The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife (9 page)

‘You're not looking at all well, Darby. What's the matter?'

‘Oh, nothing to speak of, thank you, sir,' replied the little man sadly.

‘No more indigestion, I hope? ‘There was a friendly twinkle in Mr. Marston's eye.

Mr. Darby gave him the pale ghost of a smile. ‘No, no, thank you, sir. It's merely an … ah … unavoidable private worry.'

‘If it's financial worry, Darby; you know, I'm sure, that I should be happy to …'

Mr. Darby made a little gesture of denial. ‘I'm very much obliged, sir, but it's nothing of that sort. No doubt,' he added hopelessly, ‘it will soon … ah …!' He made another little gesture signifying dispersal.

‘I hope it will,' said Mr. Marston, and Mr. Darby went forlornly from the room. ‘Financial worry!' he thought to himself bitterly. ‘That's exactly what it is,' but not of the kind that Mr. Marston had meant. How little Mr. Marston, or anyone else for that matter, suspected the wild ambitions and abysmal despairs of the correct and respectable Managing Clerk.

Sarah was equally bewildered: indeed she was becoming very anxious about him. His previous depression had yielded to hot suppers, but this one was obdurate. He did not even seem to notice whether suppers were hot or cold. She resolved to consult a doctor. Mr. Darby did all he could to dissuade her, but in vain. ‘You can't go on like this, Jim,' she said, and she kept him in bed at the week-end and called the doctor in. Mr. Darby offered little opposition. It was easier to yield than to tell her that his illness was not bodily but spiritual.

The doctor declared that there was nothing seriously the matter. ‘A little run down. In need of a change,' he said.

In need of a change! The statement was so true, the intended meaning so hopelessly false,—like the unconscious sarcasm of Mr. Marston's phrase ‘financial worry.' The poor little man could almost have wept at the heartless irony of it. It seemed as if Providence were jeering at him. He set his face firmly against Sarah's attempts to get him to apply to
Mr. Marston for a fortnight's holiday, and on Monday resumed the dreary routine of his life. He was perceptibly better on Fridays, for on Fridays he still visited The Schooner and those visits could still shed a momentary gleam across his darkness, though their former free and festive rapture was gone. He hardly dared, now, to make the most ordinary remark about the weather to Miss Sunningdale, for fear Sarah's informers were studying his face and listening for his lightest phrase. Sometimes, when he found himself standing next another frequenter of The Schooner whom he had stood next on a previous occasion, he would take up his glass and plate and move to another part of the bar. Could it be the tall, grey-bearded man in the black coat, he would ask himself, studying the fellow's face between the bottles in the mirror opposite; or that small, clean-shaven, rat-faced man at the other end of the bar whom he had caught looking at him more than once? No, his lunch at The Schooner was no longer what it had been; but, after all, a Bass is a Bass, and a good sandwich is a good sandwich, and Mr. Darby was still aware of a pleasant exhilaration as he shook the crumbs off his coat, raised his hat to Miss Sunningdale, and stepped out on to the Quayside. And still the shipping held him with its old fascination. Once, as he climbed Cliff Street—it was a delicious day with bright sunshine—he actually caught himself again noiselessly trolling his old song:

For I'm going far away
At the breaking of the day:

but the moment he realized it, the hideous irony of it choked him. He broke off short, and the rush of tears to his eyes shattered his view of Cliff Street to a world of glittering splinters.

•    •    •    •    •    •    •    •

A fortnight later Sarah took matters into her own hands. It was clear to her now what was the matter. The theory of malnutrition had been tested and found inadequate. Yet the
doctor had said that he was run down. Then it must be overwork. He had complained in the former instance of overwork and this weekly absence from midday dinner confirmed it. He must have a complete rest. She therefore wrote to Mr. Marston, not at the office, where Mr. Darby would probably intercept her letter, but at his home address, saying that her husband was thoroughly run down and asking if he might have a week's holiday. A week in bed would probably put him right. Mr. Marston replied, granting the leave of absence and expressing his entire agreement with Mrs. Darby.

And so, almost before he had realized that anything at all was afoot, Mr. Darby found himself clapped to bed for a week and surrounded by every comfort and attention.

Once there, he was glad to be there. Such despair as his cannot long leave the body unaffected, and he was feeling really ill and tired. And despite his hopelessness it was comforting to lie idly and indefinitely in bed. He lay for long periods in a waking doze, his blue eyes vague and blurred (for his spectacles were on the dressing-table), and the hours flowed past him like a quiet unhurrying river, and the day, usually divided into sharply defined sections, each with the unmistakable flavour of its particular hour, became a single continuous, motionless period, varied only by the food which Sarah brought him at the usual intervals and the early failing of the daylight towards tea time. With breakfast Sarah brought him any letters that the post might provide, and these were his only links with the outer world, for she withheld the daily paper—the
Newchester Daily Chronicle—
deeming it to be a strain to the eyes and a disturbance to the mind. Sometimes Mr. Darby closed his eyes, dropped his arms to his sides, and imagined himself dying. The fancy did not trouble him: on the contrary he found it soothing. He pursued the fancy further. ‘We regret to announce,' he thought to himself, ‘the death of Mr. William James Darby, of 7 Moseley Terrace, Savershill. The deceased gentleman held a … ah … high position in the well-known firm of Messrs. Lamb and Marston and was a … ah … ‘No, it
would hardly be
venerable.
One had to be seventy or eighty to be venerable.
A familiar
figure, yes, ‘
a familiar
figure in Newchester. A large number of friends and relations followed the … ah … the remains …' But there Mr. Darby stopped short. The word
remains
had checked the flow of his fancy. It was definitely unpleasant to contemplate himself as remains. He heaved a deep sigh and turned mournfully over on to his right side.

•    •    •    •    •    •    •    •

It was the sixth morning of Mr. Darby's confinement and he was sitting up in bed, listlessly finishing the breakfast that lay before him on a tray balanced uneasily on his legs. As he replaced his empty teacup in its saucer he noticed for the first time a letter which the saucer half covered. Without enthusiasm he put on the spectacles which Sarah had laid on the bed beside the tray, and took up the letter. Suddenly his gaze became more intent. The address was typed, but the stamp was an Australian stamp. His hands trembled so violently that he could hardly tear the envelope open, and when at last he had done so it was only to be faced by bitter disappointment. There was no cheque. It was simply a typewritten letter. But the sudden blaze of hope followed by the sudden re-immersion in despair was too much for Mr. Darby. The breakfast things rattled dangerously on the tray; he closed his eyes and fell back on his pillow. It was too cruel. Would Providence never stop jeering at him? He lay motionless, while the tears trickled from under his spectacles across his temples, and on to the pillow-case.

When he had indulged his grievance sufficiently, Mr. Darby opened his eyes, removed his spectacles, dried both and replaced them in their usual relationship. Then taking up the letter with a sigh, he began to read it. It was a letter of some length. At first he regarded it doubtfully with wrinkled brows, then his interest quickened, soon he was devouring it like a starving man suddenly faced with a plate of roast beef. When he had finished it, Mr. Darby took off his spectacles, wiped the steam from them, and began all
over again. Then he laid the letter carefully on the tray, pushed the tray towards the foot of the bed, turned back the bedclothes and got up. Methodically, as ever, he began to dress. In a moment he had assumed the intimate aspect of a pink-faced, pink-legged Darby clad only in a shirt; now a pair of long grey close-fitting pants had added a mediaeval air; now with socks, slippers, and grey trousers he began to approach the Darby familiar to Newchester-on-Dole, and at that point he stopped dressing, and taking the letter from the tray walked resolutely downstairs in his shirt-sleeves.

Hearing those unaccountable footsteps Sarah came out of the sitting-room as he reached the bottom.

‘Well, I never!' she said, staring at the apparition. ‘And who told
you
to get up?'

Mr. Darby made no reply, but with his free hand he pushed her before him into the sitting-room. There she turned upon him to repeat her question, but Mr. Darby silenced her with a hand raised as if pronouncing a blessing.

‘Sit down,' he said, pointing to a chair. ‘Sit down and listen to this!'

For the first time in their married life Sarah obeyed him. Stationing himself with his back to the fire and legs wide apart, Mr. Darby glanced at his wife over the top of his spectacles with great solemnity. Then, transporting his gaze to the letter in his hand, he cleared his throat. ‘The … ah … communication which I hold in my hand,' he said, ‘is headed
Alison, Kingsley & Smith, Solicitors and Notaries.
Address: Aspern House, Castlereagh Street, Sydney. Date: nineteenth of December last; in short, six weeks ago. It runs…' Mr. Darby again shot a glance at Sarah over the top of his spectacles… ‘as follows:

‘“DEAR SIR,

‘“We write to inform you of the death of your Uncle, Thomas Darby, which occurred on the 18th instant in a Nursing Home in this City after a short illness.

‘“Our Firm has acted for your Uncle for a great many years and is fully acquainted with all his business dealings.

‘“We made several Wills for him. By his last Will which was dated the 24th June 1891 he appointed our Mr. John Henry Alison his sole Executor, and apart from a few small legacies to Charities and old servants, bequeathed the whole of his residuary estate to yourself. For your further information we enclose a copy of the Will which, as you will see, is very short.

‘“Your late Uncle, whose death we greatly regret, had very large interests in this country, for although he originally made his money by sheep farming, he was interested in mines and in building land in this City and most of his investments had turned out to be very profitable; so much so, that at the time of his death his income was probably at least £40,000 per annum.

‘“The actual winding up of his estate will not take a very great amount of time as he kept very large sums of money in the Bank or in readily negotiable securities, and the payment off of the legacies and of the duties upon the estate can easily be managed from these sources without the sale of any of his more important properties; in fact, by the time you get our letter we shall probably be nearly in a position to hand over to you his residuary estate.

‘“There are, of course, certain formalities we shall require you to observe.

‘“He describes you in his Will as ‘my nephew William James Darby son of my late Brother Horace Anthony Darby of Newchester-on-Dole,' and in proof of your title we shall require from you an Affidavit by some responsible person in your Town, your Bank Manager for preference, setting forth the fact that you are the Son of the said Horace Anthony Darby, together with a certificate of birth which, no doubt, you can obtain from Somerset House, London in proof of this; also a specimen copy of your signature verified by the person making the Affidavit. We suggest you should go to your Solicitor in Newchester, who will prepare the Affidavit for you in the appropriate form. The Affidavit, with exhibits, should be sworn by you before a Notary Public and despatched to us as
quickly as possible. No doubt there will be a Notary in your City.

‘“We are, of course, entirely unaware of your circumstances, but we would suggest that, if by any means you can so manage, you should come out to Australia in the near future, for whilst it is perfectly true that we can vest your Uncle's property in you, you will, no doubt, like to decide for yourself what shall be done with it.'

“Whilst none of your Uncle's property could really be described as speculative yet the greater portion of it being in real estate, the value much fluctuates; therefore you may wish to decide for yourself on the spot what should be sold and what retained, and this applies also to his mining properties. If you decide to come out, and intimate the fact in your letter, we are perfectly prepared at once to cable you up to £1,000 for your necessary expenses.

“Yours faithfully.”'

Mr. Darby paused. Then, like a priest intoning the sacred words at the end of his sermon, he added in a more subdued tone: ‘To W. J. Darby, Esqre, 7 Moseley Terrace, Savershill, Newchester-on-Dole, England.' He raised his head, simultaneously dropping his arm so that the letter, still in his hand, hung by his knee, and gazed earnestly at Sarah.

‘Well,' said she, rousing herself, ‘here's a state of things.'

‘A state of things indeed!' said Mr. Darby, and gradually his face changed, expanded: the smooth, stretched pouches of his cheeks and every crease, every wrinkle, round mouth and eyes redisposed themselves, assumed new relationships, till Mr. Darby's countenance had melted from its former solemnity into a smile like a midsummer sunrise. ‘A state of things indeed!' he repeated with profound gusto.

‘And what in the name of wonder,' said Sarah, ‘shall we do with it all?'

‘Do
with it all? Poof, that'll be simple enough,' said Mr. Darby with airy conviction.

‘Simple enough, indeed!' said Sarah. “You don't seem
to realize what it means. It means about a hundred times as much a year as we have at present.'