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

week—every Friday, say—the office-work at Messrs. Lamb & Marston’s was apt to accumulate so formidably that he couldn’t be spared, simply had to snatch a quick lunch when and how he could. The opportunity to introduce this idea occurred almost immediately.
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    Sarah Darby was a much closer and more solicitous observer of her husband than he supposed. She regarded him as a rather wilful child, a child that must be watched, and she did not fail to notice the change that had come over him since the evening of his birthday party. But she was far from guessing at the spiritual revolution which had producedthis change. She put it down, in her unimaginative and uncompromising way, to stomach. But this did not mean that she thought it unimportant: quite the contrary. For she held that the first necessities to a perfectly ordered life are a good digestion and good food. Now obviously Mr. Darby was not at present in possession of the first of these. He was off his feed and he was melancholy. She had caught him more than once, during recent evenings, gazing reproachfully into the fire as though he had some grievance against it. His excesses at the party had evidently deranged his digestion: it was, in fact, this, all the time, which had provoked her disapproval. The fact that he had been somewhat tipsy she would have overlooked with an indulgent and slightly sardonic smile. Men,—strange, irresponsible creatures that they were—were always liable to meaningless pranks of this kind. But for a man to go and upset his stomach, to put himself at cross purposes with life for days was, in her eyes, a disgusting and immoral act. If you had tried to get her to take a more imaginative view, if you had put in a word for Mr. Darby’s soul and hinted at a spiritual revolution, she would have told you that the first duty a man owes to his soul is to look after his stomach and that the proper name for ‘spiritual revolution’ is ‘bilious attack.’ She had found, long since, that to question Mr. Darby or make remarks on his health was worse than useless: when she did so, he behaved as if she were regarding him with unwarrantable suspicions and took refuge in declaring that he was perfectly well. And so she did not question him now. Besides, this time no questions were necessary. She knew well enough what was the matter. Unknown to him, she dieted him for some days; but when this produced no effect and he remained as moody as ever, she began to feel anxious. Perhaps, for once, he would vouchsafe some information. ‘You’re not looking yourself, you know, Jim,’ she said during supper, regarding him searchingly with those keen grey eyes of hers. ‘And who can wonder?’ she found herself adding sternly.
    Mr. Darby understood the implication of the addedphrase. It would be a long time, he knew, before Sarah forgave his recent indisposition.
    â€˜Are you
feeling
all right?’ she asked, not unkindly.
    â€˜M … yes!’ replied Mr. Darby in a qualified affirmative. ‘M … yes! Not too bad. A little overworked, that’s all.’
    â€˜Overworked?’
    â€˜Yes, we have rather an … ah … an accumulation of work at the office at present. In fact, I hardly thought I should get home for dinner this morning, though Fridays are generally the worst.’
    This was very diplomatic, for it not only prepared Sarah for possible delinquencies in the future, but it corroborated,—and, it might appear, quite unintentionally—the bonafides of his first failure to come home to dinner a few days ago. Neither of them had ever referred to this, and from the very fact that she had not referred to it Mr. Darby had gathered his wife’s resentment and scepticism. But a little touch such as the one he had