The Baker’s Daughter

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Oh…” said Sue, and she smiled a little sadly. “Oh, poor Bob! I’m not going to marry him—nor anybody,” she added with conviction.

  He looked at her keenly and saw that she meant what she said. Indeed, Sue always meant what she said; he remembered that about her.

  “Why did you think I was getting married?” Sue inquired.

  “It was something your grandfather said in his letter,” Darnay replied. “I thought it was settled.” He paused for a moment, and then he added, “It would have made all the difference if I had known that.”

  “They wanted me to marry him,” Sue explained, “but I didn’t want to, you see.”

  “I see,” Darnay said thoughtfully, “but I still don’t understand—and I must understand this because it’s the most important thing of all—I don’t understand why you aren’t absolutely disgusted with me. Why did you take all this trouble to find me? I thought you would never want to see me again.”

  “Why should I feel…all that?” asked Sue in a low voice.

  “I dragged your name in the mud,” he told her. “It was unpardonable of me to keep you at Tog’s Mill—I was mad to do it, I was utterly selfish and vile…”

  “You never thought,” she cried. “Neither of us thought—”

  “I should have thought. Oh, Sue, you can’t imagine how deeply I have regretted my thoughtlessness.”

  “I haven’t,” she replied quickly. “Not for one moment. We were so happy, Mr. Darnay. It was worth everything…just to have known you…and been with you…there.”

  “Oh, Sue!” he cried, coming over to the window seat and sitting down beside her and taking her hand in his. “Oh, Sue, do you really mean it?”

  “You’re so…thin,” she said brokenly. “So thin—and worn. I can’t bear it.”

  “You shall take care of me—you will, won’t you? I can’t get on without you anymore.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, stroking the poor thin hand. “Yes, I’ll cook nice meals for you and fatten you up. I’ll mend your clothes. Look at your cuff; it’s all frayed!”

  “Shall we go back to Tog’s Mill someday?”

  “Soon!” cried Sue. “Oh, let’s go soon. We were so happy at Tog’s Mill, Mr. Darnay.”

  “John,” he told her, smiling into her eyes.

  “John?” she echoed in bewilderment.

  “Yes, my dearest. You can’t call your future husband Mr. Darnay.”

  “But, Mr. Darnay!” cried Sue, pushing him away. “I can’t marry you—you never thought of that!”

  Darnay sat back and looked at her ruefully. “I most certainly thought of it,” he declared. “In fact, I thought you had accepted my proposal. What did—”

  “No, no, no,” she cried. “I wanted to be with you like we were at Tog’s Mill. I couldn’t marry you—how could I?”

  “Am I so utterly revolting?”

  Sue did not heed the absurd interruption. She raced on. “How could you introduce me to all your grand friends? You’ll have lots of grand friends now that you’re so famous… I could never entertain your friends, and I could never go to dinner with the Laird… You needn’t laugh about it,” she added seriously. “I simply couldn’t do it even if he asked me—and he wouldn’t ask me. You would be cut off from all that.”

  “But I don’t want all that.”

  “You would miss it—later,” she declared. “No, no, it would never do at all. I’ll stay with you and take care of you, and I’ll do anything—anything you want,” said Sue, her voice faltering a little at this comprehensive statement, “but I couldn’t ever marry you, Mr. Darnay.”

  “Now, listen to me,” said Darnay gravely. “It’s my turn now. I have no friends that I value so much as the tip of your little finger. Dear Sue, I love you so much. I’ve loved you a long time. I never knew I loved you until that last morning at Tog’s Mill. You had a little streak of soot on your cheek. I knew then.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me!” she cried. “Oh, why didn’t you? I thought you didn’t care. Why did you go away and leave me?”

  Darnay looked at her in surprise. “What could I do?” he asked. “I wasn’t free then; besides, I thought that you and Hickie…but never mind that now. Nothing matters now except that I love you—desperately. I love you, and I can’t live without you, but I won’t have you unless you’ll marry me.”

  “Oh dear!” she said in perplexity. “Oh dear, it would be much better my way.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. “There,” he said. “How do you feel about it now?”

  Sue felt a good deal better about it. She smiled at him with dewy eyes. “Did you know—” she began, then hesitated.

  “Did I know what?” Darnay inquired.

  “Rembrandt’s mother was a baker’s daughter,” said Sue.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Mr. and Mrs. Bulloch were sitting by the fire. Mrs. Bulloch was knitting a gray sock, and Mr. Bulloch was reading out tidbits from the evening paper. The fire burned merrily in the grate and was reflected in dancing points of light in the lenses of Mrs. Bulloch’s spectacles and on the highly polished surface of her knitting needles. Outside the wind howled, and now and then the windows rattled, but this only served to accentuate the comfort of the cozy room.

  “It’s a wild night,” Mrs. Bulloch said, “and only October too. Winter’s starting early this year.”

  “It is that,” Mr. Bulloch agreed comfortably.

  “I’m wondering why I got no letter from Sue this week,” Mrs. Bulloch said, after a pause.

  “Ye’ve been wondering that all day,” declared her husband, smiling. “I could see ye were worrying, and I knew fine what it was. Bella would let us know soon enough if anything was wrong.”

  “Maybe, but it’s not like Sue. She’s written me regularly every week, Thomas.”

  In the silence that followed her remark Mrs. Bulloch heard a car draw up at the street door. She looked at her husband over her spectacles in an inquiring manner.

  “Aye, it’s a car,” he said. “Maybe it’s somebody come to the wrong house.”

  Mrs. Bulloch nodded. “It must be that,” she agreed.

  She had hardly spoken when the door opened and Sue rushed in like a whirlwind, flinging herself upon her grandparents with cries of affection and delight.

  “You lambs!” she exclaimed, hugging them each in turn. “Oh dear, how lovely it is to see you! And here you are, exactly the same—not a hair altered—and here you’ve been all these months. I can’t believe all the things that have happened—it seems like a dream.”

  To say that the Bullochs were surprised at her sudden appearance would be ludicrously inadequate—they were dumbfounded, they could not believe their eyes—and indeed, Sue was so changed that it was only by some sixth sense that they were able to recognize her. They had said good-bye to a quiet, woebegone, dejected granddaughter, and they were confronted by a radiant young woman with rosy cheeks and starry eyes, a young woman who had thrown her native reserve to the winds and seemed almost beside herself with excitement.

  “Sue,” exclaimed Mrs. Bulloch, when she had found her voice. “Sue, my dearie, is it really yerself?”

  “I don’t know, Granny,” declared the young woman, shaking her head and laughing. “I really don’t know whether it’s me or not, but I think it must be me because I’m so pleased to see you.”

  “Have ye come home to stay?” inquired Mr. Bulloch, patting the gloved hand that lay upon his knee.

  “Well…no,” said Sue, suddenly grave. “You see, the fact is…and I do hope you’ll be glad, darlings, because I’m so tremendously happy about it, but I won’t be nearly so happy unless you two—”

  “Sue, for pity’s sake!” cried Mrs. Bulloch, holding her head.

  Sue laughed excitedly. “I know I’m daft,” she declared, “but I simply c
an’t help it. I’m so happy that I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m married, you see.”

  They stared at her in amazement.

  “Yes, it’s true,” she declared, and to convince them of the fact, she drew off her glove and showed them her rings—a plain gold band, very new and shiny, and three big emeralds in a platinum setting.

  Mr. Bulloch took her hand and examined the stones carefully—they were beautiful emeralds, and they winked and gleamed in the firelight like cat’s eyes. “Sue,” he said in a grave tone. “Who is it, Sue? Who’s the man, and why did ye not tell us and do the thing in order?”

  “You know him,” she replied. “You know him and like him—it’s John Darnay.”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then, as neither of her grandparents spoke, she continued in a low voice, “I know what you’re thinking. I thought all that too, but he wanted it—and I love him.”

  “It’s just… We wondered…” Mr. Bulloch began, speaking for his wife in the full confidence that they were at one.

  “Oh, please do be nice to him,” Sue cried, seizing her grandparents’ hands and squeezing it hard. “He’s so fond of you both. He says you’re his best friends. Please be nice to him…”

  “Yes, please be nice to me,” echoed Darnay’s voice from the door.

  They looked up and saw him standing there, smiling a trifle shyly.

  “I couldn’t wait outside any longer,” he explained. “I just had to come in and find out what was happening. You aren’t angry with me, are you?”

  “Be nice to him,” Sue said again.

  They had to be nice to him, of course, for they really liked him, and, in his newfound happiness, he was more irresistible than ever. He smoothed away all their doubts and allayed their fears. “I tried to live without Sue and found I couldn’t,” he told them, “so I made her marry me—that’s all.”

  It was simple enough in all conscience.

  “And where are ye going now?” Mr. Bulloch inquired at last. “Where are ye going tonight, the pair of ye?”

  They looked at each other and smiled.

  “We’re going to Tog’s Mill,” said Darnay.

  “Because we were so happy there,” Sue explained.

  “But ye’ll stay and have supper with us, I’m hoping,” put in Mr. Bulloch hospitably.

  Mrs. Bulloch frowned and shook her head.

  “Is there not enough for them, Susan?” asked her husband in dismay.

  “There’s ample,” replied the housekeeper, “but it’s sheep’s head broth. Maybe Mr. Darnay wouldn’t care for that. Maybe ye could go down to the shop, Thomas, and—”

  “But I like it better than anything else,” declared Darnay, laughing and glancing at his new wife in a significant manner, “for if it hadn’t been for a sheep’s head—”

  “Fancy your remembering that!” cried Sue in amazement.

  * * *

  Bonnywall House was ablaze with light. There was an air of expectancy in the big, beautifully proportioned rooms. Fires had been banked until the flames leaped halfway up the chimneys, and there were flowers in tall vases—chrysanthemums and red-hot pokers—lightening the heaviness of the massive furniture.

  Admiral Sir Rupert Lang came slowly down the wide staircase, looking about him with satisfaction. He was dressed in tails with white tie and waistcoat, and there was a white carnation in his buttonhole. He was on the last step when the footman opened the front door, and Sir James Faulds of Beil appeared.

  “Hallo, Rupert!” he exclaimed. “You told me to come early, so here I am. Jean’s coming later with the rest of the party. You’re very smart tonight.”

  “You’re smart yourself, for that matter,” replied his host. “Come into the library and have a drink—I want to talk to you.”

  There was a huge silver tray in the library, and on it Sir James counted thirty-two glasses. He looked up and whistled.

  Sir Rupert nodded. “Yes, it’s a biggish dinner party. I asked everybody in the county and they all accepted—every man jack.”

  “Of course. They’ll feed out of your hand, Admiral Sir Rupert Lang, VC, KCB.”

  “Yes,” agreed the host complacently, and he pulled down the points of his white waistcoat with a little jerk.

  “What’s up?” inquired Sir James.

  “What’s up?”

  “Yes, what’s up?”

  “Why do you ask me that? Can’t I give a dinner party without being suspected of evil designs?”

  “No,” replied his friend promptly. “You can’t, Rupert.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I come here tonight and find you all neat and as pleased with yourself as a dog with two tails, and all because you’re giving an enormous dinner party—a thing you abhor, a thing you haven’t done in the memory of man. It’s enough to make anybody wonder what’s up.”

  The Admiral laughed. “Supposing I were to tell you that I realize how remiss I have been in social matters and have decided to turn over a new leaf?”

  “I should merely reply, ‘Bunk,’” declared his guest firmly.

  “In that case I had better tell you the truth to start with. There’s not much time before they arrive, and I want your help.”

  “My help?”

  “Yes. The truth is I’m giving the show to introduce a bride to the county. I want you to be nice to her.”

  “My dear Rupert, of course I’ll be nice to her. Surely there was no need… I mean, I’m usually quite nice to young women, especially good-looking ones.”

  “I know, but—”

  “What’s she like?” inquired Sir James anxiously. “Has she got a squint or anything?”

  “You know her, Jamie. Can’t you guess who it is?”

  “No. Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Darnay,” said the Admiral in a significant tone.

  His friend looked at him questioningly. “So Darnay’s married, is he? I hadn’t heard.”

  The Admiral nodded. “Yes, he’s married. I met him last week in Bulloch’s shop and he told me all about it. He’s radiantly happy.”

  “Most bridegrooms are. Who is the lady—you haven’t told me that yet.”

  There was a little pause and then the Admiral said, “Darnay has married Sue Pringle.”

  “Sue Pringle! But… Good Lord…”

  “Why shouldn’t he marry her? She’s a delightful creature.”

  “He can do what he pleases, of course,” retorted Sir James. “I don’t care a hang who he marries—it’s your part in the affair that worries me. What are you up to, Rupert?”

  “I told you I wanted to do something for the girl—well, I’m doing it. That’s all.”

  “I doubt if she will enjoy it,” declared Sir James after a moment’s thought.

  “Perhaps not,” agreed his host, “but she will bear it for her husband’s sake—and bear it gladly.”

  “You want her to be received by the county, so you’re going to ram her down their throats?”

  Admiral Sir Rupert Lang smiled. “You put things so coarsely, Jamie,” he said. “But yes…that was the idea.”

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  Chapter One

  Breakfast Rolls

  One fine summer’s morning the sun peeped over the hills and looked down upon the valley of Silverstream. It was so early that there was really very little for him to see except the cows belonging to Twelve-Trees Farm in the meadows by the river. They were going slowly up to the farm to be milked. Their shadows were still quite black, weird, and ungainly, like pictures of prehistoric monsters moving over the lush grass. The farm stirred and a slow spiral of smoke rose from the kitchen chimney.

  In the village of Silverstream (which lay further down the valley) the bakery woke up first, for th
ere were the breakfast rolls to be made and baked. Mrs. Goldsmith saw to the details of the bakery herself and prided herself upon the punctuality of her deliveries. She bustled around, wakening her daughters with small ceremony, kneading the dough for the rolls, directing the stoking of the ovens, and listening with one ear for the arrival of Tommy Hobday, who delivered the rolls to Silverstream before he went to school.

  Tommy had been late once or twice lately; she had informed his mother that if he were late again she would have to find another boy. She did not think Tommy would be late again, but, if he were, she must try to find another boy; it was so important for the rolls to be out early. Colonel Weatherhead (retired) was one of her best customers and he was an early breakfaster. He lived in a gray stone house down near the bridge—The Bridge House—just opposite to Mrs. Bold at Cozy Neuk. Mrs. Bold was a widow. She had nothing to drag her out of bed in the morning, and, therefore, like a sensible woman, she breakfasted late. It was inconvenient from the point of view of breakfast rolls that two such near neighbors should want their rolls at different hours. Then, at the other end of the village, there was the Vicar. Quite new, he was, and addicted to early services on the birthdays of Saints. Not only the usual Saints that everybody knew about, but all sorts of strange Saints that nobody in Silverstream had ever heard of before; so you never knew when the Vicarage would be early astir. In Mr. Dunn’s time it used to slumber peacefully until its rolls arrived, but now, instead of being the last house on Tommy’s list, it had to be moved up quite near the top. Very awkward it was, because that end of the village, where the old gray sixteenth-century church rested so peacefully among the tombstones, had been all late breakfasters and therefore safe to be left until the end of Tommy’s round. Miss Buncle, at Tanglewood Cottage, for instance, had breakfast at nine o’clock, and old Mrs. Carter and the Bulmers were all late.

  The hill was a problem too, for there were six houses on the hill and in them dwelt Mrs. Featherstone Hogg (there was a Mr. Featherstone Hogg too, of course, but he didn’t count; nobody ever thought of him except as Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s husband) and Mrs. Greensleeves, and Mr. Snowdon and his two daughters, and two officers from the camp, Captain Sandeman and Major Shearer, and Mrs. Dick, who took in gentlemen paying guests, all clamoring for their rolls early—except, of course, Mrs. Greensleeves, who breakfasted in bed about ten o’clock, if what Milly Spikes said could be believed.