The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife (36 page)

The ladies, bright-eyed and flushed already, cautiously declined a second glass of port and Sarah rose from the table. Mr. Darby expressed the view that the gentlemen would be none the worse for another drop, and the three were left to themselves.

Mr. Darby pushed the decanter to George Stedman on his left. ‘Fill up your glass, George' he said.

Stedman did so and handed the decanter back.

Mr. Darby instantly held up a warning hand. ‘No, no! George. To Sam! The way of the sun.'

It was one of those solemn social rules which he had recently learned from the invaluable Princep.

‘The way of the sun, Jim?' said Stedman. ‘I've never heard that before.'

‘Certainly, with port, George,' said Mr. Darby authoritatively. ‘It doesn't matter with other wines; but with port,
always, absolutely always.'

‘Absolutely always?' said Sam Cribb's soft, sad, reflective voice, ‘I wish it did.'

‘But it
does
, Sam,' asserted Mr. Darby.

‘Not absolutely always, Jim. Only
sometimes
, for a treat.' George Stedman gave a roar. ‘Got you that time, Jim. Got you that time properly.' Mr. Darby's spectacles glittered with mirth. ‘Yes, I'm
with you there, Sam,' he said. Then his face grew judicious and he smacked his lips. ‘Yes' he said meditatively, ‘it would be difficult to get tired of port, at least of good port.'

‘And this,' said George, raising his glass, ‘is wonderful good port; far and away the best I ever tasted.'

‘That port,' said Mr. Darby, glancing casually at the decanter and pursing his lips, ‘is called Taylor Nineteen Twelve: it costs a matter of … ah … fifteen shillings a bottle. It
ought
to be a nice enough wine, and …' he pursed his lips again, knitted his brows, and put his head on one side—‘and I think it
is
. But now that we're alone'—Mr. Darby cleared his throat—‘there's something I want to … ah … to discuss. Before leaving what I may call the shores of England I want to give you both a small present, a token, so to speak, of our long friendship. Now what about … ah …' He flung himself back in his chair and fired the question at them almost as if it were a threat, ‘… what about five hundred a year each?'

Stedman and Cribb simultaneously opened astonished mouths, but Mr. Darby arrested them with a raised hand. ‘Not a word! ‘he said. ‘Not a word till you have … ah … considered what it means. It may sound a … well, a largish sum of money, but it's only a fraction, a very small fraction of my income. It'll make not the smallest difference to me. So you see, it's really only quite a small present.' Mr. Darby had addressed the phrases of this little speech alternately to one and the other of his two friends. His eye was on Sam Cribb as he ended. ‘Now you, for instance, Sam. You could do with five hundred a year, couldn't you? You've never been over keen on your job. Well, throw it up! Chuck it! Why not?'

Amazement and embarrassment had completely transformed Sam Cribb's face. He looked much more like a man detected in the commission of a crime than one who has just been offered what was for him liberty and wealth. ‘But, Jim,' he stammered, ‘I hardly like … it's really too, er … how can I ever …?'

Mr. Darby's hand arrested him once again. ‘Say no more,
Sam,' he ordered. ‘The thing's settled. Now what will you do with it?'

‘I shall start my bookshop, Jim—rare books, first editions, my old hobby, you know.'

‘Do, Sam,' said Mr. Darby, ‘and hand your notice in to the Railway to-morrow.' He turned his spectacles on Stedman. ‘And you, George?'

Stedman's face was scarlet and his eyes moist: he looked as though he had swallowed something.

‘Jim,' he said, putting out a large hand which Mr. Darby shook, ‘you're a trump, an absolute trump and no mistake. The fact is, an offer like this takes a man in the wind: it knocks the words out of him. All I can say is, thank you, Jim; thank you a thousand times. I appreciate your kindness and friendliness as much as any man could,
but
… ‘he dropped his voice to an intimate, persuasive tone … ‘give the money to someone else, Jim, someone that needs it. It's all very well for Sam there: he'll have a use for it. It'll get him out of a job that doesn't suit him and into another that does. But I'm all right as I am. My shop's my hobby and it brings us in all the money we want.
More
than all: I put a bit by, every year. My Missus and I are perfectly content as we are. Ask her, and she'll tell you the same. If I had an extra five hundred a year, Jim, believe me I shouldn't know what to do with it. I'd leave it in the bank and forget about it. Now if you really want to give us a present that would come in handy now and then, give us a dozen of that patent medicine there.' He pointed to the port decanter. ‘That'll warm the cockles of our hearts much more than five hundred a year would, thanking you very much indeed all the same, Jim, old man, and no offence, I hope.'

‘Please yourself, George,' said Mr. Darby: ‘it's exactly as you wish. But are you quite sure about Mrs. S.?'

‘Ask her yourself, Jim,' said Stedman. ‘Ask her to-night.'

When Mr. Darby asked her subsequently in the parlour, Jane Stedman seemed actually alarmed by his offer. ‘Oh, no thank you, Mr. Darby, we really couldn't do with it: thanking you kindly all the same. We've got all the money

we want. It's different for you, of course, you're a traveller and that; but a quiet life suits us best.'

‘Well, George agrees with you,' said Mr. Darby, ‘so that's all right.'

‘You mustn't think we're not grateful, Sarah,' said Jane Stedman turning to her hostess who was sitting beside her. ‘It's very handsome, very handsome indeed of Mr. Darby, but, knowing George and me as you do, I hope you'll both understand.'

Sarah smiled grimly. ‘Understand? I understand so well, Jane, that I'd have done the same in your shoes. In fact, if I'd been given the chance, I'd have buried all Uncle Tom Darby's money with him and put a good big tombstone on top of it.'

Before the party broke up Mr. Darby took the two men back to the dining-room. ‘Just a nightcap, before you go,' he said. As he left the parlour he had seen Sarah's eye fixed warningly upon him. It was a timely reminder, and he understood it. He had provided both brandy and whisky, and he himself, recalling the morning after his birthday party, chose brandy. ‘Whisky on top of wine always knocks me up, I find,' he said to the others.

George Stedman raised his glass. ‘Well, here's good luck to the voyage out and good luck to the Jungle,' he said.

Sam Cribb joined in the good wishes, and Mr. Darby in turn raised his glass. He thanked both his friends for their good wishes. He was convinced, he said, that they would bring him luck on what he called his … ah … somewhat hazardous undertaking. He would recall them, he said, in moments of peril; they would come to his aid, he was sure, in many a tight corner. He went on to speak of ‘forlorn hopes,' of ‘desperate odds,' of ‘setting one's teeth,' of ‘winning through'; and then with melancholy dignity he touched on a certain disappointment, of his desire—a desire which was destined to be … ah … frustrated—to do his bit for the Nation, and of England's ingratitude. ‘Well, my friends,' he said with great feeling, setting down his empty glass, ‘it comes to this. I shall go my way, and England will
go hers. I only pray,' he said, ‘I only pray, my friends …'

What it was that Mr. Darby only prayed his friends never discovered, for at that moment the door opened and Sarah's voice cut him off in mid-flight. ‘That'll do, Jim. If you've got any praying to do, you can do it in the bedroom. The ladies are tired of waiting for you to stop, and so, I'm sure, are the gentlemen.'

It was no more than the truth. George Stedman and Sam Cribb stood there with glazed eyes and faces set in the mould of patient boredom.

Mr. Darby, deflated, brought to earth, and much bewildered by his sudden fall, gazed at the ladies in the open doorway with a gaping codfish-mouth and blurred spectacles. Then, like a child just roused from sleep, he took the four hands that were one by one offered to him, and responded quietly and unobtrusively to the four good-nights.

That week in Newchester, it seemed to Mr. Darby, passed like a flash. His time was taken up for the most part by social matters. On the second morning after his arrival he set off, at the same time as of old, for the office. When he had contemplated visiting his old friends at the office, he had found himself unexpectedly embarrassed, for it seemed to him that at whatever time he called he would be in the way, interrupting business. For a moment he felt sadly that the old friendly place was forbidden him. Then he had a bright idea. He would call at the moment when the office opened and would stay only a minute, just time enough to ask McNab to lunch one day and Pellow another day and to leave a message for Mr. Marston asking if he might call and see him at a convenient time of which Pellow could inform him by telephone.

That was how it came about on this particular morning that the Baptist Chapel in Osbert Road, the rooks that circled round the spire of the Wesleyan Chapel, the electric and the steam trains that rattled down the Osbert Road cutting, the terraces in Savershill Road, and the shops that looked upon Newfoundland Street, Brackett Street and Ranger Street, were all labouring under the pardonable misapprehension that Mr. Darby had cast off the burdens of the millionaire and returned to his old punctual life among them. Mr. Darby himself actually encouraged the misunderstanding by pretending that this was so, and he fell back so easily into the habit of years that the pretence seemed to him no less real than the actuality, and conversely the actuality (the fact that he was a millionaire on a brief visit to Newchester and on the point of setting out to explore the Jungle) was for him no less unreal than this feigned
return to the past. This strange state, this blending of past and present, shed about his walk from Number Seven Moseley Terrace to Number Thirty Seven Ranger Street an atmosphere of dream, a dream not altogether happy, not altogether melancholy. It was only when he turned into the dark entrance of Number Thirty Seven, began to climb the stairs, realized the unbelievable fact that the metal tread on the third step still, though the whole world had been changed, clanked under the foot, recognized with strange emotion the very pattern made by the damp-stains on the painted wall, found himself automatically performing the same gestures, laying his hand on the handrail at the precise point at which he had always done so—it was only then that the sense of dream fell from him and a sense of reality so intense, so physical, that it was almost painful, took hold of him.

When he reached the top landing with the familiar feeling of weakness in the legs, he took out his watch. Two and a half minutes to nine! He raised his eyebrows and shook his head sternly. Were they letting the office go to pieces? But no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the sound of footsteps came up to him from the dark well below. Yes, it was the pair of them. The third step clanked, the feet laboriously and rhythmically grew louder; he could hear the change in the sound when they reached the landings. He glanced down the last flight and saw young Pellow's red bullet-head appear round the corner. His hat was in his hand and McNab was hard upon his heels. Mr. Darby stood motionless waiting for their surprise. They did not raise their heads till they were almost on a level with him. Then a simultaneous exclamation burst from them. ‘Mr. Darby!'

Mr. Darby nodded affirmation. ‘Exactly!' he said, and held out his hand. ‘Just looked in to make sure you were behaving yourselves, keeping the office hours.'

It was neither McNab nor Pellow, but St. John's clock that answered Mr. Darby, clanging the first stroke of nine. McNab smiled, took out his keys and opened the door.
‘On the nail, Mr. Darby!' he said, standing aside to let Mr. Darby in first.

Mr. Darby went, propelled by sheer force of habit, to the coat hooks, those hooks which he had always contrived to use in private because of the annoying fact that he always had to stand on tip-toe to reach them. He hesitated, embarrassed by the presence of the two others; then suddenly realized that there was no need to hang up his hat. He was no longer one of the staff, he was a visitor and in a moment would be going out again. Once more he felt with a pang that the old place was his no more. But the pleasure of McNab and Pellow at seeing him again, consoled him. McNab pushed him into the general office and there the two stood smiling at him and asking him questions.

Mr. Darby gazed about him. The place was changed and the change hurt him: it was as if the office regarded him with alien eyes. But he disguised his pain. ‘Why how smart you are,' he said. ‘You've been repainted.'

‘Yes,' said McNab. ‘The whole place was done when Mr. Marston was away on his holiday last July.' He held the morning's letters in his hand, and now he went and laid them on Mr. Darby's desk.

Mr. Darby blinked and another pang shot through him. ‘It doesn't seem right,' he murmured. ‘It doesn't seem right.'

‘What, Mr. Darby?'

‘That I'm turned out of my desk.'

Then he pulled himself together. ‘But I mustn't stand here wasting your time,' he said briskly, and then and there he issued his invitations to McNab and Pellow and asked them to give his message to Mr. Marston. ‘Just a glance into Mr. Mars ton's room,' he said, going to that door, and a minute later he was rather forlornly descending the stairs. He paused, as he had so often paused, in the doorway and looked out into the world, and his new world-freedom seemed to him a little friendless, a little empty.

His message to Mr. Marston brought a prompt and unexpected response. He and Sarah were invited to dine with the Marstons the following evening.