‘No, Sarah,’ replied Mr. Darby, ‘I have never … ah … anticipated your accompanying me. I had no right to expect it.’
‘You had no wish to expect it, you mean,’ she retorted bitterly. For Sarah was realizing something that had not before occurred to her to enquire into, that Jim no longer felt for her what she felt for him. In her grim, undemonstrative way she loved him: he was hers, a part of her life, the object of all her daily plans and labours. For all these years she had failed to realize that the fact that she devoted her life to him, planned and cooked good meals for him, looked after his clothes, kept his home spotlessly clean and replete with comfort might fail to compensate, in his mind, for that lack of gentleness and friendliness in her treatment of him which had imperceptibly and unaccountably become a habit with her. Her sheer efficiency as a housewife had taught him to take all she did for him for granted. It did not occur to him that he was in her thoughts, the object of her solicitude, during most of the time he was away from her, whereas she was hardly in his thoughts at all during that time; that it was perhaps pardonable that, after keeping him scrupulously in mind all day, she should give him a sharp word or two in the evenings. He only knew that Sarah had a bitter tongue and an uncompromising disposition, that she too seldom showed him the affection and friendliness which he appreciated, that she tyrannized over him and belittled him. It had cost him a supreme effort of courage to make his pompous little assertion of his independence just now. He was glad, profoundly relieved, that he had brought himself to the point of making it. He would have been surprised to know that it had cut Sarah to the heart. ‘But Jim,’ said a buried Sarah in pained rebuke, ‘you couldn’t go off and leave me, after all these years.’ But the words were unheard by Mr. Darby and unspoken by Sarah. She had too long lost the habit of tenderness. She saw well enough that this nonsense about the jungle was mere childish dreaming, that it would never be realized, but the fact that he was serious about it and was willing to set off and leave her behind him told her only too plainly how he felt towards her. Her eyes filled with tears as she began to set the knives and forks and glasses on the table, and she said no more.
Mr. Darby had not replied to her rebuke. He had made his stand and he thought it better to keep quiet now in case he spoilt the effect of his efforts. He sat, with his back to Sarah, upright, alert, and important in his chair, the paper on his knees, the corners of his mouth firmly set, and his eye fixed challengingly on the fire.
Chapter VIII
Animation Still Suspended
Mr. Darby’s existence during the next three months was a strange and shadowy one. His state was more like that of a soul in limbo than of a plain Novocastrian. For consider: he had dropped out of one life and not yet dropped into another. He was, as it were, stuck for three and a half mortal months in the doorway between the two,—a very uncomfortable position for anyone, but especially for a man so deeply concerned with life and living as Mr. Darby. For he was not absolutely anything. He acted, it is true, as if he were the Managing Clerk of Messrs. Lamb & Marston, and so skilfully did he do this that not a soul, except those in the know, could have suspected that, really, he was nothing of the kind; that he was merely pretending to be, out of consideration for Mr. Marston. At least it was with this motive that he had embarked on this career of play-acting. In a subsequent conference between Mr. Marston and Mr. Darby it had been decided that McNab, after a few weeks’ schooling from Mr. Darby, would be fully competent to take over the job of Managing Clerk. But as these few weeks drew to a close Mr. Darby felt a growing reluctance to leave the office. For though he had ceased to be a Managing Clerk, he had not yet begun to be a millionaire, would not begin for several weeks. So it was that he felt a desperate need to cling to what little existence he had, to continue, at all costs, to be the ghost of a Managing Clerk; for, if he ceased to be so, he would, he feared, cease to exist at all. He was like a man clinging desperately to a tuft of grass while his body swung in empty air over the edge of a precipice. In a few weeks a passenger lift would have been constructed which would convey him comfortably and immediately to the bottom. In the meanwhile, he clung to the tuft. For if he left go, what would become of him, what could he do in the limbo into which he would drop? What could he even pretend to be, to keep him going till his fortune became his? Even he could not walk the streets, inspect shop-windows, buy things that took his fancy all day long. The human frame would not stand it. Yet the only alternative was to stay at home; and that was not to be thought of, for home, at present, was even less inviting than usual. And so, with the object of keeping a finger, even though only a ghostly finger, in the pie of existence, Mr. Darby had arranged with his employer that he should stay on at the office till the Law and the Post Office between them consented to provide him with his new personality.
It was a dull business, this waiting, this imprisonment in a state of suspended animation. For Mr. Darby’s face was set to the great world that lay before him, his feet ached for the sands of the desert, for the steaming floors of the Jungle, for the calcined slopes of volcanoes. On certain mornings he found it next to impossible to persuade them to conform, yet again, to the tame, monotonous trail of Osbert Road, Savershill Road, Tarras Bridge, Newfoundland Street, Brackett Street, Ranger Street and the laborious staircase of Number Thirty Seven with the taunting clank of its loose tread. Often, on his journey to the office, he would stop to gaze into the window of Thomas Cook’s office at the bottom of Newfoundland Street, and refresh himself with a brief study of the posters and photographs displayed there. For minutes together he would stare at the Sphinx, which the poster artist had bathed in the aniline glory of an Egyptian sunset, while the Sphinx, enigmatical as ever, stared back at him, promising everything and nothing. Then he would transfer his attention to the Matterhorn, earnestly considering whether with the help of ropes and alpenstocks there was a reasonable chance of his getting to the top of it. He cast an eye over steamship notices. The Greyhound Line lured him to the West Indies, the Scarlet Funnel Line suggested Ceylon and the Malay Archipelago. The heading ‘Trips to the Tropics’ offended him by its vulgar familiarity, for Mr. Darby clung to the view that the Tropics were still largely unexplored and would remain so until he got at them.
Having allowed the impulsive inner Darby this brief indulgence, he would rein it sternly aside, and, though it champed the bit and pawed the pavement, drive it relentlessly towards Ranger Street.
Meanwhile Mr. Darby had resolved to go into this business of Tropics and Jungles somewhat more definitely. For, after all, you can’t, when it comes to hard facts, simply plunge headlong into the unknown. You have to study ways and means. Careful thought and careful preparation would be necessary: he would have to accumulate a considerable mass of knowledge of foreign parts and foreign travel, even, perhaps, a smattering of foreign languages. He would buy books, guide-books, books written by travellers and explorers and mountaineers, a considerable library of travel; he would get in touch with the travellers and explorers themselves, do the thing, in short, in a proper, practical way.
Mr. Darby had in fact discovered that when dreams change into possibilities one’s whole attitude of mind towards them changes: one has to descend from fantasy to the practical. And the truth is that Mr. Darby had spent many odd half hours of late in envisaging the Jungle as a concrete proposition. Sarah, in her harsh, unimaginative way, had made a passing reference to lions and tigers, and Mr. Darby, in subsequent reflections, had found himself reluctantly compelled to take these creatures into consideration. He did not for a moment admit, even now, that to penetrate far into the Jungle, to behold its wonders and unveil its secrets, to feel yourself far from the dull, safe, crowded life of Savershill and Newchester, to know that adventure (abstract adventure) awaited you at every turn, at every step, behind every monstrous tropical growth,—Mr. Darby did not for a moment admit that this was not to taste life in its truest and most thrilling sense. But he had come to feel, recently, that when this thrill, this adven
ture, took the form—as it undeniably might, in the Jungle—of lions and tigers, with their notorious taste for human flesh, it was one which ought not to be incurred without a certain measure of precaution. Many years ago he had heard a lion roar at Wombwell’s Travelling Menagerie which had visited Newchester-on-Dole, and he could still feel vividly the sensation that this roar had induced, the sort of sensation a dog must have when he suddenly puts his tail down. The sound of that roar, if one were alone in the Jungle at night, would be … well, yes, one must admit it … terrifying, unless one had taken … well, whatever precautions one did take on those occasions to insure one’s safety. Yes, he must begin to make comprehensive enquiries, and he must begin at once. There was no use putting it off. This irrepressible feeling that, if he just waited, something would happen of its own accord must be fought against.
With considerable hesitation he entered Cook’s office one evening on his way home. A tall, business-like young man faced him over the counter, ready, it seemed, to supply every kind of information. Mr. Darby felt encouraged. ‘I want,’ he began, ‘to make some enquiries about the … ah … Jungle.’
The young man’s attitude changed suddenly at this simple question. Surprised, puzzled, and crestfallen, he looked down at Mr. Darby who looked up at him across the counter.
‘The Jungle, sir?’
‘Ah … Yes … ah!’ said Mr. Darby, looking up with serious blue eyes over the tops of his spectacles.
‘One moment, please!’ The young man hurried away to a responsible-looking, middle-aged man, who presently returned with him to Mr. Darby.
‘What country is it you require, sir?’ he asked.
‘Well … ah …’ Mr. Darby’s neck and cheeks became very pink. ‘Well … ah … I … ah … don’t exactly know.’ For a moment he remained timidly staring at the middle-aged man and the young man who stared speechlessly back at him. They seemed to have reached a dead-end. Mr. Darby with an effort broke the spell. ‘It was that,’ he said, ‘about which I desired … ah … information.’
‘Well, I fancy there are jungles,’ said the middle-aged man, ‘in various parts of the world. If you could let us know which jungle you wanted, sir …’ Both the men were smiling now.
‘Certainly! Certainly!’ said Mr. Darby, determining suddenly to leave the office. ‘I’ll … ah … think it over.’
He hurried out into the street. But, after all, there was not much to be gained by thinking it over when you didn’t even know what to think. That was the worst of a matter of this kind. It wasn’t merely a question of making enquiries. It was a question, first and foremost, of finding out how and where to make enquiries. It occurred to him that Mr. Marston might be of some assistance, and—hesitatingly again, for it was that type of enquiry, he felt, which could easily make one look ridiculous—he consulted Mr. Marston after they had finished one of their morning confabulations.
‘I wonder, sir, if you could put me in the way of any … ah … information about the Jungle.’
‘The Jungle, Darby? But, of course; you did mention that you wanted to explore the jungle. But which jungle?’
‘That’s just what I don’t know, sir. I understand there are several. Which, do you think, would … ah … be the best?’
‘I’m afraid I know very little more about it than you do, Darby. But I believe the word jungle is used rather loosely for various sorts of country. I rather think it may mean either a dense scrub or a tropical forest. Which kind was it were you thinking of … er … visiting, Darby?’
‘It was more the tropical forest kind, sir.’
‘And you seriously think of undertaking it?’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ said Mr. Darby with childlike seriousness.
‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t be of much help,’ said Mr. Marston. ‘I was ordered out to East Africa in the early part of the War, but it was washed out at the last minute. I’ve got a price list of some Tropical Outfitters, I believe, if that would be any use to you.’
‘It would indeed, sir,’ said Mr. Darby, delighted at the chance of acquiring something tangible.
‘And, now that I think of it, there’s my old friend Major Blenkinsop. I see him from time to time at my club. Now Major Blenkinsop would be able to tell you a great deal about jungles and things. He’s done a good deal of exploring in the tropics, I believe. Oh, certainly he would be just the man for you. I’ll see if I can put you in touch with him, if you like.’
Mr. Darby, though a little nervous at the thought of facing a person who sounded so formidable, was profuse in his thanks. ‘It would be a great kindness, sir, it would indeed, if it’s not troubling you and the Major too much.’
Mr. Marston brought the Tropical Outfitters’ price list to the office next morning. ‘You can keep it, Darby,’ he said. ‘I shall never want it. I haven’t your enthusiasm for dangerous and uncomfortable places.’
Mr. Darby, a little shaken by the adjectives employed by Mr. Marston, stayed on at the office alone for half an hour that evening in order to study the price-list unmolested. It seemed that one required a tremendous lot of things when one went to the Tropics: he felt overpowered by the lists of Headgear, Clothing, Footwear, Camp Equipment, Bedding, Canteen Requirements. The price list, in fact, was rather dull and disappointing. There was nothing at all thrilling or suggestive about it except for a few details whose suggestions were definitely disagreeable. For instance what was the meaning of Mosquito Boots (tan sheepskin) or Thigh Length Mosquito Boots (brown canvas) or Rubber Knee Boots (anti-leech), or the long list of Tropical Medicines, or the Mosquito and Sand-Fly Nets, the Mosquito or Fly Veil, or the section devoted to Guns, Rifles, and Ammunition? All these things had a sinister significance. They suggested that a holiday spent in exploring the Tropics might have its drawbacks, that the adventures involved might be a little grim. Feeling somewhat crestfallen, Mr. Darby pocketed the price list and set off for home.
• • • • • • • •
The days passed and the shadowy, timeless life oscillated listlessly between Number Thirty Seven Ranger Street and Number Seven Moseley Terrace, at this time a very uncomfortable place. For the home atmosphere was charged with electricity. It was not merely the simple antagonism between Sarah and Mr. Darby, between stay-at-home and adventurer, but a great complication of forces which were much more difficult to cope with. Mr. Darby felt profoundly disturbed. He had braced himself, and he still kept himself braced (an exhausting process) to resist any head-on aggression from Sarah, but Sarah offered none. That was the worst of it. She attacked him in less direct and much more subtle ways, ways which on her part were quite unintentional. For instead of becoming more harsh and tyrannical, she became less so, ceased altogether to be so, and grew gentler than she had been for years. But with this change had come another; she was obviously very unhappy, and her unhappiness got at Mr. Darby in a way that aggressiveness could not have done. It was very painful, and very unfair, for Mr. Darby was resolved to have his way, to strike a blow for freedom at whatever cost, and this attitude of Sarah’s made it very much more difficult for him to hold to his resolve. It got him on his tender side, and Mr. Darby had a very tender side. In short, Sarah was more formidable now than she had been before and Mr. Darby was even more afraid of her, for if she went on like this she might make it impossible for him to take advantage of his miraculous piece of good luck, might force him to resign his dearest ambitions not in the least in deference to any overpowering tyranny of hers, but, what would be much more horrible, of his own free will. Mr. Darby was determined to stand out against this, and when he felt himself succumbing to the spectacle of her unhappiness or some deeply disturbing intonation in her so altered voice, he did his best to reinforce himself by recalling her previous tyranny, and especially those black weeks of disillusionment that followed his birthday party.
• • • • • • • •
For Sarah, too, life had become a kind of limbo. She no longer went about her daily duties with the old happiness, the hap
piness that accompanies those who perfectly express themselves in action. For change was imminent; her work was no longer a continuous and established thing, an act which daily recreated the world of herself and her husband. The whole meaning of that world was undermined, in a week or two its crumbling foundations would collapse, and what would happen then she could not imagine. Threatened with this destruction, her home became infinitely dearer to her than ever, and each humble act, formerly a mere healthy explosion of energy, became for her a thing painfully precious because so painfully transient. Every morning, formerly, when she had made their bed, the whole bedroom had shaken with the swift and powerful precision of that process. The quiet air was whipped into a gale by the strong flicker and undulation of sheets and blankets. Mrs. Bricketts, sweeping the hall below, could hear the sudden purr of sheets smoothed with vigorous hand, the creak of springs under a suddenly heaved mattress, the loud hollow smacks of soundly beaten bolster and pillows, and Sarah’s firm footsteps as she took up each new stance in this victorious wrestling-match. But now the old gusto was gone. She lingered and fumbled over her bed-making, telling herself meanwhile, with sinking heart, that when she had done it a few times more, that would be the end of it. And throughout the day her mind revolved almost mechanically, obsessed with the same dull self-reproaches. If only she had realized, before, that she was falling into that curious habit of harsh intolerance with him. She had not realized it because it had not had, for her, the significance which she now saw it must have had for him. For her it had been more than half affectionate. As often as not, when she had dealt out her buffets to the meek little man, she had been smiling inwardly, affectionately amused at his absurdities. And all the time Jim had been taking them in grim earnest, as mere bad-temper. Well, yes, there had very often been a tinge of bad-temper in them, she thought to herself, standing idle for a moment in the dining-room with her mouth firmly and bitterly set and her eyes tragically fixed on the sideboard which she did not see. Yes, the fact is, things grow on you somehow, without your noticing them, and all at once something wakes you up to them, when it’s too late, and there you are, fixed in your habit, as much a victim to it as the other victim—as Jim. Still, the fault wasn’t all on her side. Jim was a bit of a trial sometimes. She never could have any patience with downright silliness, and Jim could be very silly when he liked. He had a way of suddenly becoming pompous and important and then, with great solemnity, saying something particularly silly. ‘The business that stands still, goes back,’ for instance. There was no good pretending that wasn’t just plain nonsense. What could you do but laugh at him when he looked at you as solemn as a judge and said a thing like that? And then there was this rubbish about ‘penetrating into the Jungle.’ Whenever he said something silly, he had an annoying way of using long words, as if long words would make it less silly. He couldn’t just say ‘go into the Jungle,’ or ‘see the Jungle’; it had to be ‘ah … penetrate into the Jungle.’ And the idea of it, no matter what words you put it into,—the idea of Jim groping about in a jungle! It made you laugh to think of it. It was like some comic adventure-story for children. But the wonder of it, the absurdity of it, was that Jim was quite serious about it. It didn’t occur to him for a moment that the thing was impossible, just simply mad. Of course, it didn’t matter before this fortune came along: he could think about it as much as he liked then: it kept him amused and no harm came of it, because there was nothing he could do about it. But now, he might start doing something about it; in fact, it seemed as if he was going to; and though of course he would never get as far as the jungle—wherever it was—he would break up their home and go off and leave her for Heaven knew how long, wreck their life in fact, and no doubt do all sorts of mad and dangerous things into the bargain.
The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife Page 11