On more than one occasion she poured out her woes to the Stedmans. George Stedman’s advice was quite definite but not very comforting. ‘Give him his head, Mrs.D,’ he said.
‘There’s no good trying to check him. You’ve got to face facts, and the facts are that with all that money behind him he can do what he likes. You can’t stop him, and if you try, you’ll only make him worse. I know Jim.’
‘But if he isn’t stopped, he’ll go,’ said Sarah.
Stedman nodded. ‘No doubt he’ll go,’ he said, ‘but he won’t go far, if he’s left to himself. You mark my words, Jim’s no hero. He likes his comforts, the sort of comforts you provide him with. He won’t find much of them once he gets away from civilized parts. You just give him his head; don’t discourage him, don’t go against him, and you’ll have him back and eating out of your hand before many months are past.’
Sarah, large, grim and unhappy, sat upright in her chair in the Stedmans’ sitting-room, her mouth set, her fine eyes tragically thoughtful.
‘No doubt you’re right, Mr. Stedman,’ she said at last with a sigh; ‘but it’s cold comfort. Money’s the root of all evil; there never was a truer saying.’
Mrs. Stedman was more consoling. ‘What I say is, Sarah,’ she remarked, ‘don’t look for troubles before they come. My belief is that he’ll never get as far as starting. But I agree with George: don’t try to stop him, that’ll just put him on his mettle.’ With an oblique upward glance of the eyes and lift of the brows, signifying to her suffering sister her sympathy and understanding, she added in a murmur audible only to Sarah: ‘You know what men are!’
• • • • • • • •
Time, in spite of Mr. Darby’s sensations about time at this period, was not really standing still. It was progressing, in fact, as usual, and the trees and shrubs in Savershill gardens bore witness to its progress by breaking diffidently into leaf. Almost any time now Mr. Darby’s papers would arrive. The Solicitors in Sydney had long since wired him a thousand pounds to be going on with, but Mr. Darby had decided to wait until he was in possession of his fortune before leaving home: it would simply cause complications if he moved from his permanent address at such a time. He therefore contented himself with minor extravagances. He bought clothes—underclothes, boots, shoes, hats, and went to the best tailor in Newchester and had two new suits made, modelled as closely as possible on those of that paragon of a well-dressed man, Mr. Marston. He handed over two hundred pounds to Sarah and suggested that she too should enlarge her wardrobe.
‘Dresses? What do I want with dresses?’ she replied with something of her old asperity, but the smile and the glance with which she said it showed clearly enough that she was touched and pleased.
‘If you don’t care about dress,’ replied Mr. Darby, smiling over his spectacles, ‘how is it, I should like to know, that you take so much trouble to choose nice ones? Now just let yourself go a bit, Sarah. No need to economize. Let’s see what you can do.’
Sarah smiled her charming, grim smile: then, with a sudden change of mood, she shrugged her shoulders and answered bitterly: ‘What does it matter to you what I do? ‘and, turning from him, she went out of the room.
The Darbys’ only other extravagances were to give a few evening parties for the Stedmans, the Cribbs and a few other friends,—a supper, followed perhaps by a theatre or a cinema and on fine Saturdays, when the weather got warmer, to hire a car and drive out into the country. Sarah was sociable by nature and at these times she forgot her sorrows and kept the party going in her best style, while Mr. Darby smiled blandly on his guests and inwardly savoured the importance and formality of the occasion, detaching himself now and then to observe it with the eye of the trained gossip-writer.
‘By the way, Darby,’ said Mr. Marston to him one morning, ‘Major Blenkinsop is in town at present. I saw him yesterday and spoke to him about you. He will be delighted to give you any information he can. If you can come round and lunch with me at the club to-day I’ll get him to join us.’
Mr. Darby accepted gratefully, but with much misgiving, for this would be his first entry into polite society and it had come upon him suddenly. He was comforted, however, by the thought that he was wearing one of his new suits. The rest of the morning he spent in a state of reasonably controlled trepidation: his usual precise habits were disorganized and he found himself doing the absurdest things, though unnoticed, happily, by anyone but himself.
At one o’ clock he heard Mr. Marston’s door open and shut, and then the door of the general office opened and Mr. Marston’s voice said: ‘Are you ready, Darby?’
Mr. Darby was ready. He already had his hat and coat on. With a slight sinking of the heart, a hint of weakness in the legs, he accompanied his employer downstairs.
But outside he regained much of his equanimity, for Mr. Marston, as usual, was so pleasant, chatted so easily, that it was impossible to feel shy.
‘You ought to join the club, Darby,’ said Mr. Marston. ‘You’ll probably find a club convenient in your new … er … sphere in life—that is, if you intend to remain in Newchester.’
‘I don’t really know yet, sir, where we shall settle.’
‘Well, if you do settle here and think of joining, I shall be very glad to put you up.’
‘I’m very much obliged, sir, I’m sure,’ said Mr. Darby.
They turned the corner of St. John’s Churchyard. ‘By the way, Darby,’ said Mr. Marston, ‘let us drop the sir outside the office. After all, we are old friends and, anyhow, as circumstances are now or soon will be, it will be out of the question. We’ll keep it going in the office perhaps, on account of the clerks. Don’t you agree?’
‘Certainly, sir, most certainly, if you think so! ‘said Mr. Darby, and then, noticing too late that he had disregarded Mr. Marston’s suggestion, he felt his neck and ears grow hot. He was trying to think of some way of passing it off, some phrase of not too heavy apology, when Mr. Marston turned into the entrance of the club.
Chapter IX
Snakes And Spiders
Once inside the club, Mr. Darby found himself involved in a whole series of solemn acts; and though he had always been a one for formalities, he had many moments of trepidation, for fear, in his ignorance, he should make some fatal mistake, some action that would monstrously profane the august place. But he soon found that these fears were groundless, for Mr. Marston on each occasion prompted him in the most casual and natural way in the world. He seemed to forget nothing which would reassure Mr. Darby. On entering, they went to a lobby lined with coat-stands where, with a few careless gestures which to Mr. Darby’s respectful gaze seemed to imply, quite unostentatiously, that he was perfectly at home, Mr. Marston hung his hat and umbrella on one of the hooks. Mr. Darby had a moment’s agony. In the first place, was he to do the same? or did a guest behave otherwise? And, in the second place, he had noted instantly that the higher rows of hooks were almost beyond his reach and the lower were already crowded. But before these problems had faced him for more than a few seconds, Mr. Marston with a charming tact had spotted a low hook and had said: ‘How about this one, Darby? Number one hundred. Easy to remember.’
It was the same when they got to the lavatory. All the basins were occupied, but Mr. Marston held him in conversation till two basins, next each other, were free. ‘You’ll find towels in front of you,’ he said casually, pointing to a heap on a ledge in front of Mr. Darby, and Mr. Darby noted that each washer took a towel from the pile, used it, and flung it into a great basket under the basins. This reckless disregard of the washing-bill amazed and enchanted him. With a careful sideward glance he timed his ablutions to coincide with Mr. Marston’s, and when he had done with his towel he flung it lightly, with eyebrows slightly raised and pursed lips, into the basket, noticing and enjoying the gesture as he did so. Then he followed Mr. Marston to the smokingroom.
‘We shall probably find Major Blenkinsop here,’ said Mr. Marston, as the door swung-to behind them. They stood
for a moment at the door, surveying the room, Mr. Marston tall, slim and self-possessed, Mr. Darby small, plump and a little embarrassed. ‘A pleasant room this, Darby,’ said Mr. Marston. ‘One can order tea here in the afternoon. The nicest room in the club, I always think.’ Mr. Darby was aware of a lofty panelled ceiling, tall windows, a medley of small tables, and deep armchairs and sofas upholstered in green leather in which a number of gentlemen were sitting. Some of them glanced up at the standing pair. Mr. Darby felt horribly conspicuous standing there by the door. He wished Mr. Marston would hurry up and find Major Blenkinsop and relieve the situation. He put his left hand into his trouser pocket and tried to look unconcerned and calmly interested.
‘Ah! here we are!’ said Mr. Marston, after a leisurely scrutiny of the room. He signalled with his hand, and someone rose from a chair halfway across the room and began to thread his way through the maze of chairs.
The Major was taller than Mr. Darby but not so tall as Mr. Marston. Mr. Darby regarded him with some apprehension. And not without reason, for he appeared a person of some ferocity. His grey hair, his large formidable grey moustache, his formidable bushy eyebrows, his purple, weather-beaten face, and the grim set of his mouth indicated a man of uncompromising determination. He looked as if he would stand no nonsense, as if he would have not the smallest patience with human weakness or human ignorance. In the few seconds that passed between his rising from his chair and his reaching them Mr. Darby had time to realize all this and to wish heartily that he had never mentioned the Jungle to Mr. Marston. He wished that he had never come to the Club, that he could unobtrusively step aside, disappear, and leave Mr. Marston to cope with the Major alone.
But when the Major was no more than five paces from them, an extraordinary change occurred in him. Hitherto his attention had been occupied in steering his way among the chairs and tables; but now he raised his eyes and smiled and his whole appearance was transformed from grimness to a very attractive friendliness. For a moment Mr. Darby thought of Sarah and Sarah’s grim, endearing smile.
‘How are you, my boy?’ The Major took Mr. Marston by the arm with a vigorous, friendly grip of his left hand, and turned to Mr. Darby with the other extended. ‘And this,’ he said, ‘is your friend.…’
‘Mr. James Darby,’ said Mr. Marston.
Mr. Darby a little timidly took the proffered hand and found his own held in an almost painful grip.
‘How do you do, sir!’ said the Major with a sudden precision which brought back to Mr. Darby his earlier impression of ferocity. The Major turned abruptly to Mr. Marston. ‘Are we lunching straight away?’
‘If you’re ready, Major.’
‘Of course I’m ready. I don’t breakfast, you see, Mr. Darby. A cup of white coffee, that’s all; so I’m always pretty peckish by lunch time. Do you breakfast?’
‘Ah … yes, sir, I’m afraid I do,’ said Mr. Darby.
The Major turned fiercely critical eyebrows on the little man. ‘You shouldn’t,’ he said. ‘You’d be much better without it.’
‘Don’t you believe it, Darby,’ said Mr. Marston. ‘The Major persuaded me to try it once, and about eleven thirty in the morning I nearly died at my desk.’
During this talk they had crossed the hall and entered the dining-room. The sound that filled the room was the first thing—for the room itself was hidden from him by Mr. Marston—that struck Mr. Darby. There was, in it, something subdued, leisurely, and luxurious: it was a sound made up of the comfortable low-toned, private conversation of every occupied table and the clear, quiet ring of the silver. It was a sound produced by people who were not in a hurry: it suggested polite leisure, polite enjoyment. And even more noticeable than the pleasant noises was the surprising absence of the sound of footfalls. It was this absence that conveyed to Mr. Darby the sense of luxury. And the smell, the indefinable smell of good things that hung on the pleasantly warm air, was equally luxurious. It was a smell compounded of refined foods: Mr. Darby detected a faint spice of wine in it. At that moment the obstruction of Mr. Marston’s body was removed and Mr. Darby surveyed a wide plantation of snowy tables adorned with glass and silver. Some of them were surrounded and half obscured by dark-suited figures: the whiteness of the unoccupied ones, perfect squares, perfect circles, seemed to have broken into full bloom in the curling white petals of their fantastically-folded table-napkins. Mr. Marston led his two guests to a table near a window, and, leaving the Major to choose his own dish, rescued Mr. Darby from the painful uncertainties of choice by a few helpful suggestions.
‘And now, what about drinks? Whisky and soda, beer?’ Mr. Marston looked at the Major.
‘Beer? Beer is the devil. Whisky and soda for me,’ said the Major.
Mr. Darby was much surprised to learn that beer was the devil; indeed, he would have disputed it, if he had dared, given his own experience of the life-giving virtues of a timely Bass. Some day, perhaps, when he was a member of the club himself and thoroughly at his ease there, he would put the Major right on that little matter—‘ Oh nonsense, my dear Major, nonsense. Believe me,—and what I am saying now is from … ah … personal experience—’ But not now. No, not to-day. When Mr. Marston turned to him he unhesitatingly plumped for a whisky and soda.
‘Wise man!’ said the Major. ‘Wise man!’ And he said it with such conviction, such authority, that Mr. Darby’s faith was shaken and he came near to believing that in those innocent and delightful orgies at The Schooner he had all the while been incurring some sinister and mysterious danger.
Major Blenkinsop spoke with a speed and precision that disconcerted Mr. Darby. When he asked you a question it was as if he had fired a revolver at you; and before firing, he took aim, turning piercing eyes on to you which seemed to read your thoughts, spy out your weaknesses and timidities. Then suddenly his expression would change to one of extraordinary kindness and friendliness. He was bracing, alarming and attractive company. Mr. Darby felt himself weak, futile, a worm, in the presence of this vigorous person, but he did not for a moment feel that this was the Major’s view. The Major treated him with breezy affability, as man to man.
‘Well now, Major,’ said Mr. Marston, when they had settled to their lunch, ‘my friend Darby wants to know all about jungles.’
The Major glanced at Mr. Darby. ‘Jungles? What sort of jungles? Want to do some shooting, I take it!’ he said with a pleasant smile, ‘Big game!’
‘No … ah … no,’ said Mr. Darby, beginning at once to feel uncomfortably that they had got on the wrong tack at the outset: ‘no, I don’t want to shoot.’
‘Good!’ said the Major. ‘Good! I never cared about it myself. Barbarous business! My own particular job was exploring. I’ve done a little of that.’
‘Well, that,’ said Mr. Darby, ‘is what I want to do.’
‘Not done any before?’ asked the Major.
‘No. No,’ said Mr. Darby. ‘I’ve always wanted to. It has been my great ambition. But hitherto … ah …’
‘You’re a little late in starting,’ said the Major, looking Mr. Darby over with keen, critical eyes. ‘What’s your age?’
‘Fifty,’ said Mr. Darby, ‘just fifty.’
‘Good constitution?’
‘Beg pardon, sir?’
The snap and speed of the Major’s questions flurried Mr. Darby.
‘Are you strong? Healthy?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Darby, ‘yes, thank you. I keep pretty well.’
‘Can you rough it? Can you stand great heat?’
‘Is the heat very great?’
‘It’s prodigious;’ said the Major, ‘like being in a gasoven.’ Mr. Darby’s face fell.
‘Mind you,’ the Major went on, ‘I’m talking now of the Amazon. The tropical forests of the Amazon are where I did most of my prowling.’
‘It’s tropical forests I wanted to know about,’ said Mr. Darby.
The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife Page 12
