The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife (11 page)

But about the remote attractions of the Equator and the Jungle these posters were mute. And that, thought Mr. Darby, was as it should be, for the lands of his dreams were sacred places undefiled by tourists and the publicity which entices and exploits the tourist. However, these other places were alluring enough, and in the intervals of more solemn travel he would certainly submit, when the spirit moved him, to these humbler enticements. And besides all this, of course, he would spend much of his time in England, in London, in Society. For Mr. Darby had always felt that he was destined by character, inclination, and—well, yes, why not?—by certain abilities, to play a more important role in society than he had yet done. His birthday party and the speech he had then made flashed into his memory for a moment: yes, that was more the kind of thing, if combined, of course, with more serious and practical significance than a mere supper party, which would offer some scope to his … well … his inclinations. A swift flight of visions shot through his mind, a brief glimpse of Mr. William James Darby presiding at Committee meetings, arriving five minutes late and pleading that he had been detained by important business with the Lord Mayor: Mr. William James Darby as Lord Mayor himself, bowing from a coach in his mayoral robes and chain of office: Sir James Darby, the well known explorer and public figure, on a more marked occasion, presiding with easy joviality at a public banquet. Mr. Darby was too accustomed to spectres of this kind to be at all surprised at their sudden invasion of him in the Central Station. Not that it ever occurred to him to dismiss them as fantastic or ridiculous. Certainly not. For, though they were not facts, they were perfectly respectable creatures of the mind.

Yes, thought Mr. Darby, as these visions swept past him and he again found himself confronted by the Central Station
and its posters,—yes, London for headquarters, the … ah … Metropolis. ‘Mr. William James Darby has left Seven Moseley Terrace, Newchester-on-Dole, for London. He expects to spend some weeks in the Metropolis.'

Suddenly he tired of posters. The truth was, he wanted to sit down. He glanced at the clock. It was still only twenty past four. Then a bright idea struck him. He would buy an evening paper and go and have a cup of tea in the lounge of the Station Hotel. An excellent notion, and very … ah … appropriate too, for it was in that very hotel that they had all had dinner with Uncle Tom Darby when he had stayed there over thirty years ago. Mr. Darby had not been into it since. In a few moments, paper in hand, he had pushed through the revolving doors of the station entrance to the hotel and was seated in an armchair in a corner of the lounge. A waiter brought a tray of tea and toast to the small table beside his chair and with pleasant sensations of idleness and dignity Mr. Darby settled down to a luxurious hour.

When he had finished his tea, he laid aside his newspaper and, drawing from his pocket his crocodile-skin cigar case, carefully selected a cigar, produced from another pocket a silver cigar cutter and a silver cigar lighter (trifles which had taken his fancy when buying the box of cigars at Harrington's an hour ago), cut and lit his cigar, and leaning back in his chair gave himself up to the enjoyment of smoking and a lazy observation of the other people in the lounge.

But when he had been amusing himself in this way for ten minutes or so, Mr. Darby made a sudden movement, a movement caused by his throwing off the benign expansiveness of his posture and quickly assuming one more modest and controlled. His lazily wandering eye had unexpectedly found itself gazing into the eye of Mr. Marston who, with another gentleman, had just entered the lounge and was looking for a table. Mr. Darby's mood had changed as suddenly as his posture and his lazy dignity had given place to embarrassment: he felt almost as foolish as if he had been discovered by Mr. Marston dancing in the middle of Ranger Street. But Mr. Marston was coming towards him. ‘Darby!' he
said as he reached Mr. Darby's table. ‘The very man I wanted.'

Mr. Darby was struggling out of his deep chair, but Mr. Marston put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don't get up. I don't want to disturb you. I hope you're better.'

‘Quite better, thank you, sir,' said Mr. Darby. ‘I shall be at the office to-morrow morning.'

‘Good! You're certainly looking better than I've seen you for weeks. All I wanted to ask you was this. I have Mr. Berrington with me, as you see. He wants us to put a new billiard room on to his house at Canter Mill. Now, I can't lay my hands on the old plans.'

‘Mr. Berrington's plans, sir? They're in the … ah … second drawer, sir—second from the top—in the cabinet on the left of your fireplace.'

‘Thank you, Darby. That's all I want to know. I won't keep you any longer from the enjoyment of your excellent cigar.' Mr. Marston turned away to join his companion. ‘See you to-morrow, then!' he said, glancing back with a friendly gesture at Mr. Darby. Then he and Mr. Berrington moved to another part of the lounge outside Mr. Darby's field of vision.

Mr. Darby rapidly regained his composure: indeed he reflected now on his brief meeting with Mr. Marston with much gratification. For he was considering the whole thing now as it must have appeared to a casual observer. What, in fact, would a casual observer have seen? He would have seen, first a middle-aged gentleman of leisure partaking of tea, a newspaper and an excellent cigar. Two other gentlemen enter, one a very distinguished-looking man, and this distinguished-looking man instantly recognizes the middle-aged gentleman, hastens over to him with obvious pleasure, converses with him in the most familiar way, and then, with a friendly ‘See you to-morrow' which the observer would no doubt overhear, waves him good-bye. What the casual observer had thus seen was also appreciated, in retrospect, by Mr. Darby himself. This was something much more arresting than those fleeting visions of himself which, an hour
ago, had for a moment obscured his view of the posters. For this was real, or so very nearly real as to be divided from reality by a mere hair's-breadth. It was, as it were, a theatrical representation of one of those easy social amenities which would be a familiar incident in the life he was about to enter. He cleared his throat, took up his newspaper again, and continued to peruse it until his cigar was finished.

It was already a quarter to six,—later, by three quarters of an hour, than his usual hour for starting for home. He rose from his chair and, two minutes later, a small but important figure appeared upon the top step of the main hotel-entrance, inspected Newchesterfrom right to left a little superciliously; then, with a slow rhythmical action, descended the steps and invaded Ranger Street.

Ten minutes later, just after Mr. Darby had turned into Newfoundland Street, whom should he run into but his old friend Sam Cribb, coming out of a hardware shop. Like Mr. Darby, Sam Cribb was on his way home.

‘Well, this
is
a. bit of luck,' said Mr. Darby, beaming through his spectacles—‘the second, in fact, that has come in my … ah … direction in the course of to-day. It never rains, as they say, but it pours.'

Sam Cribb, friendly and meek, smiled back, and they walked on together.

‘And what was the other bit of luck, Jim?' he asked.

‘A nice little … ah … legacy,' said Mr. Darby; ‘a very nice little legacy indeed. Only received the … ah … intelligence this morning.'

‘A legacy? Well, I'm delighted to hear it, I'm sure, Jim,' said Sam Cribb. ‘Might I enquire the figure, or is that being too … er …?'

‘To tell the truth, Sam, I'm not sure of the figure,' said Mr. Darby airily, ‘but, it seems, it brings in a matter of forty thousand a year.'

Sam Cribb laughed. ‘A tidy sum, Jim,' he said. ‘Keep you in postage stamps comfortably.'

It was obvious from Sam's jocularity that he supposed that Mr. Darby's statement had been jocular too.

‘Yes, postage stamps, and a good many other things,' said Mr. Darby. ‘It's a large figure, Sam, when you come to think of it, and no doubt it will carry with it considerable … ah … responsibilities.'

Mr. Darby's tone was one of very real gravity and it produced the effect he had intended. Sam Cribb was silent for a moment. Mr. Darby felt him glance at him, but he himself stared solemnly in front of him.

‘But … but you're not serious, Jim?' he said at last in a voice of gratifying incredulity.

‘My dear Sam, I'm as serious as a … ah … a judge.'

‘Forty thousand a year,'
said Sam, thunderstruck. ‘But that's about a million of money, man.'

‘A million?' said Mr. Darby.

‘Well,' said Sam, who was accustomed to financial calculations, ‘forty thousand from four per cent. would mean a capital of a million.'

Mr. Darby stopped in the street and gazed at Sam Cribb. ‘Why, bless my soul,' he said, ‘it never occurred to me. Would you call me a … ah … a millionaire, then?'

‘I fancy so,' said Sam Cribb as they resumed their walk.

‘A millionaire!' said Mr. Darby to himself in amazement. Sam Cribb had astonished him quite as much as he had astonished Sam Cribb. ‘A
millionaire
!' He tried, by repeating the word to himself, to convey to himself the amazing significance of it. He remained for some moments lost in thought: he did not so much as realize that Sam Cribb was talking at his side. They were in Tarras Bridge now, but Mr. Darby was unaware of his surroundings. His imagination was echoing to the solemn word
millionaire.
But it was too much for him: he could not cope with it and in a moment he gave up the attempt and looked ahead. His eye fell on the building they were passing at the moment, the Tarras Hotel. He glanced at his friend. ‘What about a little … ah … liquid refreshment?' he said, indicating with his open palm the hotel entrance.

‘Well, why not?' said Sam Cribb, ‘in honour of the great occasion!'

They crossed the road. Mr. Darby led the way up the steps, enquired of the hall porter, as to the manner born, for the … ah … lounge, and sailed in, followed by his friend.

The lounge had a closed bar at one end of it and they approached the window. ‘Well now, Sam,' said Mr. Darby, ‘what do you feel like?'

Sam made evasive noises. ‘Well … er … I … er …'

Mr. Darby eyed the bottles on the shelves. He wanted something unusual, something rich and rare, a new and exciting drink. His eye ran over bottles labelled Whisky, Brandy, Rum, Gin, Port, Sherry, Creme de Menthe, Cherry Brandy. How unenterprising these places were. Nothing original, nothing new and exciting. Then he detected a bottle labelled Schnapps. That looked more promising. ‘What about some of this … ah … Snaps?' he said to Sam.

‘Snaps? I've never tried it,' Sam replied doubtfully. ‘What's it like?'

‘Well … ah … I don't exactly remember,' confessed Mr. Darby. ‘What
is
this … ah … Snaps?' he asked the barmaid.

‘Schnapps? It's Holland's Gin, sir,' she said.

‘Is it … ah … palatable?' Mr. Darby asked.

‘Well,' said the barmaid, ‘that's according to tastes. I think it's horrid, meself. Tastes rather like tallow.'

Sam shuddered. ‘What about a glass of port, Jim?' he said. ‘You're always pretty safe with port, aren't you?'

‘Ye …s, that's true,' said Mr. Darby, and, feeling a little crestfallen, he ordered two glasses of port. ‘Just like Sam,' he thought to himself, as the barmaid put the glasses before them. ‘Wants to be on the safe side. Afraid of trying anything new. Funny, some people are.'

Sam raised his glass. ‘Well Jim,' he said, ‘here's long life and happiness to enjoy it all, to you and Mrs. D.'

Mr. Darby raised his. ‘Thank you, Sam. Thank you, I'm sure.'

They drank.

‘I don't remember,' said Sam jocularly, ‘to have been stood a drink by a millionaire before.'

‘No,' said Mr. Darby. ‘No. They generally make you pay for your drinks, when you come to … ah … consider it. That's how they come to be millionaires, eh?'

They talked on, Mr. Darby issued his invitation for the following evening (‘No doubt,' he said, ‘we shall have a drop of something to offer you ‘), and then, having climbed the slope of Tarras Bridge and turned into Savershill Road, they parted company and Mr. Darby toddled on alone. A pleasant glow irradiated his stomach: it was the port. A pleasant glow irradiated his mind: it was the legacy.

Half way up Osbert Road he turned into George Stedman, Ironmonger's. The shop was empty, but at the sound of Mr. Darby's footsteps George Stedman hove in sight from behind a tall pyramid of pots and pans.

‘Good-evening, Mr. Darby!' he said jovially, his great voice filling the shop. ‘Pleased to see you, I'm sure. Now what can I show you to-day? I can do you a lovely polished steel fender, fire irons and coal hod to match, eight pound five the lot. Or we have a very nice line in parrots' cages.'

‘With … ah … parrot to match?' asked Mr. Darby.

George gave a loud ha ha. ‘We're out of parrots at the moment,' he said. ‘Sold the last one this morning, as a matter of fact, to a middle-aged lady in a green hat.' He placed both fists on the counter and leaned forward. ‘But we could get you one.' Then his manner grew serious. ‘Just come and look at this,' he said. ‘It's a very neat thing, just out.' He came round the counter, led Mr. Darby to the far end of the shop, and showed him a thing like a small green enamel cabinet.

‘What is it?' asked Mr. Darby.

‘It's a stove,' said Stedman: ‘a stove for heating a room. The Equator, they call it. Burns paraffin. You put the paraffin in here, and here, of course, is the burner. Astonishing heat it gives out for such a little thing. The traveller brought one along and showed it me alight a week ago. The neatest thing of the kind I've ever seen.'

‘And the price?' said Mr. Darby.