“These dear ladies!” he exclaimed, watching the impression that his words were making upon the little group that surrounded him. “These dear, dear ladies! We must let Miss Pringle have it, Edward. Take it down for her like a good fellow, and see if she would like you to call a taxi to take her home.”
It was not until Sue was halfway home in the taxi, with her precious picture beside her on the seat, that she suddenly remembered Mrs. Leon Hunter’s sherry party she had promised to attend. Och, well! said Sue to herself. There will be a big crowd… She’ll never miss me.
* * *
Sue went straight up to her bedroom and hung the new picture where the “White Lady” usually hung. She stood back and looked at it, and the more she looked at it, the more she liked it and the more certain she became that Darnay’s hand had painted it. The “little brothers” in the picture were exactly like the little brothers at Tog’s Mill. A merry lot they were, with a look in their wee beady eyes that was at once impudent and greedy, and Sue wished that she could give them the feast of crumbs that they most certainly deserved.
She was still standing there when Aunt Bella came in with her arms full of linen. “Sue,” she said. “We’ll need to get these sheets mended… My, what’s happened to you?” she added in surprise, for Sue’s cheeks were pink and her eyes were starry with excitement.
“Happened!” cried Sue. “All sorts of things have happened. I’ve bought a picture, for one thing. There it is, but I can’t pay for it.”
“I’ll give it to you, dearie,” declared Aunt Bella promptly. The picture was worth a good deal to have had such a tonic effect upon her niece. “Don’t you worry about that, for I’ll give it to you gladly. How much is it, eh?”
“Seventeen pounds…no, guineas…but I can pay the shillings myself.”
“My, that’s awful dear!”
Sue laughed. “It’s worth a hundred pounds,” she declared. “At least, I could get a hundred pounds for it if I wanted to sell it. I was offered that for the ‘White Lady.’”
“A hundred pounds for yon wee picture of the ‘White Lady’?”
Sue did not reply. She had pulled her suitcase from beneath the bed and was beginning to pack, tossing her garments into it in a haphazard manner.
“What in the name of fortune—?” her aunt exclaimed in astonishment.
“I’ve got to go. I simply must. I know it’s inconvenient leaving you in the lurch, but I can’t help it.”
“Sue, is it home to Beilford? You’ll not get a train till—”
“It’s to Amsterdam.”
Miss Bulloch looked at her niece with horror-stricken eyes. “Amsterdam!” she cried. “Sue, is it Mr. Darnay, or what?”
“I don’t know anything,” Sue declared. “I don’t know where he is. I don’t even know if it’s him at all—”
“For pity’s sake!”
“—but I’m certain that it is.”
“Could you not be a wee bit more explicit?” demanded Miss Bulloch with unconscious irony.
“I might, if I wasn’t so excited,” cried Sue, and suddenly she dropped an armful of clothes and laughed and flung her arms around Aunt Bella’s neck—it was a most unheard of demonstration of affection. “Dear Aunt Bella, what a bother I am! If you weren’t the kindest person in the world, you’d throw me out the door. Now, listen till I try to be sensible. I’m sure in my own self that Mr. Darnay painted that picture—certain sure—but it’s not signed, you see.”
“How can you know, then?”
“Because of the tree and the birds.”
Miss Bulloch gave up the riddle. “Well, if you say so,” she declared in a hopeless tone of voice. “But, Sue, you’re never going after the man yourself! It’s not quite the thing—you, traipsing over half Europe after him. Would you not tell Mr. Hedley?”
“There are two reasons,” Sue replied, quite serious now. “One, Mr. Darnay may not want people to know where he has gone, and two, Mr. Hedley might not believe me.”
“But, Sue—”
“Don’t you see?” she cried. “If I tell Mr. Hedley about it he’ll either believe me, and go after Mr. Darnay himself, and worry and bother him to death, or else he won’t believe me and he’ll do nothing at all. It wouldn’t be any use telling Mr. Hedley.”
When Aunt Bella saw that Sue was determined on her course she made no more objections. She found a timetable and looked out the sailings, and then she knelt down and repacked the suitcase. The picture of the birds was wrapped in paper and tied with string.
“You’ll wire me?” she adjured her niece as they waited in the hall for the taxi. “You’ll be sure to wire me, Sue. I tremble to think what your grandfather would say if he knew what you were up to.”
Chapter Thirty
It was the first time that Sue had left her own land, but she had set out upon her adventure so hurriedly that she had no time to be alarmed at its magnitude. The crossing was calm, and there were plenty of people on the boat who were only too pleased to give assistance and advice to an inexperienced traveler. Wrapped in a thick tweed coat—for the wind was cold—Sue stood at the rail and marveled at her first view of Amsterdam. It was a beautiful city, with a dignity all its own. In the foreground was a perfect forest of masts, and behind was a vista of towers and spires outlined against the blue unclouded sky. It seemed to Sue that the whole city must be made up of churches, and this illusion was intensified when the bells began to ring. The country was very flat, of course, but she had expected that, and although she missed the hills, she perceived that there was something to be said for a plain. The horizon was wider, here, and the spires and towers looked taller and more dignified rising from the level land and reaching into the skies.
Sue hired a car and drove through the town—through wide, clean streets lined with tall trees—and presently arrived at Mr. Van Kampen’s shop. It was a curiosity shop, and the window was full of old Dutch furniture and prints of Dutch masters in dark-oak frames. She opened the door and went in and found the shop full of people. This was annoying—it was her first setback since she had started her adventure—and it meant that she would have to wait until Mr. Van Kampen was free to attend to her. She sat down quietly and waited, watching the people and listening to their talk, and, despite her impatience, she was amused and interested to hear them, for it seemed to her that this language resembled the broad Lowland Scots she knew so well.
The shop was full of pewter jugs and Delft pottery—lustrous white china with little pictures of Dutch scenes and decorations in blue—and there were framed prints of Amsterdam harbor and public buildings and a few larger pictures of windmills and canals and tulip fields in bloom. Sue could see no pictures that resembled Darnay’s work and her heart sank a little. She began to wonder if Edward had made a mistake and the bird picture had come to Hedley’s galleries from some other agent.
There was plenty of time for reflection and observation, for Mr. Van Kampen’s customers took a great deal of care over their purchases, and he did not hurry them. He was a dear old man, Sue decided. His bald head, with its little fringe of white hair, was shiny and polished like a billiard ball, and his clean rosy face was full of kindliness.
At last her patience was rewarded. The door shut behind the last customer and Mr. Van Kampen turned to Sue and bowed. “Good day, madam,” he said in excellent English. “What can I do for you?”
“You knew I was English!” Sue exclaimed in amazement.
“That is so obvious,” he returned, smiling at her in a friendly way.
“And you can speak English,” added Sue in a relieved tone.
“And I can speak English,” he repeated, nodding. “It is necessary that I should, for I have many English customers. I regret that I have had to keep you waiting so long. What is it that you want? A pewter jug, a little picture of our great city, or perhaps an old chair…”
“I d
on’t want anything,” Sue replied. “The fact is I bought a picture the other day at Mr. Hedley’s galleries in London. It’s a very nice picture, but it’s not signed, and I wondered if you could tell me who painted it.”
Mr. Van Kampen had listened carefully to this, and now he shook his head. “How should I know if Mr. Hedley does not? He is more experienced than I am, madam.”
“But he got it from you!” she cried. “It was one that you sent him. I’ll show it to you.” She tore the paper off and produced the picture, propping it up against a statuette of the Venus di Milo that stood on the counter.
Mr. Van Kampen put on his spectacles and looked at it. “Ah, yes, I like that picture,” he said. “I remember it quite well—the row of little birds. How impertinent they are!”
“Do you know who painted it?”
“Yes, yes, indeed. I wanted the painter to sign it, but he said no. Strange, wasn’t it, for most painters like to sign their pictures.”
“Who is he?” inquired Sue, striving to hide her excitement.
“It is a countryman of your own,” declared Mr. Van Kampen. “A poor painter who lives at Leyden. He has painted a great many pictures of little birds and I have sold them all—to London, to Paris, to Brussels—dozens of little pictures of birds and trees. It is for his bread and butter, you see, and to buy materials for other, bigger pictures. These bigger pictures he does not sell; I cannot tell you why.”
“What is his name?”
“I have had several interesting talks with him,” continued Mr. Van Kampen in his slow, deep voice. “It is a pleasure to me to speak English, for some of the happiest years of my life were spent in your country. We have talked together a great deal about painters. He is an admirer of Rembrandt. We are very proud of Rembrandt, we Nederlanders.”
“Yes, you must be.”
“We are very proud,” repeated Mr. Van Kampen complacently. “He is the greatest painter of all time. Such power, such delicacy, such inimitable draftsmanship, such color, such imagination, such fire! Yet Rembrandt was a man of the people—his father a miller, his mother a baker’s daughter.”
“A baker’s daughter!” exclaimed Sue with interest.
“A baker’s daughter.” The old man nodded. “And why not? They are useful people, bakers, and we could not do without them. Rembrandt’s people lived at Leyden, and he was brought up there—”
“But about my picture,” interrupted Sue, who could listen no longer to the history of Rembrandt. “You were going to tell me the painter’s name.”
“Let me see,” said the old man. “Let me think. Names are so difficult to me—I cannot remember them like I used to when I was young. I think I shall have to look in my books for his name. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow.”
“I’ll wait,” said Sue firmly. “It won’t take you long, will it?”
Mr. Van Kampen sighed, for it was his dinner hour, but his visitor looked so determined that he saw it would be impossible to get rid of her. He produced a large account book and began to look through it. Sue waited impatiently, her excitement mounting like a fever. At last he gave a little grunt of satisfaction. “Eureka!” he said, smiling. “Yes, here is his name. John Day—and the address he gave me in Leyden to which I was to forward my check. I will write it down for you so that there will be no mistake.”
“John Day!” repeated Sue. It was not his real name, of course, but it was near enough to give her added hope. She thanked Mr. Van Kampen and hurried away.
Chapter Thirty-One
Sue went to Leyden (or Leiden) by a train that dawdled contentedly through flat country scenes. She saw canals with barges moving slowly along, she saw windmills with their sails spinning merrily in the breeze, but these sights, strange though they were, made little or no impression upon her, for her whole being was filled to the brim with impatience. The train was a slow one (it seemed to Sue that she could have walked faster), and the delays at every station where the country people got in and out were almost unbearable.
At last, however, the journey came to an end, and Sue found herself walking in the streets of Leyden. She looked about her like a person in a dream. There were plenty of churches here too and fine buildings and quiet, sleepy squares and canals bordered by avenues of tall trees. At first she tried asking her way to the address that she had been given (asking in English and in French), but, finding that useless, she took out the paper and showed it, inquiring by signs which direction to take. The place was difficult to find, and, even when she had found it, Sue could scarcely believe her eyes, for it was nothing more nor less than a butcher’s shop, spotlessly clean like all things Dutch, but very small and insignificant and tucked away in a narrow backstreet. In the shop was a big, fat butcher with a smiling face—it seemed to Sue that everybody in this land was fat and cheerful. He could not understand Sue’s inquiries, but when she said “John Day” loudly and clearly, he pointed to a little stair and motioned her to go up.
“Oop, oop, oop,” he said, pointing higher and higher until he was standing on the tips of his toes with his arm outstretched to its fullest extent. And then he doubled himself up and laughed heartily at this funny way of explaining where his lodger could be found.
“Up, up, up,” repeated Sue, smiling and gesticulating to show that she understood and would mount three flights of stairs to the very top of the house.
She mounted. The stairs were old and narrow, but they were clean and bright, for there was a tall, multipaned window on the stair, and through it streamed the late afternoon sunshine, making a pattern of diamonds on the steps. At last she came to the top landing and hesitated, for there were two doors here, and she did not know which to choose, and while she was still hesitating, she heard Darnay’s voice.
He was humming softly to himself as he often did when he was painting. Sue had heard that strange tuneless humming in the studio at Tog’s Mill… Tog’s Mill! It seemed a hundred years ago and a thousand miles away. Now that she was here and knew, without the slightest possible doubt, that she had found him, her heart failed her a little, and the excitement that had carried her forward ebbed away, leaving her cold and trembling. Supposing he was angry with her for seeking him out?
“Oh God!” said Sue reverently. “Oh God, let it be all right—please.” And she opened the door and went in.
Darnay was painting. It was a moment or two before he raised his head, and she saw that he looked ill—his eyes shadowed and sunken, his face haggard and pale. Then, as the door shut behind Sue, he looked over and saw her.
“You?” he said softly. “You? How on earth—”
“You’re not angry!” cried Sue in a breathless voice. “Oh, Mr. Darnay, you’re not vexed with me. I had to come. I had to find you. Please don’t be angry.”
“I’m not—angry.”
There was silence for a moment while they looked at each other.
“I found you through Mr. Van Kampen,” continued Sue. “It was the bird picture. The little row of birds sitting on the apple tree and saying, ‘Brothers, the spring is not so far away.’ I knew directly I saw it.”
“And tracked me down,” he added, with a faint smile.
“You can’t get away from a savage,” she told him, trying to speak lightly and ease the tension.
“Perhaps I don’t want to.”
She hesitated for a moment, and then she cried, “Oh, Mr. Darnay, why did you go away? Why did you hide yourself from everybody?”
“I had to,” he said in a low voice. “I was down and out. I had no illusions left. I saw myself stripped naked—a failure in life and a failure in art—there was nothing for me to do but to go away and hide from the world and try to recover my self-respect.”
“But you’re not a failure,” she cried. “That’s what I’ve come to tell you. That’s why I had to find you. The pictures have been sold. I was offered a hundred pounds for ‘White Lady,’
but I wouldn’t—”
“You were what?”
“The White Lady that nobody loved,” Sue told him. “An American gentleman wanted me to sell it to him for a hundred pounds.”
“He must have been mad,” Darnay said firmly. “Mad or drunk—probably both. Why on earth didn’t you let him have it? Sit down and tell me the whole story.”
Sue was thankful to see a glimpse of the old masterful Darnay. She sat down on the window seat and told him all her news. Darnay listened intently, walking up and down, pausing every now and then to ask questions or to throw back his head and laugh. She saw that he was pleased to hear of the purchase of his new pictures.
“Mr. Tollemacher bought them?” he cried. “Not Hiram B.?”
Sue nodded.
“Great heavens. No wonder old Hedley wanted me found. Go on, Sue. Tell me everything.”
She noticed that he had called her Sue in his excitement, and she wondered why the name had slipped from his lips, for he had never called her that before—never in all the months they had spent together at Tog’s Mill. It gave her a strange feeling, half pain and half joy, to hear him call her Sue.
At last she finished her story and a little silence fell in the room, broken only by the sound of Darnay’s steps as he paced to and fro. Sue waited patiently for him to speak. She felt quite happy now, happy to be with him again—which was all she had ever wanted—and happy to know that she had brought him acceptable news.
“But, Sue,” he said, stopping and looking at her curiously. “But, Sue, aren’t you… When are you to be married?”
The question was so unexpected that it took her breath away.
“Married,” she echoed incredulously.
“Married to Hickie,” he explained.
The Baker’s Daughter Page 21