The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife (13 page)

And, in fact, Mr. Marston's question had brought to the surface a problem which for the last twenty-four hours had gnawed persistently at Mr. Darby's mind. He had not admitted it to himself, he had pretended to the best of his ability that it did not exist, but this had done little to check its pertinacity. Sarah had never figured in any of his dreams of travel, indeed those dreams had been to a large extent an antidote to Sarah. The prisoner dreaming of escape does not usually dream that he takes his jailer with him. Yet he had never seriously contemplated leaving Sarah. His dreams did not burden themselves with practical problems. They were the creations of unfettered fancy, and in them he always beheld himself setting forth alone. Not that he was alone all the time: more than once he had seen himself reclining at ease on or near the Equator, surrounded by an admiring and obedient seraglio of beautiful females, for Mr. Darby was far from being a misogynist. But now that the dream was destined to be no longer pure fancy, now that reality would impose practical problems, what was to be done about Sarah? Mr. Darby resolved now, as he sat at his desk after his talk with Mr. Marston, that when the subject was broached—and sooner or later it would have to be broached—he would take a very firm stand from the first. Yes, he must make no mistake about that. He must make Sarah realize at once that, whatever happened, he was going to travel. When he had hinted at it a few minutes after the fateful letter arrived, Sarah had treated his hint as a childish whim not to be taken seriously. The question whether he was actually to forbid her to accompany him would probably never be reached, for what Sarah would do at the outset would be simply to forbid
him
to travel. Well, she could forbid as much as she liked, but obviously she could not stop him. There was no problem now of supporting her during his absence. He could go away a rich man, leaving her a rich woman. No,
she couldn't, obviously, prevent his going. And yet …? Mr. Darby recalled Sarah's irresistible way of compelling obedience. There was something about a command of Sarah's that made it very difficult to disobey, especially when one had for so long had the habit of obeying. Still, that was all nonsense, of course. One had only to stand up to her. She could not
force
him to obey her against his will. The fact was, of course, that he had never on former occasions felt it necessary to oppose her.

Mr. Darby reassured himself with arguments and assertions such as these, but the uncomfortable fact remained that, though they convinced the reasoning part of him, they did very little towards soothing his feelings. The prospect of the inevitable encounter with Sarah kept intruding upon his thoughts at the most inappropriate moments, at the same time producing a curious sensation of weakness in the back of his knees.

On his return to the general office after his conversation with Mr. Marston, Mr. Darby had, in the off-hand manner for which he was rapidly acquiring a finished technique, broken the news to McNab and Pellow, and this news, sown by Mr. Darby in five different plots—the Office, the Bank, Messrs. Chepstow & Bradfield his Solicitors, the Stedmans, and the Cribbs—germinated, flowered, fruited, and reproduced itself prodigiously, so that he received congratulations from the most unexpected quarters and at the most unexpected moments. On the stairs of Number Thirty Seven Ranger Street, in the Brackett Street Post Office, in shops, on the tops of trams, on crowded pavements, on those precarious mid-street islands between two streams of traffic, in the porch of St. George's Church, Savershill, even half way down the nave of that sacred building, Mr. Darby was bombarded with congratulations, often by people whom he only knew by sight, sometimes even by people whom he did not know at all. And just as he had perfected a technique for breaking the news, so he had soon perfected another—a dignified courtesy combined with a hint of surprise that so ordinary a matter should seem so extraordinary to others—
for the reception and acknowledgment of these continual tributes.

•    •    •    •    •    •    •    •

Mr. Darby was in the habit of sitting down to his daily paper on his return home every evening, as soon as he had taken his boots off. It helped to fill in the gap between his return and supper. On the second evening after his return to the office, he was seated, so engaged, before the diningroom fire when his eye fell on the following heading: NOVOCASTRIAN'S WINDFALL. Under it, in smaller capitals, he read: FROM CLERK TO MILLIONAIRE. It was this sub-title which arrested his attention. Was it …? Could it be …? He stared for some seconds, with sensations of growing excitement, at the astonishing phrase. A veil of steam spread over the lenses of his spectacles, cutting him off suddenly from further investigation. With an exclamation of impatience Mr. Darby dashed the paper down on his knees, snatched out his handkerchief, snatched off his spectacles and polished them with trembling hands. Then, replacing them and the handkerchief, he grabbed the paper and plunged into the paragraph. ‘It is reserved for few,' he read, ‘to have an experience such as has recently befallen our fellow citizen Mr. William James Darby of Moseley Terrace, Savershill, who has long held a responsible position in the firm of Messrs. Lamb & Marston, Architects, of this city. On opening his daily budget of letters a few mornings ago, Mr. Darby received from one of them the kind of intelligence which is usually to be found only in the pages of the more sensational novels. The letter in question apprised the fortunate gentleman that his paternal uncle, Thomas Darby, himself a Novocastrian but one who had long made his home in Australia, had recently died leaving him his entire fortune, which, we are informed, amounts to something approaching a million of money. We learn, on enquiry, that Mr. and Mrs. Darby intend to travel, but we may be allowed to hope that when they return to England they will decide to establish themselves once more in their native city.'

Having reached the end of this piece of news Mr. Darby laid down the paper, drew a deep breath and remained for some time staring into the fire. A smile played about the corners of his mouth. How often, in fancy, had he coined announcements of this description; and now here was this one—another dream come true—confronting him in cold print. With a satisfied sigh he took up the
Newchester Daily Chronicle
again and, more slowly this time and savouring the rich, formal, journalistic tone of every phrase, he indulged in the luxury of re-reading the whole paragraph from beginning to end. ‘Very nicely put!' he said to himself. ‘Very nicely put indeed. “The letter in question apprised the fortunate gentleman …!” “Has long held a responsible position …!” “Mr. and Mrs. Darby intend to travel…!” ‘

Suddenly the full significance of that last phrase came home to him, destroying his equanimity. Once more the unsolved problem began to nibble at his mind. Certainly Mr. Darby intended to travel, but did Mrs. Darby? And did
she
intend that Mr. Darby should? Still holding the
Newchester Daily Chronicle
before his eyes, Mr. Darby fell into an uncomfortable reverie. He was interrupted by the opening of the door, the sound of cutlery and glasses on a tray. Sarah was about to lay supper. Mr. Darby did not move. He heard her put the tray down on the table, he felt her glance over his shoulder, he felt her throw up her head with that quick, indignant jerk which was so typical and so familiar. He waited, speechless: Sarah was sure to begin. He wished that the paper which he held open before his eyes had been open at another page. Such was his state of tension that he jumped and the paper rattled in his hands at the low, contemptuous snort with which she began.

‘Humph! I was pretty certain you'd be lapping it up.'

Lapping … ah …? ‘Mr. Darby, in a feeble pretence of ignorance, turned questioning eyebrows and a rabbit's mouth over his shoulder.

‘Lapping was the word,' said Sarah. ‘Have you got the stuff by heart yet? ‘

Mr. Darby laid down the paper and turned in his chair. ‘I can't see, Sarah,' he said, determined to be firm, ‘that there's any harm in the little … ah … the little announcement.'

‘The harm in it,' she said acidly, ‘is that it's there at all. Disgusting, I call it. You ought to have sent them about their business.'

‘Sent them. … Sent who?' said Mr. Darby, really puzzled this time.

‘Why the reporters, of course. Instead of which, you just
chattered
to them, I suppose.'

‘Reporters?' said Mr. Darby. ‘But I saw no reporters. The first I knew of this was when I came on it just now.'

Sarah saw that he was speaking the truth, and seeing that she believed him he grew more courageous. ‘One can't avoid publicity nowadays, Sarah. You'll soon discover that. It is the duty of the … ah … the Press to keep the public in touch with events of … ah … any import.'

‘And where's the
import
, I should like to know, in Mr. and Mrs. Darby
intending to travel?
‘Sarah's tone was extremely withering.

‘Well … ah …!'

‘Besides,' said Sarah, ‘it's not true.'

‘Not … ah … correct?'

‘No. Mr. and Mrs. Darby do not intend to travel.'

‘Oh … ah … I see!' said Mr. Darby lamely. Then perking up a little, he added: ‘Well, I never said they did.'

‘You didn't?'said Sarah inquisitorially.

‘Ah … no … ah!' Mr. Darby replied.

‘Then I shall go to the
Chronicle
office and complain,' said Sarah with determination.

This threw Mr. Darby into a great flurry. He was seriously alarmed. ‘Ah … well … ah … I don't think … ah … I would do that, Sarah,' he said. ‘In point of fact,' he went on, ‘I have … ah … informed one or two friends that
I
… ah … intend to travel. I mentioned it to you, if you remember, on the first morning, just after I had read the solicitors' letter.'

‘I see.' Sarah's tone was scornful. ‘So you're still thinking of your precious Jungle?'

‘The Jungle, certainly,'said Mr. Darby, ‘among other places.'

‘With a few sandwiches, I suppose,' sneered Sarah, ‘and,' she added with a sudden cynical inspiration, ‘a couple of bottles of Bass, no doubt.'

Mr. Darby ignored her persiflage. ‘I shall … ah … equip myself,' he said with dignity, ‘as others have equipped themselves.'

Sarah eyed the little man with a bitter smile. She saw that he was stubbornly earnest in his mad idea. He was really no better than a child, but a child enabled, by this sudden access of wealth, to put its most fantastic ideas into practice. Hitherto she had controlled him without difficulty, but forty thousand pounds a year had given him courage and robbed her of more than half her moral ascendancy over him. They had both been perfectly satisfied before this miserable letter had arrived, but now everything was to be turned topsyturvy. She tried another shot. ‘Well,' she said, ‘I hope you don't expect me to go with you. I have something better to do than go dawdling about in jungles full of lions and tigers.'

‘No, Sarah,' replied Mr. Darby, ‘I have never … ah … anticipated your accompanying me. I had no right to expect it.'

‘You had no
wish
to expect it, you mean,' she retorted bitterly. For Sarah was realizing something that had not before occurred to her to enquire into, that Jim no longer felt for her what she felt for him. In her grim, undemonstrative way she loved him: he was hers, a part of her life, the object of all her daily plans and labours. For all these years she had failed to realize that the fact that she devoted her life to him, planned and cooked good meals for him, looked after his clothes, kept his home spotlessly clean and replete with comfort might fail to compensate, in his mind, for that lack of gentleness and friendliness in her treatment of him which had imperceptibly and unaccountably become a habit with her. Her sheer efficiency as a housewife had
taught him to take all she did for him for granted. It did not occur to him that he was in her thoughts, the object of her solicitude, during most of the time he was away from her, whereas she was hardly in his thoughts at all during that time; that it was perhaps pardonable that, after keeping him scrupulously in mind all day, she should give him a sharp word or two in the evenings. He only knew that Sarah had a bitter tongue and an uncompromising disposition, that she too seldom showed him the affection and friendliness which he appreciated, that she tyrannized over him and belittled him. It had cost him a supreme effort of courage to make his pompous little assertion of his independence just now. He was glad, profoundly relieved, that he had brought himself to the point of making it. He would have been surprised to know that it had cut Sarah to the heart. ‘But Jim,' said a buried Sarah in pained rebuke, ‘you couldn't go off and leave me, after all these years.' But the words were unheard by Mr. Darby and unspoken by Sarah. She had too long lost the habit of tenderness. She saw well enough that this nonsense about the jungle was mere childish dreaming, that it would never be realized, but the fact that he was serious about it and was willing to set off and leave her behind him told her only too plainly how he felt towards her. Her eyes filled with tears as she began to set the knives and forks and glasses on the table, and she said no more.

Mr. Darby had not replied to her rebuke. He had made his stand and he thought it better to keep quiet now in case he spoilt the effect of his efforts. He sat, with his back to Sarah, upright, alert, and important in his chair, the paper on his knees, the corners of his mouth firmly set, and his eye fixed challengingly on the fire.

Mr. Darby's existence during the next three months was a strange and shadowy one. His state was more like that of a soul in limbo than of a plain Novocastrian. For consider: he had dropped out of one life and not yet dropped into another. He was, as it were, stuck for three and a half mortal months in the doorway between the two,—a very uncomfortable position for anyone, but especially for a man so deeply concerned with life and living as Mr. Darby. For he was not absolutely anything. He acted, it is true, as if he were the Managing Clerk of Messrs. Lamb & Marston, and so skilfully did he do this that not a soul, except those in the know, could have suspected that, really, he was nothing of the kind; that he was merely pretending to be, out of consideration for Mr. Marston. At least it was with this motive that he had embarked on this career of play-acting. In a subsequent conference between Mr. Marston and Mr. Darby it had been decided that McNab, after a few weeks' schooling from Mr. Darby, would be fully competent to take over the job of Managing Clerk. But as these few weeks drew to a close Mr. Darby felt a growing reluctance to leave the office. For though he had ceased to be a Managing Clerk, he had not yet begun to be a millionaire, would not begin for several weeks. So it was that he felt a desperate need to cling to what little existence he had, to continue, at all costs, to be the ghost of a Managing Clerk; for, if he ceased to be so, he would, he feared, cease to exist at all. He was like a man clinging desperately to a tuft of grass while his body swung in empty air over the edge of a precipice. In a few weeks a passenger lift would have been constructed which would convey him comfortably and immediately to the bottom. In the meanwhile, he clung to the
tuft. For if he left go, what would become of him, what could he do in the limbo into which he would drop? What could he even pretend to be, to keep him going till his fortune became his? Even
he
could not walk the streets, inspect shop-windows, buy things that took his fancy all day long. The human frame would not stand it. Yet the only alternative was to stay at home; and that was not to be thought of, for home, at present, was even less inviting than usual. And so, with the object of keeping a finger, even though only a ghostly finger, in the pie of existence, Mr. Darby had arranged with his employer that he should stay on at the office till the Law and the Post Office between them consented to provide him with his new personality.