“It’s all right,” cried Sue. “You’ll pay it all…”
She thought she would die if that hard, bitter voice went on any longer. It was like a knife twisted in her heart. She loved him so, and she had taken such care to shield him. She saw now that she had made a mistake in shielding him from trouble—but she had done it for love, and because she believed that he needed peace to develop his genius and because she wanted this quiet life to go on. It was over now.
“What do I owe?” he asked in a quieter tone.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Not the exact amount. It doesn’t matter, Mr. Darnay. The bills can wait. You’ll pay them when the pictures are sold.”
“If the pictures are sold,” he amended, “and they won’t sell. Hedley told me that and Hedley knows… Why in heaven’s name didn’t you speak to me about it?”
“I wanted to spare you trouble.”
“And you,” he continued, brutal in his bitterness. “What about your wages? Why didn’t you ask me for them?”
“I wasn’t wanting money from you,” said Sue in low tones.
He turned and looked at her. She was still kneeling on the floor in front of the empty range. He saw that her face was white and drawn as if she had been ill for a long time, and there was a smudge of soot across her cheek.
“Oh!” cried Darnay. “Oh heavens, what a selfish brute I am—and how blind! Can you ever forgive me?”
He was crossing the room toward her with his hands outstretched, and Sue half rose to meet him—and then, before he had reached her, his hands fell to his sides and he turned away.
“What is it?” asked Sue. “Oh, Mr. Darnay, what is the matter?”
“Nothing. I’ve just remembered…” he replied in a queer husky voice that she scarcely recognized.
He did not say what it was that he had remembered, and Sue did not ask. There was a constraint between them now. They avoided each other’s eyes and talked lightly, and rather feverishly, of the preparations to be made for Darnay’s departure. She was vaguely aware that something had nearly happened, but she did not know what it was. She only knew that Darnay had been on the point of saying something and had refrained.
“I don’t know how long I shall be away,” he told her, aware as the words left his lips that this was a lie. He must never come back to Tog’s Mill. It was good-bye to Tog’s Mill, where he had been so happy—and good-bye to Sue.
“I’ll write when I get to London,” he continued. “I’ll tell you how I get on. Don’t you think it would be a good plan to shut up the house?”
“I’d rather not,” she said quickly.
“The Bullochs would be glad to have you.”
She shook her head.
“I’ll write,” repeated Darnay. (It would be easier to write and tell her that he could not return, easier and safer. He must be very careful… She must never suspect… She would marry Hickie eventually, of course.) “I shall know what I’m going to do when I’ve seen Hedley,” he continued. “I must take some of the pictures to show him. Could we do them up in paper, do you think?”
Sue thought they could. She followed him into the studio and helped him to put out the pictures so that he could choose which to take. A great many of them were mere studies, but there were about a dozen finished pictures of trees and hills and clouded skies.
“Mr. Hedley is sure to like them,” she declared with conviction.
Darnay smiled. “You think so?” he asked. “But remember you didn’t like them much yourself.”
“Not at first,” she admitted. “They were so different from anything I had ever seen, but I like them now. They’re like olives, I think.”
“Olives!”
“You get to like them more and more,” Sue explained gravely. “Grandfather once gave me a bottle of olives and I thought they were horrid, but he laughed at me so much that I went on eating them, and quite soon I began to like them. I like them better than chocolates now.”
“Olives,” repeated Darnay thoughtfully. “You’re a most encouraging person, and the beauty of it is you’re absolutely honest.”
“Well, of course.”
“Of course,” he agreed, looking into her frank eyes for a moment and then turning quickly away. “I’ll take the willow tree,” he added, in a different voice, “and those two pictures of the snow.”
“Will you take me?” she inquired, pointing to the picture of herself that had now been finished.
“No,” said Darnay shortly.
“But it’s so good.”
“I shall keep it,” he declared. “Put it back in the cupboard. I’ll take this one of Beil Hill and that cloudy sky…”
His voice died away and he stood for a moment or two, silent, visualizing a future of clouded skies. Sue saw the far-off look and thought: He has gone already—his spirit has gone on before him to London.
* * *
There was little left to do when Darnay had gone and all the time in the world to do it. Sue locked the door behind her and set off for a walk, taking the hill path. It was still raining in the wind, but she did not mind that, for the rain was in tune with her mood and therefore more welcome than bright sunshine. She walked slowly and heavily, for there was no spring in her body, and wound her way wearily toward the hills. Part of her saw and noted the rain, the birds, the brownish-red buds on the bog myrtle, and part of her was withdrawn, suffering in a sort of dark, dumb misery. This was not the first time Sue had suffered mental agony, for she had suffered the same kind of loss when her mother died. Then as now, the whole light of her life had been extinguished in a moment—the whole light of her life.
She scarcely knew where she walked, and she was too wretched even to choose her path. She splashed through boggy places where the sphagnum was pink and spongy; she climbed rocks and tore her way through thickets of thorn. It was late afternoon when at last, for sheer weariness, she could walk no more and stood still, looking about her on the very top of the hills.
It had stopped raining by this time and the wind, blowing up from beyond the world’s end, was scattering the last remnants of the clouds. They fled before its thrust like a woman in rags. Then the sun shone—at first in dim, watery fashion, but soon with warmth and splendor, so that the drops of rain on the coarse grass looked like scattered diamonds. Sue heard the curlews crying and saw a pair of them winging their way across the shoulder of the hill. They were harbingers of spring to these deserted moors.
Sue wandered about a little longer—she passed near the Graingers’ cottage, but she had not the heart to go in and talk to May—and at last when the light began to fail she went down from the hills by the side of a little burn and found herself at the river’s edge about two miles above the mill.
It was a lonely landscape now that dusk was falling. Light came from the horizon, chilly yellow light, but more clouds had blown up and obscured the greater part of the sky. They were deep purple in hue, like a stain of purple ink on yellow blotting paper. As Sue came home down the river path she saw the trees on the hilltops stand out against the light in delicate outline, and she thought they looked like a cavalcade trudging wearily along. There were trees like men, walking bent and twisted beneath heavy loads, and another cluster looked like a coach with horses. The river was loud in her ears. It was running down now but still brown and muddy and turbulent. She noted the broken branches of the trees and marked how the coarse grass at the river’s edge was smoothed and flattened, all in one direction, like well-brushed hair. Between the rocks were matted lumps of twigs and straw and mud, caught there and cemented into place by the weight of water pressing upon them.
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 sullie
d 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.
Chapter Twenty-Two
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.
The Baker’s Daughter Page 15