Alas! He might as well have spared himself the trouble. A polite note, thanking him for his generous intentions, made it clear that the Trustees placed every confidence in the Director and his staff. Mr. Darby refused to believe that they too were corrupt. No! The truth must be that they were hoodwinked by the creatures whom they had put in power. Well, so much for the authorities. There remained the public, the great British Nation itself. It was for the Nation, not for Sir Wilfred Montgomery and Mr. Roden, that his gift had been intended, and if the Nation could be informed of what had happened, things would undoubtedly take a very different turn. Well, he would inform the Nation, through the … ah … medium of the Press.
Accordingly Mr. Darby got to work at his desk once more, and soon he had composed a dignified letter to the Trustees of the National Gallery, and another, more strongly worded, to the British Nation. Not that Mr. Darby addressed this second letter to the Nation direct: he was fully aware that such communications were addressed to the Editor of the paper in which they appeared. He made a point of studying the letters in the daily papers, and, having thus acquired the proper tone, he began as follows:
‘Sir, May I beg the hospitality of your columns for the purpose of ventilating a crying need for reform in one of our public institutions. We have long been accustomed, and justly, to boast that England, and not only England but our whole Empire, had kept her hands clean from the prejudice and corruption which are so unfortunate an element in the lives of foreign nations.’ Mr. Darby then went on to expound the whole story of the Darby Collection, and ‘with apologies for trespassing on your valuable space,’ he begged to remain ‘Yours, etc.: William James Darby.’
Having read over this production with pardonable satisfaction Mr. Darby had a dozen typed copies made and forthwith addressed them to twelve of our principal daily papers. He had hit on rather a good heading for the letter: ‘Art and Corruption.’
When all this had been accomplished he went out and posted the letters in person. Restored by this formal act to something of his old self, he went on his way, alert, important, and with a smouldering fire in his spectacles, down Charing Cross Road, past the Leicester Square Tube Station, Wyndham’s and the Garrick Theatres, and then, crossing the road, broke full into Trafalgar Square, descending the steps and crossing it between the fountains from the northeast to the south-west corner, turning his head repeatedly as he did so, to throw a challenging glance at the portico of the National Gallery. ‘We shall see, my friends!’ he muttered to himself grimly. ‘We shall see!’
• • • • • • • •
But what was eventually seen revealed to Mr. Darby another festering sore in the public life of our Empire. To those who still cling to a faith in British journalism it will seem unbelievable that not one of the papers to which Mr. Darby had sent his letter, printed it. Day by day he ran through the correspondence columns of all twelve of them: day by day he expectantly searched the letters he himself received, for surely the editors, even if they withheld his communication from the Nation, would write and give some explanation of their behaviour. But no, not a word, public or private! Editors, then, were as apathetic or as corrupt—probably both—as those persons whom Mr. Darby had already approached. They were resolved, as a body, to stand between Mr. Darby and the Nation.
That was the last straw. No man, with all the will and all the energy in the world, can stand up single-handed against an organized obstruction of this persistence and magnitude. Yet even now Mr. Darby did not immediately give in. For an hour he considered a last desperate effort; he considered the possibility of approaching the Nation direct, of taking his stand in Hyde Park, under the Marble Arch and boldly denouncing the scandal to the populace of London. But, after all, what was the good? For in his bitter disillusionment he told himself that the attempt would be bound to fail. One of two things would be the only possible outcome. If the populace responded, the police would at once intervene, organized opposition would again wreck his schemes. But very likely the populace itself would save the police the trouble; very likely he would find in the populace too—in the Nation itself—that deadly apathy which he had found elsewhere. In either case, then, failure was certain. No! He would spare himself this final defeat. To court certain disaster was not bravery, but folly. After an hour’s thought he decided definitely against the Marble Arch. ‘Too close to Tyburn Gallows,’ he reminded himself grimly.
For days the poor little man sat at home utterly crestfallen. All his alertness was gone: the light had faded out of his spectacles and out of his soul. London was hateful to him now. What was the good of being a millionaire if you were debarred from taking your part in the life of the Nation? What was the good of being alone and friendless in this large house of which he occupied only a room or two? In his loneliness and melancholy his mind turned to Newchester. After all, the old life there had been very pleasant; the comforts of home, the busy hours in the office with Mr. Marston and McNab and Pellow that left no time for moody reflection, the jolly evenings with the Stedmans, the Cribbs and his other friends, and those delightful visits to the Quayside and The Schooner. Should he, after all, pack up, abandon all those fantastic dreams of his, and go home? But home would be different now with Sarah running about all over the place inspecting hospitals. How unlike Sarah it had been to break out like that. He was very far from approving of that sort of thing for women. Woman’s place, to Mr. Darby’s thinking, was in the home, not rushing about making speeches like a man. Besides, whether Sarah was there or not, what could he do all day long at home? He could not go round visiting his friends: they all had work to do which kept them busy till the evening: they would not and could not be bothered with him. No! Turn where he would, he saw that he was unwanted.
It was not till Mr. Darby had plumbed this depth of despair that the small bright star of his old desire rose upon his darkness. The Jungle! In the cares and distractions of London, the Empire, and picture-collecting he had totally forgotten the Jungle; and now it blossomed suddenly in his imagination with all, and more than all, its old mysterious richness. More than all, for now it was not only a wonderland of strange and beautiful forms, of scarlet orchids and green parrots; it presented itself to him also as a refuge and a revenge. Yes, a revenge. England had refused his labour of love: very well, he would shake the dust of England off his feet. And dreaming of the Jungle and foreign lands, his mind turned to Australia. His Australian solicitors had told him, in the letter in which they announced his fortune, that it would be advisable for him to visit Australia before long and consider the possibility of selling some of his estates there.
In the dark emptiness of his mind the Jungle and Australia began to stir and germinate like two seeds. Gradually they sprouted, put forth leaves and tendrils which branched, embraced, wove themselves together into a secret and enchanting bower. He raised his head and shook off his despair: a glimmer of light came back into his spectacles. What had he been thinking of all this time to make him forget his old dream of travel and adventure just when it had become possible for him to realize it? What curious madness had come over him to set him trifling away his time among Lords and Ladies and picture galleries and antique shops? Weeks and weeks had slipped by and his exodus from Moseley Terrace, Savershill, had progressed no further than Bedford Square, London, a matter of less than three hundred miles.
Another day of thoughtful incubation, and Mr. Darby was, to all appearances, his old self again. Once more he was to be seen emerging from his front-door faultlessly dressed, gloved and hatted, pausing for a moment before descending the steps to cast an alert and challenging glance at the world (or as much of it as was visible in Bedford Square), and then setting off with a brisk step and every appearance of important purpose into the great maze of the Metropolis. Yes, outwardly it was the old Darby, but inwardly all was changed. In that black disillusionment through which he had recently passed the old Darby had perished utterly: the being who now walked the world behind the familiar mask was a v
ery different person. The old bland innocence was gone, never to return. The old vigour was there again undiminished, the old alertness of mind and eye, but behind them was a man of the world, of a metal braced in the waters of disillusionment to a temper which, though harder, more durable, more sceptical, more cynical than the old, had not sacrificed anything of its elasticity and humanity. Indeed the new Darby was actually richer in these qualities, for his new insight into human frailty enabled him to tolerate, condone, forgive. Not that he had yet forgiven England: certainly not. When he passed Trafalgar Square, Scotland Yard, the Home Office or the Houses of Parliament, those homes of repression and crass prejudice, his blood still boiled. To forgive so soon would have been mere weakness, bad both for England and for Mr. Darby himself. But he looked upon England now not as a criminal, but as a child. England would grow up. Some day, fifty years hence perhaps, she would insist upon those very reforms which Mr. Darby, a man born before his time, had vainly wrestled for so long ago. Some day perhaps she would beg upon her knees for that gift which in the ignorance and prejudice of her immaturity she had so lightly refused. Well, she would be lucky if she got it: she would be lucky if she was not too late. By that time the Darby Collection might be the chief glory of Sydney, Australia.
Chapter XXII
Enter Punnett
It must not be supposed that these expeditions of Mr. Darby’s—the new Mr. Darby’s—from Bedford Square into the Metropolis were important only in manner and appearance. He was really very busy. When he returned to Bedford Square he almost always brought with him a parcel containing one or more books, and in his pocket the booklet of some steamship company. His desk and the large table in the smoking-room were soon littered with these and with maps of every scale and colour. Mr. Darby was making a thorough investigation not only of ways and means of getting to Australia, but also of the tropical lands and islands contiguous with the various itineraries. It was while studying the course sailed by the Scarlet Funnel Line that he made the acquaintance of the Mandratic Peninsula. It is common knowledge that the Scarlet Funnel Line, for reasons of its own, takes a very peculiar course to Australia. On leaving Singapore it steers north-north-east up the China Sea, turns east between Formosa and the Philippine Islands, follows the southern coast line of the great island of Eutyca for fifteen hundred miles and then swinging south descends upon Australia through the Bismarck Archipelago. The very name of the Mandratic Peninsula fascinated Mr. Darby at once, and all, or almost all, that he subsequently discovered from the few books that dealt with the place only increased the fascination. The Mandratic Peninsula, in fact, seemed to be the very counterpart of Mr. Darby’s lifelong and persistent dreams. This is not the place in which to describe the exact geographical position of that country. The curious may be referred to the school-room atlas. A part of the island of Eutyca, it has roughly the shape of a gum-boot or galosh and it is divided into two almost equal halves. Mandras, the ankle and foot, from which the peninsula takes its name, is the country of the Mandrats, a bronze-coloured tribe of singularly fine physique: in Tongal, the calf, live the Tongali, a people blacker in colour and of thicker and shorter build. A belt of arid red sand, five miles wide, as though a red ribbon had been tied round the boot above the ankle, forms a natural division between the two countries. On clear days—and the days are generally clear—the seas on either side of the peninsula can be easily seen from Umfo (a name said to be derived from the Mandratic word umfod meaning ankle-bone), a mountain of seven thousand feet and the highest point in the peninsula.
So Mr. Darby learned from J. N. Mackintosh’s well-known work Through Mandratia on a Bicycle. That intrepid explorer, it will be remembered, was the first white man to enter the peninsula. His mode of travel, the old-fashioned high bicycle, though otherwise a great hindrance to him (for the bicycle is ill-adapted to the jungle), was the instrument of saving his life, for the natives who in those days (1886–7) practised cannibalism, took him to be Oushtoub, the Mandratic Wheel-god, and treated him with great discretion. He finally reached the extreme point of the peninsula with nothing left of his mount but the handle-bars and was picked up by a trading vessel to which he had waved a red pocket-handkerchief.
The reference to cannibalism in Mackintosh’s book was the first check to Mr. Darby’s enthusiasm. But in a later publication, Obermann’s great work Eutyca, its Inhabitants, Flora and Fauna he read with relief, in the pages devoted to Mandratia, that ‘cannibalism, once rampant in the peninsula, has in recent times fallen into almost complete desuetude.’ Another passage was equally reassuring: ‘For a tropical country it is singularly free from the more formidable kinds of fauna. The lion, the tiger, the elephant are alike unknown. A species of black panther peculiar to the country is the only animal dangerous to man. The snakes, except for the immense and lethal Ompà which is found only in the sandy desert that divides Mandras from Tongal, are one and all innocuous. The giant Iggarù, so unpleasant to the touch and sight, is quite harmless; while mosquitoes, the troublesome pium fly and the fire-ant are the only insect pests.’
Mr. Darby marked all the most important and instructive passages in these two works so as to return to them and ponder them at greater leisure. On a re-reading of Ober-mann’s reference to cannibalism, the word almost—‘almost complete desuetude’—struck him unpleasantly. The other sinister aspects of the country—the black panthers, the ompàs, the Iggarùs, the mosquitoes, pium flies and fire-ants were no more than a seasoning of adventure; but the incomplete desuetude of cannibalism was, Mr. Darby felt, a grave blot on a beautiful and romantic country. This would require consideration. Bravery was one thing, rashness another. It would be mere unpardonable rashness, after being warned by Mackintosh and Obermann, to rush into the jaws, so to speak, of a savage tribe.
But all this could be thought out at leisure, for Mr. Darby’s plans had now matured into this, that he would collect all possible information about the peninsula and how to get there, but would come to no final decision before he reached Australia; for he was determined to settle his affairs in Australia first and to look in on the Jungle on the way back. Ships of the Scarlet Funnel Line actually passed within sight of the Mandratic Peninsula. No doubt it would be possible with the help of a telescope to get a glimpse of it on the way out, and then, when the business in Australia was settled, to get together his equipment, enrol a few assistants, and set off for Mandratia. The difficulty would be to get there, for he had learned, after exhaustive enquiry, that except for a trading vessel from Australia that called once a year at the extreme southerly point of the peninsula to barter the products of civilization for the rubies and opals mined by the natives, no ship ever touched there. Mr. Darby might have to charter a vessel of his own and sail from Australia, or perhaps use British New Guinea or Formosa as his point of departure. All that could be investigated and settled in Australia.
The question now was when to start. ‘At once!’ shouted the new Darby. ‘The sooner the better! ‘But there were two things to be done before he could start. He must get a manservant, a man as like Princep as possible, to accompany him. He could not dispense with a manservant nowadays. And he must go north for a week and say goodbye. As regards the manservant he would consult Princep. Princep, so helpful in everything, would probably help him in this too. He spoke to Princep during lunch.
‘Princep,’ he said as he helped himself to the potatoes which Princep was handing to him, ‘I am tired of London.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Yes, thoroughly. One finds no … ah … scope in London, nor in England for that matter.’ Mr. Darby shook his head sadly at his plate. ‘I am going to cut loose, Princep,’ he went on. ‘I am going to Australia, and after that I shall do some exploring in the Tropics.’
‘The Tropics, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Darby with ruthless determination, ‘the Tropics, Princep. The Jungle, you know! And what I want to ask you is, if you can tell me of a man, a butler, a valet, who would go with me. A man acc
ustomed to travel—a man, in other respects, as like yourself as possible.’
‘Thank you, sir, for the kind tribute. Well, sir! ‘Princep reflected for a moment. ‘I can’t say as I know for certain of a likely man free at the moment; but I could write to one or two acquaintances, sir, and see how they’re situated at present.’
‘Do, Princep.’
‘I know a man of the name of Childers, sir, a very good man, though I don’t know that he’s travelled. And there’s one of the name of Punnett. Now he would be the very one to suit you, sir. He’s been in all sorts of queer places. Speaks one or two unusual languages, I believe, sir. I’ll write to them both, and see if they’re at liberty.’
‘Thank you, Princep. I shall be most grateful.’
• • • • • • • •
Mr. Darby decided not to go north till he had fixed on a good man, but he wrote to Sarah to tell her of his impending visit. Of course he said nothing of the tragedy—yes, tragedy is the word for it—that was driving him to the other end of the world, for Sarah would certainly not take it seriously. She had laughed at his enthusiasm for pictures; and as for his feelings about the Nation, well, she simply wouldn’t understand them. She had not the vision or the breadth of mind ever to feel herself personally involved with the Nation. He had told her simply that he was going to Australia on business, as the solicitors had originally advised.
The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife Page 25