The Whirlpool

Name: The Whirlpool
Author: Gissing, George

Gissing, George

England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; English fiction -- 19th century

'I have some photographs here,' said Alma, touching her sealskin bag.
'Will you take them?'

'Thanks. But there's a whole lot of things to be arranged. We can't
talk here. Let's go to my rooms.'

He spoke as though nothing were more natural. Alma, the blood throbbing
at her temples, saw him beckon a crawling hansom.

'I can't come--now. I have a dreadful headache.'

'You only want to be quiet. Come along.'

The hansom had pulled up. Alma, ashamed to resist under the eyes of the
driver, stepped in, and her companion placed himself at her side. As
soon as they drove away he caught her hand and held it tightly.

'I can't go to your rooms,' said Alma, after a useless resistance. 'My
head is terrible. Tell me whatever you have to say, and then take me to
Baker Street Station. I'll see you again in a day or two.'

She did not feign the headache. It had been coming on since she left
home, and was now so severe that her eyes closed under the torture of
the daylight.

'A little rest and you'll be all right,' said Dymes.

Five minutes more would bring them to their destination. Alma pulled
away her hand violently.

'If you don't stop him, I shall.'

'You mean it? As you please. You know what I----'

Alma raised herself, drew the cabman's attention, and bade him drive to
Baker Street. There was a short silence, Dymes glaring and muttering
inarticulately.

'Of course, if you really have a bad headache,' he growled at length.

'Indeed I have--and you treat me very unkindly.'

'Hang it, Alma, don't speak like that! As if I _could_ be unkind to
you!'

He secured her hand again, and she did not resist. Then they talked of
business, settled one or two matters, appointed another meeting. As
they drew near to the station, Alma spoke impulsively, with a
bewildered look.

'I shouldn't wonder if I give it up, after all.'

'Rot!' was her companion's amazed exclamation.

'I might. I won't answer for it. And it would be your fault.'

Stricken with alarm, Dymes poured forth assurances of his good
behaviour. He followed her down to the platform, and for a quarter of
an hour she had to listen, in torment of mind and body, to
remonstrances, flatteries, amorous blandishments, accompanied by the
hiss of steam and the roar of trains.

On reaching home she could do nothing but lie down in the dark. Her
head ached intolerably; and hour after hour, as often happens when the
brain is over-wearied, a strain of music hummed incessantly on her ear,
till inability to dismiss it made her cry in half-frenzied wretchedness.

With sleep she recovered; but through the next day, dull and idle, her
thoughts kept such a gloomy colour that she well-nigh brought herself
to the resolve with which she had threatened Felix Dymes. But for the
anticipation of Harvey's triumph, she might perhaps have done so.




CHAPTER 11

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

The WhirlpoolGissing, George

General

The Whirlpool

Gissing, George

England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; English fiction -- 19th century

'I have some photographs here,' said Alma, touching her sealskin bag.
'Will you take them?'

'Thanks. But there's a whole lot of things to be arranged. We can't
talk here. Let's go to my rooms.'

He spoke as though nothing were more natural. Alma, the blood throbbing
at her temples, saw him beckon a crawling hansom.

'I can't come--now. I have a dreadful headache.'

'You only want to be quiet. Come along.'

The hansom had pulled up. Alma, ashamed to resist under the eyes of the
driver, stepped in, and her companion placed himself at her side. As
soon as they drove away he caught her hand and held it tightly.

'I can't go to your rooms,' said Alma, after a useless resistance. 'My
head is terrible. Tell me whatever you have to say, and then take me to
Baker Street Station. I'll see you again in a day or two.'

She did not feign the headache. It had been coming on since she left
home, and was now so severe that her eyes closed under the torture of
the daylight.

'A little rest and you'll be all right,' said Dymes.

Five minutes more would bring them to their destination. Alma pulled
away her hand violently.

'If you don't stop him, I shall.'

'You mean it? As you please. You know what I----'

Alma raised herself, drew the cabman's attention, and bade him drive to
Baker Street. There was a short silence, Dymes glaring and muttering
inarticulately.

'Of course, if you really have a bad headache,' he growled at length.

'Indeed I have--and you treat me very unkindly.'

'Hang it, Alma, don't speak like that! As if I _could_ be unkind to
you!'

He secured her hand again, and she did not resist. Then they talked of
business, settled one or two matters, appointed another meeting. As
they drew near to the station, Alma spoke impulsively, with a
bewildered look.

'I shouldn't wonder if I give it up, after all.'

'Rot!' was her companion's amazed exclamation.

'I might. I won't answer for it. And it would be your fault.'

Stricken with alarm, Dymes poured forth assurances of his good
behaviour. He followed her down to the platform, and for a quarter of
an hour she had to listen, in torment of mind and body, to
remonstrances, flatteries, amorous blandishments, accompanied by the
hiss of steam and the roar of trains.

On reaching home she could do nothing but lie down in the dark. Her
head ached intolerably; and hour after hour, as often happens when the
brain is over-wearied, a strain of music hummed incessantly on her ear,
till inability to dismiss it made her cry in half-frenzied wretchedness.

With sleep she recovered; but through the next day, dull and idle, her
thoughts kept such a gloomy colour that she well-nigh brought herself
to the resolve with which she had threatened Felix Dymes. But for the
anticipation of Harvey's triumph, she might perhaps have done so.




CHAPTER 11

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

The Whirlpool

The Whirlpool

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