When he had finished his tea, he laid aside his newspaper and, drawing from his pocket his crocodile-skin cigar case, carefully selected a cigar, produced from another pocket a silver cigar cutter and a silver cigar lighter (trifles which had taken his fancy when buying the box of cigars at Harrington’s an hour ago), cut and lit his cigar, and leaning back in his chair gave himself up to the enjoyment of smoking and a lazy observation of the other people in the lounge.
But when he had been amusing himself in this way for ten minutes or so, Mr. Darby made a sudden movement, a movement caused by his throwing off the benign expansiveness of his posture and quickly assuming one more modest and controlled. His lazily wandering eye had unexpectedly found itself gazing into the eye of Mr. Marston who, with another gentleman, had just entered the lounge and was looking for a table. Mr. Darby’s mood had changed as suddenly as his posture and his lazy dignity had given place to embarrassment: he felt almost as foolish as if he had been discovered by Mr. Marston dancing in the middle of Ranger Street. But Mr. Marston was coming towards him. ‘Darby!’ he said as he reached Mr. Darby’s table. ‘The very man I wanted.’
Mr. Darby was struggling out of his deep chair, but Mr. Marston put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t get up. I don’t want to disturb you. I hope you’re better.’
‘Quite better, thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Darby. ‘I shall be at the office to-morrow morning.’
‘Good! You’re certainly looking better than I’ve seen you for weeks. All I wanted to ask you was this. I have Mr. Berrington with me, as you see. He wants us to put a new billiard room on to his house at Canter Mill. Now, I can’t lay my hands on the old plans.’
‘Mr. Berrington’s plans, sir? They’re in the … ah … second drawer, sir—second from the top—in the cabinet on the left of your fireplace.’
‘Thank you, Darby. That’s all I want to know. I won’t keep you any longer from the enjoyment of your excellent cigar.’ Mr. Marston turned away to join his companion. ‘See you to-morrow, then!’ he said, glancing back with a friendly gesture at Mr. Darby. Then he and Mr. Berrington moved to another part of the lounge outside Mr. Darby’s field of vision.
Mr. Darby rapidly regained his composure: indeed he reflected now on his brief meeting with Mr. Marston with much gratification. For he was considering the whole thing now as it must have appeared to a casual observer. What, in fact, would a casual observer have seen? He would have seen, first a middle-aged gentleman of leisure partaking of tea, a newspaper and an excellent cigar. Two other gentlemen enter, one a very distinguished-looking man, and this distinguished-looking man instantly recognizes the middle-aged gentleman, hastens over to him with obvious pleasure, converses with him in the most familiar way, and then, with a friendly ‘See you to-morrow’ which the observer would no doubt overhear, waves him good-bye. What the casual observer had thus seen was also appreciated, in retrospect, by Mr. Darby himself. This was something much more arresting than those fleeting visions of himself which, an hour ago, had for a moment obscured his view of the posters. For this was real, or so very nearly real as to be divided from reality by a mere hair’s-breadth. It was, as it were, a theatrical representation of one of those easy social amenities which would be a familiar incident in the life he was about to enter. He cleared his throat, took up his newspaper again, and continued to peruse it until his cigar was finished.
It was already a quarter to six,—later, by three quarters of an hour, than his usual hour for starting for home. He rose from his chair and, two minutes later, a small but important figure appeared upon the top step of the main hotel-entrance, inspected Newchesterfrom right to left a little superciliously; then, with a slow rhythmical action, descended the steps and invaded Ranger Street.
Ten minutes later, just after Mr. Darby had turned into Newfoundland Street, whom should he run into but his old friend Sam Cribb, coming out of a hardware shop. Like Mr. Darby, Sam Cribb was on his way home.
‘Well, this is a. bit of luck,’ said Mr. Darby, beaming through his spectacles—‘the second, in fact, that has come in my … ah … direction in the course of to-day. It never rains, as they say, but it pours.’
Sam Cribb, friendly and meek, smiled back, and they walked on together.
‘And what was the other bit of luck, Jim?’ he asked.
‘A nice little … ah … legacy,’ said Mr. Darby; ‘a very nice little legacy indeed. Only received the … ah … intelligence this morning.’
‘A legacy? Well, I’m delighted to hear it, I’m sure, Jim,’ said Sam Cribb. ‘Might I enquire the figure, or is that being too … er …?’
‘To tell the truth, Sam, I’m not sure of the figure,’ said Mr. Darby airily, ‘but, it seems, it brings in a matter of forty thousand a year.’
Sam Cribb laughed. ‘A tidy sum, Jim,’ he said. ‘Keep you in postage stamps comfortably.’
It was obvious from Sam’s jocularity that he supposed that Mr. Darby’s statement had been jocular too.
‘Yes, postage stamps, and a good many other things,’ said Mr. Darby. ‘It’s a large figure, Sam, when you come to think of it, and no doubt it will carry with it considerable … ah … responsibilities.’
Mr. Darby’s tone was one of very real gravity and it produced the effect he had intended. Sam Cribb was silent for a moment. Mr. Darby felt him glance at him, but he himself stared solemnly in front of him.
‘But … but you’re not serious, Jim?’ he said at last in a voice of gratifying incredulity.
‘My dear Sam, I’m as serious as a … ah … a judge.’
‘Forty thousand a year,’ said Sam, thunderstruck. ‘But that’s about a million of money, man.’
‘A million?’ said Mr. Darby.
‘Well,’ said Sam, who was accustomed to financial calculations, ‘forty thousand from four per cent. would mean a capital of a million.’
Mr. Darby stopped in the street and gazed at Sam Cribb. ‘Why, bless my soul,’ he said, ‘it never occurred to me. Would you call me a … ah … a millionaire, then?’
‘I fancy so,’ said Sam Cribb as they resumed their walk.
‘A millionaire!’ said Mr. Darby to himself in amazement. Sam Cribb had astonished him quite as much as he had astonished Sam Cribb. ‘A millionaire!’ He tried, by repeating the word to himself, to convey to himself the amazing significance of it. He remained for some moments lost in thought: he did not so much as realize that Sam Cribb was talking at his side. They were in Tarras Bridge now, but Mr. Darby was unaware of his surroundings. His imagination was echoing to the solemn word millionaire. But it was too much for him: he could not cope with it and in a moment he gave up the attempt and looked ahead. His eye fell on the building they were passing at the moment, the Tarras Hotel. He glanced at his friend. ‘What about a little … ah … liquid refreshment?’ he said, indicating with his open palm the hotel entrance.
‘Well, why not?’ said Sam Cribb, ‘in honour of the great occasion!’
They crossed the road. Mr. Darby led the way up the steps, enquired of the hall porter, as to the manner born, for the … ah … lounge, and sailed in, followed by his friend.
The lounge had a closed bar at one end of it and they approached the window. ‘Well now, Sam,’ said Mr. Darby, ‘what do you feel like?’
Sam made evasive noises. ‘Well … er … I … er …’
Mr. Darby eyed the bottles on the shelves. He wanted something unusual, something rich and rare, a new and exciting drink. His eye ran over bottles labelled Whisky, Brandy, Rum, Gin, Port, Sherry, Creme de Menthe, Cherry Brandy. How unenterprising these places were. Nothing original, nothing new and exciting. Then he detected a bottle labelled Schnapps. That looked more promising. ‘What about some of this … ah … Snaps?’ he said to Sam.
‘Snaps? I’ve never tried it,’ Sam replied doubtfully. ‘What’s it like?’
‘Well … ah … I don’t exactly remember,’ confessed Mr. Darby. ‘What is this … ah … Snaps?’ he asked the barmaid.
&nbs
p; ‘Schnapps? It’s Holland’s Gin, sir,’ she said.
‘Is it … ah … palatable?’ Mr. Darby asked.
‘Well,’ said the barmaid, ‘that’s according to tastes. I think it’s horrid, meself. Tastes rather like tallow.’
Sam shuddered. ‘What about a glass of port, Jim?’ he said. ‘You’re always pretty safe with port, aren’t you?’
‘Ye …s, that’s true,’ said Mr. Darby, and, feeling a little crestfallen, he ordered two glasses of port. ‘Just like Sam,’ he thought to himself, as the barmaid put the glasses before them. ‘Wants to be on the safe side. Afraid of trying anything new. Funny, some people are.’
Sam raised his glass. ‘Well Jim,’ he said, ‘here’s long life and happiness to enjoy it all, to you and Mrs. D.’
Mr. Darby raised his. ‘Thank you, Sam. Thank you, I’m sure.’
They drank.
‘I don’t remember,’ said Sam jocularly, ‘to have been stood a drink by a millionaire before.’
‘No,’ said Mr. Darby. ‘No. They generally make you pay for your drinks, when you come to … ah … consider it. That’s how they come to be millionaires, eh?’
They talked on, Mr. Darby issued his invitation for the following evening (‘No doubt,’ he said, ‘we shall have a drop of something to offer you ‘), and then, having climbed the slope of Tarras Bridge and turned into Savershill Road, they parted company and Mr. Darby toddled on alone. A pleasant glow irradiated his stomach: it was the port. A pleasant glow irradiated his mind: it was the legacy.
Half way up Osbert Road he turned into George Stedman, Ironmonger’s. The shop was empty, but at the sound of Mr. Darby’s footsteps George Stedman hove in sight from behind a tall pyramid of pots and pans.
‘Good-evening, Mr. Darby!’ he said jovially, his great voice filling the shop. ‘Pleased to see you, I’m sure. Now what can I show you to-day? I can do you a lovely polished steel fender, fire irons and coal hod to match, eight pound five the lot. Or we have a very nice line in parrots’ cages.’
‘With … ah … parrot to match?’ asked Mr. Darby.
George gave a loud ha ha. ‘We’re out of parrots at the moment,’ he said. ‘Sold the last one this morning, as a matter of fact, to a middle-aged lady in a green hat.’ He placed both fists on the counter and leaned forward. ‘But we could get you one.’ Then his manner grew serious. ‘Just come and look at this,’ he said. ‘It’s a very neat thing, just out.’ He came round the counter, led Mr. Darby to the far end of the shop, and showed him a thing like a small green enamel cabinet.
‘What is it?’ asked Mr. Darby.
‘It’s a stove,’ said Stedman: ‘a stove for heating a room. The Equator, they call it. Burns paraffin. You put the paraffin in here, and here, of course, is the burner. Astonishing heat it gives out for such a little thing. The traveller brought one along and showed it me alight a week ago. The neatest thing of the kind I’ve ever seen.’
‘And the price?’ said Mr. Darby.
George Stedman put his hands on his hips. ‘Matter of twelve pounds,’ he said. ‘A mere trifle to the likes of you, Mr. Darby.’
‘I’ll take it,’ said Mr. Darby.
George Stedman ha ha’d. ‘Thought you would,’ he said.
It was Mr. Darby’s turn to laugh. But he did not laugh,—not externally. ‘On the … ah … contrary, George, you thought I wouldn’t, but I will.’
George Stedman looked down at the little man, puzzled. ‘You mean it?’ he said.
‘I mean it,’ said Mr. Darby. ‘I like the look of it and no doubt it will come in useful.’ He drew the crocodile-skin cigar case from his breast-pocket. ‘Have a cigar?’ he said.
George Stedman gaped at the costly case and the noble row of cigars: then, having taken a cigar and laid it carefully on the counter, he looked with amusement at Mr. Darby. ‘What’s come over you, Jim?’ he said. ‘Have you come into a fortune?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Darby, casually as if admitting to a slight cold in the head, ‘as a matter of fact I have, George. They tell me it’s about a million.’
‘Is that all?’ said Stedman. ‘Disappointing, I call it.’
‘If you and your missus will come round for a bit after supper to-night,’ said Mr. Darby, ‘you can ask Sarah about it. Perhaps she’ll make you believe it.’
Mr. Darby made for the door, mischievously resolved to leave George Stedman bamboozled. At the door he turned. ‘Meanwhile,’ he said, ‘don’t forget, will you, to send round this … ah … stove thing.’
• • • • • • • •
The invitation did more than Mr. Darby’s cigar case or his strange talk to convince Stedman that, at least, something was up. Whatever the truth of it was, he would learn it, as Mr. Darby had said, from Sarah. Though she had a sense of humour it did not take the form of vague obfuscations.
He came to the point the moment he and his wife entered Number Seven Moseley Terrace that evening. ‘Well, Mrs. D,’ he said, ‘and what’s all this talk of Jim’s about millions? ‘
‘Oh, it’s true enough,’ said Sarah wearily. ‘A regular upset!’
‘An upset you call it?’
‘I should think I do,’ she replied with evident annoyance. ‘Worse than a burst pipe.’
Chapter VII
Suspended Animation
Mr. Darby, with the detached, self-conscious feeling of one taking part in amateur theatricals, set off as usual for the office next morning. The act seemed to him not quite real, and indeed it was not quite real, for it was only out of consideration for Mr. Marston that he consented to go through the makebelieve that he was Managing Clerk to Messrs. Lamb & Marston, and that he was pursuing his invariable way down Osbert Road because his bread and butter depended on his visiting Number Thirty Seven Ranger Street and doing a day’s work there. So pronounced indeed was his sense of unreality that he found it impossible to grasp the fact that Osbert Road was as real as ever. For him, this morning, there was something of the quality of a dream about it. Each time he fixed it with his full attention—challenged it, as it were, to prove its reality—it flinched, evaded him: it seemed to Mr. Darby that at any moment the houses, the Baptist Chapel, the Wesleyan Chapel, the very trees and pavements might grow transparent and then dissolve into vapour. But, in point of fact, they did not do so: Osbert Road held desperately on to what little reality it had and Mr. Darby pursued his way along it gravely. When he was half way down it a steam train, with a long crescendo and then a long decrescendo of roar and rattle, swept past him along the cutting. Mr. Darby did not turn his head. He smiled, and he could afford to smile, for he was no longer dependent on such toys, his imagination had other fish to fry. There was something very entertaining to him in walking, thus incognito, through the well-known scenes, and it amused him to reflect, as people passed him regardlessly, that not one of them suspected that they had just walked past a millionaire. So must Haroun al Raschid have felt when he put off the Sultan and set out on his nocturnal adventures in Bagdad.
As he turned into the entrance of Number Thirty Seven Ranger Street, it struck Mr. Darby for the first time how squalid the place was. The walls wanted repainting: the staircase was in a lamentable state. ‘Disgusting. If I were staying on,’ he thought, ‘I should have to have the whole place made … ah … representable.’ McNab had had the office key during his absence, and he found him and Pellow already arrived when he reached the top of the stairs and entered the office. There they stood, in their ignorance, smiling and wishing him good-morning, just as if all were the same as ever, just as if Uncle Tom Darby were still alive and the world rolling quietly along in its old grooves.
Mr. Darby did not disillusion them at once: he would tell them later in the day, when he had told Mr. Marston. Meanwhile, after a short talk with McNab in which he made himself acquainted with the current business of the office, he went to his desk and began to open the letters which McNab had already taken from the letterbox and laid there. In every respect all was happening precisely as
it had happened thousands of times before,—precisely, but for the ocean-wide difference in Mr. Darby’s sensations as he executed the time-honoured ritual. His sense of the change was different here from what it had been in Osbert Road, for it seemed to him now that it was he, and not the office, that was not quite real. It was no more than a ghostly Darby now that haunted the office, opened the letters, mimicked the poor, salaried, Managing Clerk who had vanished from the world, leaving not even a corpse behind him. And soon, in a few weeks’ time, in less perhaps, even this ghostly Darby would vanish from Number Thirty Seven and the place would know him no more. Despite the brilliant destiny awaiting him, Mr. Darby felt sad at the thought; for he loved the office. For years it had been a kind of home to him, a comfortable, friendly place which, every evening, he had abandoned for his other home without great enthusiasm for the change. The uprooting would be painful, even though he was to be transplanted into a rich soil. He handed the letters to young Pellow, who took them, as usual, to Mr. Marston’s room and in due course Mr. Marston was heard to enter the office and proceed thither. Half an hour later, Mr. Marston’s bell rang and the ghostly Mr. Darby, with sundry papers in its hand, left its desk and entered Mr. Marston’s room. And there it stood, facing Mr. Marston’s desk, precise, correct, deferential, giving an excellent imitation of an architect’s Managing Clerk. So excellent, indeed, that Mr. Marston was completely taken in: never for a moment did it cross his mind that confronting him there, with papers in his hand, stood a millionaire.
The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife Page 9