The Baker’s Daughter

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Do? You can’t do anything.”

  “I want to do something for the girl.”

  “You can’t. You don’t know anything—you said so yourself—and the girl doesn’t need anything done for her.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “I mean she’s Bulloch’s granddaughter. He can look after his own. Why are you bothering now, after all these years?”

  “Because I’m lonely, I suppose,” said Sir Rupert slowly. “Because I’m old and lonely and selfish. He said she was very charming, didn’t he?”

  “Leave it alone, Rupert. Leave it alone. You’ll only make trouble if you begin to stir up the mud.”

  Sir Rupert sighed. “I suppose I must,” he said, “but I’d give a lot to know…”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sue was not best pleased when she heard that Miss Faulds was coming to the studio to have her portrait painted. She had had Darnay to herself for so long that she viewed with dismay the prospect of another woman coming daily to Tog’s Mill. She was therefore very proper and polite and exceedingly standoffish when she opened the door in answer to Miss Faulds’ ring.

  “Mr. Darnay is in the studio. Come this way, please,” she said, eyeing the visitor appraisingly and taking in her whole appearance at a glance. She’s pretty, thought Sue, grudgingly, and her clothes are lovely. He won’t paint her with an old duster on her head.

  Darnay thought she was pretty too, with her dark wavy hair and brown eyes, but her clothes did not please him so much.

  “Shall we go for a walk along the river?” he inquired, when he had greeted her in a suitable manner.

  “A walk!” exclaimed Miss Faulds in surprise.

  “I want to get to know you a little,” said Darnay, smiling. “I can’t sit down and paint you straight off—at least, I don’t want to—and I’m not going to paint you in that dress.”

  She was a little taken aback at this. “Don’t you like it?” she exclaimed.

  “It’s very pretty, but it’s not you,” replied Darnay. “What do you usually wear? What sort of clothes do you feel most comfortable in?”

  “Tweeds and a jersey,” said Jean Faulds promptly.

  “Then I’ll paint you in tweeds and a jersey,” he declared.

  Sue saw them go out together, talking and laughing like old friends, and she was torn by the fiercest emotion she had ever experienced. She rushed into the kitchen like a whirlwind, seized a pail and a scrubbing brush, and proceeded to scrub the floor as if her life depended upon it.

  Meanwhile, Darnay and his prospective sitter were walking up the river path. Jean was not clad for such an expedition, but there was something about this man that compelled you to do what he wanted—or so she felt—and soon she was so interested in his conversation that she forgot about her clothes. Darnay was watching her carefully and making up his mind about the portrait. She was not so interesting as Miss Bun—from a painter’s point of view—but she had an engaging personality, and he was glad that he was going to paint her. She was a friendly creature, and soon she was telling Darnay about her affairs.

  “I live with Uncle Jamie mostly, and keep house for him,” she said, “but I’ve been staying with friends—that’s why I wasn’t there when you dined at the castle. I was awfully excited when he said you were going to paint me. I’ve seen some of your pictures. By the way, there was a Mrs. Darnay staying at Fulham Park. Is she any relation, I wonder?”

  “Perhaps it was my wife,” Darnay said.

  Jean was silent, for she did not want to pry into private matters.

  “She knows a lot of people,” Darnay added. He was aware that a constraint had arisen between them, and, although he did not want to bother her with his personal affairs, he felt that he must give some explanation. Miss Faulds would think it odd that he did not know more about his wife’s movements. “It was too dull for her here,” he explained, “so she went home for a little.”

  “I see,” said Jean.

  “I wonder if it was my wife,” he continued, trying to speak lightly. “Had she a leopard-skin coat?”

  “She had,” replied Jean, smiling. “A most wonderful skin—we were all wild with envy.”

  “That would please her,” he declared.

  Jean did not answer this, for she was embarrassed by his bitter tone. The woman had been pleased, of course, and had shown her pleasure so openly that they had laughed at her behind her back and called her “My Jungle Love.” She was a rotten sort of woman—they had all thought so. What a pity she was married to this charming man!

  “I suppose you make a lot of money by your pictures,” she said, uttering the first words that came into her head in order to change the subject.

  “I did at one time—” he began.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” cried Jean. “Uncle Jamie told me about it. I think it was a wonderful thing to do.”

  “Anybody who felt as I felt would have done the same.”

  “They might not have been able to,” she answered quickly, “if they hadn’t had private means.”

  They were on a narrow path now—so narrow that Darnay had gone ahead. He stopped suddenly as if he had been shot, for the words were like a flash of lightning illuminating the dark places of his mind. He saw suddenly that he had been living in a dreamer’s paradise: eating, sleeping, painting, and talking nonsense to Miss Bun. Money—he had never thought of it. What on earth had he been living on all these months?

  Jean had stopped too, for she could not pass him. He was standing in the middle of the path.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, answering her previous remark. “No, I haven’t got anything except what I make myself. My father lost all his money in the Wall Street crash. Fortunately, I was established by then.” He could say no more, for his throat felt dry and stiff. He tried to calculate how much money he must owe to Miss Bun and to the Beilford shops, but it was impossible—he had no idea at all. Why hadn’t they sent him bills? It seemed odd that they should be willing to give him unlimited credit—a stranger of whom they knew nothing.

  These thoughts took but a few moments to pass through his mind, and he came to himself to hear Jean’s voice. “Uncle Jamie nearly got caught,” she was saying, “and some friends of ours lost everything. It was dreadful, wasn’t it?”

  “Dreadful,” agreed Darnay.

  Jean was sure that something was the matter, for Mr. Darnay’s manner had completely changed. He had been gay and friendly, and now, quite suddenly, he was aloof and grave. She wondered if she had offended him, and if so, how. They were now on their way home, and they walked on in silence, busy with their own thoughts.

  “What is the matter, Mr. Darnay?” said Jean at last.

  “The matter?” he inquired. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry I’m so dull. The fact is I’ve just thought of something rather worrying—something you said.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s just as well. I ought to have thought of it before.”

  They said no more but walked on till they came to the old mill; it was getting dark now and beginning to rain. Jean’s small car was waiting in the drive.

  “Won’t you stay and have some tea or a glass of sherry?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I had better go back. Shall I come tomorrow morning—in my oldest and most disreputable clothes?”

  Darnay hesitated before he answered. He was standing at the window of the car and he had to stoop to look in and speak to her. “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully.

  “You don’t know what?” she asked in astonishment.

  “I do apologize,” he continued in a low voice. “I know I’m behaving in a most extraordinary way. We may have to postpone the portrait—I may have to go away.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “You can paint me when you come back.”
r />   “You’ve no idea how—”

  “I wish I could help,” she cried impulsively.

  “That’s nice of you,” he said. “You ought to be angry with me for being so dull, but I’m afraid nobody can help.”

  It was all very mysterious, and Jean pondered over it as she drove home. She came to the conclusion that it was something to do with his wife, for they had been talking about her when his manner had suddenly changed. She tried to remember what she had said about the woman. I said we were wild with envy, she thought as she turned into the castle gates, but surely he could see it was meant for a joke. Even if he had taken it seriously, Jean did not see how the words could have disturbed him so profoundly.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Darnay, after ringing the bell and pounding on the door without any result, had decided that the house was empty. He remembered that Sue always left the key of the front door under a stone when she went out and, lifting the stone, found it and let himself in. The house felt empty and deserted, and Darnay knew the moment he crossed the threshold that Sue had gone. He went into the kitchen and found a note on the table. “Back at ten,” said the note tersely.

  Darnay was surprised at this sudden desertion, for it was most unusual. Miss Bun never went out of her own accord, and he was obliged to use persuasion when he considered that a visit to the Bullochs was overdue. He was surprised and somewhat annoyed, for he wanted to talk to her. She might have waited till I came in, thought Darnay. He sat down to his supper (which had been left ready for him on the table) in a thoroughly bad humor, but after a few minutes, he saw how unreasonable he was and became annoyed with himself instead of with Miss Bun. He was always telling her to go out more, to go see the Bullochs, or those Graingers at the chicken farm with whom she was so friendly, and now that she had taken him at his word and gone he was as peevish as a spoiled child. And that’s exactly what I am, thought Darnay, a spoiled child. I’ve done exactly what I wanted for months and considered nobody but myself.

  After supper he went into the studio and opened his desk. There were piles of letters in it, all neatly stacked and girded with elastic bands. Darnay sat down and began to go through them.

  There were letters from Elise, and letters from Hedley, his agent, and one or two bills from London shops, but there were no Beilford bills among them—not one. Darnay remembered telling Miss Bun that he did not want to be bothered with letters, and he saw that she had taken him at his word. He waded through the letters and found that they were just what he expected. Elise wanted him to go back to London and paint pictures that would sell. Hedley wanted the same thing. They didn’t understand.

  It took him a long time to read the letters, and he had only just finished his task when he heard Miss Bun come in. I can’t speak to her tonight, said Darnay to himself. I must think it over first. I must think what I am going to do.

  He rose and stretched himself and went out into the hall to say good night to her. “Did you have a good time?” he inquired.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Sue brightly. “Did you enjoy your walk?”

  “Not very much,” replied Darnay.

  Miss Bun was halfway upstairs by this time. She paused and looked back. “Did you not?” she asked in a surprised tone. “I thought Miss Faulds so nice—and so pretty!”

  “Yes, I suppose she is,” he said.

  Miss Bun smiled inscrutably. She looked pleased for some reason. “Are you going to paint her in that pretty dress, Mr. Darnay?” she inquired.

  “No. Perhaps I shan’t paint her at all.”

  She hesitated a moment or two longer, and then, as he did not vouchsafe any more information on the subject, she said, “Good night,” and ran upstairs to bed.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Things always seem worse at night, and any sort of trouble is magnified. The darkness, the stillness, the feeling that everybody else is safely and soundly asleep give rise to feelings of desperation. Darnay’s case was no exception to the rule. At first, when Jean Faulds’s words had opened his eyes to the fact that his financial position was unsound, he had thought of the whole affair as a bore. He would have to do something about it, but the more he considered the matter, the more worried he became. He was in debt, he had no money to pay his bills, and he could see no way of making money to pay them—this was the situation, and the thought of it weighed upon him like an intolerable burden.

  The truth was that Darnay had never had to think about money or trouble his head about it, for he had always had enough for his needs: his pictures had sold well and his wife had money of her own, but now the position had changed, for his new pictures would not sell, and his wife had left him.

  He thought of Jean Faulds’s portrait, but he could not depend upon that for the money that he required. He had promised to burn it if it did not please the Laird. And it wouldn’t please him, thought Darnay. I knew that from the beginning; he would hate it.

  There was Elise, of course, but he would not accept a penny from Elise. He would rather die than crawl back to Elise and ask her for money. Elise wanted him back—on her own terms, for she had no use for failures—but could he ever go back to Elise? He visualized her, with her painted mouth and her hard eyes, and, remembering all the deceits and subterfuges that were part of her nature, he suddenly shuddered. How could I have borne it? he asked himself.

  Darnay paced to and fro in his room, listening to the rain that beat against the windows and to the eerie whistling of the wind. The old house rattled and creaked and groaned like a soul in pain, and the river rose rapidly and roared down the glen.

  What a fool I was! Darnay thought. Did I imagine that food fell from the skies like manna? No, I never thought at all. I was so wrapped up in my painting that I let everything else slide. Selfish, egotistical, vain—that’s what I am—dishonest too, for I’ve been eating food that I can’t pay for. I’ve been living in dreams, but the world isn’t made for dreamers. A man must stand on his own feet—Bulloch said that—but it isn’t any use thinking of the past. What am I to do? That’s the question…

  It was four o’clock in the morning now—a dark and desperate hour—and to Darnay it seemed the darkest hour of his life. He had believed in himself, believed that what he was doing was worthwhile, believed that eventually the world would acknowledge his genius, but now, for the first time, he began to have doubts. Perhaps Hedley was right after all, and the new medium was worthless—a mere freak. Perhaps he, Darnay, had thrown away the substance for the shadow…

  Suddenly Darnay stood still and gazed at his reflection in the streaming windowpane. He saw what he must do. He must go to London and see Hedley and tell him the whole thing and, if Hedley could not sell the new pictures, he must paint some potboilers, that was all. The prospect sickened his soul. It was a betrayal of his art to go back to the technique that he had rejected and outgrown. It was an acknowledgment of failure.

  He fought against the decision, for although it was his own decision, it was so alien to his nature that he felt as if it were being forced upon him by an influence outside himself. He was literally torn in twain; the one Darnay sensible, matter-of-fact, logical, pointing out the only way out of the mess, the other Darnay resisting and protesting almost hysterically that some other way must be found.

  “What other way?” inquired the sensible Darnay. “You can’t make money any other way. You aren’t trained.”

  “I would rather sweep a crossing,” declared the hysterical Darnay.

  “And how much money would you make by that?” demanded the sensible one.

  Darnay dragged a suitcase from the box room and began to pack. He gathered up his belongings and flung them into the case, stopping every now and then to curse himself or to reflect upon another aspect of the situation. What would he do if he found it impossible to go back to the old outgrown technique? If he painted potboilers and Hedley couldn’t sell them?

 
; “Oh, heavens, I shall go mad if I think of all this!” cried Darnay aloud. “I mustn’t think at all. I must act. I must go to London and find out what I can do…”

  It was daylight now, and the skies were gray. Rain still fell slantingly in the wind. Darnay heard sounds of activity in the kitchen premises and knew that Miss Bun was starting her day’s work. He put on the gray business suit that he had decided to wear and went down to speak to her.

  She was busy cleaning the range when he went into the kitchen, that dreadful old range she had always declared was inhabited by an evil spirit.

  “Miss Bun,” he said, “I’m going to London.”

  “To London!” she cried in amazement. “You don’t mean—you don’t mean now?”

  “I shall start immediately after breakfast. I’m going in the car—”

  “But why—?” she began.

  “Why? Because I’ve wakened up, that’s why. What’s been happening here while I was asleep?”

  She gazed at him wide-eyed.

  “How much do I owe in Beilford?” he asked in a strange bitter voice. “How much, eh? Who has been paying for my food? Tell me that.”

  Sue couldn’t speak. She couldn’t answer him to save her life.

  He walked up and down the kitchen once or twice and then came to a halt and stood looking out of the window at the drizzling rain. The day was gray—all gray—and so was his heart—clouded over with misery.

  “The truth is,” he said. “The truth is I haven’t had to—to bother about money. I made enough by my pictures—and then my wife—my wife has—money. She managed everything. She liked doing it. When she wanted money for the house she asked me for it and I wrote a check. I’m telling you this, but it isn’t an excuse, of course. There is no excuse for dishonesty, is there?”

  “Dishonesty!” she echoed in dismay.

  “Yes, dishonesty. If a man goes into your father’s shop and takes a loaf of bread that he can’t pay for—that’s dishonest, isn’t it? He’s put into prison for stealing, isn’t he?”