The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife (57 page)

Still, for all the world as though nothing had happened during the last year, the gulls circled and cried in the draughty, smoky air, still the cranes wheezed and rattled and the tugs breasted the black river. And there were the ships, and still he felt, undiminished, their old, thrilling invitation, for all that he had sailed in ships huger and further-travelling than any to be seen here. His travels and adventures had not detracted one jot from the romance of the
Quayside: on the contrary, they had strengthened it and enriched it. ‘King of Mandras!' he said to himself. King James of Mandras!' and the words thrilled him till his spectacles glared and glittered and it seemed to him that the heart would burst from his waistcoat. With a deep-drawn satisfied sigh he turned into the entrance of The Schooner.

But inside the door a twinge of regret troubled him again. What should it be? A port? A sherry? Or a Bass, for old sake's sake? He paused for a moment at the entrance of the saloon, thinking how, if he had been in Mandras, a lane would instantly have been cleared for him through the dense groups of standing figures. But this was not Mandras: this was Newchester. Umwaddi Taan lay under its scorching sun thousands of miles away; and, bowing with a very good grace to democracy, Mr. Darby worked his way politely towards the bar.

But what was this? In the space between two bowler-hatted heads in earnest conversation, a pile of yellow hair flashed past. Was it possible that …? He pushed himself unobtrusively to the bar and caught the eye of Miss Sunningdale. She raised her eyebrows in astonished pleasure and held out her hand.

‘Well, this
is
a happy surprise,' she said. ‘I'd given you up for lost, Mr. Darby.'

‘And I,' said Mr. Darby squeezing her hand and giving her a little cock-sparrow bow,'had given
you
up for lost, Miss Sunningdale. Last time I came here I was told you had gone away, left England.'

‘And so I had,' she said.' A brother of mine asked me to join him in Canada, all expenses paid. The boss here is a friend of mine, and he promised me that if ever I came back he'd take me on again.'

‘And you didn't … ah … cotton to Canada, as the saying is?' said Mr. Darby.

Miss Sunningdale shook her yellow head. ‘I had a very good time, but I didn't want to stay there. Newchester's the place for me: I missed my old friends. So back I came. But the
Chronicle
—I couldn't do without my
Chronicle
and I had
it sent out to Canada—and the
Chronicle
said you were drowned.'

‘Quite! Quite!' said Mr. Darby. ‘A little slip! What you might call a typological inexactitude.'

Miss Sunningdale's eyes twinkled. ‘Well, thank Heaven for that. And how is Mrs. Darby?'

Mr. Darby blushed. ‘Wonderfully well, thank you,' he said. ‘We've had rather what I should call an imprecarious time in the Jungle and so on, but we're both wonderfully well and glad to be back. The same as usual, please,' he added, seeing that he was detaining her unduly.

‘Well,'he thought to himself, as with profound satisfaction he raised a beef sandwich to his mouth and bit a large crescent out of it, ‘well, if this isn't providentious!' For the return of Miss Sunningdale had brought back the one thing lacking to the Quayside, the final drop that filled his cup to the brim.

It was with the nobler repletion which is that of the soul that Mr. Darby finally climbed back into the Newchester of shops and squares. After sandwiches and more sandwiches, a Bass and another Bass, talk and more talk, he had also taken his fill of the Quayside in a leisurely stroll from end to end of it. Now he was bound for Ranger Street where, almost opposite the offices of Messrs. Lamb & Marston, stood the shop of Messrs. Porson & Gosling, picture dealers.

‘I wonder,' said Mr. Darby to the assistant who came forward to serve him,' if you can tell me the name of a good, indeed of a first-rate, portrait painter in this neighbourhood.'

The assistant thought for a moment, ‘I don't think, sir,' he said, ‘you could do better than John Gilderston.'

‘John Gilderston?' said Mr. Darby. ‘Is he … a … ah … a reliable painter?'

‘He's an R.A., sir, a Royal Academician, and that speaks for itself, doesn't it?'

Mr. Darby had a moment of misgiving. Then, by a rapid process of thought, he disentangled the Royal Academy from the National Gallery.

‘To be shaw!' he said. ‘It speaks for itself. Could you give me his address?'

The assistant did not know John Gilderston's address but was able to find it in the telephone directory. He lived, it appeared, out in the country fifteen miles away. Mr. Darby made a note of the address and, in order to lose no time and to avoid the necessity of writing at home where he was open to interruption, he walked to the Station Hotel, entered the lounge, and ordered a cup of black coffee and writing materials. Between sips of coffee he composed mentally the following letter. ‘To John Gilderston Esqr., R.A. Dear Sir, I am desirous … no, not desirous … I … ah … find myself under the necessity of having my portrait painted and shall be glad … pleased? …
glad if
you will undertake the …
not job
… something a little more … ah … the
task!
Undertake the task. I could visit your studio at any time convenient to you. In the … ah … the
event
of your being free … or rather,
at liberty,
will you kindly ring me up at Savershill number 3297 and let me know your terms. We will then … ah … come to terms? … No, not
terms
again. We will then … ah …
make our arrangements!
We
can
then make our arrangements … ah …
accordingly'

Satisfied especially by the final word, Mr. Darby took up his pen, wrote the letter, and posted it on his way out of the hotel.

Now for the offices of the
Daily Chronicle.
Mr. Darby had decided, almost as soon as he reached home, that the only thing to do would be to visit the
Daily Chronicle
in person. If they sent a reporter to Moseley Terrace, Sarah would undoubtedly drive him away. And if the reporter was forced to pick up the necessary information at secondhand, he would probably get it all wrong, and most likely a very undesirable account of his travels in the Mandratic Peninsula would appear in the paper. To obviate this, Mr. Darby was going to call at the
Chronicle
offices and report in person.

When he had made himself known there and explained his business, he was received with great politeness by the editor and listened to with a highly gratifying interest; many
questions were asked of him, copious notes were taken, and he left the office doubly convinced of the rightness of his action. Nor had he been forgetful of Sarah and her peculiarities. Out of deference to her feelings he had spared her the publicity she so much disliked. Of the Queen of Tongal, of her victory over the Mandrats and capture of their King not a word had been betrayed. It was stated merely that Mrs. Darby had in due time arrived in a yacht with a search-party and that the King had proceeded on board. And there was this to be said for Mr. Darby's deference to his wife's prejudices, that it added to the compactness of his narrative and robbed it of an undesirable anti-climax. He made his way now on foot towards Savershill with the comfortable sense of a duty punctiliously performed.

•    •    •    •    •    •    •    •

‘Well I never
did,'
said Emma Cribb at the supper-table to Mr. Darby when he had completed a bold and graphic sketch of the more arresting portions of his life in the Mandratic Peninsula. ‘And so, Mr. Darby, I suppose by rights we ought to call you Your Majesty?'

‘Ah … pantechnically speaking, Mrs. Cribb, you
ought;
but I don't expect it among friends, in fact I don't desire it. That kind of thing is necessary, of course, on ceremonious occasions, but at ordinary times it's pleasanter for everyone, don't you think, to … ah … what I should call
drop
it.'

Mrs. Cribb tittered. ‘We might make it Your Madge for short, Mr. Darby.'

But the wine that had made Mrs. Cribb frivolous had made Mr. Darby serious. Very properly, he was not amused, and his spectacles showed this to Mrs. Cribb so unmistakably that she instantly abandoned her levity. ‘No offence, I'm sure, Mr. Darby; and if there was, don't blame me. Blame your champagne and the port on top of it; for the truth is, my poor head's in such a buzz that I couldn't guarantee not to forget myself, not if King George himself was to step in at the door and join the party. But you ought to write a book about it, Mr. Darby, for I'm sure the story you can tell—and
every word of it true, mind you—'ud be more exciting than half the books you get at Smith's and Boots' and suchlike places.'

‘That's what I say, Jim,' said Sam Cribb's mild voice from the other end of the table. ‘I know something about books, specially since you started me with my bookshop, and I'm as sure as I'm sure of anything that it'ud sell like hot cakes. And you'd have a limited edition, of course, numbered and signed by the author.'

‘There you are, Jim,' roared George Stedman, ‘straight from the horse's mouth. You'd better get started with it quick.'

Mr. Darby cleared his throat. ‘I have … ah … comp-cons-contemplated a book,' he said, ‘and no doubt, in course of time I may decide to … ah … publish one.'

‘In Darkest Mandras,'
Jim, said Sam Cribb. ‘Not a bad title that. Or
Lost Among the Savages!'

Mr. Darby nodded tolerantly over Sam's suggestions. ‘I had thought, myself,' he said, ‘of … ah …
My Eastern Kingdom
or, more simply … ah …
Dungle Ways
I mean … ah …
Wungle Jays.
That is … ah … what's the word?
Jungle!
That's the word I want:
Jungle!
' He paused and then announced with great clearness: ‘
Jungle Days and …
ah …
Jungle Ways'

The company applauded loudly and Mr. Darby passed his table-napkin across his brow.

‘Ha, ha!' Stedman roared. ‘Just the name for it, Jim. But mind you get the spelling right.'

‘It seems to me,' said Sarah, with a dry smile, ‘that it's about time we went into the other room. And it seems to me,' she added, looking at Stedman, ‘that you gentlemen oughtn't to be too long after us.'

Stedman nodded to her. ‘Right you are, Mrs. D.,' he said in an undertone, as the women filed out of the room.

And, thanks to Stedman's obedient diplomacy, the gentlemen did not delay much longer over their port. But as they reached the parlour door, Mr. Darby, with a muttered' Excuse me a moment,' left them and went upstairs.

‘Oh, it's true enough, as far as it goes,' Sarah was saying as Stedman and Cribb entered the room. ‘For the matter of that, I was Queen into the bargain, not of Jim's place but of the place next door.'

‘You were a Queen, Mrs. D.?' shouted Stedman. ‘Well all I've got to say is, you've kept pretty quiet about it.'

‘Yes, and small wonder,' said Sarah. ‘It was nothing more than a kind of dumb crambo: not the sort of thing you could take seriously.'

The talk ran on. The guests, enthralled by Sarah's answers, plied her with questions.

‘What I was, really,' she explained, ‘was a schoolmistress in charge of a badly behaved school-treat. There was precious little King or Queen about it, I can tell you. But you know what Jim is. He can't get Mandras out of his mind. When he isn't talking about it, he's thinking about it, and when he isn't thinking about it, he's dreaming about it.'

As if to corroborate her statement, the door was suddenly flung open and, framed in the doorway, cloaked in green parrot-feathers, his jewelled head-dress on his head and his spectacles radiating majesty, stood the King of Mandras. Mrs. Cribb tittered, half amused, half frightened; Jane Stedman smiled her cold, gentle, indulgent smile, and the men stared open-mouthed.

‘Bless my heart and soul, Jim!' roared Stedman at last.

‘There now, what was I saying?' exclaimed Sarah.' The only place for you, Jim, is the parrot-house at the Zoo.'

Mr. Darby, disregarding this opinion, advanced solemnly into the room, while his friends, fascinated by the strange, exotic clothes, clustered round him.' Umfo, ompà, iggarù, Umwaddi Taan,' said Mr. Darby hieratically, making use, for the purposes of the moment, of the few miscellaneous Mandratic words that sprang to his memory.

‘And what does that mean, Mr. Darby?' Mrs. Cribb asked brightly.

‘Umbahla!' replied Mr. Darby with a slight hiccough.

‘
I
t's wonderful, Jim,' said Sarah next morning, fixing a keen, inquisitorial eye on him as she laid down the
Daily Chronicle,
‘it's wonderful how quickly news travels, don't you think so?'

Mr. Darby saw that subterfuge was useless and so did not attempt it. ‘There's no good … ah … blinking the fact, Sarah,' he replied sententiously, ‘that publicity is what I should call inavertable; and that being so, I consider it better, far better, to meet it half way. Goodness knows what nonsense would have got into the papers if I hadn't… ah … forestalled it. We must move with the times, you know, Sarah.'

‘Well, you can move with the times as much as you like, Jim,' Sarah replied, ‘so long as you allow me to move in my own way. I'm glad to see you've left me out of it: one royalty's enough in this house, and even if it wasn't, you'd be enough for two.'

‘The fact is, Sarah,' Mr. Darby gravely replied, ‘you and I think differently in that matter. I take the view that when one finds oneself in a position of … ah … grave responsibility, one ought to take it with a proper seriousness. Suppose Queen Mary were to … ah … announce that the British Nation was nothing better than a school-treat, what, may I ask, would you say to that?'