The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife (27 page)

Sarah laughed. ‘Neither did I,' she said.

‘No, you certainly didn't. A few days ago you were humming and ha-ing and telling me you doubted this and were afraid of the other.'

‘Five days ago to-day,' said Sarah, taking up her Inspector's Notebook and rising from the sofa. ‘It seems more like a month.'

Lady Savershill laughed. ‘As bad as that?'

‘As
good
as that,' replied Sarah. ‘It has been the salvation of me. Nothing less! ‘She went to one of the windows and looked out. ‘Yes, my car's here,' she said and shook hands. ‘Please don't ring, my lady, I'll let myself out.' She sailed to the door, crossed the hall, and next moment was gliding down the drive in the comfortable Daimler which, reminding herself of her ten thousand pounds, she had recently hired to take her about in the wide area covered by her new work. She chuckled to herself. How surprised Jim would be if he knew she hired a great big luxurious car, chauffeur and all, by the month. Surprised, and pleased of course. But she hadn't told him a word about her job yet. She was never one for letter-writing, and she had been so busy during the last fortnight that nowadays she was still less in a mood for it. It would take such a lot of describing and explaining that she would never have the patience to do it. Besides, what was the good? It wasn't the sort of thing that would interest him, with all his new fancy ideas about pictures and architecture and foreign travel. There was no use them bothering each other about each other's occupations. So long as she knew he was well and happy in his own childish way, that was enough.

The thought of Jim always gave her pain, a pain almost physical, like the dull smart of an internal wound. How long was she going to have to wait? What would be the end of it? Whenever she was at home, at breakfast, at supper, at night, she felt lonely. Now indeed, for the first time since her wedding-day, she felt herself childless—no child with clothes to look after, hunger to be appeased, innocent gluttonies to be catered for, no child to snub affectionately, to laugh at secretly. But she was not much at home. The greater part of her days was spent in inspecting the hospitals in her area, in the journeys there and back—some of the hospitals were fifty miles away—and in periodic visits to Lady Savershill
to report. Her work brought her in contact with large numbers of people, matrons and other hospital officials; and her directness, her energy, her uncompromising honesty, endeared her to everyone she met. The Society was already well-known; its status and efficiency were recognized, and it seldom had difficulty in obtaining admission for its Inspectors. Sarah on her first arrival at a hospital made a habit of informing the official who showed her round, of her qualifications and her recent experiences and of pointing out that, if so desired, she would be very glad to offer hints and suggestions after she had made her inspection, in fact to give to the official the report that she would subsequently give to Lady Savershill. ‘You mustn't mind what I say,' she would remark, when offering to do this. ‘I have no right to interfere, but if you would like to know what I think, I shall be very glad to tell you. You might find it helpful and you might not. If you don't, well, you can just take no notice of it.'

And it always happened, when she had finished her inspection, that she was invited to a private room and asked to give her impressions. She gave them vigorously and humorously, without mincing matters, and yet without offending. Her irresistible blend of austerity, formidableness, and surprising charm captivated them all and gained her, in addition to her official inspectorship, an unofficial post of adviser and helper. Her personality and the popularity it won for her were, in fact, as valuable to the H.C.S. as her efficiency as an inspector. For the Society had no official authority over the hospitals it inspected: it could influence only by persuasion, by offering expert assistance to those who cared to use it.

So Sarah's time was employed and nearly all her energy,—nearly all, but not quite all. She still felt the need of more violent physical exercise and reserved to herself the right of making her own bed and sweeping and dusting her bedroom and sitting-room. Her feelings towards Uncle Tom Darby had by now changed considerably. It was true that he had contrived, temporarily at any rate, to drive Jim from home
and wreck the old orderly routine of their life; but, no less, he had, with the help of Lady Savershill, pitchforked her, in spite of herself, into a new and very thrilling life in which she daily discovered new powers in herself, new and absorbing interests. It was as if a new youth had come to her: she felt herself growing, unfolding, meeting and overcoming new problems. Life had become an exhilarating adventure.

Adventure. Sarah an adventurer. How mysterious, how paradoxical, how richly humorous are the ways of Providence. She who had never asked for, never desired adventure, was already in the thick of it and revelling in it; while Mr. Darby, that poetical and romantic soul, who had sighed after adventure all his life, who in dreams had plumbed the Jungle, stalked strange and terrible forms of life, heard the screeches of green parrots, fought through impenetrable thickets of scarlet orchids, had got no further in pursuit of his dreams than a temporary bivouac in Bedford Square, W.C.I and the unpromising exploration of fifth-rate curiosity shops in the suburbs.

It was the sudden illness of the Inspector of Out Patients' Departments, who had been going to speak at the General Meeting of the H.C.S. two days later in London, that put it into Lady Savershill's head at the last minute to make Sarah take his place. Sarah's verbal reports were so practical, so clear, and at the same time so exciting, that if she could be worked up into addressing the General Meeting she would almost certainly make a success of it. At the first suggestion, which Lady Savershill made during luncheon at Savershill Hall, Sarah shied and it was only by slow degrees that Lady Savershill brought her to the point of agreeing that the idea was possible.

‘But I can't see myself getting up on a platform and haranguing a crowd,' said Sarah.

‘Well, you manage to harangue me twice a week,' said Lady Savershill.

‘That's different,' said Sarah. ‘You make allowances.'

‘Indeed I don't,' said Lady Savershill. ‘If I thought you were muddling things or talking nonsense, I should tell you so at once. The only difference between talking to me and talking to the General Meeting is that you must talk a little louder.'

Sarah laughed. ‘That sounds simple,' she said. ‘But there's more to it than that. When I talk to you I know it's a matter of plain business in which we are both concerned. When I see you are interested, I feel pleased and somehow excited, and off I go.'

‘My dear woman, if you get excited because you see I'm interested, you'll get much more excited talking to a crowd. To feel that a crowd of people is listening to you, that you are catching its attention, interesting it, taking it along with
you, is amazingly stimulating. I'm sure you could do it: indeed, I wouldn't ask you to do it, if I weren't. And, another thing to bear in mind is that you are speaking with authority. Only one or two people in the hall, if any, will know as much about your subject as you do. You will be telling them something new, something highly interesting, something very necessary for them to know. And, if you talk to them as you talk to me, you will be exciting them, thrilling them. I'll tell you what we'll do. When you give me your report now after luncheon, you shall give it in the ball-room. You shall stand at one end and I'll sit at the other. It's sixty feet long and resounds horribly, so if you want me to follow you at all, you'll have to speak loudly and slowly, and I shall be so far away from you that you won't know whether I'm being interested or not. It will be much more difficult than speaking in a crowded hall.'

Accordingly, when they rose from the table Lady Savershill sent word for Miss Harter to go to the ball-room, and Sarah found herself obediently following her hostess across the hall, and down a long, wide corridor at the end of which were tall double doors painted white and gold. The long white and golden room, hung with crystal chandeliers like clusters of hanging icicles and flanked by a row of six tall windows, sent a chill of apprehension through Sarah. Their footsteps on the shining slippery floor echoed through the bare room. ‘I used to practise public-speaking here years ago,' said Lady Savershill. ‘I stood at this end and my husband stood at that and I harangued him till one or other of us could stand it no longer. Now you stand there, Mrs. Darby, and I'll go to the other end. You hear how the place echoes: it's the worst place I know for speaking in; that's why it's such a good test.' Lady Savershill walked away to the far end of the room as she spoke. ‘Now listen to me first,' she said, when she had reached her place. ‘You hear how slowly and clearly I have to talk, otherwise everything's lost in echoes. It has just occurred to me, Mrs. Darby, that the best speech you could possibly make at the General Meeting would be on the Monks well and Doleford hospitals. When
you spoke to me of them you talked for half an hour: that is about ten minutes more than will be needed at the General Meeting, so you will have more than enough material. Just draw the contrast between the two: it was extraordinarily instructive and extraordinarily interesting.' The door opened and the shorthand-typist came in. ‘Take a chair and go and sit near Mrs. Darby, Miss Harter,' said Lady Savershill, and fetching a chair for herself she sat down. ‘Now, Mrs. Darby, let us hear to-day's report.'

Sarah cleared her throat: her face became very pink.

‘I feel horribly nervous,' she said.

‘Can't hear,' Lady Savershill shouted back.

‘I feel very shy,' said Sarah loudly.

‘Never mind. Take no notice of it,' Lady Savershill loudly replied.

Miss Harter sat smiling with her pad ready on her knee. Sarah pulled herself together. ‘The hospitals I have visited since last I reported,' she began, ‘are the Royal Free at Bankhurst and the Mexham Infirmary …'

When she had spoken for a minute or two, Lady Savershill interrupted her. ‘One minute. Don't take
me
down, Miss Harter,' she said; ‘only Mrs. Darby. There are only two things wrong, Mrs. Darby: you drop your voice too much on the last word of each sentence, and you don't pause long enough between sentences. When you get to a full stop, pause till the pause seems interminable. It not only gives you, you'll find, great self-possession, but it convinces your listeners of your self-possession. Don't forget, mind, to pronounce those last words clearly and sharply.'

So the lesson went on. Sarah lost her shyness and began to find the experiment amusing and interesting. Yes, making speeches was, apparently, very good fun, and she drove away that afternoon, not only having consented to speak at the General Meeting but actually eager to do so. She took with her the typescript of her report on Monkswell and Doleford, so that she could run through it from time to time and get all the details fixed in her memory. But, in fact, they were there already. She would take the report with her to the meeting
so that if her courage suddenly failed her, she could simply read it. ‘But it won't,' Lady Savershill had said. ‘In fact, you'll find, once you get started, that you forget all about the typescript and just talk. The only difficulty will be to stop you.'

•    •    •    •    •    •    •    •

In the hurry of preparation and departure Sarah had no time to let Jim know of her unexpected return to London. No doubt she might have found time to send him a wire, but she reflected that she could make no appointment with him, for she did not know when she would be free. She was staying with the Savershills and it would be easy to ring him up from there. Next day they travelled up to London by the night train, and, as soon as she could get an opportunity after a late breakfast next morning, Sarah rang Mr. Darby up. But he was already out. He had gone, of course, to Penge. She tried again at one o'clock, but he had not yet returned. There was a large luncheon party at the Savershills, and Sarah, meeting Lord Savershill for the first time just before it, heard from him that he had seen her husband and asked him to come to the meeting. Well, she would have to try to catch him at the meeting, or, if she failed, ring him up again afterwards. It was all very harassing. She was harassed by her thwarted longing to get in touch with Jim, and by the prospect of the speech she was going to make. It loomed ahead of her now as a portentous and almost impossible task. Whatever had persuaded her to be mad enough to agree to do it? If only it was over and done with. But there it was, imminent, threatening, like some vast nightmare.

When they had started for the hall she felt better, but still far, terribly far, from self-possessed. She had to keep her teeth firmly clenched to prevent their chattering. As she emerged with the rest on to the platform she was aghast at the size of the audience. Lady Savershill, who was ahead of her, looked back as she reached her place and beckoned to her. ‘Come and sit beside me, Mrs. Darby.' Sarah took the chair that Lady Savershill indicated. ‘It's an excellent hall for sound. You'll have no trouble in making yourself heard.
The thing to do, remember, is always to talk to the back row. How are you feeling?'

‘Awful!' said Sarah.

Lady Savershill looked at her sharply, but Sarah smiled and added: ‘But I shall manage.'

And, in fact, having said
awful
, she had instantly become aware that though it was awful it was also quite all right: nothing would go wrong. The awfulness was merely an inevitable symptom which she recognized and observed, but which she would undoubtedly be able to keep in control. It was this waiting that was so trying, this horrible inactivity which left her at the mercy of her dancing nerves. Well, all she had to do was to sit still and let them dance: it was like enduring a pain which you knew would cease at a certain specific moment. Lady Savershill tactfully kept up a running conversation. ‘
A
full hall, I'm glad to see. Nothing puts one off so much as talking to a small audience in a big room. A big audience, you'll find, keeps you going, excites you.'