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 loo
ked 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.
The first was an opinion given by Dr. Marr during a chat at the club. “I’m sorry to tell you, Surridge,” he said, gravely, “that Miss Pentland is very seriously ill,” and when George once again asked if anything immediate was to be anticipated, he had not denied it. “Nothing immediate, perhaps,” he had pronounced, “but soon. I’m afraid the poor lady can’t last many more days.”
George expressed suitable concern, but his heart leaped. Not many more days! In not many more days his aunt would have passed away and his troubles would be over! What an unspeakable ease to his mind that would be!
The second event gave him even more to think about. A couple of mornings later there was a telephone call from Nancy, saying that something unexpected had occurred and that she wanted to see him. She would give no particulars, but having arranged a meeting she rang off. George, feeling he must account for the call, sent Miss Hepworth to inquire if a lady’s umbrella had been found in the lion house on the previous day.
When that evening he had hired the car and picked Nancy up at the rendezvous, he realised that her news was going to make a further upheaval in his life. The lady to whom she had been acting as companion had died suddenly; in fact, Nancy herself had found her dead when she brought her her early morning tea. It had been a dreadful shock, but that was the smallest part of it. What really mattered was that her job was gone. As soon as possible after the funeral the furniture would be sold and the house closed. She herself was moving immediately to Hampshire, where a friend had invited her to stay while she was looking round for something else.
This news was a terrible blow to George. Nancy had become a part of his life, and though he had never really faced the question of how the entanglement was to end, he had long since rejected a permanent parting as impossible. Now the issue was forced upon him and he was not prepared for it.
It was at this point that the idea of the little cottage, with roses over the porch, which had been for some time a cherished if unrealisable dream, re-entered his mind and gripped it till it became an obsession. This was due partly to Nancy’s news and partly to the fact that on one of their recent excursions they had seen just such a cottage. It was exactly the size, surrounded by what might be made a delightful garden, and if it had not roses on the porch, it had at least a porch over which they might be trained. It was built on heathland, away from both farm workers and tourists, and yet within five-and-twenty miles of the centre of Birmington. Moreover, it was empty and for sale. George had stopped the car on the rough gravel lane and they had walked round it. The more he had seen of it, the more perfectly he believed it would meet his purpose, and Nancy had also greatly admired it. He had not dared to say all that was in his mind, but now he began to wonder if something of the kind might not have been in hers also.
However, out of the question as the idea had then seemed, it had suddenly become one of pressing importance. Of its two tremendous difficulties, one, marvellously, had been overcome. The death of his aunt would find him the necessary money for its purchase. There remained, therefore, only the second—would Nancy agree?
As George considered this it seemed to grow more and more formidable. Nancy in some ways was very conventional. He doubted lest his suggestion might antagonise her.
Not quite certain as to the best way of introducing the subject, he suggested a drive. “We can talk better when the car’s going,” he declared, starting forthwith.
While giving no apparent attention to their route, he chose that which would take them past the cottage, and when they reached it, he stopped.
“I’ve taken a tremendous fancy to this little place,” he said, as he got out of the car. “Let’s have another peep at it. It looks somehow like a haven where one could find shelter and peace if ever one was really up against it.”
She shook her head. “No, I couldn’t bear to look at it again,” she returned. “It would make me simply sick with longing. To settle down in a place like that would be heaven; particularly when I’m looking out for a horrible job, probably with horrible people.”
His heart leapt. He hesitated for a moment, then plunged.
“Nancy,” he said a little hoarsely, in spite of all his efforts to be calm, “I brought you here to-day with an object. I’m renting this cottage, and if for a little time you’d condescend to use it, I should take it as the greatest privilege and proof of friendship you could give me.”
She was obviously surprised and touched, but he did not think she was antagonised. “It’s good of you,” she answered, taking his hand and pressing it warmly, “very good of you, but—I couldn’t.”
“Why?” he asked. “I wouldn’t bother you more here than in the past. Instead of going for drives, I would come here; that’s all. I’m not suggesting a permanent arrangement; only for a time till you can look round and find a job you can tolerate.”
Again she declined and he presently changed his petition. “I won’t try to persuade you against your own will, even if I could. But grant me at least this. Let’s have a proper look over the place. I’ll find the agents and borrow the key.”
It was clear that she was torn between her better judgment and her reluctance to refuse his request. He left her walking in the garden while he drove a couple of miles to the address given on the notice board, a house agent’s in the small town of Cleerby. There, after the agent had glanced at the Gnat, he handed over the keys.
The more he and Nancy investigated, the more desirable the cottage seemed to George, and the more impressed he thought she grew. It was tiny, containing only a sitting-room, a bedroom and a kitchenette; all in quite good repair. The sitting-room had a french window opening into the garden, with as a background a row of fine Scotch firs, the advance guard of the surrounding wood. Water was laid on, but neither gas nor electricity, but, as George pointed out, with oil lamps and stoves anyone could do very well. He said no more about taking it, but he thought Nancy looked at it with more and more longing, and he waited with a slowly-growing hope. Then suddenly, instead of answering one of his remarks, she turned abruptly away and stood looking out of the window.
He was amazed t
o find she was crying. A moment later she was in his arms and weeping unrestrainedly on his shoulder.
“It’s too good,” she presently sobbed. “I know I shouldn’t, but I just can’t help myself. George, if I ruin you, will you forgive me?”
George’s heart swelled with unspeakable delight. He did not realise that those words represented a turning-point in his life, and rendered inevitable the tragedy which had even now grown on the horizon to a cloud like a man’s hand.
Chapter VII
Venom: Through Surroundings
The price of the little estate was seven hundred pounds, and George told the agents he would buy. A deposit of fifty pounds was required to clinch the bargain, the balance being handed over before occupation. It would take a few days, he was told, to get the legal business through, but he could move in directly the money was paid.
The seven hundred pounds for the house did not represent the total expenditure. There would be at least another hundred for furniture, as well as small sums for legal fees, minor repairs and one or two small alterations. Altogether the amount required would not be much below nine hundred.
The borrowing of a sum of this magnitude from the bank or from friends was simply impossible. George could manage the fifty pounds, but not more. Regretfully, he therefore decided that only this fifty pounds could be paid, and that the completion of the purchase would have to wait till his aunt’s death had actually taken place and he was able to raise the balance in a normal way.
He naturally did not wish to appear in the affair, and now bitterly regretted that he had himself called at the agent’s for the key. However, he had taken the precaution to give a false name and address, and as, owing to the rain the day was dark and his coat collar was turned up and his hat pulled low over his eyes, he did not think he could be traced. He had let Nancy return the key and now she conducted all the negotiations, also in an assumed name. She called on the agent with the fifty pounds and engaged a local solicitor to act for her. For this purpose she stayed at a neighbouring inn, which incidentally added to George’s bill.
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