The Baker’s Daughter (21 page)

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 can'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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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 there 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.

Mrs. Goldsmith shoved her trays of neatly made rolls into the oven and turned down her sleeves thoughtfully. Now if only the Vicar lived on the hill and Mrs. Greensleeves in the Vicarage, how much easier it would be! The whole of the hill would be early, and Church End would be all late. No need then to buy a bicycle for Tommy. As it was, something must be done, either a bicycle or an extra boy—and boys were such a nuisance.

Miss King and Miss Pretty dwelt in the High Street next door to Dr. Walker in an old house behind high stone walls. They had nine o'clock breakfast, of course, being ladies of leisure, but the rest of the High Street was early. Pursuing her previous thoughts, and slackening her activities a little, now that the rolls were safely in the oven, Mrs. Goldsmith moved the ladies into the Colonel's house by the bridge, and the gallant Colonel, with all his goods and chattels, was dumped into Durward Lodge next door to Dr. Walker.

These pleasant dreams were interrupted by the noisy entrance of Tommy and his baskets. No time for dreams now.

“Is this early enough for you?” he inquired. “Not ready yet? Dear me! I've been up for hours, I 'ave.”

“Less of your cheek, Tommy Hobday,” replied Mrs. Goldsmith firmly.

* * *

At this very moment an alarm clock started to vibrate furiously in Tanglewood Cottage. The clock was in the maid's bedroom, of course. Dorcas turned over sleepily and stretched out one hand to still its clamor. Drat the thing, she felt as if she had only just got into bed. How short the nights were! She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed her eyes. Her feet found a pair of ancient bedroom slippers—which had once belonged to Miss Buncle—and she was soon shuffling about the room and splashing her face in the small basin that stood in the corner in a three-corner-shaped washstand with a hole in the middle. Dorcas was so used to all this that she did it without properly waking up. In fact, it was not until she had shuffled down to the kitchen, boiled the kettle over the gas ring, and made herself a pot of tea that she could be said to be properly awake. This was the best cup of the day and she lingered over it, feeling somewhat guilty at wasting the precious moments, but enjoying it all the more for that.

Dorcas had been at Tanglewood Cottage for more years than she cared to count—ever since Miss Buncle had been a small, fat child in a basketwork pram. First of all she had been the small, fat child's nurse, and then her maid. Then Mrs. Buncle's parlor maid left and Dorcas had taken on the job; sometimes, in domestic upheavals, she had found herself in the role of cook. Time passed, and Mr. and Mrs. Buncle departed full of years to a better land and Dorcas—who was now practically one of the family—stayed on with Miss Buncle—no longer a fat child—as cook, maid, and parlor maid combined. She was now a small, wizened old woman with bright beady eyes, but in spite of her advancing years, she was strong and able for more work than many a young girl in her teens.

“Lawks!” she exclaimed suddenly, looking up at the clock. “Look at the time, and the drawing room to be done yet—I'm all behind, like a cow's tail.”

She whisked the tea things into the sink and bustled around the kitchen putting things to rights, then, seizing the broom and the dusters out of the housemaid's cupboards, she rushed into Miss Buncle's drawing room like a small but extremely violent tornado.

Breakfast was all ready on the dining room table when Miss Buncle came down at nine o'clock precisely. The rolls had come, and the postman was handing in the letters at the front door. Miss Buncle pounced upon the letters eagerly; most of them were circulars, but there was one long thin envelope with a London postmark addressed to “John Smith, Esq.” Miss Buncle had been expecting a communication for John Smith for several weeks, but now that it had come, she was almost afraid to open it. She turned it over in her hands, waiting until Dorcas had finished fussing around the breakfast table.

Dorcas was interested in the letter, but she realized that Miss Buncle was waiting for her to depart, so at last she departed reluctantly. Miss Buncle tore it open and spread it out. Her hands were shaking so that she could scarcely read it.

ABBOTT & SPICER

Publishers

Brummel Street,

London EC4

—th July.

Dear Mr. Smith,

I have read
Chronicles of an English Village
and am interested in it. Could you call at my office on Wednesday morning at twelve o'clock? If this is not convenient to you, I should be glad if you will suggest a suitable day.

Yours faithfully,

A. Abbott

“Goodness!” exclaimed Miss Buncle aloud. “They are going to take it.”

She rushed into the kitchen to tell Dorcas the amazing news.