The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife by Martin Armstrong Page A

‘Buy this house, Sarah!’ he said. ‘I should as soon think of buying a … ah … a Ford. So far from buying this house I shall
leave
it at the first opportunity.’
    â€˜And where, if you please, are you going?’
    â€˜Going?’ Mr. Darby made a neat but comprehensive gesture. ‘Everywhere!’ he said. ‘I have long wished, for instance, to … ah … penetrate into the Jungle.’
    Sarah contemplated her husband as she might contemplate the goings-on of a pup. ‘Hadn’t you better go back to bed?’ she said.
    â€˜Bed? Certainly not!’ said Mr. Darby. ‘This is no time for bed. I have a great deal of urgent business to … ah … to negotiate. I must… ah … ascertain the whereabouts of the … ah … Notary Public, and … ah … take steps … ah …’
    â€˜Then you’d better go and shave,’ said Sarah laconically.
    The little man’s eloquence collapsed in mid-flight. He gazed helplessly at his wife, bewildered by the shock of his sudden descent to earth. Then he caught at the word
shave
that still echoed in his mind. ‘Shave? Oh … ah …! Well, yes, perhaps … ah …’ he said, and, still carrying the letter, strutted out of the room.
    Sarah did not move from her chair. She sat motionless, staring reflectively at an ornament on the mantelpiece. Everything would have pointed to the simple fact that the little man was delirious, had it not been for the text of theletter. That, she knew, was beyond his powers of invention. No, the thing was true enough. They had come into an enormous fortune. What a state of things! She regarded it as little else than a nuisance. They were perfectly happy as they were. Her own life was fully and satisfactorily occupied in managing the house and Mr. Darby; and, until recently, Mr. Darby’s life had been equally well occupied between his home and the office. Work, to Sarah’s mind, was not primarily a means of livelihood but of self-expression. The idea of ceasing to work because one came into a fortune never occurred to her. She and her husband were respectable people, settled permanently in a comfortable and satisfactory mode of life. If any hitch occurred in the happy tenor of their days, as it had recently in Mr. Darby’s, it could only be attributed to stomach. It was especially unfortunate that this event should have occurred at present, because it found Mr. Darby in an unsettled state and would put it in his power to indulge his wildest ideas. He had always been subject to
ideas,
but there was little harm in this so long as there was no chance of his trying to realize them. Now, Heaven knew what he would do. It was as if her child had suddenly grown up and she had lost control over him. With a deep sigh she got up and continued her dusting of the sitting-room which his coming downstairs had interrupted.
    She had finished this, spent a few minutes in the kitchen, and returned on another errand to the sitting-room when she again heard steps on the stairs. This time, she could hear, he had his boots on. There was a pause when he had reached the bottom, and a minute or two later Mr. Darby appeared in the doorway of the sitting-room fully dressed in black coat and bowler hat. In his right hand he held the silver-mounted walking stick which he generally used only when going to church.
    â€˜I am going,’ he announced, ‘to the Bank, about the … ah … Affidavit; and also,’ he added, ‘to ascertain the whereabouts of the … ah … Notary Public’ His face was already composed into an expression befitting these occasions.
    â€˜Don’t be late for dinner,’ Sarah called out as he disappeared, ‘because there’s a nice little bit of pork; that is,’ she added more loudly, ‘if you can eat it.’
    There was a sound of returning footsteps and for a moment Mr. Darby’s face,