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

just so skilfully brought off would, it was to be hoped, correct this attitude of Sarah’s. He glanced at her to judge of its effect. It had not been so complete as he had hoped: Sarah still appeared doubtful and reflective. ‘There’s never been any trouble of this sort before,’ she said. ‘Why should they start overworking you now?’
    â€˜O, expanding business!’ said Mr. Darby airily. Then, turning his spectacles on her with the look of one uttering a philosophical observation, he added: ‘We must expect that, Sarah, you know! The business that stands still, goes back.’
    Sarah was not in the least impressed. ‘H …m! A funny sort of business that must be,’ she said with a sardonic chuckle.
    Mr. Darby left it at that. He had at least planted the idea: Sarah had not actually repudiated it: it seemed not unreasonable to hope that it would take root. He followed this up two days later (the day being Friday) by sending another telephone message from the office. He was again detained by an … ah … accumulation of business.
    This accomplished, his spirits rose: a delightful holidaymood took possession of him: he could hardly prevent himself singing at his work. Punctually at twelve thirty he issued forth. His step was brisk, his eye alert. It was no blind, instinctive flight this time: this gay, self-possessed, and prosperous little man obviously knew very well where he was going. And he was going, of course, as straight as he could go, to The Schooner. Already in anticipation he savoured the bracing smack of the Bass on his tongue and the rich flavour of those sandwiches through which came the pleasant sting of the mustard. His mouth watered. It was only his sense of his position as managing clerk of Messrs. Lamb & Marston and respectable citizen of New chester-on-Dole that prevented him from skipping down the declivity of Cliff Street. Arrived on the Quayside he did not pause to survey the enchanting scene. This was no moment to indulge the poetry of romance: it was the poetry of realism that possessed him now, urging him smartly towards the porch of The Schooner. Not that he closed his senses to the other; for, as he hurried along, his eyes took in the crowded scene on his right, darted in and out along decks, swarmed up masts, skipped to the piled, smoke-grimed roofs of Portshead and dived thence to the bright river below, while his nose drew in the smoky, watery, tarry air, detecting in it the salt of the Pacific, the fumes of Vesuvius, and the hot mephitic vapours of the Jungle. All these things he took in and enjoyed on his course, as a miser might collect antique coins with a purely artistic zeal quite apart from his sordid passion for the currency.
    Without precaution and with no trace of trepidation Mr. Darby pushed boldly through the door of The Schooner. It was like returning home after a long absence. He did not even remember his old fear and distrust of public-houses. But why should he? For these feelings belonged to the old Darby, the Darby who had died a week ago. They were no part of the new Darby.
    Once more the place was somewhat crowded, but Mr. Darby worked his way politely but firmly to the bar, and there, once more, he found himself face to face with the ladyof the bar who was pouring out a glass of stout. She was still magnificent but she was no longer shocking, and catching sight of Mr. Darby she smiled in the friendliest fashion and signed that she would attend to him in a moment. And in a moment she stood awaiting his order. Mr. Darby made a little bow.
    â€˜Good-morning, Miss … ah …?’ he said gallantly under cover of the buzz of talk that surrounded them.
    â€˜Sunningdale,’ said the barmaid.
    â€˜Good-morning, Miss Sunningdale. And how are we this morning?’
    â€˜Oh not so bad, thanks, for the time of the year,’ said Miss Sunningdale. She raised her golden eyebrows. ‘Same as last time?’ she