The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife (7 page)

When he had regained his normal bodily state he had found that he could remember much more of the party than in those sick and clouded hours of the morning after. He was now able to enjoy in retrospect the rich solemnity of the occasion and to thrill once more to that sense of power and untrammelled self-expression which had filled him as he stood before the seated multitude and swayed them at his word. It was a stirring memory; for Mr. Darby had the soul of a poet, and memory, to a poet, takes its forms and colours not from the mundane and petty details of the actual event but from the emotions that made it what it was. And so in memory Mr. Darby swayed a multitude and not merely the four familiar friends and the somewhat sceptical wife who had, in fact, been the only persons present. Then, hard upon the release, the expansion, the fulfilment of that initial experience, had come its negative counterpart, the labours and tribulations of the night and early morning, and the cold, clear-eyed disillusionment of the forenoon. In the walk from Number Seven Moseley Terrace to Number Thirty Seven
Ranger Street Mr. Darby had done a very dangerous thing; he had turned upon his life a mercilessly analytic scrutiny which had revealed its hollowness. The voyage which during that brain-sick night he had deduced from the oceanic heavings of his bed had been as real as—nay, much more real than—any voyage taken on a tangible liner, for it had been a voyage that bore him away for ever from the old innocent Darby, Darby the child, and landed him in a remote new world, the world of Darby the man, the grim realist for whom the colourful trappings of dream and fancy (those trappings which had made life bearable to him hitherto) were only too lamentably threadbare. But then—as if to save the man from bankruptcy and despair—kind Providence had interposed and, employing (as Providence so often does) a humble agent, had suggested, through the mouth of the clerk McNab, a Bass; and in his search for the Bass Mr. Darby had been drawn to the Quayside and to The Schooner.

And how deeply moving and how restorative that visit had been. For though it had not dimmed the keenness of his new analytic vision, it had, none the less, given back to life the old warmth and the old wonder, and it had taught Mr. Darby the miraculous truth that hope and happiness may subsist without visible means of support, that a man may face facts and yet not turn his back on romance. But it had suggested to him, too, a doubt that mere unexpressed longing for the life of adventure was enough to conjure it up into reality. If a man really wants to travel and see the wonders of the world he must, perhaps, do something about it.

Mr. Darby had, of course, often thought of doing something about it. We saw him, only yesterday evening, standing in the doorway of Number Thirty Seven Ranger Street and actually contemplating the plunge. But the truth was, and had always been, that even while contemplating it and urging himself to take it, Mr. Darby was not in earnest. He knew, even in the very act of urging himself, that he had not really the smallest intention of plunging. He was playing with himself and he was playing with fate.

But the new Darby, Darby the man, had reached a
degree of maturity at which this make-believe had ceased to soothe. In fact, it depressed him, for he felt it now to be a sign and symptom of his ineffectuality. Yes, if he desired adventure, he realised now, he must run to meet it and not simply sit waiting for it to come to him. But what could he do? For in his new and practical mood he saw that there was no meaning in his old dream of taking the plunge. In older and simpler days it was different: then you could, no doubt, step straight off your own back door step, without premeditation or preparation, into the great world. But in these complicated times a man—or anyhow a middle-aged man uninured to hardship and violent muscular effort—needs, as he had come to realize during his meditation on the Quayside, some sort of material backing. The most modest plunge, at least of the kind that he, at his age, was capable of taking, would involve—it was useless to blink the absurd, ugly fact—the purchase of a ticket, and a ticket to any of the places of his dreams—the Sphinx, the Jungle, Vesuvius and so on—would be expensive. Besides, there was Sarah.

These practical reflections depressed Mr. Darby very much. For days he went to and fro through Newchester-on-Dole with the taste of ashes in his mouth. Still, for brief and unexpected moments—at the sight of an opulent shop-window, at the roar of a train in the Osbert Road cutting, or at the hidden impulse of that faith which, in despite of all reason, still lurked in his soul—happiness leapt irrepressibly in him; but he received these bright gifts now not as his natural right, but humbly and gratefully as balm to his sorrows. But his newly acquired wisdom did not allow him to succumb. It urged him to reflect, to plan, to scheme, to divide the impossibles from the possibles and to discard the former and to permute and combine the latter; and at last, after a careful sifting of pros and cons, Mr. Darby came to the practical decision that the only course open to him was to start a B Account, an Adventure Fund. It would be an awkward business, for Sarah knew all about his modest income. She had a very good head for business and it would
be difficult to transfer to the Adventure Fund amounts however small without her knowledge. If only he had kept Uncle Tom Darby's annual present dark from the beginning. What a nest-egg! If he had saved it merely during the last ten years the Adventure Fund would stand at a thousand pounds. Could he, perhaps, pocket the letter when it arrived this Christmas, before Sarah noticed it, and pretend it had not come? They had always agreed that it was not to be relied on, not to be regarded in any sense as income, since it might stop at any time. Well, why not adopt the simple fiction that it
had
stopped? Mr. Darby blushed slightly to himself, but he disregarded the blush and the feeling that provoked it, for the desperate man must not stick at trifles. Yes, that is what he would do, or try to do. And anyhow, if he failed this year, he would, when writing to thank Uncle Tom Darby, intimate a change of address,—a change to ‘care of Messrs. Lamb & Marston, 37 Ranger Street.'

Having at last taken a practical step towards the realization of his dreams, Mr. Darby felt better. He could afford now to leave things to develop. But meanwhile he was not going to ignore the comforts and consolations of his present life. Pre-eminent among these stood that midday visit to The Schooner. He would repeat it. It would, in fact, be a good move to accustom Sarah to the idea that, say, once a week—every Friday, say—the office-work at Messrs. Lamb & Marston's was apt to accumulate so formidably that he couldn't be spared, simply had to snatch a quick lunch when and how he could. The opportunity to introduce this idea occurred almost immediately.

•    •    •    •    •    •    •    •

Sarah Darby was a much closer and more solicitous observer of her husband than he supposed. She regarded him as a rather wilful child, a child that must be watched, and she did not fail to notice the change that had come over him since the evening of his birthday party. But she was far from guessing at the spiritual revolution which had produced
this change. She put it down, in her unimaginative and uncompromising way, to stomach. But this did not mean that she thought it unimportant: quite the contrary. For she held that the first necessities to a perfectly ordered life are a good digestion and good food. Now obviously Mr. Darby was not at present in possession of the first of these. He was off his feed and he was melancholy. She had caught him more than once, during recent evenings, gazing reproachfully into the fire as though he had some grievance against it. His excesses at the party had evidently deranged his digestion: it was, in fact, this, all the time, which had provoked her disapproval. The fact that he had been somewhat tipsy she would have overlooked with an indulgent and slightly sardonic smile. Men,—strange, irresponsible creatures that they were—were always liable to meaningless pranks of this kind. But for a man to go and upset his stomach, to put himself at cross purposes with life for days was, in her eyes, a disgusting and immoral act. If you had tried to get her to take a more imaginative view, if you had put in a word for Mr. Darby's soul and hinted at a spiritual revolution, she would have told you that the first duty a man owes to his soul is to look after his stomach and that the proper name for ‘spiritual revolution' is ‘bilious attack.' She had found, long since, that to question Mr. Darby or make remarks on his health was worse than useless: when she did so, he behaved as if she were regarding him with unwarrantable suspicions and took refuge in declaring that he was perfectly well. And so she did not question him now. Besides, this time no questions were necessary. She knew well enough what was the matter. Unknown to him, she dieted him for some days; but when this produced no effect and he remained as moody as ever, she began to feel anxious. Perhaps, for once, he would vouchsafe some information. ‘You're not looking yourself, you know, Jim,' she said during supper, regarding him searchingly with those keen grey eyes of hers. ‘And who can wonder?' she found herself adding sternly.

Mr. Darby understood the implication of the added
phrase. It would be a long time, he knew, before Sarah forgave his recent indisposition.

‘Are you
feeling
all right?' she asked, not unkindly.

‘M … yes!' replied Mr. Darby in a qualified affirmative. ‘M … yes! Not too bad. A little overworked, that's all.'

‘Overworked?'

‘Yes, we have rather an … ah … an accumulation of work at the office at present. In fact, I hardly thought I should get home for dinner this morning, though Fridays are generally the worst.'

This was very diplomatic, for it not only prepared Sarah for possible delinquencies in the future, but it corroborated,—and, it might appear, quite unintentionally—the bonafides of his first failure to come home to dinner a few days ago. Neither of them had ever referred to this, and from the very fact that she had not referred to it Mr. Darby had gathered his wife's resentment and scepticism. But a little touch such as the one he had just so skilfully brought off would, it was to be hoped, correct this attitude of Sarah's. He glanced at her to judge of its effect. It had not been so complete as he had hoped: Sarah still appeared doubtful and reflective. ‘There's never been any trouble of this sort before,' she said. ‘Why should they start overworking you now?'

‘O, expanding business!' said Mr. Darby airily. Then, turning his spectacles on her with the look of one uttering a philosophical observation, he added: ‘We must expect that, Sarah, you know! The business that stands still, goes back.'

Sarah was not in the least impressed. ‘H …m! A funny sort of business that must be,' she said with a sardonic chuckle.

Mr. Darby left it at that. He had at least planted the idea: Sarah had not actually repudiated it: it seemed not unreasonable to hope that it would take root. He followed this up two days later (the day being Friday) by sending another telephone message from the office. He was again detained by an … ah … accumulation of business.

This accomplished, his spirits rose: a delightful holiday
mood took possession of him: he could hardly prevent himself singing at his work. Punctually at twelve thirty he issued forth. His step was brisk, his eye alert. It was no blind, instinctive flight this time: this gay, self-possessed, and prosperous little man obviously knew very well where he was going. And he was going, of course, as straight as he could go, to The Schooner. Already in anticipation he savoured the bracing smack of the Bass on his tongue and the rich flavour of those sandwiches through which came the pleasant sting of the mustard. His mouth watered. It was only his sense of his position as managing clerk of Messrs. Lamb & Marston and respectable citizen of New chester-on-Dole that prevented him from skipping down the declivity of Cliff Street. Arrived on the Quayside he did not pause to survey the enchanting scene. This was no moment to indulge the poetry of romance: it was the poetry of realism that possessed him now, urging him smartly towards the porch of The Schooner. Not that he closed his senses to the other; for, as he hurried along, his eyes took in the crowded scene on his right, darted in and out along decks, swarmed up masts, skipped to the piled, smoke-grimed roofs of Portshead and dived thence to the bright river below, while his nose drew in the smoky, watery, tarry air, detecting in it the salt of the Pacific, the fumes of Vesuvius, and the hot mephitic vapours of the Jungle. All these things he took in and enjoyed on his course, as a miser might collect antique coins with a purely artistic zeal quite apart from his sordid passion for the currency.

Without precaution and with no trace of trepidation Mr. Darby pushed boldly through the door of The Schooner. It was like returning home after a long absence. He did not even remember his old fear and distrust of public-houses. But why should he? For these feelings belonged to the old Darby, the Darby who had died a week ago. They were no part of the new Darby.

Once more the place was somewhat crowded, but Mr. Darby worked his way politely but firmly to the bar, and there, once more, he found himself face to face with the lady
of the bar who was pouring out a glass of stout. She was still magnificent but she was no longer shocking, and catching sight of Mr. Darby she smiled in the friendliest fashion and signed that she would attend to him in a moment. And in a moment she stood awaiting his order. Mr. Darby made a little bow.

‘Good-morning, Miss … ah …?' he said gallantly under cover of the buzz of talk that surrounded them.

‘Sunningdale,' said the barmaid.

‘Good-morning, Miss Sunningdale. And how are we this morning?'

‘Oh not so bad, thanks, for the time of the year,' said Miss Sunningdale. She raised her golden eyebrows. ‘Same as last time?' she asked, confidentially amiable.

‘The same as last time, if you please!' said Mr. Darby.

But how extraordinary that she should remember what he had had last time. Most extraordinary. Really a very pleasant and friendly young person. She drew his Bass and poured it out, not disdainfully this time but with the air of an accomplished conjuror performing a trick; then raising the glass bell of the sandwich dish she took two off the piles, placed them on the plate and set them before him. ‘Mustard?' she said, musically as before, and then left him to attend to other orders.