Antidote to Venom (6 page)

He could scarcely refrain from writing the glad tidings to Nancy. However, they had agreed that letters were not safe and he contained himself till the following Wednesday. Then he told her: in general terms only. He had, he said, been a little hard-up and so unable to do all he should have liked for their mutual benefit. Now, he was thankful to say, that bad time was over. He had come in for a legacy and there was money for anything in reason.

He longed desperately to mention the little cottage of his dreams, with the garden and the roses over the porch, but something in her manner warned him not to risk it. Well, there was no hurry. They were getting on very well as it was. Later perhaps that would come.

Just one thing remained to be settled to put him in a really satisfactory position. He must get hold of some ready money. He didn't want to borrow from the bank. Even if he could, he didn't want any local people to know he was in difficulties. From whom, then, could he borrow?

Frequently he had seen advertisements in the papers from persons who, it appeared, were anxious to lend money to all and sundry on their “mere note of hand alone.” Now he looked up some of these advertisements. Three with London addresses seemed suitable and he determined to try his luck.

On the next occasion, therefore, on which he had business in London, he adventured himself down into the narrower streets of the City and made some tentative inquiries. The result was disappointing in the extreme. “Mere note of hand alone” seemed to be an elastic term: indeed, he didn't see what connection it had with the business in hand. At all events, Messrs. Solomon & Goldstein required a great deal more before they would make an advance. He found, in fact, that he would be unable to get one unless he supplied them with proven details about the legacy. This he could not do, having only his aunt's word on the subject. The affair accordingly deadlocked.

So much for Solomon & Goldstein: perhaps Abraham & Co. or Velinski Bros. would be more accommodating? George called on both: with the same result.

He returned to Birmington realising that the matter was not going to be as easy as he had hoped. In fact, he did not see just what else he could do. These moneylenders had been in the nature of a last hope.

Then, through some caprice of fate, he had a run of luck at cards. He not only paid off the more pressing of his smaller debts, but actually finished up with money in hand.

For the time being his situation was eased.

Chapter VI

Venom: In Society

After his successes at cards, life for the time being grew easier for George Surridge. With ready money available and assured as to his ultimate security, he now drew more freely from his tiny balance, with the result that he and Nancy were able to go on longer excursions and to carry them out more comfortably. For a time indeed, there was little outwardly to mar his happiness.

Inwardly, however, he remained dissatisfied. Except when actually in Nancy's presence, the knowledge of the double life he was leading was a persistent, though subconscious, load on his mind. There was also the continuous fear of discovery. Both he and Nancy were extremely careful, but he could not hide from himself that up to the present they had had wonderful luck. No one other than themselves, so far as either knew, had the slightest inkling of what was going on.

But had George been aware of some other events which were taking place simultaneously, he would have received a very rude awakening.

Not far from the Zoo lived a tall and angular maiden lady of uncertain age, Harriet Corrin by name. She was clever, entertaining and well-to-do, and was in demand by hostesses who wished to brighten what promised to be dull parties. Her popularity on these occasions came neither from brilliant repartee nor kindliness of heart, but from a malicious wit which gave piquancy to her conversation. People asked her to their houses in the hope that her scandalous remarks would thrill their guests and bring their social efforts into the news, though always with a lurking if rather delicious fear that they themselves should prove the victims. As something of a public character, Miss Corrin knew and was well known to the Surridges.

It happened one soaking Wednesday in late February that Miss Corrin had business in a small village named Bramford, some forty miles to the east of Birmington. It was a mildly picturesque little place. It boasted a sizeable river, a humped three-arched bridge, an inn which gave teas in a surrounding garden, and a church with a squat Norman tower. In fine weather it was not unattractive, but to-day in the streaming down-pour it looked frankly forbidding. Miss Corrin had come to interview a prospective maid, and she wished she had stayed at home.

But these aesthetic drawbacks made Bramford just the kind of retreat which appealed to men who were taking out for the afternoon women other than their wives. On this same afternoon George and Nancy had become so tired of sitting in the car that they determined for once to break their rule and have tea, not from the tea-box, but in some inn. So much granted, where more suitable than the Magpie's Claw in Bramford? Thus it happened that as Miss Corrin sat in the window of her prospective maid's father's house in the main street, which provided an admirable view of the inn, the lovers were approaching the same hostelry as fast as the hired car would bring them.

The fact that the prospective maid had gone to get copies of her testimonials enabled Harriet Corrin to give her undivided attention to the street and its traffic of two consequential ducks and a harassed looking hen. Even this sight palled, however, when a magnificent N.J. Gnat entered her field of vision, drew in regally to the inn, and disgorged its passengers.

With eyes becoming rounder, Miss Corrin witnessed the debarkation. First George Surridge emerged from the driving seat, and, hurrying round, opened with solicitude the opposite door. Miss Corrin was pleased to see his attention to his wife: she had sometimes feared there was less love lost in that
ménage
than was meet. But when, instead of Clarissa's somewhat considerable bulk and dull colouring, there appeared a
petite
and elegant stranger, whose dark hair was surmounted by a coquettish little hat of vivid red, Miss Corrin fairly goggled with amazement and a fierce ecstasy.

She sat staring fixedly across the road even after the unconscious objects of her regard had disappeared into the inn. So full indeed was she of the spectacle, that she engaged the prospective maid at a pound a month more than she need have paid, a thing which in all her experience had never before happened.

Next day Harriet decided to enjoy the treat which Fate had put into her hands. Among her invitations was one to a cocktail party at which she thought Clarissa would be present. She had never liked Clarissa, whom she considered superior, and the prospect of getting one back on her was very sweet.

Her belief proved to be well founded. The first person she saw after greeting her hostess was Clarissa. She formed one of a group of some half-dozen women, all well known to Harriet. Harriet metaphorically preened herself, and moving graciously forward, greeted them with a disarming sweetness.

“I didn't know you'd got a new car,” she began, innocently, when a suitable pause occurred in the conversation. “I was so glad to see it.”

“I didn't know myself,” Clarissa returned, with outward ease but inward trepidation, “but I'm glad about it too.”

“Oh, yes,” Miss Corrin continued, “you needn't try to be mysterious. I've seen it. A lovely N.J. Gnat. I quite envied you.”

“You can't be more pleased than I am,” Clarissa parried, now sure that her tormentor meant mischief. “Let's have the particulars.”

“Yes; where's the little place? Bram-ley, Bramwick; no, Bramford. Nice little place, Bramford. A backwater: nice and quiet.”

“Not many of them left, I'm afraid. I don't know your particular paradise. Where is it?”

Harriet registered surprise. “Didn't Mr. Surridge tell you? Or perhaps,” she became adequately confused, “I—I hope I'm not being indiscreet? I know I'll be told to mind my own business some of these days.”

Clarissa's heart began to sink. For some time George had been different. He had become more absent in manner, more irritable, with fits of brooding, alternating with a strange expression of exultation. She had noticed it for two or three months and had soon guessed a possible cause. George, she believed, had done at last what he had never done with her: he had fallen in love. When and with whom, she could not imagine, but each day that had passed had strengthened her conviction. Now she felt she was going to learn the truth. She braced herself. This old cat mustn't be allowed her obscene triumph. She smiled indulgently.

“Had you and he an assignation there?” she asked in an amused way.

It was first blood to Clarissa. Two or three of the listening women laughed, and those laughs poured bitterness into Harriet's soul. If the days since anyone would have an assignation with her were past, people at least needn't laugh at the idea. But she smiled back.

“Now, my dear, is that likely?” she returned protestingly.

Clarissa warmed up to it. “Not very perhaps,” she admitted cruelly. “But this is getting interesting. I suppose you're leading up to a mysterious charmer? Won't you describe her?”

“Oh, I'm not giving away cabinet secrets.” Miss Corrin was arch, though a glint of evil triumph showed in her eye.

“I feared as much,” Clarissa sighed. “But don't you see that if you withhold information, the thing won't work? I can see that you're hoping for a broken home and a divorce. But, you know, if you're to succeed, you must play up. How can I get the necessary detectives to work if you don't give me a description? Isn't that only fair?” she looked smilingly round the little assembly.

She did it so well that for a moment doubts swept through Harriet Corrin's mind. Then a certain something in the manner of those two visitors to the Bramford inn recurred to her and she knew she was right. She thought, however, she had said enough. She had emplanted a little poisoned dart and it could be left alone: it would fester all right. She laughingly said she wasn't going to be drawn into any divorce proceedings and attempted to turn the conversation. But Clarissa thought the matter could scarcely be left where it was, and in the friendliest aside, which could be clearly heard by the entire group, she added: “I'm afraid you won't have the chance this time. I hate to spoil a joke, but unfortunately I know all about George's excursions. It's only a prosaic house-hunt and—a frightful blow to me after having my hopes raised—in his cousin's car.”

Clarissa couldn't estimate how far her effort had succeeded. That Harriet Corrin had not believed it she was sure, though she didn't know about the others. But she had no doubt whatever as to her own feelings. She accepted every word of the story and it made her a little sick. Though her married life had not been happy, she thought it had been at least outwardly as successful as the average. Now even that success was at an end. From that moment she had begun to live as did so many other unhappy women: on a volcano. At any time it might erupt, and she would find that her pride was crushed and her home was gone. Clarissa longed desperately to get away from this party, to drop this intolerable effort to hide her feelings. But to leave early would be to give herself away. She must endure it for her usual time.

When eventually she did reach home, her whole body ached with weariness. Gradually there was growing up in her mind a deep, resentful anger against her husband. George had never really thought of anyone's happiness except his own, but if this story were true, he was completely outside the pale and need be considered no more.

Along with this deep anger, a feeling that at all costs she must know the truth was taking possession of her. Terrible as was the threatened disaster, uncertainty was worse.

That night at dinner an unexpected opportunity occurred. A visitor happened to mention the fatal Wednesday, saying that on it she had had to give up an excursion on account of the weather. “About the grimmest day I remember,” she ended up.

“Yes,” Clarissa remarked. “I was to go over to the Fortescues', but I couldn't face the rain.” Then on the spur of the moment, she added: “How did you get through the afternoon, George? You couldn't have had any golf?”

The stage had missed an actress in Clarissa. Outwardly she spoke with cool indifference, obviously making polite conversation. Inwardly she awaited George's reaction with an intensity which surprised herself.

Then she learnt that she had been wrong in thinking that uncertainty was the worst thing she could suffer. Now she found that it was infinitely worse when no hope remained. And no hope did remain. George started, glanced at her with a look of dismay, hesitated, then said with a burst of false cheeriness: “Golf? Not a hope! I stayed in the club and had a rubber of bridge.”

That he was lying was as clear to her as if she had been present with him at Bramford. What that snake Harriet Corrin had said was true. She had lost her husband, and how long it would be till she lost her home she didn't know.

It was not often that Clarissa Surridge showed signs of weakness. But that night, when at last she reached her room and could relax, she suddenly realised that she was sobbing—long, slow sobs of misery and impotent anger. It was not for George she cried: as far as he was concerned, she didn't care if she never saw him again. What hurt her was the injury to her pride. That she, of all women, hadn't been able to hold her husband! That while she had remained loyal to him, he had thrown her over! What would not all those old cats say about her?

Presently her thoughts turned towards the future. At least she would be all right materially. She had enough to live on, though not much more. The first thing would be to get a divorce—if she could. George was clever and there might be no evidence. On the other hand, he might want it, and then she would get it. Probably she would marry again. This time, she told herself bitterly, she would make a better choice.

She wondered if she should take any immediate steps? That joke of her's about detectives didn't now seem so absurd as when she had made it. What she could not bear would be to have Harriet Corrin and those other women whispering and sniggering behind her back, while she herself didn't even know what was going on. No, she must find out where she stood. If she couldn't learn the truth for herself, she would have to consider outside help.

Wearied out at length, Clarissa fell asleep, and when she awoke things somehow looked less hopeless. As far as she herself was concerned, she need not despair. If she lost her present home, she might make herself a very much better one. The whole affair might be a blessing in disguise.

Meanwhile George also was putting serious questions to himself. He had had a moment of panic when Clarissa asked how he had spent that Wednesday afternoon. At first it had seemed as if only one thing could have dictated the question, but he had watched her carefully and he was sure from her manner that she had meant nothing particular. But the incident had given him a jar.

In his professional capacity George had been worried by another matter: the change in Professor Burnaby. After the death of his daughter the old man had been prostrated for several days. Then one morning he had reappeared at the snake-house. George had been rather shocked at his appearance. He seemed to have aged by twenty years and looked frail and broken down. His conversation showed, moreover, that he had lost his grip.

George grew really uneasy about his having access to the snakes. Milking them for venom was tricky work and if Burnaby allowed a snake to escape it might prove a very serious matter.

So much was George obsessed with his fear that he suggested to his Committee that the permission they had given the old man should be withdrawn. This would not end his research; if he wanted venom he could still get it from Nesbit, the snakehouse attendant, who would be authorised to obtain it for him. This decision was conveyed to Burnaby by a letter from the secretary, which George delivered personally, softening the blow as best he could. The old man took it well, agreeing that the Committee's action was reasonable, and that he was lucky to have the facilities which still remained.

About this time two events took place, both of which had their effect not only on George's immediate actions, but also on his whole future life.