Antidote to Venom

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  She did not tell all this to George in a breath. It came out bit by bit as they talked. Some of it, indeed, he grasped only by putting two and two together. Now that it had been suggested to him, he noticed that her clothes, while still conveying the impression of extreme neatness and good taste, appeared older and more worn than on their first meeting.

  She seemed lonely and glad of the chance of talking, and their tea dragged out for nearly an hour. Then she said it was time for her bus and that she must go. He wanted to see her off, but she would not allow that.

  “But I may see you again?” he implored as she collected her things. “There is so much I want to tell you.”

  She demurred, though he thought not very decisively. An inspiration seized him. “Have you ever been on Orlop Hill?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Then you must come,” he declared firmly. “Orlop Hill is our chief beauty spot and no one can appreciate this country who has not been there. It’s an escarpment of the Peak District and you can see the hills of that area to the north and to the south this great plain. There’s a road for cars to near the top, and from there it’s only a short walk to the beacon.”

  “It sounds delightful,” she said, doubtfully. “How should we manage it?”

  “Drive, of course,” he returned, excitement at the prospect swelling up within him. “I’ll call for you at Neverton with the car. It’s in the same general direction as Orlop and won’t be much out of the way. Only on account of the short evenings we’ll have to start early to get the view.”

  She didn’t seem very keen on the idea, but at last she gave in and a meeting was arranged. On Wednesdays and Saturdays George played golf, and on the following Wednesday he undertook to call for her instead.

  It was not till he was in bed that night that the real significance of the step he had taken began to knock for admission into George Surridge’s mind. He did not wish to think of it, but he could not help doing so. What exactly had happened to him? Had he fallen in love with this woman, and if so, what was he proposing to do about it? If he went on with this friendship, how would it end? Would it mean the break-up of his home and the loss of his job?—in other words, his ruin?

  He knew that on the grounds of expediency, as well as morality, he should not proceed with the affair, but when he pictured Nancy Weymore as she had appeared seated beside him in the restaurant: when he remembered what she had said and recalled the tones of her voice, he felt that if necessary he would risk all and every consequence to see and hear her again.

  Fortunately it was not necessary that he should risk anything. He could meet her without fear of any resultant disaster. This drive on Wednesday would commit him to nothing. In itself it would be a quite ordinary excursion without any special significance, and they could part at the end of it as they had met, mere acquaintances.

  But when he considered the matter further, George found that it was not quite as simple as he had supposed. He usually took a bus to the golf course, leaving the car for Clarissa. He couldn’t get the car without letting her know why he wanted it, and he didn’t feel like telling her a direct lie.

  He saw, in short, that he would have to hire a car. Here was more expense. He could scarcely make ends meet as it was, and to take on a further outlay was the last thing he desired. However, that couldn’t be helped. At least he needn’t be afraid of the garage people talking: in the interests of trade they would keep their own council.

  He need not be afraid either, of being seen on the Orlop Hill. At this time of year it would be as deserted as the Sahara. They could not go to a restaurant because none would be open. He would have to take tea with him. He could not very well use flasks from home, as Clarissa might notice their absence. It would be better to buy one of those tea outfits and have it filled at an hotel. Still more expense, confound it! However, he felt he was now too far committed to draw back.

  Next day after lunching at the Club he went to a garage where they specialised in the hiring of cars, and arranged for an N.J. Gnat to be ready on the Wednesday. At an adjoining shop he bought a tea box—it cost him nearly three pounds—and left it in an hotel with the necessary orders. All this made him feel excited and upset. He oscillated between trepidation over the step he was taking and an almost unbearable eagerness for the time to arrive.

  At length it did so. He woke that morning with the impression that something of overwhelming importance was about to happen, and sprang out of bed to look at the sky. Thank goodness, it was going to be fine. He dressed as in a dream and carried out his morning’s work like an automaton, his mind full of what was coming. Gone were his fears and regrets. For that morning at least he would not have changed his position with any man in England.

  His plans functioned without a hitch. He went as usual to the club for lunch, leaving early on the plea that he had to pay a call in the country. The Gnat, shining as if it had just left the makers’ hands, was ready for him, as was also the well-filled tea-box. With the box in the rear and soft rugs on the seat beside him, he drove out of Central Square in Birmington, taking the road to the north-east.

  He was annoyed to find that nervousness was again overtaking him, and that the nearer he came to Neverton, the worse it grew. Nancy had indicated that she would walk out along the road to meet him, from which he concluded that she did not wish him to call at her employer’s house. He began now to worry about all sorts of things: whether he could be on the wrong road and so miss her, whether he could ever be as witty and interesting as not to bore her, whether she would enjoy the excursion. But no longer did he consider possible untoward results of the acquaintanceship: by now he could not see beyond the present.

  At last, some mile before he reached the village of Neverton, his heart was set fluttering by the sight of a figure on the road ahead. Yes, it was she: a new Nancy Weymore in a tweed coat and skirt, a felt hat and tan brogues. Charming as she had looked in her town clothes, he thought she looked even more ravishing in these. He pulled up.

  “I’m not late, I hope?” he said, anxiously. “You’ve come a long way.”

  “I was just going to say how punctual you were,” she answered as she got in and settled herself beside him. “What a delightful car! New, surely?”

  “Borrowed, I’m afraid,” he returned, smiling. “The family bus is in use to-day.”

  To have as much time as possible on the Orlop, he drove quickly. The needle oscillated between forty and fifty, occasionally touching sixty, and, for George did not wish to risk being stopped, rigorously dropping to twenty-eight in controlled areas. The road soon began to ascend, and then as it wound higher and higher, they exchanged the fertile and populous plain, first for outlying farm-houses surrounded by pastures, and finally for the open moor. Presently they reached the summit and George drew into a parking-place where the road turned down a long gentle slope between two hummocks.

  “The beacon’s up there,” he said, pointing to the higher of the little peaks. “It’s really not far. Are you game?”

  “Rather,” she nodded. “What a perfect place! I had no idea there was anything like this in the neighbourhood.”

  “Wait till you see the view from the top,” he advised. “Shall we have tea up there, or wait till we get back to the car?”

  She smiled entrancingly. “Tea in this wilderness? Are you a complete wizard?”

  He showed her the case. She gave a little cry of satisfaction. “That was all that was required to make it perfect,” she assured him. “But I think we’d better wait till we come back. Don’t you?”

  He would have been delighted to have had it anywhere or nowhere, at that moment or never, but all he said was: “Right-o. Then shall we start?”

  A rough path had been beaten by many feet over the coarse grass and scrubby heather of the mountainside. There were no trees and they could see the curving contours of the ground stretching away into the
distance, the dark green broken here and there by the browns and greys of outcropping rock. Little runnels of water crossed the path and a more vivid colouring in the grass showed boggy patches. The air was sharp and clear and exhilarating, and the thin yellow sunlight, streaming nearly horizontally, threw dark shadows everywhere.

  They reached the top after a short climb and stood gazing round them. Nancy breathed a soft “Oh!” and to hear that sound more than recompensed George for all the trouble and expense of the outing. It was indeed a splendid panorama which lay before them. As George had said, the view to the north was of mountains, peak rising after peak with dark valleys between, while southwards lay the plain, with the white streak of the road they had come by, winding down backwards and forwards and getting narrower and narrower, till eventually it disappeared in the haze of the low-lying ground.

  Climbing in the comparatively low temperature had been pleasantly warm, but the wind at the top proved a different matter. They did not wait there long. After gazing for a few minutes in one direction after another, Nancy said she was cold and they began the descent.

  Up to this everything had gone on in a perfectly normal way, and had Clarissa herself been there she would have seen nothing to which she could possibly have taken exception. But as they climbed down the rough track something happened which changed the whole character of the expedition.

  Stepping on a small stone where a little stream flowed across the path, Nancy’s foot slipped. She splashed into the water and would have fallen had not George leaped forward and caught her in his arms.

  He had not intended that their little excursion should be anything but a pleasant meeting between acquaintances, but he had not reckoned with a situation of this kind. The contact swept away his caution and paralysed his powers of resistance. For a few moments he stood motionless, then with a hoarse cry of “Nancy!” he crushed her to him and covered her face with kisses.

  At first she struggled. “No, no, no,” she gasped, trying to escape from his arms. But presently she became quiet and then, slowly, she turned to him and threw her arms round his neck.

  When he released her both stood as if dazed. Then she gave a little moan. “Oh,” she cried, “we shouldn’t have done that. It was so pleasant, and now we’ve spoilt it all.”

  “We’ve spoilt nothing, Nancy,” he returned. “We love each other. This was bound to come.”

  She shivered. “Oh, no,” she repeated, “we shouldn’t have done it. We were wrong. We must forget it.”

  He turned down the hill. His heart was still pounding, but he controlled himself and spoke quietly. “We can never forget it. This is too big a thing to forget. It’s fundamental.”

  She began to walk by his side. “No, we must forget it. It can’t come to anything but unhappiness.”

  “It has happened,” he returned doggedly. “Nothing can change it, and we can’t forget it.”

  She looked more troubled. “Your wife,” she said, softly. “You know you told me—”

  He shook his head impatiently. “That can’t affect it. I have never—” he hesitated as if for a word, then went on, “I have never—felt for her—as I do—for you.”

  She made a gesture as if to stop him, but she didn’t speak and they walked in silence to the car. In silence she got in, merely shaking her head when he murmured something about tea. “Let us go back,” she said at last. “We must think what is best to be done.”

  This time he drove slowly, letting the car for the most part coast down the long hill. His mind was in confusion. He did not know what to suggest. Already he was beginning to realise the two outstanding features of the situation: first, that he loved this woman as he had never before loved anyone, as he had not known that anyone could be loved, and secondly, that to proceed further with the affair would mean complete disaster. Not only would there be the terrible break with Clarissa, which he could face, but also entire financial ruin through the loss of his job, which he didn’t see how he could.

  Lost in thought, he drove steadily on till an exclamation from Nancy told him that they were approaching Neverton. “Stop,” she warned him. “I must get out here.”

  “But we’ve settled nothing,” he returned, as he drew in to the side of the road.

  “It’s been settled for us,” she declared, “by circumstances. It will be misery if we don’t see each other again, but it’ll be greater misery if we do. We must part: now.”

  George felt that in theory she was right: they would have to part. But not then: at least not finally. “We can’t,” he insisted, “just say good-bye like that, as if we were strangers and I had casually given you a lift. It may be that when we have thought things over we shall decide you are right and that we shall have to part. But we can’t do that unless we are absolutely sure there’s no other way. No, Nancy, I’m not unreasonable, but I can’t agree to that. We must meet again to settle what we’re going to do.”

  She was against it, but he was firm and at last she gave way. One further meeting she would agree to, but no others: and there were to be no letters. Finally it was arranged that on that day week—the first date that Nancy could manage—they should repeat their drive to Orlop. Wondering how he could exist for a whole week without seeing her, George drove back to Birmington.

  That week dragged in a way he had never before experienced. He thought it would never come to an end. Fortunately, their secret remained intact. He had prepared a plausible story of a business visit to a neighbouring town for use in case of need, but he was relieved to find that this was not required. No questions were asked, and he was satisfied that no suspicions had been anywhere aroused.

  On the next Wednesday he repeated his preparations. He hired the same car and had the tea box filled at the same hotel. He drove out to near Neverton, picked up Nancy, and went on to the hills. They had a walk, came back to the car, had tea, and returned as before.

  In one way it was the most thrilling afternoon George had ever spent, and in another it was the most unsatisfactory. It was thrilling, wonderful and delightful beyond belief, because he was with Nancy. Alone with her he was completely happy. All he wanted was that time should stand still, and that they two could go on for ever just as they were. She, he believed, felt the same: complete and absolute bliss in a present which ruled out all disturbing thoughts of the future.

  It was this powerful urge, to enjoy what they could while they could, that made the afternoon at once delightful and unsatisfactory, because when it came to an end it found them with the question of their future still undecided. Nancy urged a final parting, though not nearly so strongly as she had on the first occasion. He was for another meeting, this time definitely to settle the matter. In the end she once again allowed herself to be persuaded.

  As a result there happened what, had they been in a normal frame of mind, they could easily have foreseen. At their next meeting they came no nearer to a conclusion, and a further excursion was arranged. So gradually they formed a habit. Every Wednesday afternoon, and often evenings in between, they managed to meet. And the more frequently they discussed their final parting, the further the decision receded from both their minds. These successive meetings began to form a continuous present, and future problems were more rigorously excluded than ever from their thoughts. Trouble might be coming, but why go out to meet it?

  Chapter V

  Venom: Through the Pocket

  Now George Surridge began to learn what so many who had embarked on a similar experiment had discovered before him: the extreme difficulty of living a successful double life.

  He knew perfectly well that the longer he continued his stolen meetings with Nancy Weymore, the more certain ultimate discovery would become. So far they had had extraordinarily good luck, but sooner or later they would meet someone they knew, and that for him would be the end.

  There were so many danger points. The Orlop Hills were deserted in winter, but
spring would soon come, and with every week the area would grow more dangerous. They would have to go somewhere else, but he could think of nowhere that would be safe. And it was not only their destination which was perilous. He might be seen—perhaps from another car—when picking Nancy up. While on the road they might break down, or worse still they might have an accident and be brought into court.

  Then there was the devilish way in which people pressed enquiries, apparently for no object except idle curiosity. Someone might say to George, “I missed you from golf on Wednesday,” to which even the vaguest and most general reply might lead to disaster. If he excused himself for that day only, someone else might point out that he had not had his game for quite a lot of Wednesdays. If on the other hand he said he had business at the London Zoo every Wednesday, some fool might say: “I go to London on Wednesdays also. What train do you travel by?” George saw that nothing that he could invent would be final. Always some further question would be possible which might do the damage.

  But the danger from outside acquaintances was as nothing compared to that from his wife. How easy for the wife of some other golfer to say to Clarissa: “John misses your husband so much on the golf course.” Then there were his colleagues at the Zoo. They golfed and drove about in cars. What might they not see?

  Such were but a few of the sources from which ruin might come, but they were by no means the most perilous. What he feared even more was the enemy within the gates. He himself was deteriorating in certain ways. He was growing nervy and suspicious. Apart from Nancy his sense of dissatisfaction and futility was growing, and it made him irritable and absent-minded. More than once he had caught Miss Hepworth stealthily regarding him with an excited interest. She suspected something, the vixen! He must get rid of her. But how could he? She was an efficient secretary and to trump up an excuse for sacking her would only be to give himself away.