The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife Read Free

turned out of Osbert Road, a little saddened despite the two champagne-bottles under his left arm, and a few minutes later was proceeding past the red-brick fronts of Moseley Terrace. Each house had a small square of ineffectual garden before it with clumsy iron railings and gate fencing it from the pavement. Under the third lamp-post Mr. Darby paused, and the gate of Number Seven wheezed harshly as he opened and closed it. He burrowed for his latchkey and clicked it unerringly into the keyhole. As he opened the door a delicious scent of roasting beef saluted his nose. Before a kind of wooden reredos Mr. Darby gravely executed a series of priest-like movements, a ceremony which always inaugurated his entry into the home. He was removing his bowler and coat and bestowing them upon the coat rack.

Chapter II

The Birthday Party
    â€˜That you, Jim?’ Sarah’s voice came from the back room, the room they used for dining-room and sitting-room combined.
    â€˜Coming!’ replied Mr. Darby, rising on his toes to hang up his coat. The front room (the parlour) was never used unless there was company. Its chairs and sofa were upholstered in green plush: there were a great many knitted antimacassars, a great many knitted mats on which stood elaborate coloured glass vases, a great many framed photographs. The photographs included even the harmonium: on the rare occasions on which the harmonium was to be opened, half a dozen or so of them had to be removed and piled on a chair. There was a fan of red paper in the grate which looked as if it had never contained a fire. The flat lifeless air smelt of new carpet. It was cold, even at midsummer, in the parlour, and the cold air, the cold steely reflection of ceiling and walls in the mirror over the mantelpiece, sent a chill to the heart. The door was generally kept shut, but to-night it was open. Mr. Darby, when taking off his coat beside the coat rack, had stood with his back to it and when he turned he saw the warm flicker of firelight on the walls. The door of the back room also was open and Mr. Darby, stretching out his arms to shoot his shirtcuffs below the cuffs of his jacket, approached it and stood in the doorway. A glare of white tablecloth, cutlery and glass greeted him. A tall vase of brown chrysanthemums stood in the middle of the table. Beyond it, Sarah, greyhaired and massive, was bending over the table: there was a clink of spoons and forks. It was not until she had finished what she was doing that she straightened herself and looked at Mr. Darby. She was a large woman, much taller than her husband.Her grey hair was arranged with a severe neatness that could not hide its plentifulness over a square, severe face. It was a firm, capable, uncompromising, domineering face, but a fine face too. It was not the face of a bad-tempered woman, but of a woman who would stand no nonsense. She did not often smile, but when she did, the smile was at the same time grim and indulgent, and the person she smiled at was unexpectedly and inexplicably enchanted. It was only then that any but the boldest discovered with astonishment her magnificent grey eyes. Those eyes it was and her smile that had captured Mr. Darby twenty years ago. Sarah Bouch had spent fifteen years of her life in the service of the Duke of Newchester at Blanchford Castle. Her father was the Duke’s head keeper at Blanchford, and she herself had begun in the kitchen, worked her way up to housemaid (one of ten) and at the age of twenty-nine became head housemaid. She was not only a good worker but also a clever, observant woman and an excellent manager. In the course of her career she had managed to pick up a very comprehensive knowledge of the organization and administration of a vast household. When Mrs. Race, the housekeeper, was ill or absent, Sarah had frequently taken her place, and the only perceptible difference in the Castle at such times was that things ran even better than when Mrs. Race was there.