The Baker’s Daughter
Page 20
He reached the bakery at half past twelve exactly and stood looking at it for a few minutes before going in. He had spent all his life here, but the place seemed unfamiliar to him. It looked small and somewhat insignificant, but perhaps that was because he had seen so much and grown larger himself in mind as well as body. Although it was only six months since he had left, running away in fear of his life with the stolen money in his pocket, Sandy felt like Rip van Winkle.
Presently he drew near and peered in through the shining plate-glass windows, and—seeing that his father was alone in the shop—he pushed open the door and went in.
“Sandy!” exclaimed Will in amazement.
“Yes, it’s me,” said Sandy. “I’m in the army, Father, and I’m going abroad. I wanted to see you before I went and pay you back.”
He put the pound note on the counter as he spoke. He had not asked forgiveness, because, now that he was back in the old atmosphere, he knew that it was impossible to say the words.
“Well, ye’ve grown a lot,” remarked Will.
“I’m six feet one.”
“I’d have thought ye were more.”
There was a short strained silence, and then Sandy said, “No, I’m just six feet one, that’s all.”
“It’s quite enough,” Will replied dryly. He took up the pound note and put it in the till.
Sandy said nothing.
“I suppose ye can stay a few days,” Will continued. “Ye can give me a hand in the shop if ye like—I’m shorthanded.”
“I’ll do that gladly,” Sandy declared. There was a lump in his throat that made speech difficult, or he would have said more.
Will ruminated for a few moments and then he roused himself and glanced at the clock. “It’s early closing,” he said. “Away and fetch the shutters, Sandy; it’s time we were going upstairs to our dinners.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In September people began to come back to London from the sea and the moors. The houses, which had been in the hands of caretakers for so many weeks, began to brighten up: the shutters were opened, the windows were painted, and the doorsteps cleaned. Some of the babies reappeared in the parks, brown and fit after their holidays by the sea. The traffic in the streets increased, and there was a cool air in the evenings, very welcome after the stuffy heat of the day.
Sue, calling one afternoon at the galleries, found Mr. Hedley up to the eyes in work, but he was never too busy to speak to Miss Pringle. He came down the stairs smiling somewhat ruefully and showed her his hands. “Look at the dirt,” he said. “No, I couldn’t shake hands with you, Miss Pringle. The fact is, I’m having a small exhibition of Moderns, and I’m looking out for what I’ve got.”
Miss Pringle declared that that was “very interesting.” (It was really Edward’s word, of course, but Mr. Hedley used it a good deal too, and Sue found that she worked it pretty hard when she visited the galleries. If you could find nothing else to say about a picture—for instance, if it were so hideous or startling that it almost stunned you, or even if it were so inane that you scarcely knew what it was meant to be—you usually had enough strength left to murmur, “Interesting. Very interesting indeed.” And that was all that was required.)
“I’m sending you a card for my Private View,” continued Mr. Hedley confidentially. “I do hope we may count on you, Miss Pringle?”
Miss Pringle answered graciously that they might certainly count on her.
“Good, splendid!” he declared, and then suddenly his face fell, and he added sadly, “If only we had a Darnay to show…”
Sue shook her head. It did seem a pity.
“Just one Darnay,” he continued. “Mr. Tollemacher has taken his away with him to America, so we haven’t got a single specimen of Darnay’s work in the place… I suppose there aren’t any more—anywhere?”
There was a little silence while Sue considered the matter. All those pictures put away so carefully in the studio at Tog’s Mill—the portrait of herself, which she liked so much, and one, two, three—perhaps five—others. She could easily have them sent, of course, for she had only to write to her grandfather. But what right had she to do this—to take them out of their cupboard and give them to Mr. Hedley to display? No right at all. It was a great pity, of course, because it would have been lovely to have the pictures displayed and to hear everybody talking about them and admiring them, but it just couldn’t be done. Sue decided to say nothing about them, for she did not altogether trust Mr. Hedley—for all his nice manners.
“Just one,” Mr. Hedley said persuasively. “Don’t you know anybody who owns one of the new Darnays? Haven’t you, perhaps, got one yourself?”
“Well, I have got a small picture,” admitted Sue, “but I don’t want to sell it, Mr. Hedley.”
“Of course not, but if you would lend it, Miss Pringle. It would be a good thing for Darnay’s own sake to keep his name before the public eye. We shall take the greatest care of it, I can assure you, so you need not be afraid. The Duke of Hambourne is lending us two very valuable pictures, and we have three from Lady Millingworth as well.”
“It’s only a tiny picture,” said Sue, who was a little impressed by the grand names.
“No matter—”
“And I don’t know whether he would like it to be shown. You see, it’s just a rough little sketch.”
“In oils?”
“Yes, but—”
“We must have it. Please, Miss Pringle.”
Sue wished she had said nothing about it, for she did not want to part from her “White Lady” for three weeks—it was the only bit of Darnay she had gotten and she valued it accordingly. But Mr. Hedley was so insistent, and produced so many arguments in favor of showing it, that at last she was forced to agree.
When the “White Lady” was removed from Sue’s bedroom, she left a patch on the paper, for the bright sunshine had streamed in at the open window all summer and faded the wall. The patch was a comfort to Sue—it was a token of the “White Lady’s” existence and gave promise of her return—but Aunt Bella found no pleasure in it at all.
* * *
Sue pushed open the door of Hedley’s galleries and walked in. She walked in with great assurance, for she had met with so much encouragement from Mr. Hedley that she felt almost as if the place belonged to her. The large room was full of people, but not uncomfortably full, for Mr. Hedley had issued his invitations to the Private View with great discrimination. There was no sense in having the place so crowded that you couldn’t see the pictures, because, if you did, the affair degenerated into a sort of at home and no pictures were sold. On the other hand, you wanted enough people or the gallery looked empty, and unkind friends were quite likely to say that Hedley’s was on the wane and that they’d looked in at the Private View and the place was a vacuum—nobody there at all.
Today Mr. Hedley had struck the happy medium and perhaps he was aware of this, for he was in tremendous form, bustling about and waving his hands and talking to everybody at once. He welcomed Sue with a judicious blend of familiarity and respect and apologized for his inability to show her around himself.
“So busy,” declared Mr. Hedley. “Must speak to everybody… The Duke… That’s the Duke in the gray business suit. Be sure to ask me, or Edward, if you see anything that interests you.”
Sue started to go around with her catalog, looking carefully at each picture and trying to make up her mind what she would buy—if she had the money to buy any of them. She did not get very far on her tour of inspection before Mr. Hedley was back at her elbow with rather an extraordinary request. Would she mind if he were to introduce one or two friends? They were people who were interested in pictures and were particularly anxious to make Miss Pringle’s acquaintance. It was quite impossible to refuse, even if she had wanted to, for the people had followed Mr. Hedley and were standing there, waiting.
The introductions were made, and a group formed, and a great deal of talk and laughter ensued. Sue was surprised at their friendliness and a trifle embarrassed by it. They treated her as if they had known her for years—one woman especially, a certain Mrs. Leon Hunter, beautifully dressed, with ash-blond hair, orange lips, and a strange golden complexion, was so extremely friendly that she was quite a nuisance. She attached herself firmly to Sue when the others had drifted away and talked so much about the pictures that Sue could not get on with her inspection.
“I adaw them all,” she declared. “So fwesh and bwight—don’t you adaw them, Miss Pwingle?”
Sue was about to reply in the true Scots manner that she “liked them well enough” but, remembering in time that she was in England, declared instead that they were “very interesting.”
“Vewy, vewy intawestin’,” agreed her new friend, turning her back to the wall. “I always say we ought to be vewy, vewy gwateful to deah Mr. Hedley for takin’ so much twouble.”
Sue could not get rid of Mrs. Leon Hunter anyhow—she was like an old man of the sea—and now she started talking about Scotland and asking about the shooting and fishing around Beilford. Sue answered the questions faithfully, wondering how Mrs. Leon Hunter knew that she came from Beilford and deciding in her own mind that the lady contemplated renting a hunting lodge in the neighborhood of Beilford and wanted some inside information on the subject. Finally, to cap everything, she asked if “Miss Pwingle” would waive ceremony and come on to her sherry party after the show. It was the last thing Sue wanted to do, but she had not sufficient savoir faire to refuse the invitation. Her sudden rise to popularity puzzled her a good deal. It seemed so queer that perfect strangers should want to be introduced to her and to entertain her without knowing in the least who she was. Perhaps she would have understood it better if she could have followed Mr. Hedley’s progress through the room. “Have you seen the ‘White Lady’? It’s a Darnay in the new medium—tremendously interesting,” declared Mr. Hedley, buttonholing everybody within reach. “No, it isn’t for sale. It is just lent to the exhibition by Miss Pringle, a niece of Sir James Faulds of Beil. Oh yes, she is in the gallery at the moment… What?… Yes, over there in navy blue with the crimson wing in her hat… Very charming indeed—very, very charming. What, the Darnay?… No, definitely not for sale. He painted it for Miss Pringle, and of course it belongs to her… Very good of her to let us see it, don’t you think?”
It was not until the rush was over and most of the fashionable crowd had drifted away to have tea that Sue was able to resume her study of the pictures. Many a woman would have given up the struggle and gone home long before this, but Sue was made of sterner stuff than most. She had come to look at the pictures, and she intended to look at them all. She saw her “White Lady” in a place of honor and stood still for a few moments looking at her affectionately.
“She looks nice there, doesn’t she?” said Mr. Hedley’s voice in her ear. “She’s a trifle sketchy, of course, but—”
“He did it in about two hours,” said Sue, quick to resent the slightest criticism, “and I watched him all the time… It was wonderful!”
“That makes my mission even more difficult,” Mr. Hedley declared. “The fact is I’ve had an offer for the picture—an American gentleman. He knows it isn’t really for sale, but he wondered if you were open to an offer.”
“I told you—” Sue began indignantly.
“I know, I know,” cried Mr. Hedley. “You told me it wasn’t for sale, but he is offering you a hundred pounds. It isn’t worth a quarter of the money, you know.”
“A hundred pounds!”
“It’s fantastic,” agreed Mr. Hedley, “but Americans are like that. If they really want a thing, they don’t mind what they pay for it. There aren’t any other pictures in the new technique, and Mr. Francks has set his heart on having one.”
“Well, he can’t have mine,” said Sue firmly. “Not for two hundred pounds.” And she moved on to show that her decision was final. She could not think of parting with the picture, but all the same, she was pleased and more than a little excited to find that her “White Lady” was appreciated so highly.
A few minutes later she felt a touch on her arm, and, turning quickly, she found herself face-to-face with a tall, thin gentleman with a pleasant, clean-shaven face.
“Miss Pringle, I think,” he said, bowing gravely.
“Yes,” said Sue.
“Francks is my name,” he declared. “Harold Francks. Now I hope you’re not going to be vexed with me, Miss Pringle, but I just felt I had to speak to you. Mr. Hedley’s been telling me about you, but he wouldn’t introduce me.”
“I’m afraid you can’t have my picture,” she told him.
“That’s just too bad,” he declared. “Couldn’t I tempt you, Miss Pringle?”
She shook her head.
“I’ve got to go back to the States next week,” he continued, “and I’ve set my heart on taking a specimen of Darnay’s work with me.” He paused for a moment and then added thoughtfully, “Mr. Tollemacher has five.”
“Perhaps he would sell you one of them,” suggested Sue.
Mr. Francks smiled. “You aren’t acquainted with Hiram B., are you, Miss Pringle? No, I thought not.”
“I’m sorry,” Sue said again, and she was sorry, for she liked Mr. Francks.
“So am I,” he replied. “It’s just too bad.”
He went away sadly, and Sue was once more at liberty to continue her inspection.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
There were three rooms full of pictures, and, by the time Sue had arrived at the third, her energy was beginning to flag. The galleries were very hot, and she was tired and footsore and dazzled by the bright colors that seemed to shriek at each other from canvas to canvas. She had just made up her mind that she must leave the third room for another day when her eyes fell on a picture that really “interested” her. It was quite a small panel—the same size as her “White Lady”—depicting the bare branch of a tree with a row of little birds sitting on it. They were such perky little birds, bright eyed and cocky, and they were so real and fluffy looking that you could almost hear them chirping. The tone of the picture was cool and quiet, which came as a relief after the dazzling splashes of ochre and blue and scarlet, and Sue stood still and feasted her eyes upon it.
Gradually it dawned upon Sue that she had seen that branch before, or a branch very like it—a bare twisted branch with gnarled twigs upon it—twigs that resembled an old man’s fingers…
She reopened her catalog and found the number. It was 203. There was no name to show who had painted the picture—no name in the catalog and no signature on the canvas. She looked at it again, more carefully than before. It was Darnay’s work, she was sure of it. The room rocked beneath her feet…
When she recovered a little from the horrible giddiness that had assailed her, she went in search of Mr. Hedley, but before she found him, she changed her mind, for after all she had no proof that it was a Darnay, and she was doubtful of her ability to convince him of the fact. She decided to manage the affair herself in her own way and to tackle Edward about it—Edward was so much easier to manage.
“I’m rather interested in number 203,” she said, speaking in the kind of language that Edward understood. “Can you tell me who it is by?”
Edward came and looked at the picture. “Oh, that? Yes, it is interesting, isn’t it?”
“Who is it by?” inquired Sue again.
“There’s no name, is there?” Edward said, looking at his own catalog. “I rather think it came from Amsterdam. We have an agent there who picks up anything he thinks might interest us.”
“How much is it?”
“Twenty pounds,” replied Edward, consulting his list. “But I daresay Mr. Hedley would consider an offer from you. Shall I ask him?”
“Yes.”
Sue closed with the offer immediately. She did not have the money, of course, but Aunt Bella would lend it to her. Money or no money, she had to have the picture. It was an absolute necessity to her.
“I’d like to know who painted it,” she said and added with consummate guile, “It makes a picture more—er—interesting if you know who painted it.”
Edward agreed that it did. In his heart of hearts, he saw no interest at all in a picture unless you knew who had painted it—the name was everything.
“Would your agent know?” inquired Sue.
“You could write to him,” suggested Edward, who saw a way of delegating to Miss Pringle a task that would otherwise fall upon himself. “You could write and ask him. His name is Mr. Van Kampen. Shall I give you his address?”
This was what Sue had hoped for, but she hid her delight. She noted the address carefully and then turned back to her row of little birds. “I’ll take it home with me,” she said.
Edward was horrified. He explained that it would have to remain on its hook for three weeks—three weeks wasn’t long, was it? There was no fear at all of it being sold to somebody else by mistake, for, even now, he was about to affix a round red disk to the frame. He showed her the box of round red disks to convince her of the fact.
“But I want it now,” Sue said firmly. “Fetch Mr. Hedley, please.”
Edward sighed. He was afraid that Mr. Hedley would take it off the wall and give it to Miss Pringle, for Miss Pringle was the niece of a baronet and therefore entitled to her whims. (This would mean that another picture of exactly the same size would have to be found in the attic and brought down to fill the gap, and he was sick of groping about in the attic; he had had his fill of the place.) Edward was not mistaken, for Mr. Hedley, when told of Miss Pringle’s desire to take her picture home then and there, threw out his hands, shrugged his shoulders, and smiled.