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

and romantic light on it. Yes, last night, and, for that matter, this morning, he had touched hands for a few hours with all those wild, devil-may-care, swashbuckling fellows whose careers he had read of and secretly envied. He remembered being thrilled by Martin Harvey in
The Only Way.
That was a life, if you like. He recalled the fine drunken tone Martin Harvey had put into the phrase: ‘Bear with a sore head,’ as he dipped a towel in a basin and tied it round his aching brow. Well he himself had been a bear with a sore head this morning. He had already forgotten that, towards Sarah at least, his tone had been rather more like that of a lamb. Yes, he wouldtake McNab’s advice and try a Bass. In fact, he would do more, he would not go home for dinner at all. He knew that if he rang up Wilkinson’s, the Baker’s, at the end of Moseley Terrace, they would send a message along to Sarah. It was only a few yards. He glanced at the clock. Twenty-three minutes past nine. Mr. Marston would not arrive for seven minutes. He went over to the telephone, looked up Wilkinson’s number and rang them up. ‘This is Mr. Darby, W. J. Darby of Number Seven Moseley Terrace. I want you to do me a favour. Could you send along and tell my wife I shan’t be home for dinner? Yes, that’s right. Some special business to see to. Yes. Thank you. Very much obliged to you.’
    So much for that. What would Sarah think? Mr. Darby’s blue eyes hardened behind his glasses. She could think what she liked. The prospect of spending the dinner hour in town, free and at large (it was an elastic hour: an hour and a quarter frequently), began to seem more and more attractive to him. He was already very much better and by that time he might perhaps be feeling like a bite of something to eat. He heard the outer door open and shut and Mr. Marston’s familiar step go down the passage to his room. Half an hour later his bell rang. That was for Mr. Darby. Mr. Marston was Lamb & Marston complete. Lamb had faded from the office and become a sleeping partner ten years ago, and six years later had faded from the world and fallen into a still deeper sleep in Hobblesfield Churchyard twelve miles west of Newchester. Mr. Darby liked and respected his employer and regarded him, besides, as the very pattern of a gentleman. It was not only his lean, aristocratic face with the close black moustache and well brushed hair grizzled at the temples, his pleasant voice and speech which conveyed this impression not only to Mr. Darby but to all who met him: it was also the quiet fastidiousness of his clothes,—the excellent cut of his suits, his immaculate collars and cuffs, his silk handkerchiefs, his inimitable ties which, though usually dark grey or black, produced in some undiscoverable way an effect of subdued richness. He looked up from the letter he was reading as Mr. Darby, important but respectful,closed the door and approached his desk, some papers in his hand.
    â€˜Good morning, Mr. Darby. A little colder this morning.’
    â€˜Good morning, sir. Yes, a slight frost, I think.’
    â€˜Now what about these specifications for Colethorpe?’
    Mr. Marston indicated the letter before him.
    â€˜They’re ready, sir. I have them here, if you’d care to look over them. I’ll get Pellow to type the letter at once.’
    â€˜Thank you!’ Mr. Marston raised his eyes to the little man who offered him the papers. ‘You’re not looking at all well, Darby. Anything wrong? ’
    Mr. Darby coloured. ‘No, no, thank you, sir; nothing to speak of. A touch of indigestion.’
    â€˜I didn’t know you suffered from indigestion.’
    â€˜I don’t, sir. This was an unusual occasion’; and, seeing that Mr. Marston looked mystified, he added, ‘a little … ah … festivity among friends, sir, at which I was perhaps … ah … a little … ah … injudicial.’ Mr.