. She would not write to him; she knew the danger of letters, and had been careful never to write him even the simplest note. If she must remain in uncertainty about his att.i.tude towards her, the approaching ordeal would be intensified with a new agitation: was he coming to her recital, or was he not? She had counted upon triumphing before him. If he could stay away, her power over him was incomplete, and at the moment when she had meant it to be irresistible.

The chance encounter on Monday with Hugh Carnaby made her think of Sibyl, and she could not rest until she had endeavoured to learn something of Sibyl's movements. As Carnaby was leaving town, his wife would be free; and how did Sibyl use her freedom? On that subject Mrs Strangeways had a decided opinion, and her knowledge of the world made it more than probable that she was right. Without any scheme of espionage, obeying her instinct of jealous enmity, Alma hastened to Oxford and Cambridge Mansions. But Sibyl had left home, and--was not expected to return that night.

How she spent the next few hours Alma could but dimly remember. It was a vortex of wretchedness. As dark fell she found herself at the gate leading to the bungalow, lurking, listening, waiting for courage to go farther. She stole at length over the gra.s.s behind the bushes, until she could see the lighted window of Redgrave's study. The window was open. She crept nearer and nearer, till she was actually in the veranda and looking into the room. Redgrave sat within, smoking and reading a newspaper. She purposely made a movement which drew his attention.

How would it have ended but for Hugh Carnaby?

Beyond ascertaining that Sibyl was not there, she had of course discovered nothing of what she wished to know. As likely as not she had come too early. Redgrave's behaviour when she drew his attention suggested that such a sound at the open window did not greatly surprise him; the surprise appeared when he saw who stood there--surprise and momentary embarra.s.sment, which would be natural enough if he expected a different visitor. And he was so anxious that she should come in at once. Had she done so, Redgrave's life would have been saved; but----

Its having been publicly proved that Mrs. Carnaby was then far away from Wimbledon did not tend to shake Alma's conviction. The summons to her mother's deathbed had disturbed Sibyl's arrangements, that was all.

Most luckily for her, as it turned out. But women of that kind (said Alma bitterly) are favoured by fortune.

Locked in a drawer of her writing-table lay a bundle of letters and papers which had come to her immediately after the concert. To none of the letters had she replied; it was time for her to go through them, and answer, with due apologies, those which deserved an answer. Several did not; they were from people whom she hoped never to see again--people who wrote in fulsome terms, because they fancied she would become a celebrity. The news of her breakdown had appeared in a few newspapers, and brought her letters of sympathy; these also lay unanswered. On a day of late autumn she brought herself to the task of looking through this correspondence, and in the end she burnt it all.

Among the half-dozen people to whom she decided to write was Felix Dymes; not out of grat.i.tude, or any feeling of friendliness, but because she could not overcome a certain fear of the man. He was capable of any meanness, perhaps of villainy; and perhaps he harboured malice against her, seeing that she had foiled him to the last. She penned a few lines asking him to let her have a complete statement of the financial results of her recital, which it seemed strange that he had not sent already.

'My health,' she added, 'is far from re-established, and I am unable either to go to town or to ask you to come and see me. It is rather doubtful whether I shall ever again play in public.'

In her own mind there lingered no doubt at all, but she thought it better not to be too abrupt with Dymes.

After burning all the letters, she read once more through the press notices of her performance. It was significant that the musical critics whose opinion had any weight gave her only a word or two of cautious commendation; her eulogists were writers who probably knew much less about music than she, and who reported concerts from the social point of view. Popular journalism represented her debut as a striking success. Had she been able to use her opportunity to the utmost, doubtless something of a 'boom'--the word then coming into fas.h.i.+on--might have resulted for her; she could have given two or three more recitals before the end of the season, have been much photographed and paragraphed, and then have gone into the country 'to spread her conquests farther'. This was Felix Dymes's hope. Writing with all propriety, he had yet allowed it to be seen how greatly he was vexed and disappointed at her failure to take the flood. Alma, too, had regretful moments; but she fought against the feeling with all her strength. Today she all but found courage to throw these newspapers into the fire; it would be a final sacrifice, a grave symbolic act, and might bring her peace. Yet she could not. Long years hence, would it not be a legitimate pride to show these things to her children? A misgiving mingled with the thought, but her reluctance prevailed. She made up a parcel, wrote upon it, 'My Recital, May 1891', and locked it up with other most private memorials.

She had not long to wait for her answer from Dymes. He apologised for his delay in the matter of business, and promised that a detailed statement should be sent to her in a very few days. The unfortunate state of her health--there Alma smiled--moved him to sympathy and profound regret; her abandonment of a professional career _could_ not, _must_ not, be a final decision!

Something prompted her to hand this letter to Harvey.

'I took it for granted,' he said humorously, 'that the man had sent you a substantial cheque long ago.'

'I believe the balance will be on my side.'

'Would you like me to see to the rest of the business for you?'

'I don't think that's necessary, is it?'

To her relief, Harvey said no more. She waited for the promised balance-sheet, but weeks pa.s.sed by and it did not arrive. An explanation of this readily occurred to her: Dymes calculated upon bringing her to an interview. She thought of Harvey's proposal, and wished she could dare to accept it; but the obscure risks were too great. So, months elapsed, till the affair seemed forgotten.

They never spoke to each other of Hugh Carnaby or of Sibyl.

Meanwhile, Alma did not lack society. Mrs. Abbott, whom, without change of feeling, she grew accustomed to see frequently, introduced her to the Langland family, and in Mrs. Langland she found a not uncongenial acquaintance. This lady had known many griefs, and seemed destined to suffer many more; she had wrinkles on her face which should not have been there at forty-five; but no one ever heard her complain or saw her look downhearted.

In her zeal for housewifery, Alma saw much to admire and to imitate in Mrs. Langland. She liked the good-humoured modesty with which the elder lady always spoke of herself, and was not displeased at observing an air of deference when the conversation turned on such high matters as literature and art. Mrs. Langland knew all about the recital at Prince's Hall; she knew, moreover, as appeared from a casual remark one day, that Mrs. Rolfe had skill in 'landscape painting'.

'Who told you that?' asked Alma, with surprise.

'I hope it wasn't a secret. Mrs. Abbott spoke of your water-colours once. She was delighted with them.'

Praise even from Mary Abbott gratified Alma; it surprised her, and she doubted its sincerity, but there was satisfaction in knowing that her fame went abroad among the people at Gunnersbury. Without admiration she could not live, and nothing so severely tested her resolution to be content with the duties of home as Harvey's habit of taking all for granted, never remarking upon her life of self-conquest, never soothing her with the flatteries for which she hungered.

She hailed with delight the first visit after several months from her friends Dora and Gerda Leach. During the summer their father's health had suffered so severely that the overwrought man found himself compelled to choose between a long holiday abroad and the certainty of complete collapse if he tried to pursue his ordinary life. The family went away, and returned in November, when it seemed probable that the money-making machine known as Mr. Leach had been put into tolerable working order for another year or so. Not having seen Alma since her recital, the girls overflowed with talk about it, repeating all the eulogies they had heard, and adding such rapturous laudation of their own that Alma could have hung upon their necks in grat.i.tude. They found it impossible to believe that she would no more play in public.

'Oh, but when you are _quite_ well!' they exclaimed. 'It would be a shame--a sin!'

In writing to them, Alma had put her decision solely on the ground of health. Now, a.s.suming a countenance of gentle gravity, she made known her higher reasons.

'I have felt it to be my duty. Remember that I can't consider myself alone. I found that I must either devote myself wholly to music or give it up altogether. You girls can't very well understand. When one is a wife and a mother--I thought it all over during my illness. I had been neglecting my husband and Hughie, and it was too bad--downright selfishness. Art and housekeeping won't go together; I thought they might, b.u.t.t found my mistake. Of course, it cost me a struggle, but that's over. I have learnt to _renounce_.'

'It's very n.o.ble of you!' murmured Dora Leach.

'I never heard anything so n.o.ble!' said her sister.

Alma flushed with pleasure.

'And yet you know,' Dora pursued, 'artists have a duty to the world.'

'I can't help questioning,' said Gerda, 'whether you had a _right_ to sacrifice yourself.'

Alma smiled thoughtfully.

'You can't quite see it as I do. When one has children----'

'It must make a great difference'--'Oh, a great difference!'--responded the sisters. And again they exclaimed at the spectacle of such n.o.ble devotedness.

By natural transition the talk turned to Mrs. Carnaby. The girls spoke of her compa.s.sionately, but Alma soon perceived that they did not utter all their thoughts.

'I'm afraid,' she said, 'that some people take another view. I have heard--but one doesn't care to repeat such things.'

Dora and Gerda betrayed a lively interest. Yes, they too had heard disagreeable gossip; what a shame it was!

'Of course, you see her?' said Dora.

Alma shook her head, and seemed a trifle embarra.s.sed.

'I don't even know whether she still lives there.'

'Oh yes, she does,' replied Miss Leach eagerly. 'But I've been told that very few people go. I wondered--we rather wished to know whether _you_ did.'