The Baker’s Daughter (15 page)

At last she came to the willow that Darnay had painted, and she saw that the rainstorm had torn away the bank so that the little tree had fallen. It was half in and half out of the water, draggled and broken and sullied by the mud…

Suddenly she was overcome by the tears that she had fought against all day, and, with a little wail of misery like a wounded animal, she sank down upon the ground and wept.

Mr. Bulloch was walking down the hill to Tog's Mill. He walked slowly, for he could not think what he was going to say when he got there. It was nearly four months since the first time he had visited Tog's Mill. He had had a delicate mission then; he had a much more delicate mission now.

He was standing on the doorstep, wondering what he should say, when the door was opened by Sue. “I saw you coming,” she explained. “Why didn't you ring?”

“I was just going to,” Mr. Bulloch declared, and then he added, “Sue, I came… Ye're alone here, my dearie.”

“How did you know?” she asked.

Somehow or other her voice sounded strange in his ears. It was a hard voice, and the vowels were different. He thought,
She
has
changed. Susan was right.

“How did you know I was alone?” she repeated.

“Darnay wrote me,” he replied. “He's sent me a check to pay off all his debts in the town. He's not coming back, Sue.”

“I know that,” said Sue.

She was leading the way into the kitchen and Bulloch followed her, wondering what to say. He wanted to find out the reason for Darnay's unexpected departure. Had there been a crisis? Had the situation, which had seemed so dangerous to an outsider, suddenly become impossible to themselves? Was Darnay running away, and, if so, what was he running away from, and what was Sue feeling about it?

“Ye'll come home now, Sue,” he said at last. “Home to Granny and me—we're wanting ye badly.”

“Yes,” said Sue in a low voice. “Yes, I'll come. It's good of you, Grandfather. I've had a letter too. We are to shut up the house—he says so.”

“Aye, it's the best thing,” declared Bulloch with forced cheerfulness. “There's no sense in ye staying on here yerself. Ye'd like to see my letter, maybe,” he added, taking a large square envelope from his pocket.

He was pleased and surprised when Sue after a moment's hesitation produced another envelope (which might have been its twin) and handed it to him, saying, “Here's mine—you can read it if you like.”

They read each other's letters in silence.

Redmayes Hotel, London

Dear Mr. Bulloch,

You were so good to me when I was at Beilford that I am going to ask you for more kindness. This is what often happens, I am afraid. The fact is I left Beilford suddenly and unexpectedly because I found the necessity for raising money to pay my bills. I have gotten a commission for a portrait and am starting work on it today. I enclose a check, which I have received in advance, and I should be very grateful if you will pay what I owe in Beilford. Miss Pringle knows the amounts due to the various shops. If there is any residue it would make me very happy if Miss Pringle will accept it as a small token of my appreciation of all she has done for me. When the portrait is finished, I shall go abroad. I know that I am asking a great deal when I ask you and Miss Pringle to take so much trouble on my behalf, but I have no other friends in Beilford—nor in any other part of the world for that matter.

This has been a difficult letter to write. I have so much to say, but it is better that I should not say it. I have done enough harm. Please find enclosed my check for 100 guineas.

Yours sincerely,

John Darnay

Redmayes Hotel, London

Dear Miss Bun,

London is a big, noisy place after Tog's Mill, and I am feeling rather dazed, but I must not complain, for I had nearly four months of peace. The pictures have not met with much success here, and Mr. Hedley does not think they will sell. It seems that Londoners do not care for olives. However, the money difficulty is solved, which is the main thing. I am to paint the portrait of a lady. She is a fat white lady, but her husband loves her so much that he is willing to pay a hundred guineas to have her immortalized. I think a hundred guineas should clear off all my Beilford debts. I am to paint the lady in full evening dress, and I am to paint her in my old manner—all this for a hundred guineas in advance. When the portrait is finished I shall go away—perhaps to Italy or Germany, or perhaps to Timbuktu. I am leaving you a lot to do, but your grandfather will help you. Will you shut up the house and pay off all my debts so that Beilford will think charitably of the mad painter? You must not go on living alone at Tog's Mill—not good for you, Miss Bun—and your grandparents will love to have you, so that will be all right. The London sparrows are dirty and bedraggled. They have not a fine beech hedge to shelter in, nor a kind Miss Bun to give them crumbs.

You will notice I have not said, “Thank you for all you did for me.” The truth is it would be quite absurd to try to thank you. I have not words. Besides, I know you hate gratitude.

Good-bye, Miss Bun. Forget about me.

John Darnay

“Well,” said Mr. Bulloch when he had finished reading the letter. “Well, that's settled then. That's fine. Ye'll come to us, Sue. There'll be no holding Granny when she hears.” He spoke with forced heartiness, for the situation was no clearer to him than before. He realized that there was a good deal “between the lines” in Sue's letter from Darnay, but he could not read it. (All that about London people not liking olives. What did it mean?) Sue was upset, of course—that was obvious—but he could not tell to what extent she was upset. His one idea now was to get her home to Susan—Susan would know how to talk to her.

Sue had finished reading the other letter now. She folded it up and handed it back to its owner.

“When will ye come, Sue?” he inquired anxiously.

“I'll pack now,” she said. “There's no use staying on. I'll come back with you if you'll wait.”

“Fine,” declared Mr. Bulloch. “Fine, Sue. I'll help ye to go around the house and snib the windows.”

Sue left Tog's Mill in a hurry, for she felt that if she waited she would never have the strength to leave it at all. They went through the house together closing the windows and drawing down the blinds. Far in the distance she could hear her grandfather's voice talking to her in cheerful tones and, more strangely still, her own voice replying quite sensibly, but the real Sue was not there at all; she was withdrawn from the world, sunk in a pit of misery.

* * *

The Bullochs were very kind to Sue. They were almost too kind. They spoke to her cheerfully and fed her on the fat of the land. In fact, they treated her as if she were recovering from a serious illness. Mr. Bulloch explained to her that the business was to be hers when he retired. “And there's no need to thank me,” he declared, cutting short Sue's protestations of gratitude, “for there's nobody else I could leave it to when I leave this world, and it's certain I couldn't take it with me.”

They were sitting in the office, for Mr. Bulloch had called Sue into his sanctum to discuss the matter thoroughly, and Sue looked around at the laden shelves and sniffed the fine odor of spices that filled the air—and pinched herself to make sure she was not dreaming.

“All mine?” she asked incredulously.

“All yer very own,” he replied, smiling. “Once I'm dead ye can do what ye like with it.”

“Well, I hope it'll be a long time, anyway,” she said in her matter-of-fact way.

He laughed at that. “I hope so too,” he told her. “I'm in no hurry to leave this world—it's not a bad world when all's said and done—but it's as well to have things settled.”

“I'll have to learn…” Sue said thoughtfully.

“Aye, ye'll have a lot to learn,” agreed Bulloch, “and that's why I'm wanting ye here. Hickie will help ye, Sue—he's a good man, is Hickie—and ye could trust him with anything, for he's safe as the bank.” He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he had said enough. If Sue would only marry Bob Hickie the safety of the business would be assured. Sue and Hickie together would run the place as it should be run, and Bulloch could retire with an easy mind. It was no new idea, this. He and Susan had often talked about it and had decided that it was the best thing for everybody concerned. Hickie was just the man for Sue, steady and reliable and thoroughly good. He had been in love with Sue for years and had never looked at anybody else. Such faithfulness should be rewarded—or so the Bullochs thought—but Mr. Bulloch was the last man to want to coerce Sue; she would have to come to it of her own free will.

“I'm wanting ye to see the whole thing,” continued Mr. Bulloch after a little pause. “Ye can help in the shop, and ye can help me with the ordering, and ye can help Hickie to unpack the cases. But ye must get out too, for the fresh air's good for ye, Sue, and there's plenty of time to learn everything. I'm not wanting to retire just yet.”

It was all arranged. At first Sue felt too miserable to take a real interest in the working of Mr. Bulloch's business, but she was so grateful to her grandfather that she simulated an interest she did not feel, and after about a week the thing gripped her and she began to see the fascination of it. Sue might have settled down quite comfortably if it had not been for Hickie.

Bob Hickie had been patient for a long time. He had been content to wait for Sue and to hope that someday she would look his way, but now that she was actually here and he was seeing her constantly, his patience began to wear thin. He loved her more than ever and wanted her as he had never wanted her before. Sue was aware of his devotion, and it made her uncomfortable because she could not return it and because she did not know how to behave to him. If she were kind to Bob he immediately responded and jumped to the conclusion that she was “coming around,” and if she were cold and distant he went about looking like a whipped dog.

The other assistants watched the game with interest, for the progress of Hickie's love affair had a direct bearing on the future of the business, and therefore on their own lives. They had not been told that Sue Pringle was Mr. Bulloch's heir, but they were aware of it all the same, and if Sue married Hickie then he would be the boss when Mr. Bulloch retired. It was an added discomfort to Sue to know that the staff were watching her treatment of Bob, and she was fully aware of the smiles and nods that were exchanged between them whenever she spoke to him. They thought she was playing fast and loose with Bob, and this was the last thing she wanted to do. She was far too kindhearted and far too fond of Bob to take pleasure in his discomfiture. The whole affair was extremely complicated and Sue did not know what to do, for she was afraid that if she was obliged to tell Bob plainly that she could not marry him, he would leave Beilford altogether, and this would be most inconvenient for her grandfather. Mr. Bulloch had always depended upon Bob Hickie, and now that he was getting old he depended upon him more and more. “I don't know what I would do without Hickie” was a phrase that fell almost daily from Mr. Bulloch's lips.

One day, when Sue had been at the Bullochs for about a fortnight, Mr. Bulloch received another letter from Darnay. It arrived just as he was going upstairs to tea, so he took it with him to read at his leisure.

“Where's Sue?” he inquired as he sat down at the table and smiled at his wife.

“She's away to Tog's Mill to air the house,” Mrs. Bulloch replied. “I offered her to take the girl, but she said she'd rather go herself. Are ye wanting her, Thomas?”

“It's a letter from Mr. Darnay,” said Bulloch, and he slit the envelope.

Mrs. Bulloch sat down and poured out the tea. She glanced at her husband's face and saw that it was grave and frowning.

“Is there something wrong?” she inquired anxiously.

“Wrong? Aye, there's something very far wrong… By heaven, I wish we'd never laid eyes on the man!”

“I've wished that a long while,” declared his wife. She waited a little, watching his face as he read and reread the crackling sheets of paper, and at last she could be patient no longer. “Thomas, what's in it?” she inquired.

“Read it for yourself, woman,” he replied and put the letter into her hands.

She found her reading spectacles and put them on, but by this time, she was so upset and frightened that the clear black “painter's writing” danced up and down before her eyes. “I canna' make head nor tail of it, Thomas,” she said in a trembling voice.

“It's clear enough. What's the matter with ye that ye cannot read it?”

“I don't know. It's queer writing, Thomas. I think ye'd best tell me about it in plain words. I'm awful stupid…”

He took the letter away and patted her shoulder, for her pathetic admission had melted his heart. “It's me that's stupid,” he declared. “Here's what it is in plain words. Mr. Darnay's wife is wanting to divorce him.”

“That's awful,” she agreed, “but what has it to do with us?”

“She's fixed the blame on Sue.”

“The blame!” cried Mrs. Bulloch in horror-stricken tones. “Thomas! Does that mean… Oh, Thomas, it doesna' mean—”

“It means nothing but what I've said,” Bulloch declared. “She's wanting to divorce him and she's fixed the blame on our Sue. Here's what he says, Susan. ‘I need not tell you that the whole case is absolutely false, for that would be an impertinence on my part, but I am afraid we must face the fact that we have no proof of its falsity. The man who visited Tog's Mill, and whom we thought to be a burglar, was a private detective employed by my wife. I have consulted my lawyer, and he agrees that the man overstepped the law in entering the house in our absence, but we have no real proof that he did enter the house except the cigarette end, which was thrown away. I think you should consult your lawyer. If you and he and Miss Pringle decide that we should fight I shall fall in with your wishes (money need be no object as I have had several orders for portraits. I refused them, but they are still open to me). I want to do what is best—or least bad—from Miss Pringle's point of view. If the suit is undefended my lawyer says it will go through the courts with little or no publicity. If we defend the suit there will be more publicity. On the other hand, you may think that we ought to defend ourselves from the calumny and that it would be wrong not to do so. I shall abide by your decision.' That's the gist of it,” declared Bulloch. “The man goes on to call himself every name under the sun, but that doesn't help us much.”

“Not defend themselves,” Mrs. Bulloch cried. “But that would be awful, Thomas. They ought to tell the judge that they did nothing wrong—he would see they were innocent then.”

“How would he see that?” inquired her husband in a dry tone.

“He would see when he looked at them, of course. Nobody could think ill of our Sue.”

Bulloch laughed mirthlessly.

“Thomas!” she cried. “What are you thinking on? The judge would see justice done, wouldn't he?”

“He would see the facts, Susan, and the facts are that the two of them lived alone at Tog's Mill for four months and more. He wouldn't look further than that. I'll go down and see Mr. Henderson, of course, but I'm thinking he'll say the same.”

“What will folks say!” cried Mrs. Bulloch, wringing her hands.

“Nobody need know a thing about it. I'll see what Mr. Henderson says, but that's my view. We'll keep the whole thing dark—we'll not tell Will, even…”

“Will!” exclaimed his wife. “If ye tell Will he'll tell Grace, and it'll be all over Beilford by nightfall.”

“I said we'd not tell Will,” repeated Mr. Bulloch patiently. “We'll tell nobody—nobody except Mr. Henderson, and solicitors are paid to keep their mouths shut. Dinna' fash, woman,” he added tenderly, laying his hand on her thin shoulder. “We know our Sue, and that's the main thing.”

She caught his hand. “Wait,” she said. “Wait, Thomas, could we not do anything? Could we not go to Mrs. Darnay herself? Maybe the puir soul's miserable about it; she'd be glad to know it was all a mistake. Maybe she's fond of him yet.”

“Ye'd not think ill of the devil, Susan.”

“Why should we think ill of her?”

“Because of the facts, woman, because of the facts. The whole thing is Mrs. Darnay's fault; she went off and left her man in the lurch. Does that look as if she's fond of him? I can't see
you
traipsing off to London and leaving me to fend for myself… Ye're not thinking of it, by any chance, are ye?”

“Ye're daft, Thomas. What would I do in London?”

“Ye'd enjoy yerself,” he told her. “Ye'd be going out to the pictures and the theaters—or maybe to one of these night clubs.”

“Ye're clean daft,” Mrs. Bulloch declared, smiling in spite of herself at the absurdity of the idea.

“Well, well,” he said, patting her shoulder again. “Well, well, it's a great relief to my mind that ye're staying on here, for there's no other body can cook bacon to my taste.”

He left her laughing, which was perhaps his intention, and, taking his hat from the peg, went off to speak to Mr. Henderson about the disaster that had befallen them.

* * *

Sue was already so miserable about Darnay that the new development made little difference to her. She had answered his letter but had not heard from him again, and he seemed to have disappeared completely out of her life. The new development did not bring him any closer, for it was so extraordinary that she scarcely believed it. She knew, of course, that people did divorce each other—just as she knew that people sometimes flew to America, but both were equally incredible to Sue. The fact that she was a corespondent in the case of
Darnay v. Darnay and Pringle
made no difference to her life. She rose at the same hour, helped in the shop, ate her meals, and went to bed at night.

Mr. Bulloch replied to Darnay's letter in terms dictated by Mr. Henderson, saying that his solicitor advised that the case should be allowed to go through the courts undefended, but he added a little bit at the end on his own responsibility. “Sue says she stayed on at Tog's Mill on her own,” wrote Mr. Bulloch in his old-fashioned copperplate hand. “She says you told her to go home and she would not go. She says will you please remember this and not feel too bad about what has happened. We are not telling anybody about it, and Mr. Henderson says it is not likely anybody here will get to know. When Sue settles down and gets married, I will need to tell the man, but it will make no difference to him, for he knows Sue as well as we do. It matters little what the world says if your friends know you have done nothing wrong, so ‘dinna' fash,' Mr. Darnay, and remember none of us bear you ill will.”

Mr. Bulloch hesitated for a moment before he dropped his letter into the box, for he wondered suddenly if he had done right to mention Hickie… Nothing was settled yet between Sue and Hickie, of course…
But I didn't actually mention him
, thought Mr. Bulloch, frowning with the effort to remember his exact words. The letter dropped into the empty box with a thud.

* * *

Although Sue had so much to occupy her mind she had not forgotten her friends the Graingers, and sometimes on a Sunday afternoon she would walk up to their cottage on the moor and spend the evening with them. It was more difficult for May to visit her, for the chickens could not be left, and now when the hatching time had come it was necessary for somebody to be constantly on the spot, watching the incubators and testing the temperature of the “foster mother.” The Graingers had their troubles as well as Sue, for the moors were wild and hawks and stoats took toll of their stock, but they met adversity with courage and were not dismayed. The brother and sister were devoted to each other, but they had been parted for years—May had been working in Glasgow as a typist, Alec, as a clerk in Birmingham. A small legacy had enabled them to train themselves in chicken farming and to start a farm of their own, but they had very little money left and they began to realize that unless they could make a success of their new venture, and do so within the next year, they might have to give it up and return to their office stools.

Sue understood all this, and she approached her grandfather on the subject, suggesting that he should buy the Graingers' produce and make a special feature of it, and Mr. Bulloch agreed.

“Away up to the cottage and see them about it,” he said, smiling at her kindly. “Ye can put through the deal yerself, Sue. It will be good practice for ye.”

Sue walked over to see the Graingers that very afternoon. She was glad to be the bearer of good tidings. It was a fine day, sunny and bright with a strong breeze that fluttered her skirt like a banner and blew roses into her pale cheeks. Sue took off her hat, for it was pleasant to feel the cool wind flowing through her hair. She felt like a speck upon the moors today, for they were deserted and the clouds were high—there was no mist or vapor to hide the spacious emptiness of the hills.

The Graingers were digging in their garden when Sue came down the rutty track to the gate. She called and waved to them from afar, and May relinquished her spade and ran to meet her like a child.

“Sue, where have you been?” she cried breathlessly. “We thought you'd forgotten us.”

Alec followed more slowly. He was a well-built, solid young man with a pleasant open face, but he had not the verve or the vitality that made his sister so attractive.

They all three leaned on the gate while Sue unfolded her plan. “Grandfather will pay you market prices,” she told them, “and he can lift the eggs when he sends up your order from the shop. That will save you the expense of carriage, won't it?”

“Oh, Sue, it's a splendid plan!” cried May.

Alec was silent for a few moments, his face grave. “We'll have to think it over,” he said dubiously.

“Think it over!” echoed Sue. “Why should you need to think it over? I thought you'd be pleased.”

“There's a lot to think of,” replied Alec. “For one thing, Mr. Bulloch would have to get the eggs cheaper if he lifted them himself. May and I are not going to take advantage of our friendship with you.”

“What use are friends—?” began Sue, but she got no further, for May seized her arm and dragged her down the path toward the cottage.

“You had better finish the digging, Alec,” she said over her shoulder. “You'll just have time to finish the row while I get the tea.”

Once they were in the kitchen with the door shut, May proceeded to explain her brother's attitude to the new plan. “Alec is so independent,” she said. “You mustn't mind if he seems ungrateful. It's because he won't accept favors from anybody.”

“But it's not a favor,” Sue declared. “Grandfather will be glad of the eggs—and the honey too, when the time comes for it. He would need to pay market prices wherever he got them.”

“Leave it to me,” said May. “I'll manage Alec all right. The plan is an absolute godsend—almost too good to be true; things are not going too well for us at the moment.”

“You're so brave!” exclaimed Sue impulsively.

“Not really brave,” replied May with a faint smile. “I'm an awful coward at night. I think of the bills and try to calculate how much money we've got left, but it's no use going about with a long face and moaning over our bad luck, for that would only make things worse. I've got to think of Alec and keep him cheerful and that's a great help. It's when you've only got yourself to think of that it's difficult to smile through troubles.”

Sue digested this philosophy in silence, for she saw that she could apply it to her own case.
And May's troubles are worse than mine
, Sue thought as she walked home across the moor,
for I'm sure of a roof over my head and plenty to eat. My troubles are imaginary. They are all in myself, and the best thing to do is to pull myself together and make the best of life.
She determined to cease brooding about Darnay. She had to do without him, so she must try to do without him cheerfully and find what pleasures she could in small things. She had a comfortable home and kind friends and interesting work. It was ungrateful to be dissatisfied with life.