Mr. Darby occupied the remaining days of his leave of absence from the office in a variety of solemn and important acts. The first thing to do was to have the affidavit drawn up. He had no solicitor, so what was he to do? Obviously, to appoint one. Mr. Marston’s solicitors were Messrs. Chepstow & Bradfield and that fact was for Mr. Darby a sufficient recommendation. His visit to his bank, the invitation into the Manager’s sanctum and the deference with which he was received there; the visit to Messrs. Chepstow & Bradfield—who, to Mr. Darby’s surprise, turned out very conveniently to be also the Notary Public—were both conducted with a becoming gravity. Mr. Darby was in his element. It was not only the solemn official acts that delighted him: the moment when they were completed and the officials concerned descended from their officialdom and offered Mr. Darby their very hearty congratulations, was equally satisfying. The visit to Messrs. Chepstow & Bradfield and the putting of his affairs into their hands relieved him greatly, for his ignorance of all matters pertaining to the law had already begun to weigh on him. The idea, for instance, of having to write to Somerset House for his birth certificate had troubled him deeply. Messrs. Chepstow & Bradfield proved to him that it was the simplest thing in the world. He arrived home, after his first morning at large, a few minutes late for midday dinner, pleading in excuse the excessive importance of his errands, and finding his excuse, with Sarah, in the royal justice he did to the nice little bit of pork. His radiant happiness had its effect on her. She could not find it in her heart to chill the glowing little man by betraying her own lack of enthusiasm. She was in the position of a fond parent whose child has been given the kind of toy that entrances the child but wrecks the serenity of the home. And, after all, what could she do? What could she have done even if the fortune had been left to her? Nothing, but grin and bear it.
When he had dined, Mr. Darby produced from his breast pocket a large brand new crocodile-skin cigar case, opened it with a careless deliberation and slightly raised eyebrows, and selected a cigar. Having done so, he examined the cigar critically and then glanced a little doubtfully at Sarah. Sarah was watching him with an amused smile. Mr. Darby at once averted his eyes with a slight frown and turned his attention to lighting and trying the cigar. He blew out a long deliberative jet of smoke, frowned again, as if not altogether pleased with the aroma, tried another puff and appeared to decide that the cigar was good.
‘Tell me, Jim,’ said Sarah, ‘what are you going to do?’
‘To do? Now?’ Mr. Darby looked at her alertly.
‘No, not now,’ said Sarah. ‘When you’ve got your money, I mean. The office, for instance!’
‘Oh, I shall leave the office, of course,’ said Mr. Darby. ‘When I go back on Wednesday I shall explain the state of affairs to Mr. Marston. There’s no great hurry, of course. My … ah … papers will take six weeks to reach Australia, and the … ah … documents relative to our fortune will take another six weeks to arrive, though the solicitors will no doubt wire us a thousand or two to keep us going.’
‘Very kind of them, I’m sure,’ said Sarah grimly.
Mr. Darby ignored the remark. ‘I shall not leave Mr. Marston,’ he said, ‘until he can find a suitable substitute. Meanwhile I shall of course give him my services free. It would be ridiculous for me to accept a salary from a man in such … ah … modest circumstances.’
Sarah rose from her chair and began to clear the table, while Mr. Darby pursued his appreciation of the cigar. When it was half finished, he too rose. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I must be off. There still remains … ah … a considerable … ah …’ He went into the hall leaving behind him the cloudy suggestion of vast negotiations and a fog of expensive cigar smoke. Sarah with a grimace went over to the window and threw it wide open. ‘Well, at least,’ she thought to herself, ‘it’s cured him. That’s one thing to be thankful for.’
Mr. Darby, meanwhile, had issued gravely from his home with the feeling that, as he had said to Sarah, there still remained … ah … a considerable … ah. He had to pay a second visit to his bank, and so, feeling full of energy, he walked there. It was not until he had accomplished this—the visit was only a matter of five minutes—that he realized that he had nothing whatever else to do. He stood outside the bank looking up and down the street and feeling rather let down. It was hardly believable that, with this immense, earth-shaking thing only a few hours old, there should be, at the moment, nothing to do about it, no more important acts to perform, no more visits to official persons, no more congratulations to receive. Then his expression changed suddenly, his eye brightened, the momentary cloud had passed. For he had remembered that the whole town lay before him, the Central Station, the Quayside, the streets with all their wealth of alluring shops. He glanced at his watch, for he had felt a sudden impulse to hurry along Palmer Street, skip gaily down Cliff Street and dive into The Schooner. On the way he might perhaps purchase at a jeweller’s some trifle, some small token …! But no. The Schooner would be closed, and in any case Sarah’s informers might detect him in the act of presenting the gift.
Well, he had a little shopping to do; for on his way home he was going to look in on George Stedman and Samuel Cribb, impart to them, in rather an off-hand way, the astonishing news and ask them to drop in after supper,—the Stedmans to-day, the Cribbs to-morrow—and, the occasion being what it was, this dropping in, Mr. Darby planned, was to be regaled by a bottle of champagne and a cigar. He had said nothing of this to Sarah, but Mr. Darby was a born diplomatist: he knew that to her a visit from the Stedmans never came amiss, and with that as the thin end of the wedge he would open a way for the champagne, the cigars, and the Cribbs. Where he stood in deliberation outside his bank in Brackett Street, Mr. Darby was only a few doors from Edgington’s, the wine merchants. He therefore put himself in motion at once and in a moment was facing over the counter the same man who had served him some weeks ago.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Mr. Darby. ‘I… ah … liked the … ah … Clicquot you gave me some weeks ago.’ He was still a little uncertain of the pronunciation of the wine and slurred it over unostentatiously.
The shopman smiled. ‘Very pleased to hear it, sir.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Darby, ‘a nice, sound wine I thought it. I took two bottles, if you recollect, to … ah … to try. Please send me half a dozen to-day.’
‘With pleasure, sir. Which wine did you say it was?’
‘Champagne,’ said Mr. Darby. ‘The … ah … it was a hundred and thirty-six shillings, I think.’
‘Ah. That would be the Clicquot, sir. To what address may I send it?’
Mr. Darby gave his name and address, paid for the wine, and went out of Edgington’s and down Brackett Street murmuring Kleeko, Kleeko … ah … Kleeko to himself until he felt he had memorized it. He walked with dignified leisure down Ranger Street, since there was no hurry, indeed there was the imperative need to kill as much time as possible, for he would have nothing to do if he went home. George Stedman would be busy in his shop, and Samuel Cribb inaccessible in a Railway Office. But time did not weigh heavily on Mr. Darby. Shop-window after shop-window delayed his course down Ranger Street and it was some time before he passed Number Thirty Seven on the opposite side of the road. He glanced up at the windows. Nothing was to be seen behind the blind stare of the panes. It was difficult to believe that Mr. Marston, McNab and Pellow were all hard at work up there, unconscious of his presence in the street below. Well, he was done with all that now. True, he was returning to the office to-morrow, but none the less he was done with it, he was free of it. He was returning merely to give notice and, if necessary, to accommodate Mr. Marston for a short while beyond the term of his notice. He would be sorry to leave Mr. Marston: they had always been very good friends: and McNab and Pellow too,—nice lads, both of them. But other spheres called him: his path stretched dimly out into the world, the unknown. It was festooned with scarlet orchids: green parrots screamed at him as he passed: he stretched out his hands to part the heavy green foliage and collided with a gentleman in a clerical collar. This enabled Mr. Darby to realize that he was now skirting the railings of St. John’s Churchyard and to recollect that his path, for the present, stretched no further than the shop of Harrington & Co where he proposed to buy a box of cigars. He paused to look into the window before entering and smiled as he again inspected the cigar cabinet. Only recently he had been beguiling the drabness of his life by imagining himself ordering the cabinet. It had been the maddest fantasy then: now he could, if he chose, easily turn it into a plain fact. Not that he was going to do so. Mr. Darby had a sense of congruity. A large, elaborate cigar cabinet required as a setting a large and elaborate house: in Number Seven Moseley Terrace it would be incongruous. No, a box—a box of fifty—was the most that Number Seven would stand, and probably more than Sarah would stand without cynical protest.
When he came out of the shop with the box under his arm he thought that he could amuse himself for a while in that portal of the great world, the Central Station. Before now Mr. Darby had strolled into the station, bought a platform ticket and seen off an important train—the Flying Scotsman, perhaps, newly arrived from King’s Cross and bound for the far north of Scotland—just for the pure pleasure of the thing. Well, if there was an important train due when he reached the station now, he would do it again; but what was his chief intention at the moment was to run his eye over the posters. He had often done this, too, but only as a means of indulging his fancy. This time it would be no matter of fancy: he would submit himself actually to the temptation offered by each. If he felt like falling,—well, he was perfectly at liberty to fall, or at least he would be, in a few weeks’ time. And so he passed under the wide Tuscan portico where cabs came and went and the long line of parked cars stood waiting, and so through the pillared entrance into the great station. And soon he found himself urged to buy a cheap return ticket to London, to flee to the Sunny South of France, to visit German Castles, or to take part in Winter Sports under the formidable peaks of the Alps.
But about the remote attractions of the Equator and the Jungle these posters were mute. And that, thought Mr. Darby, was as it should be, for the lands of his dreams were sacred places undefiled by tourists and the publicity which entices and exploits the tourist. However, these other places were alluring enough, and in the intervals of more solemn travel he would certainly submit, when the spirit moved him, to these humbler enticements. And besides all this, of course, he would spend much of his time in England, in London, in Society. For Mr. Darby had always felt that he was destined by character, inclination, and—well, yes, why not?—by certain abilities, to play a more important role in society than he had yet done. His birthday party and the speech he had then made flashed into his memory for a moment: yes, that was more the kind of thing, if combined, of course, with more serious and practical significance than a mere supper party, which would offer some scope to his … well … his inclinations. A swift flight of visions shot through his mind, a brief glimpse of Mr. William James Darby presiding at Committee meetings, arriving five minutes late and pleading that he had been detained by important business with the Lord Mayor: Mr. William James Darby as Lord Mayor himself, bowing from a coach in his mayoral robes and chain of office: Sir James Darby, the well known explorer and public figure, on a more marked occasion, presiding with easy joviality at a public banquet. Mr. Darby was too accustomed to spectres of this kind to be at all surprised at their sudden invasion of him in the Central Station. Not that it ever occurred to him to dismiss them as fantastic or ridiculous. Certainly not. For, though they were not facts, they were perfectly respectable creatures of the mind.
Yes, thought Mr. Darby, as these visions swept past him and he again found himself confronted by the Central Station and its posters,—yes, London for headquarters, the … ah … Metropolis. ‘Mr. William James Darby has left Seven Moseley Terrace, Newchester-on-Dole, for London. He expects to spend some weeks in the Metropolis.’
Suddenly he tired of posters. The truth was, he wanted to sit down. He glanced at the clock. It was still only twenty past four. Then a bright idea struck him. He would buy an evening paper and go and have a cup of tea in the lounge of the Station Hotel. An excellent notion, and very … ah … appropriate too, for it was in that very hotel that they had all had dinner with Uncle Tom Darby when he had stayed there over thirty years ago. Mr. Darby had not been into it since. In a few moments, paper in hand, he had pushed through the revolving doors of the station entrance to the hotel and was seated in an armchair in a corner of the lounge. A waiter brought a tray of tea and toast to the small table beside his chair and with pleasant sensations of idleness and dignity Mr. Darby settled down to a luxurious hour.
When he had finished his tea, he laid aside his newspaper and, drawing from his pocket his crocodile-skin cigar case, carefully selected a cigar, produced from another pocket a silver cigar cutter and a silver cigar lighter (trifles which had taken his fancy when buying the box of cigars at Harrington’s an hour ago), cut and lit his cigar, and leaning back in his chair gave himself up to the enjoyment of smoking and a lazy observation of the other people in the lounge.
But when he had been amusing himself in this way for ten minutes or so, Mr. Darby made a sudden movement, a movement caused by his throwing off the benign expansiveness of his posture and quickly assuming one more modest and controlled. His lazily wandering eye had unexpectedly found itself gazing into the eye of Mr. Marston who, with another gentleman, had just entered the lounge and was looking for a table. Mr. Darby’s mood had changed as suddenly as his posture and his lazy dignity had given place to embarrassment: he felt almost as foolish as if he had been discovered by Mr. Marston dancing in the middle of Ranger Street. But Mr. Marston was coming towards him. ‘Darby!’ he said as he reached Mr. Darby’s table. ‘The very man I wanted.’
Mr. Darby was struggling out of his deep chair, but Mr. Marston put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t get up. I don’t want to disturb you. I hope you’re better.’
‘Quite better, thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Darby. ‘I shall be at the office to-morrow morning.’
‘Good! You’re certainly looking better than I’ve seen you for weeks. All I wanted to ask you was this. I have Mr. Berrington with me, as you see. He wants us to put a new billiard room on to his house at Canter Mill. Now, I can’t lay my hands on the old plans.’
‘Mr. Berrington’s plans, sir? They’re in the … ah … second drawer, sir—second from the top—in the cabinet on the left of your fireplace.’
‘Thank you, Darby. That’s all I want to know. I won’t keep you any longer from the enjoyment of your excellent cigar.’ Mr. Marston turned away to join his companion. ‘See you to-morrow, then!’ he said, glancing back with a friendly gesture at Mr. Darby. Then he and Mr. Berrington moved to another part of the lounge outside Mr. Darby’s field of vision.
Mr. Darby rapidly regained his composure: indeed he reflected now on his brief meeting with Mr. Marston with much gratification. For he was considering the whole thing now as it must have appeared to a casual observer. What, in fact, would a casual observer have seen? He would have seen, first a middle-aged gentleman of leisure partaking of tea, a newspaper and an excellent cigar. Two other gentlemen enter, one a very distinguished-looking man, and this distinguished-looking man instantly recognizes the middle-aged gentleman, hastens over to him with obvious pleasure, converses with him in the most familiar way, and then, with a friendly ‘See you to-morrow’ which the observer would no doubt overhear, waves him good-bye. What the casual observer had thus seen was also appreciated, in retrospect, by Mr. Darby himself. This was something much more arresting than those fleeting visions of himself which, an hour ago, had for a moment obscured his view of the posters. For this was real, or so very nearly real as to be divided from reality by a mere hair’s-breadth. It was, as it were, a theatrical representation of one of those easy social amenities which would be a familiar incident in the life he was about to enter. He cleared his throat, took up his newspaper again, and continued to peruse it until his cigar was finished.
It was already a quarter to six,—later, by three quarters of an hour, than his usual hour for starting for home. He rose from his chair and, two minutes later, a small but important figure appeared upon the top step of the main hotel-entrance, inspected Newchesterfrom right to left a little superciliously; then, with a slow rhythmical action, descended the steps and invaded Ranger Street.
Ten minutes later, just after Mr. Darby had turned into Newfoundland Street, whom should he run into but his old friend Sam Cribb, coming out of a hardware shop. Like Mr. Darby, Sam Cribb was on his way home.
‘Well, this is a. bit of luck,’ said Mr. Darby, beaming through his spectacles—‘the second, in fact, that has come in my … ah … direction in the course of to-day. It never rains, as they say, but it pours.’
Sam Cribb, friendly and meek, smiled back, and they walked on together.
‘And what was the other bit of luck, Jim?’ he asked.
‘A nice little … ah … legacy,’ said Mr. Darby; ‘a very nice little legacy indeed. Only received the … ah … intelligence this morning.’
‘A legacy? Well, I’m delighted to hear it, I’m sure, Jim,’ said Sam Cribb. ‘Might I enquire the figure, or is that being too … er …?’
‘To tell the truth, Sam, I’m not sure of the figure,’ said Mr. Darby airily, ‘but, it seems, it brings in a matter of forty thousand a year.’
Sam Cribb laughed. ‘A tidy sum, Jim,’ he said. ‘Keep you in postage stamps comfortably.’
It was obvious from Sam’s jocularity that he supposed that Mr. Darby’s statement had been jocular too.
‘Yes, postage stamps, and a good many other things,’ said Mr. Darby. ‘It’s a large figure, Sam, when you come to think of it, and no doubt it will carry with it considerable … ah … responsibilities.’
Mr. Darby’s tone was one of very real gravity and it produced the effect he had intended. Sam Cribb was silent for a moment. Mr. Darby felt him glance at him, but he himself stared solemnly in front of him.
‘But … but you’re not serious, Jim?’ he said at last in a voice of gratifying incredulity.
‘My dear Sam, I’m as serious as a … ah … a judge.’
‘Forty thousand a year,’ said Sam, thunderstruck. ‘But that’s about a million of money, man.’
‘A million?’ said Mr. Darby.
‘Well,’ said Sam, who was accustomed to financial calculations, ‘forty thousand from four per cent. would mean a capital of a million.’
Mr. Darby stopped in the street and gazed at Sam Cribb. ‘Why, bless my soul,’ he said, ‘it never occurred to me. Would you call me a … ah … a millionaire, then?’
‘I fancy so,’ said Sam Cribb as they resumed their walk.
‘A millionaire!’ said Mr. Darby to himself in amazement. Sam Cribb had astonished him quite as much as he had astonished Sam Cribb. ‘A millionaire!’ He tried, by repeating the word to himself, to convey to himself the amazing significance of it. He remained for some moments lost in thought: he did not so much as realize that Sam Cribb was talking at his side. They were in Tarras Bridge now, but Mr. Darby was unaware of his surroundings. His imagination was echoing to the solemn word millionaire. But it was too much for him: he could not cope with it and in a moment he gave up the attempt and looked ahead. His eye fell on the building they were passing at the moment, the Tarras Hotel. He glanced at his friend. ‘What about a little … ah … liquid refreshment?’ he said, indicating with his open palm the hotel entrance.
‘Well, why not?’ said Sam Cribb, ‘in honour of the great occasion!’
They crossed the road. Mr. Darby led the way up the steps, enquired of the hall porter, as to the manner born, for the … ah … lounge, and sailed in, followed by his friend.
The lounge had a closed bar at one end of it and they approached the window. ‘Well now, Sam,’ said Mr. Darby, ‘what do you feel like?’
Sam made evasive noises. ‘Well … er … I … er …’
Mr. Darby eyed the bottles on the shelves. He wanted something unusual, something rich and rare, a new and exciting drink. His eye ran over bottles labelled Whisky, Brandy, Rum, Gin, Port, Sherry, Creme de Menthe, Cherry Brandy. How unenterprising these places were. Nothing original, nothing new and exciting. Then he detected a bottle labelled Schnapps. That looked more promising. ‘What about some of this … ah … Snaps?’ he said to Sam.
‘Snaps? I’ve never tried it,’ Sam replied doubtfully. ‘What’s it like?’
‘Well … ah … I don’t exactly remember,’ confessed Mr. Darby. ‘What is this … ah … Snaps?’ he asked the barmaid.
‘Schnapps? It’s Holland’s Gin, sir,’ she said.
‘Is it … ah … palatable?’ Mr. Darby asked.
‘Well,’ said the barmaid, ‘that’s according to tastes. I think it’s horrid, meself. Tastes rather like tallow.’
Sam shuddered. ‘What about a glass of port, Jim?’ he said. ‘You’re always pretty safe with port, aren’t you?’
‘Ye …s, that’s true,’ said Mr. Darby, and, feeling a little crestfallen, he ordered two glasses of port. ‘Just like Sam,’ he thought to himself, as the barmaid put the glasses before them. ‘Wants to be on the safe side. Afraid of trying anything new. Funny, some people are.’
Sam raised his glass. ‘Well Jim,’ he said, ‘here’s long life and happiness to enjoy it all, to you and Mrs. D.’
Mr. Darby raised his. ‘Thank you, Sam. Thank you, I’m sure.’
They drank.
‘I don’t remember,’ said Sam jocularly, ‘to have been stood a drink by a millionaire before.’
‘No,’ said Mr. Darby. ‘No. They generally make you pay for your drinks, when you come to … ah … consider it. That’s how they come to be millionaires, eh?’
They talked on, Mr. Darby issued his invitation for the following evening (‘No doubt,’ he said, ‘we shall have a drop of something to offer you ‘), and then, having climbed the slope of Tarras Bridge and turned into Savershill Road, they parted company and Mr. Darby toddled on alone. A pleasant glow irradiated his stomach: it was the port. A pleasant glow irradiated his mind: it was the legacy.
Half way up Osbert Road he turned into George Stedman, Ironmonger’s. The shop was empty, but at the sound of Mr. Darby’s footsteps George Stedman hove in sight from behind a tall pyramid of pots and pans.
‘Good-evening, Mr. Darby!’ he said jovially, his great voice filling the shop. ‘Pleased to see you, I’m sure. Now what can I show you to-day? I can do you a lovely polished steel fender, fire irons and coal hod to match, eight pound five the lot. Or we have a very nice line in parrots’ cages.’
‘With … ah … parrot to match?’ asked Mr. Darby.
George gave a loud ha ha. ‘We’re out of parrots at the moment,’ he said. ‘Sold the last one this morning, as a matter of fact, to a middle-aged lady in a green hat.’ He placed both fists on the counter and leaned forward. ‘But we could get you one.’ Then his manner grew serious. ‘Just come and look at this,’ he said. ‘It’s a very neat thing, just out.’ He came round the counter, led Mr. Darby to the far end of the shop, and showed him a thing like a small green enamel cabinet.
‘What is it?’ asked Mr. Darby.
‘It’s a stove,’ said Stedman: ‘a stove for heating a room. The Equator, they call it. Burns paraffin. You put the paraffin in here, and here, of course, is the burner. Astonishing heat it gives out for such a little thing. The traveller brought one along and showed it me alight a week ago. The neatest thing of the kind I’ve ever seen.’
‘And the price?’ said Mr. Darby.
George Stedman put his hands on his hips. ‘Matter of twelve pounds,’ he said. ‘A mere trifle to the likes of you, Mr. Darby.’
‘I’ll take it,’ said Mr. Darby.
George Stedman ha ha’d. ‘Thought you would,’ he said.
It was Mr. Darby’s turn to laugh. But he did not laugh,—not externally. ‘On the … ah … contrary, George, you thought I wouldn’t, but I will.’
George Stedman looked down at the little man, puzzled. ‘You mean it?’ he said.
‘I mean it,’ said Mr. Darby. ‘I like the look of it and no doubt it will come in useful.’ He drew the crocodile-skin cigar case from his breast-pocket. ‘Have a cigar?’ he said.
George Stedman gaped at the costly case and the noble row of cigars: then, having taken a cigar and laid it carefully on the counter, he looked with amusement at Mr. Darby. ‘What’s come over you, Jim?’ he said. ‘Have you come into a fortune?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Darby, casually as if admitting to a slight cold in the head, ‘as a matter of fact I have, George. They tell me it’s about a million.’
‘Is that all?’ said Stedman. ‘Disappointing, I call it.’
‘If you and your missus will come round for a bit after supper to-night,’ said Mr. Darby, ‘you can ask Sarah about it. Perhaps she’ll make you believe it.’
Mr. Darby made for the door, mischievously resolved to leave George Stedman bamboozled. At the door he turned. ‘Meanwhile,’ he said, ‘don’t forget, will you, to send round this … ah … stove thing.’
• • • • • • • •
The invitation did more than Mr. Darby’s cigar case or his strange talk to convince Stedman that, at least, something was up. Whatever the truth of it was, he would learn it, as Mr. Darby had said, from Sarah. Though she had a sense of humour it did not take the form of vague obfuscations.
He came to the point the moment he and his wife entered Number Seven Moseley Terrace that evening. ‘Well, Mrs. D,’ he said, ‘and what’s all this talk of Jim’s about millions? ‘
‘Oh, it’s true enough,’ said Sarah wearily. ‘A regular upset!’
‘An upset you call it?’
‘I should think I do,’ she replied with evident annoyance. ‘Worse than a burst pipe.’