It was the sudden illness of the Inspector of Out Patients’ Departments, who had been going to speak at the General Meeting of the H.C.S. two days later in London, that put it into Lady Savershill’s head at the last minute to make Sarah take his place. Sarah’s verbal reports were so practical, so clear, and at the same time so exciting, that if she could be worked up into addressing the General Meeting she would almost certainly make a success of it. At the first suggestion, which Lady Savershill made during luncheon at Savershill Hall, Sarah shied and it was only by slow degrees that Lady Savershill brought her to the point of agreeing that the idea was possible.
‘But I can’t see myself getting up on a platform and haranguing a crowd,’ said Sarah.
‘Well, you manage to harangue me twice a week,’ said Lady Savershill.
‘That’s different,’ said Sarah. ‘You make allowances.’
‘Indeed I don’t,’ said Lady Savershill. ‘If I thought you were muddling things or talking nonsense, I should tell you so at once. The only difference between talking to me and talking to the General Meeting is that you must talk a little louder.’
Sarah laughed. ‘That sounds simple,’ she said. ‘But there’s more to it than that. When I talk to you I know it’s a matter of plain business in which we are both concerned. When I see you are interested, I feel pleased and somehow excited, and off I go.’
‘My dear woman, if you get excited because you see I’m interested, you’ll get much more excited talking to a crowd. To feel that a crowd of people is listening to you, that you are catching its attention, interesting it, taking it along with you, is amazingly stimulating. I’m sure you could do it: indeed, I wouldn’t ask you to do it, if I weren’t. And, another thing to bear in mind is that you are speaking with authority. Only one or two people in the hall, if any, will know as much about your subject as you do. You will be telling them something new, something highly interesting, something very necessary for them to know. And, if you talk to them as you talk to me, you will be exciting them, thrilling them. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. When you give me your report now after luncheon, you shall give it in the ball-room. You shall stand at one end and I’ll sit at the other. It’s sixty feet long and resounds horribly, so if you want me to follow you at all, you’ll have to speak loudly and slowly, and I shall be so far away from you that you won’t know whether I’m being interested or not. It will be much more difficult than speaking in a crowded hall.’
Accordingly, when they rose from the table Lady Savershill sent word for Miss Harter to go to the ball-room, and Sarah found herself obediently following her hostess across the hall, and down a long, wide corridor at the end of which were tall double doors painted white and gold. The long white and golden room, hung with crystal chandeliers like clusters of hanging icicles and flanked by a row of six tall windows, sent a chill of apprehension through Sarah. Their footsteps on the shining slippery floor echoed through the bare room. ‘I used to practise public-speaking here years ago,’ said Lady Savershill. ‘I stood at this end and my husband stood at that and I harangued him till one or other of us could stand it no longer. Now you stand there, Mrs. Darby, and I’ll go to the other end. You hear how the place echoes: it’s the worst place I know for speaking in; that’s why it’s such a good test.’ Lady Savershill walked away to the far end of the room as she spoke. ‘Now listen to me first,’ she said, when she had reached her place. ‘You hear how slowly and clearly I have to talk, otherwise everything’s lost in echoes. It has just occurred to me, Mrs. Darby, that the best speech you could possibly make at the General Meeting would be on the Monks well and Doleford hospitals. When you spoke to me of them you talked for half an hour: that is about ten minutes more than will be needed at the General Meeting, so you will have more than enough material. Just draw the contrast between the two: it was extraordinarily instructive and extraordinarily interesting.’ The door opened and the shorthand-typist came in. ‘Take a chair and go and sit near Mrs. Darby, Miss Harter,’ said Lady Savershill, and fetching a chair for herself she sat down. ‘Now, Mrs. Darby, let us hear to-day’s report.’
Sarah cleared her throat: her face became very pink.
‘I feel horribly nervous,’ she said.
‘Can’t hear,’ Lady Savershill shouted back.
‘I feel very shy,’ said Sarah loudly.
‘Never mind. Take no notice of it,’ Lady Savershill loudly replied.
Miss Harter sat smiling with her pad ready on her knee. Sarah pulled herself together. ‘The hospitals I have visited since last I reported,’ she began, ‘are the Royal Free at Bankhurst and the Mexham Infirmary …’
When she had spoken for a minute or two, Lady Savershill interrupted her. ‘One minute. Don’t take me down, Miss Harter,’ she said; ‘only Mrs. Darby. There are only two things wrong, Mrs. Darby: you drop your voice too much on the last word of each sentence, and you don’t pause long enough between sentences. When you get to a full stop, pause till the pause seems interminable. It not only gives you, you’ll find, great self-possession, but it convinces your listeners of your self-possession. Don’t forget, mind, to pronounce those last words clearly and sharply.’
So the lesson went on. Sarah lost her shyness and began to find the experiment amusing and interesting. Yes, making speeches was, apparently, very good fun, and she drove away that afternoon, not only having consented to speak at the General Meeting but actually eager to do so. She took with her the typescript of her report on Monkswell and Doleford, so that she could run through it from time to time and get all the details fixed in her memory. But, in fact, they were there already. She would take the report with her to the meeting so that if her courage suddenly failed her, she could simply read it. ‘But it won’t,’ Lady Savershill had said. ‘In fact, you’ll find, once you get started, that you forget all about the typescript and just talk. The only difficulty will be to stop you.’
• • • • • • • •
In the hurry of preparation and departure Sarah had no time to let Jim know of her unexpected return to London. No doubt she might have found time to send him a wire, but she reflected that she could make no appointment with him, for she did not know when she would be free. She was staying with the Savershills and it would be easy to ring him up from there. Next day they travelled up to London by the night train, and, as soon as she could get an opportunity after a late breakfast next morning, Sarah rang Mr. Darby up. But he was already out. He had gone, of course, to Penge. She tried again at one o’clock, but he had not yet returned. There was a large luncheon party at the Savershills, and Sarah, meeting Lord Savershill for the first time just before it, heard from him that he had seen her husband and asked him to come to the meeting. Well, she would have to try to catch him at the meeting, or, if she failed, ring him up again afterwards. It was all very harassing. She was harassed by her thwarted longing to get in touch with Jim, and by the prospect of the speech she was going to make. It loomed ahead of her now as a portentous and almost impossible task. Whatever had persuaded her to be mad enough to agree to do it? If only it was over and done with. But there it was, imminent, threatening, like some vast nightmare.
When they had started for the hall she felt better, but still far, terribly far, from self-possessed. She had to keep her teeth firmly clenched to prevent their chattering. As she emerged with the rest on to the platform she was aghast at the size of the audience. Lady Savershill, who was ahead of her, looked back as she reached her place and beckoned to her. ‘Come and sit beside me, Mrs. Darby.’ Sarah took the chair that Lady Savershill indicated. ‘It’s an excellent hall for sound. You’ll have no trouble in making yourself heard. The thing to do, remember, is always to talk to the back row. How are you feeling?’
‘Awful!’ said Sarah.
Lady Savershill looked at her sharply, but Sarah smiled and added: ‘But I shall manage.’
And, in fact, having said awful, she had instantly become aware that though it was awful it was also quite all right: nothing would go wrong. The awfulness was merely an inevitable symptom which she recognized and observed, but which she would undoubtedly be able to keep in control. It was this waiting that was so trying, this horrible inactivity which left her at the mercy of her dancing nerves. Well, all she had to do was to sit still and let them dance: it was like enduring a pain which you knew would cease at a certain specific moment. Lady Savershill tactfully kept up a running conversation. ‘A full hall, I’m glad to see. Nothing puts one off so much as talking to a small audience in a big room. A big audience, you’ll find, keeps you going, excites you.’
When Lord Savershill rose and proceedings started, Sarah had a little thrill of terror; but, once he had begun to speak, she became absorbed, not simply in what he was saying but in his way of speaking. She was making notes all the time, noting his effective pauses, his way of accentuating important words and varying his speed; noting, too, the response of the audience. How surprisingly one could gauge its state of mind, the small variations in its interest and attention. Once, for a minute or two, she felt its tensity slacken considerably: little sounds broke out, the great chequered area of pink faces and sombre clothes stirred and altered. Obviously Lord Savershill felt it, for he suddenly gave a humorous turn to a phrase. A low, hoarse whinny of laughter swept, like a ruffling breeze, over the crowd, and once more it was motionless and intent. How wonderful to be able to control the feelings of all these people like that, as if playing a pianola. Sarah felt in herself a ferment of delight and fear at the prospect of her own approaching turn. Yes, she was afraid, but she was also sure she was going to bring it off, and bring it off rather well. She was conscious of all sorts of powers in herself.
When Lord Savershill had finished and the next speaker had begun, Sarah’s confidence increased, for the audience obviously thought him dull, and so did Sarah. ‘Come! I can do better than that!’ she said to herself. She began to search the audience for Jim, but in vain. How strange it was to think that he was there, hidden somewhere in that crowd. Did he know she was there and going to speak? Probably not. How astounded he would be. The thought amused her, but next moment she wished she had let him know about it. He might think it unkind of her not to have done so. But she had never thought, of course, that he would be at the meeting till Lord Savershill told her, just before lunch, that he had invited him. Whatever happened, she must catch him when the meeting was over.
A ripple of hand-clapping roused her. The speaker had sat down. Sarah gripped her typescript nervously.
‘My husband will introduce you,’ said Lady Savershill in her ear. ‘I’ll tell you when to stand up.’
Lord Savershill rose and announced her, not by name, but as an Inspector of Domestic Staff for the Northern Division. When he had sat down, there was a pause, and then Lady Savershill whispered, ‘Now!’
Sarah rose to her feet. She felt the paper in her hand trembling; for a moment the audience went out of focus and vanished in a mist and a panic swept her mind. But none the less, deep down in herself she was in control. ‘Don’t begin. Wait till this is over,’ she thought; and after a few seconds the panic had gone—it had been no more than the boiling-over of a kettle—and the audience returned, focused itself, and settled down to listen. Sarah was aware of it as a sympathetic and receptive thing waiting to be fed. When she began to speak, the strangeness of her voice startled her. It was not her own voice: it was somebody-else’s and seemed to have a will of its own which she could not control. But at least it was talking slowly and it was talking sense, and this gave her confidence, and after another minute she was in control of it, of herself, of her words, and of her audience. She passionately wanted to tell them of her work, to awake in them the interest and enthusiasm which burned in herself. And now she could feel them respond: she was intensely aware of their attention and interest. It was thrilling, enthralling. She had forgotten her paper in her hand, which unconsciously she had laid down on the Chairman’s table beside her. When she had spoken for some time she glanced down at Lord Savershill. ‘Time up?’ she asked.
‘You can have another five minutes if you want it,’ he murmured back.
Yes she did want it. It would give her a chance of amplifying her comparison of the two hospitals, of rounding her speech off properly.
When she sat down the prompt and vigorous clapping from every part of the hall and from the platform too, showed how much she had been appreciated. She was breathless and flushed with happiness. ‘Magnificent!’ said Lord Savershill in her ear. ‘Couldn’t have been better! ‘He rose to conclude the meeting, but Sarah could not listen to him. She had had her fill of listening and talking and now she was anxious about Jim and sat scanning the hall, trying in vain to spot him. As soon as Lord Savershill had finished, she would hurry to the doors of the auditorium and catch him as he went out.
But when the meeting ended and they all rose to their feet Lord Savershill instantly began talking to her, congratulating her on her speech, telling her how interested he himself had been in her report and asking her a number of questions. She could not do otherwise than respond, waiting patiently for him to release her, hoping and praying that he would be quick. But when at last she got a chance of excusing herself and hurried off to the doors, Jim was not there. She waited till the hall had emptied itself and then rejoined her party.
Lady Savershill saw that she was worried. ‘Anything the matter, Mrs. Darby?’ she asked.
‘I was trying to catch my husband,’ Sarah explained.
‘Good heavens,’ said Lady Savershill, ‘I had forgotten your husband. Why he ought to have been staying with us. Why on earth didn’t you remind me? Do you mean to say he hurried away without waiting for us?’
‘He didn’t know I was here,’ said Sarah. ‘I had no time to let him know, in the rush, and he was out each time I rang him up. Heaven knows what he thought when he suddenly saw me haranguing the hall. I’m afraid he may be feeling a bit bewildered; and cross with me no doubt.’
‘But of course the poor man is. What a way to treat a husband. You must ring him up at once and make him come to tea and stay until we go north to-morrow.’
Sarah had already expressed her intention of returning to Newchester at once to carry on her work. She said now that she would like to drive straight to Bedford Square. ‘I shall be there almost as soon as he is,’ she said.
‘Do,’ said Lady Savershill, ‘and pack him up and bring him along in time for half past eight dinner.’
• • • • • • • •
When Sarah was shown into the smoking-room in Bedford Square, Mr. Darby rose with great dignity to receive her. He had not recovered from his outraged feelings and was prepared to be very ceremonious. But Sarah with her obvious delight at seeing him was irresistible. ‘Well, I’ve got you at last, Jim,’ she said, sailing down upon him and giving him a loud, hearty kiss. ‘I rang you up twice this morning’—this was news to Mr. Darby— ‘and I tried to catch you at the meeting, but you kept out of my way properly. I didn’t know I was coming south till the day before I started. Lady Savershill forced me into it; there’s no resisting her when she gets hold of you. How are you, my dear? You look splendid. Well, isn’t this like a mad dream? You living in this great house like a Duke and me haranguing public meetings like the Prime Minister. What did I sound like? Was I all right? You’ve no idea the fright I was in till I got started.’
She paused breathless and stood smiling at him. The sight of Sarah, her volubility, her expansive affection, the fact that she had been trying in vain to get at him, dissolved Mr. Darby’s pique instantaneously. ‘All right? I should think you were! ‘he said. ‘You were … ah … phenonymous. Better than Lord Savershill himself. Sit down, my dear, you must be exhausted.’
Sarah sank into a chair. ‘I am!’
Mr. Darby touched the bell. ‘We’ll have tea. Tea as soon as possible, Princep,’ he said when the butler appeared.
‘I’m just bringing it, sir.’
Sarah described her recent life and her H.C.S. activities. ‘And I have a Daimler, Jim. I hire it by the month.’
That, as she had expected, delighted Mr. Darby. ‘Indeed, now!’ he said, his face beaming. ‘And very … ah … right and proper. You’ll need it, I’m sure.’ When told of Lady Savershill’s invitation he bowed. ‘Of course, I shall be only too pleased,’ he said graciously.
‘And you’ll have to dress yourself up to the nines for dinner,’ said Sarah. ‘It’ll be a large party and everything’s terribly grand.’
‘Naturally! Naturally!’ said Mr. Darby shortly, as if such remarks were superfluous.
Princep came in, placed a table in front of Mrs. Darby, and then brought the tea-tray and plates of buttered toast, bread and butter, and various cakes. ‘Among the distinguished company who dined with Lord and Lady Savershill in Eaton Square last night,’ whispered Mr. Darby’s secret reporter, ‘were Mr. and Mrs. James Darby of Savershill, Newchester-on-Dole and Bedford Square, London. It may not be generally known that Mr. Darby has a very fine collection of English Old Masters and that Mrs. Darby is an exceptionally able public speaker.’
He was roused from this brief reverie by Sarah. She was pouring out tea, and he noted with satisfaction the magnificent and quite unconscious air with which she did so.
‘This H.C.S. you know, Jim,’ she said, ‘is a splendid thing. You must support it.’
‘I propose to do so,’ said Mr. Darby with dignity. ‘I told you, I think, that Lord Savershill has already … ah … talked me round. But no, you wouldn’t get my letter before you left home.’ Then, remembering the unfortunately lofty tone of that letter Mr. Darby blushed. But in a moment he had recovered himself. ‘What ought I to … ah … subscribe, do you think, Sarah? What would they expect?’
‘You should give at least five hundred a year, Jim,’ said Sarah promptly.
‘Five hundred! Mr. and Mrs. James Darby, five hundred! Very well, I’ll … ah … instruct the bank.’