The Baker’s Daughter

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Yes, rather. It’s splendid,” he agreed, nodding and smiling. “Simply splendid.”

  He thought the old woman seemed somewhat taken aback and looked toward his hostess for help.

  “Mrs. Cowal was saying did ye see about the awful railway smash on the posters,” declared Mrs. Bulloch gravely.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dinner was over now, but the chief purpose of the evening was still to come, and when everybody was comfortably settled around the fire in the sitting room, the four performers produced their instruments. Their faces were very serious, as befitted the gravity of their task, and there was a good deal of talking and moving of music stands and lights before they were ready.

  Miss Mimms was playing the viola. She was a dried-up little spinster with long, thin hands—the hands of a true musician. Darnay had scarcely noticed her before, for she was a mouse-like creature, but now he noticed her because she was aflame with excitement. There were two bright spots of red on her cheeks, and her eyes shone like stars behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. Mr. Waugh, the first violin, stood beside her with his fiddle tucked under his chin. His nostrils quivered and his iron-gray hair stood straight on end. Young Anderson was obviously nervous, his face pale, his brow beaded with perspiration. It was Bulloch who dominated the group; he sat in a low chair facing the audience with his cello held tenderly between his knees and a faint smile upon his lips. It was the same smile that had curved his firm mouth when he had weighed the curling stone in his hand before sending up that champion shot of his.

  What a picture! Darnay thought as he looked at them. What a picture! If Rembrandt was here—nobody else could touch it.

  “It’s Haydn’s Cello Concerto in C,” announced Bulloch, “and there are three movements.”

  Darnay did not expect very much from Bulloch and his friends, but they had not been playing long before he realized that they were good; in fact, they were very good indeed, and he thought they had chosen well when they chose Haydn, for the music seemed to fit them. It was slow music, rather simple and dignified—even as they were—and it had a sort of undercurrent of humor. There was purpose in it and calm sense. You felt certain that it was getting somewhere and that it knew where it was going—even as they did.

  Darnay did not know a great deal about music. He liked it not so much for its own sake but because of its human interest and the pictures it made in his brain. This music suited him to a T and he lay back and gave himself up to the enjoyment of it.

  The first movement opened with a haunting little melody from the cello that was repeated louder and more insistently with the other instruments joining in. The cello solo, at the end of this movement, was somewhat intricate, and Bulloch took it rather slowly—but his tone was beautiful. Darnay liked the second movement better, for it was more singing and tuneful. It opened slowly, softly, sadly. At first it was muted and restrained, but afterward, it swelled and, mingling with other harmonies, ended in a strain of hopefulness. The third movement opened cheerfully. “Deedledy deedledy dumpty dee,” sang the cello, and the other instruments took up the refrain and echoed it with shriller voices. The themes of the first and second movement were blended with it harmoniously and, after another cello solo, the concerto ended in a fine burst of music.

  There was tremendous applause and many laudatory comments from the audience, and old Mrs. Cowal, who had listened in a state of trance, came to life and called out in a high, piping voice, “Angcore, angcore. Could ye no’ play it through agen, Maister Bulloch, fer it wis a reel pleesure.”

  “Aye, play it again,” agreed Hickie, nodding. “It was far too short.”

  Bulloch was clearly taken aback at this unusual request. He looked around at his fellow musicians, uncertainly. “Well, maybe later on,” he said. “I’m thinking we need a wee rest first. Yon twiddly bit at the end of the first movement is awful hard work.”

  “Play the second movement again,” Darnay suggested. “It was beautiful.”

  This suggestion pleased everybody, and the second movement was played again with great success.

  After this, Hickie was induced to sing “Annie Laurie,” while Miss Mimms accompanied him on the piano. He sang it in a soulful tenor with his eyes firmly fixed on Sue. Mr. Waugh played a violin solo of Handel’s “Largo,” and young Robert Anderson forgot his shyness and sang “A Man’s a Man for A’ That,” with fire and spirit.

  Darnay, prevailed upon to contribute to the entertainment, delved into the music cupboard and found a tattered copy of “Drink to Me Only,” which Miss Mimms transposed into a suitable key and played without apparent difficulty, a feat that surprised Darnay a good deal.

  The mystic hour was now approaching; indeed, there were only a few minutes of the old year left. Bulloch threw open the window “to let the New Year in” and they all formed a circle—each person crossing his arms and holding his neighbor’s hands. They waited thus until the clock on the church tower boomed out the strokes of twelve, and then they sang:

  “Should auld acquaintance be forgot…”

  There were several verses, of course, and Darnay did not know the words, but he followed as best he could, and when the last verse came and they all shook their clasped hands up and down, he “pump-handled” with the best of them. Old Mrs. Cowal was on one side of him and Mrs. Pringle on the other. Mrs. Cowal’s hand was hard and dry—a small, bony, withered appendage, rough with long years of dish washing—and Mrs. Pringle’s hand was even less attractive, for it was hot and moist, but Darnay squeezed them both and shook them manfully. He could not help wondering what Elise would say if she could see him and hear him swearing eternal amity with two such strange neighbors, but the thought just passed through his mind, and there was no bitterness in it—a moment later he met Miss Bun’s eyes across the charmed circle and smiled at her with his whole heart. These people were all very well, but Miss Bun was his own—perhaps the best friend he had ever had.

  The bells were ringing now, and there was talk and laughter in the street, and Darnay saw that the party, which had been such a success, had come to an end. Some of the guests were going “first footing,” and others were going home to bed. He met Sue’s eyes across the room again, and this time she nodded gravely—she was ready to go.

  It was late when all the guests had departed, but for the Bullochs, the party was not over yet. Perhaps this was the time they both enjoyed best of all, when the guests had gone, and they were alone together with so much to discuss. Mrs. Bulloch sat down by the fire and pulled her black silk skirt over her knees, and Mr. Bulloch looked at her and smiled tenderly and reached for his pipe. He had smoked a cigar with Darnay, but there was nothing like a pipe for comfort.

  “It was all right, Susan,” Bulloch said.

  “Aye, it was all right—he’s a nice man, that Mr. Darnay. There was no awkwardness in him.”

  “They all enjoyed themselves, I’m thinking.”

  “Excepting Will,” Mrs. Bulloch amended. “Such an affront to put upon ye, Thomas! Yon man’ll not enjoy heaven if he gets there.”

  “He’ll maybe complain that the harps are out of tune,” agreed her husband, smiling. “It’s a queer thing, Susan, but I’m not caring these days what Will says. He used to rile me, but I’m past that now. It’s a fine thing to be old.”

  Mrs. Bulloch sighed. “Are ye too old to be hurt?” she asked. “I’m thinking ye’d best be. There’s trouble coming to us, Thomas.”

  “Trouble!” he exclaimed.

  “I was watching Sue,” Mrs. Bulloch continued in a flat, tired voice. “Oh, Thomas, she’s changed! Sue’s changed to us. She’s above us now and what’s to come of it? What’s to come of it, Thomas, for she’s neither fish nor flesh—no good ever came of that.”

  “Did ye think so?” Thomas inquired in dismay. “I was thinking Sue was real nice—happier and sweeter than she’s been this many a day. There’s plenty of com
mon sense in Sue—she’s a homely creature, not the kind to have her head turned.”

  “It’s her heart that’s turned,” declared Mrs. Bulloch sadly. “Maybe she doesn’t know it yet.”

  But Sue did know. It was when Darnay stood up to sing that the knowledge came to her. She looked at him and a wave of loving tenderness swept over her heart, and, when he sang, his voice—a deep baritone, round and true and velvety—moved her so deeply that she had difficulty in restraining her tears.

  Sue thought of this as she followed him through the crowded streets to the place where he had parked his car. I am his, she thought, but he is not mine—and never can be. But what does that matter, as long as I can work for him and see him every day. That ought to make me happy, and indeed, it does.

  The streets were so full of merrymakers that it was difficult to get along and Darnay stopped and offered Sue his arm.

  “Hang on to me,” he said, smiling down at her. “I can’t risk losing my housekeeper, you know.”

  She took his arm and they went on together—it was better like this. Sue felt his strength—a muscular, nervous strength, and liked the feeling of it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They reached Tog’s Mill without adventure, and Darnay put the car away in the shed. He came into the house singing softly, for he was happy. It had been a good party, and the knowledge that he had succeeded with these people and had made friends with them gave him a glow at heart. They were worthwhile—very much worthwhile. Darnay sang as he barred the door:

  “The rank is but a guinea stamp,

  A man’s a man for a’ that:

  For a’ that, for a’ that,

  A man’s a man for a’ that.”

  Sue was waiting for him in the kitchen, and he noticed that there was a worried look on her face.

  “Hallo, what’s the matter?” he inquired, breaking off in the middle of a bar.

  “Do you ever smoke cigarettes?” she inquired.

  The question was so unexpected that he could only stand and stare at her.

  “You don’t, do you?” she said. “I’ve never seen you smoking cigarettes.”

  “I don’t like them,” declared Darnay in a bewildered voice.

  “No, you don’t like them and you never smoke them. Somebody’s been here.”

  “Somebody’s been here?” he echoed.

  She opened her hand and showed him the remains of a cigarette—a twisted fragment of paper and tobacco with a charred end. “It was at the back of the fire on the ledge,” she told him. “I saw it when I went to rake out the fire.”

  “Boy Scout!” said Darnay, but his eyes were grave. He took the fragment and smelled it and rolled it over between his fingers.

  “What do you think he was like?” Sue inquired.

  Darnay smiled at her. “My dear Watson, the man who smoked this cigarette was a small, thin fellow of about thirty-five years old, dark and clean-shaven, and dressed in a navy blue suit, black lacing shoes, and a soft hat.”

  Sue laughed—she could not help it—for she was well acquainted with Sherlock Holmes.

  “But really and truly, Mr. Darnay,” she said.

  “Really and truly,” he replied. “The fact is I’ve seen a man hanging about the place for some days, and I found some of his cigarettes behind a rock near where I was painting—Turkish cigarettes exactly like this.”

  “What ever can he want?” cried Sue in alarm.

  “Heaven knows.”

  “And I wonder how on earth he got in,” Sue continued, looking around anxiously. “I snibbed the kitchen window before I went.”

  “Perhaps he came in through the door,” Darnay suggested. “I left it open, you see—I suppose it was foolish,” he added with a smile at his housekeeper’s horrified face, “but the truth is I couldn’t find the key, and I didn’t want to be late.”

  “It was daft!” Sue cried.

  “I suppose it was, rather,” he admitted apologetically, “but I didn’t think anybody would bother to try the door. In fact, I didn’t think anybody would come near the place.”

  “He may be here yet,” Sue declared, glancing over her shoulder.

  “We’ll see,” said Darnay grimly.

  It was an eerie business going through the dark, empty house. The faint beam of Darnay’s pocket torch seemed to make the darkness visible and no more. They went from room to room, searching behind the furniture and in the cupboards; they even visited the rooms in the old wing—meal lofts that had been closed for years and smelled musty with cobwebs and damp. In one attic, where the window was broken and had never been mended, there was a heap of rubbish in the corner, and when the beam of the torch reached it, there was a sudden wild scrambling sound, and something blundered toward them across the floor.

  Sue screamed aloud.

  “It’s a bat,” Darnay said, taking her hand and pressing reassuringly. “It’s only a bat. Poor brute, we disturbed it with the light. Don’t be frightened, Miss Bun, there’s not a soul in the house. I’m sure of it; I can feel it in my bones.”

  Sue was not so sure. They had looked everywhere, it was true, but how easy it would be for a man to avoid them! He could have slipped from room to room, behind their backs, stealing along silently with stockinged feet. The light, though necessary to their purpose, showed only too clearly where they were, and its pale beam blinded them to the surrounding gloom.

  Darnay was aware that she was frightened, and he was not surprised, for the whole thing was mysterious and unaccountable. He was pretty certain that his papers had been tampered with, but a small heap of money in the same drawer was untouched.

  “Come along, Miss Bun,” he said kindly. “We’ll search your room thoroughly, and then you can lock the door. You can move your chest of drawers across it too; you’ll be quite safe then.”

  “But you—” objected Sue. “If the burglar—”

  “Don’t worry,” said Darnay grimly. “The burglar will be sorry if I lay eyes on him—funny sort of burglar,” he added with a little frown.

  They were in Sue’s room now, and she had lit her lamp. He looked at her and saw that she was very pale. A strand of dark red hair—the color of old mahogany—lay across her white brow, and her eyes were shadowed with weariness.

  “Is a man a burglar when he doesn’t burgle?” Darnay inquired, smiling at her and talking in that gently mocking voice she knew so well. “Are we justified in calling our visitor a burglar when, so far as we know, he has taken nothing but left us a little memento in the shape of a half-smoked cigarette?”

  “But what did he want?” cried Sue. “Oh, Mr. Darnay, I don’t like it. I wish he had stolen all your money.”

  Darnay chuckled. “And I wish he had stolen your fat white lady,” he retorted, pointing to the little panel that hung on the wall opposite Miss Bun’s bed. “We should have known then that he was an escaped lunatic,” he added and went out and shut the door.

  * * *

  Nothing more was heard of the thin man in the blue suit, nor did they find any more of his Turkish cigarettes. Darnay informed the police, and it was discovered that a man answering to his description had been staying at a respectable boardinghouse in the town but had gone and left no address. If the man had stolen anything the police would have been more interested, but as it was, they soon give up the quest.

  “It’s a strange thing and no mistake,” Mr. Bulloch declared about a week later when Sue had dropped in to tea. “If the man had stolen something, it would be a lot easier to understand.”

  “I wish he had,” declared Sue.

  “That’s a queer thing to say!”

  “No, it isn’t,” she retorted. “It isn’t queer at all. I hate the mystery of it.”

  The Bullochs were delighted to have Sue to tea, but they declared that she only came when she wanted things from the shop, and this was
so near the truth that it was difficult to deny. On this particular evening Bulloch walked down to the bus with Sue when her visit was over, saying that he wanted some exercise. It was a fine night, though somewhat cloudy, and the wind whistled eerily through the streets.

  “Sue,” said her grandfather. “There’s something I’m wanting to ask ye.”

  “I’m not coming home,” said Sue quickly.

  “It’s not that,” he replied, for he and Susan had indeed decided that it was no use trying to make Sue come home. “It’s not that, Sue; it’s about the bills. They’ve been running on a long while now.”

  “Are you afraid you’ll not get paid?” inquired Sue scornfully.

  “It’s not me so much. Some of the others have been at me: Alec Anderson, the butcher, and yer father, and a few more.”

  “Tell them they’ll get paid in good time,” Sue commanded. “I’m not going to worry Mr. Darnay when he’s busy with his painting. They ought to be proud to serve him,” she added, getting quite indignant at the thought of it. “He’s a great painter, and great painters ought to be considered and helped.”

  “They’re only wanting their own money.”

  “It’s money, money all the time.”

  “It’s what’s due to them, Sue,” Mr. Bulloch pointed out. “They’re not grasping folks at all. I’m not caring for myself; I know the man, ye see, and I’d take my oath he’s straight—he’s given us that picture, forby, so it’s not for me to complain—but it’s a wee bit different for the others. Ye see that, don’t ye?”

  “They’ll wait if you tell them,” said Sue firmly.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The air rifle that Sandy had acquired from the saddler was a great source of pleasure for him and his friends, and for the first few weeks Sandy saved up his pocket money and paid his shilling ungrudgingly. The rifle was worth every penny he had spent upon it; there was no doubt of that. After a bit, however, the novelty began to wear off and the drain upon his resources became a nuisance. The rifle cost a good deal more than a shilling a week—so Sandy found—for unless he bought ammunition it was useless. This meant that he could never spend money on anything else and must deny himself sweets and apples and a host of small luxuries to which he was accustomed.