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

shock travelled from his knees to his feet, but with the lightning resourcefulness of a soldier in peril, his glance had left her as soon as it had lighted on her. Could it be
her
? He critically examined the instantaneous photograph printed on his mind. It was her coat, or very like it, a long brown coat with fur round the bottom. Without moving his head he turned his eyes and glanced at her furtively. The woman was watching him, astonished no doubt by his strange behaviour; but, thank God, she was not Sarah. A warm, luxurious wave of relief broke over him. But he did not lose his head. The fact that this woman was not Sarah did not prove that Sarah was not lurking close at hand. And so, without wasting more time Mr. Darby projected himself suddenly from the doorway of Thirty Seven, clean across Ranger Street, along the railings of St. John’s Church, to the
Chronicle
office; then sharp right along the narrow passage, then left, and so towards the Cathedral. He had made, instinctively, for the direction of Cliff Street and the Quayside, as if to escape not merely from Ranger Street and Sarah, but from England itself, and if only his wind had held and his spectacles remained unfogged he might (who knows?) have done the whole journey from Thirty Seven to the Quayside and straight on board the nearest ship in a single spurt. In less then ten minutes he might have been on his way for the Equator. But all of us, after forty or so, have our weaknesses. Mr. Darby’s heart was going like a gas engine, he was breathless, he had positively no breath left, his spectacles were dim with steam. Heslackened speed, pulled up short, and removing his spectacles began to polish them with his pocket-handkerchief. Poised upon its four flying buttresses, the lantern of the Cathedral tower surveyed him over the tops of the houses calmly and a little superciliously. Mr. Darby disregarded it: he was busy. But, unspectacled as he was, he would have disregarded it in any case, for the world, in such conditions, was a vague and foggy place.
    He replaced his spectacles now, the world cleared itself and he looked about him. Where was he? And where was he going? Ah, a Bass. He was going in search of a Bass. That meant that he must visit a public-house. He looked about him more particularly. There was no public-house in sight, and anyhow he could not run the risk of being seen entering or leaving a public-house in this part of the town, where he was likely to be known. A brief but vivid scene took place in his imagination. He was leaving a public-house. He pushed open the door, it swung to with a bump behind him, he hurried out into the street and ran straight into … Mr. Marston. Mr. Marston glared at him in amazement and disgust and passed on his way without a word. And rightly so, thought Mr. Darby, shuddering at the fancy; for people in positions like his own did not frequent pubs. Certainly not. And Mr. Marston who was ready enough to condone and even sympathize with a … ah … festive occasion, would certainly not countenance
that.
But this time the visit must be paid, for he was in search not of pleasure but of a remedy, a remedy strongly recommended for the little trouble from which he was suffering.
    Then a bright idea struck him. The Quayside! The very thing! He would go down—he had already, it seemed, been unconsciously going down—to the Quayside and visit a public-house there, for there he could do so with comparative safety. And that would kill two birds with one stone, because he loved the Quayside: among the ships and warehouses and cranes, with the river gliding by and the trains thundering across the High Level Bridge overhead, Mr. Darby tasted the romance and adventure of the unknown.The North Sea, London, the Channel, Europe, Asia, Africa, the Mediterranean, the Pacific. the Equator,—they were all in the air that blew along the narrow and smoky valley of the Dole. To breathe that air now would do for his