The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife (12 page)

George Stedman put his hands on his hips. ‘Matter of twelve pounds,' he said. ‘A mere trifle to the likes of you, Mr. Darby.'

‘I'll take it,' said Mr. Darby.

George Stedman ha ha'd. ‘Thought you would,' he said.

It was Mr. Darby's turn to laugh. But he did not laugh,—not externally. ‘On the … ah … contrary, George, you thought I wouldn't, but I will.'

George Stedman looked down at the little man, puzzled. ‘You mean it?' he said.

‘I mean it,' said Mr. Darby. ‘I like the look of it and no doubt it will come in useful.' He drew the crocodile-skin cigar case from his breast-pocket. ‘Have a cigar?' he said.

George Stedman gaped at the costly case and the noble row of cigars: then, having taken a cigar and laid it carefully on the counter, he looked with amusement at Mr. Darby. ‘What's come over you, Jim?' he said. ‘Have you come into a fortune?'

‘Yes,' said Mr. Darby, casually as if admitting to a slight cold in the head, ‘as a matter of fact I have, George. They tell me it's about a million.'

‘Is that all?' said Stedman. ‘Disappointing, I call it.'

‘If you and your missus will come round for a bit after supper to-night,' said Mr. Darby, ‘you can ask Sarah about it. Perhaps she'll make you believe it.'

Mr. Darby made for the door, mischievously resolved to leave George Stedman bamboozled. At the door he turned. ‘Meanwhile,' he said, ‘don't forget, will you, to send round this … ah … stove thing.'

•    •    •    •    •    •    •    •

The invitation did more than Mr. Darby's cigar case or his strange talk to convince Stedman that, at least, something was up. Whatever the truth of it was, he would learn it, as Mr. Darby had said, from Sarah. Though she had a sense of humour it did not take the form of vague obfuscations.

He came to the point the moment he and his wife entered Number Seven Moseley Terrace that evening. ‘Well, Mrs.
D,' he said, ‘and what's all this talk of Jim's about millions? ‘

‘Oh, it's true enough,' said Sarah wearily. ‘
A
regular upset!'

‘An
upset
you call it?'

‘I should think I do,' she replied with evident annoyance. ‘Worse than a burst pipe.'

Mr. Darby, with the detached, self-conscious feeling of one taking part in amateur theatricals, set off as usual for the office next morning. The act seemed to him not quite real, and indeed it was not quite real, for it was only out of consideration for Mr. Marston that he consented to go through the makebelieve that he was Managing Clerk to Messrs. Lamb & Marston, and that he was pursuing his invariable way down Osbert Road because his bread and butter depended on his visiting Number Thirty Seven Ranger Street and doing a day's work there. So pronounced indeed was his sense of unreality that he found it impossible to grasp the fact that Osbert Road was as real as ever. For him, this morning, there was something of the quality of a dream about it. Each time he fixed it with his full attention—challenged it, as it were, to prove its reality—it flinched, evaded him: it seemed to Mr. Darby that at any moment the houses, the Baptist Chapel, the Wesleyan Chapel, the very trees and pavements might grow transparent and then dissolve into vapour. But, in point of fact, they did not do so: Osbert Road held desperately on to what little reality it had and Mr. Darby pursued his way along it gravely. When he was half way down it a steam train, with a long crescendo and then a long decrescendo of roar and rattle, swept past him along the cutting. Mr. Darby did not turn his head. He smiled, and he could afford to smile, for he was no longer dependent on such toys, his imagination had other fish to fry. There was something very entertaining to him in walking, thus incognito, through the well-known scenes, and it amused him to reflect, as people passed him regardlessly, that not one of them suspected that they had just walked past a millionaire. So must Haroun al Raschid have felt when he put off
the Sultan and set out on his nocturnal adventures in Bagdad.

As he turned into the entrance of Number Thirty Seven Ranger Street, it struck Mr. Darby for the first time how squalid the place was. The walls wanted repainting: the staircase was in a lamentable state. ‘Disgusting. If I were staying on,' he thought, ‘I should have to have the whole place made … ah … representable.' McNab had had the office key during his absence, and he found him and Pellow already arrived when he reached the top of the stairs and entered the office. There they stood, in their ignorance, smiling and wishing him good-morning, just as if all were the same as ever, just as if Uncle Tom Darby were still alive and the world rolling quietly along in its old grooves.

Mr. Darby did not disillusion them at once: he would tell them later in the day, when he had told Mr. Marston. Meanwhile, after a short talk with McNab in which he made himself acquainted with the current business of the office, he went to his desk and began to open the letters which McNab had already taken from the letterbox and laid there. In every respect all was happening precisely as it had happened thousands of times before,—precisely, but for the ocean-wide difference in Mr. Darby's sensations as he executed the time-honoured ritual. His sense of the change was different here from what it had been in Osbert Road, for it seemed to him now that it was he, and not the office, that was not quite real. It was no more than a ghostly Darby now that haunted the office, opened the letters, mimicked the poor, salaried, Managing Clerk who had vanished from the world, leaving not even a corpse behind him. And soon, in a few weeks' time, in less perhaps, even this ghostly Darby would vanish from Number Thirty Seven and the place would know him no more. Despite the brilliant destiny awaiting him, Mr. Darby felt sad at the thought; for he loved the office. For years it had been a kind of home to him, a comfortable, friendly place which, every evening, he had abandoned for his other home without great enthusiasm for the change. The uprooting would be painful, even though he was to be
transplanted into a rich soil. He handed the letters to young Pellow, who took them, as usual, to Mr. Marston's room and in due course Mr. Marston was heard to enter the office and proceed thither. Half an hour later, Mr. Marston's bell rang and the ghostly Mr. Darby, with sundry papers in its hand, left its desk and entered Mr. Marston's room. And there it stood, facing Mr. Marston's desk, precise, correct, deferential, giving an excellent imitation of an architect's Managing Clerk. So excellent, indeed, that Mr. Marston was completely taken in: never for a moment did it cross his mind that confronting him there, with papers in his hand, stood a millionaire.

‘Good-morning, Mr. Darby,' he said. ‘Glad to see you back again.' He held a sheet of paper in his hand. ‘As regards this letter from Mr. Berrington,' he said, ‘I expect McNab has shown you my rough sketch for the new billiard-room. You might have a small scale drawing done of the plan and elevation for me to send to Mr. Berrington. Make it look nice. It might be well to show the additions in colour. And I want it to go by this evening's post.'

For some time they talked of other matters of business, and then Mr. Marston said: ‘You're feeling quite well again, I hope?'

Mr. Darby made a little bow. ‘Perfectly, thank you, sir.'

‘It only shows what a week in bed will do. You look, I must say, completely cured. Quite your old self again.'

Mr. Darby hesitated. Now was the time to enlighten Mr. Marston, but he felt somewhat diffident of the task. How, exactly, was he to put it?

‘I am inclined to … ah … attribute the cure, sir,' he began at last, ‘not to … to bed, but … ah … rather to a totally unforeseen event which … ah … overtook me yesterday morning. A very surprising windfall, sir.'

‘A windfall, Darby?'

‘A windfall, sir … to the … ah … tune, I am assured, of about a million.'

Mr. Marston smilingly considered his Managing Clerk.
What on earth was the little man talking about? He was accustomed to Mr. Darby's partiality for words and phrases, but this talk of windfalls and tunes and millions was so fantastic as to be almost alarming. Could it be that Mr. Darby's recent disorder had been mental and that his mind was definitely deranged? He stood there now, as correct and compact as ever, but with a curious and unusual smile on his face, a smile that was at once bashful and self-satisfied. Then, as Mr. Marston did not question him, he continued laboriously: ‘I only got wind of … ah …'

‘Of the windfall, Mr. Darby?'

Mr. Darby was thrown into greater confusion by Mr. Marston's humorous assistance.

‘Ah … well … ah … Yes, sir, as you might say. Yesterday morning, sir. I have the … ah … communication in question here, sir. It will … no doubt … ah … lucipricate … ah … I should say … ah … elubricate the matter better than any words of mine.'

As this seemed probable Mr. Marston turned his attention to the letter which Mr. Darby, while in the throes of his last sentence, had taken from his breast-pocket, unfolded, and now handed to him. He glanced at the heading and then proceeded to read the letter with growing seriousness and attention. ‘But, my dear Darby …' he exclaimed in amazement. ‘My dear fellow, this is …' Again he fixed his attention on the letter, and read it to the end. Then he raised his head and stared, open-mouthed, at Mr. Darby. ‘But, my dear Darby! Were you at all prepared for this … this astounding event? Did you know of this uncle?'

‘I knew of him, sir; in point of fact, sir, he very kindly sent me a present of one hundred pounds every Christmas. But, beyond that, I knew next to nothing of his … ah … circumstances. The … ah … event came as a complete surprise.'

Mr. Marston rose from his chair. ‘I can well believe, Darby, that this did more for you than a week in bed.' He held out his hand and shook Mr. Darby's warmly. ‘I congratulate you most heartily. It's … well, it's more like a
fairy story than sober fact. I can't believe it. I see, of course,' he handed the letter back to Mr. Darby, ‘that it's true, but I simply can't believe it. Do you believe it, Darby?'

‘I … ah … spend a good deal of time in trying to, sir. I seem to be, as one might say,' Mr. Darby made a vague circular gesture with the left hand, ‘in a dream, sir.'

‘I don't wonder. So do I. And this means, of course, that we shall lose you, Darby. I shall be very sorry for that, after all these years.'

‘Not more sorry than I shall be, sir,' said Mr. Darby with a little bow and a sudden moist gleam in the blue eyes behind his spectacles. ‘But there's no hurry, sir,' he added. ‘It will be at least three months, of course, before the various … ah … formalities are complete. I shall be most happy, sir, I need hardly say, to stay on here until you are suited: and, of course, under the … ah … circumstances there could be no question of salary.'

‘My dear Darby, that is exceedingly kind of you. It will be a very great convenience to me. I feel lost without you in the office, though I must say McNab has done pretty well during the last week. We might split your salary, during the time you are with us, between McNab and Pellow, in honour of the great event. In that way you will be doing us all a very great kindness.' Then, suddenly, he smiled. ‘This accounts for that excellent cigar you were smoking in the Station Hotel yesterday.'

Mr. Darby smiled back. ‘Yes, sir. I felt that
something
had to be done to … ah …'

‘Just so. And what does Mrs. Darby think of it all? Delighted, I suppose.'

Mr. Darby's face fell a little. He looked like a schoolboy who has been unjustly rebuked. ‘Well, not exactly, I'm afraid, sir. In fact, she doesn't take to it very kindly.'

‘Too great a responsibility, perhaps.'

‘Oh, no, sir; she has no objection to responsibility. No, it's not that. The fact is that she is not what you might call of a fanciful turn. She likes things to keep as they are.'

‘Whereas you have other views?'

‘I have always been one for adventure and novelty,' said Mr. Darby with childlike innocence.

The statement amazed Mr. Marston. He had always looked upon his Managing Clerk as a simple, contented little man who had no thoughts beyond his daily work. ‘Bless me, Mr. Darby,' he said, ‘and I have always regarded you as … well … rather a home bird.'

‘Oh dear me, no, sir,' said Mr. Darby. ‘Don't think it. Far from it. Anything but. I have always wanted to travel. I have often found the ships down on the Quayside a … a ah … a very great temptation. If I had had my way, sir, I think I should have been an explorer.'

‘What, the North Pole?'

‘No, sir. I should have preferred the Jungle. But the North Pole rather than nothing.'

‘And now you will indulge your … hobby?'

‘Yes,' said Mr. Darby with hands clasped precisely before him and a far-away look in his eye, ‘I hope to travel a good deal.'

Mr. Marston had a sudden and disconcerting vision of Mr. Darby in black coat, grey trousers, and bowler hat pushing his way a little timidly through a dense tropical undergrowth, closely observed by parrots and monkeys from above, by lions and tigers below.

‘But won't you perhaps find it a little difficult to persuade Mrs. Darby to … er …'

‘To allow it, sir?'

‘To accompany you, I was going to say.'

Mr. Darby looked embarrassed: his neck and cheeks became a brighter pink: his lips worked as if trying to form phrases. ‘To tell the truth, sir, I haven't … ah … embarked on the task of … ah … persuasion as yet.'

Mr. Marston knew Mrs. Darby not only by sight but also personally. He visualized Mr. Darby engaged in the task of … ah … persuasion. He saw an incredibly small Darby, a creature no larger than a dapper little bird—a bird like a bullfinch or a robin, buttoned compactly into its plumage
—wooing in vain the colossal stone image of some formidable goddess. The bird bowed and scraped and hopped: the image stared immovably at eternity. It seemed a hopeless business.