Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
Daisy Meads and John Davis lay senseless, side by side,
upon the half-made hay. Frontispiece.
DAISY OF "OLD MEADOW."
BY
AGNES GIBERNE,
AUTHOR OF
"OLD UMBRELLAS;" "SUN, MOON, AND STARS;" "ST. AUSTIN'S LODGE;"
"BERYL AND PEARL;" ETC.
"If I have made gold my hope . . . this also were an iniquity
to be punished."—JOB xxxi.
"Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth."—MATT. vi.
LONDON
JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED
21 BERNERS STREET
PREFACE.
THE following pages are issued with two objects:—
First; they may be used for daily meditation on rising or retiring to rest, in the quiet chamber, when none but God is near.
Secondly; for short services in sick chambers, or for invalids. Many a child of God suffers from infirmities of such a nature that none but a very short service can be borne. This may be carried out by reading the whole chapter, or a portion of it, from which the text is taken; then the address, and the poem. This may be preceded or followed by a short prayer, thus compressing the entire service within ten minutes or a quarter of an hour.
I am aware of the many and great deficiencies which mark these addresses. But they have been issued with one desire and one aim—to glorify Jesus. May He thus use them, by His Holy Spirit, for this end is my earnest prayer!
ST. MARY'S, HASTINGS,
October, 1885.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
DAISY OF "OLD MEADOW."
[CHAPTER I.]
THE WIDOW'S OPINIONS.
"HE'S the crookedest crabbedest cantankerousest old fellow ever I came across, and that's all I have to say! And she's a little angel, if ever there was one, and that's all I have to say too!"
It might have been all that Betsy Simmons had to say, but it certainly was not all that she did say. For, finding her hearer not indisposed to listen, she started off afresh. Betsy Simmons was fresh-complexioned, large in make, and verging on fifty. The other, a younger woman by many years, was quiet and thoughtful in look, with a face and a manner some degrees superior to her poor style of dress.
"He comes in here of a morning, every day, punctual as the clock is on the stroke of nine. And he pokes into everything and fingers everything, afore he'll have his penn'orth or two penn'orth of this or that, till I'm driven nigh crazy. 'Tisn't much more than a penn'orth that he'll take, commonly. But there's often a deal more of fuss with customers about a penn'orth than about a pound's worth. Well, and I know one thing, and that is that if he's after starving anybody, it is Miss Meads and not Mr. Meads, and that you may be sure. He's an old skinflint, and all the world knows it. They do say," and Mrs. Simmons lowered her voice, "they do say as he broke his wife's heart; and I shouldn't wonder but he's going near to break his daughter's too. Not as she speaks a word of complaint—no, she isn't that sort, little angel as she is."
Mary Davis, the listener, seemed more moved than might have been expected under the circumstances. She lifted the corner of her faded shawl to wipe away a tear.
"And they do say—" pursued Mrs. Simmons—but the advent of another customer caused her to break off. "I'll come back to you, Mrs. Davis," she said, with a nod. "Don't you hurry away." And Mary Davis waited patiently, making no protest.
A brown-skinned child, in tattered frock and curl-papers, stood gazing about her with curious eyes. "Please'm," she said, "mother wants two penn'orth of tea, please."
Two pennies dropped on the counter from the little soiled hand. Mrs. Simmons proceeded to weigh the article, and to twist up the packet. "If I was you, Janey Humphrey, I wouldn't be seen out in that trim," she said reprovingly, while so occupied. "Curl-papers in broad daylight,—and face and hands as soap and water haven't come near to for twenty-four hours past. It isn't decent nor respectable, and you'd ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"I've got to mind the baby," said Janey, in a manner of abashed self-excuse.
"That don't make no difference," said Mrs. Simmons decisively. "Nor it wouldn't if you had to mind a dozen babies. If there's time to eat there's time to wash, and I suppose you ain't too busy to eat. And if you haven't time to get your hair out of curl-papers, you'd best never put it in."
"Mother told me to, 'cause it's the school feast, and she wanted me to look 'speckrable," said Janey.
"You'd look a deal more respectable with your hair brushed plain behind your ears. I can tell you the ladies will be none the better pleased with you, for having a lot of frizzly corkscrews over your head—and you may tell your mother so, if you like. I declare I'd well-nigh forgotten it was the school feast this afternoon. Well—get along with you, child—but mind you don't come here again looking like a guy."
Betsy Simmons was counted a privileged person, in the matter of advice-giving. The widow of a sailor, childless, and alone in the world, she had held this little shop during some fifteen years past, and was known in the neighbourhood as no less kind-hearted than outspoken. She sold groceries, green-groceries, and confectioneries, and she drove a brisk trade, being content with small gains.
It was a quaint little shop, standing in the middle of the chief street of a large village, called Banks. There were other shops in the same street. Near the upper end stood a Church, with an ivy-covered square tower, and a Rectory-house and schools adjoining.
Exactly opposite the shop was to be seen a very old and worn-out house, surrounded by a small and very untidy garden. The village stretched well around and beyond it.
For many years "Old Meadow"—so the house was named—had been inhabited by two maiden sisters, whose father had once owned and farmed some hundreds of acres in the neighbourhood. But he and his family had met with reverses, and gradually their possessions had dwindled down to just the ancient house and its garden. When the last aged Miss Meads died, the house and garden went to a cousin, Isaac Meads by name; and it was now about a year since Isaac Meads had settled down there, with his daughter.
"Old Meadow" had not been too well kept in the latter days of old Miss Meads and her sister; but certainly its appearance had not improved since the coming of their cousin. The house was low and spreading, and was covered with masses of ivy, which hung low over the cracked and broken panes of the latticed windows, and served to hide dilapidations in the roof. Huge hollyhocks flourished within the garden wall, and weeds grew in profusion. All this could be seen from the open door of Mrs. Simmons' shop.
Mary Davis was the wife of a working man, who had just come to the place in search of employment. There was a market-town, called Little Sutton, about two miles distant, where work was rather plentiful; and as rent was lower and food was cheaper in Banks than in Little Sutton, many workmen preferred to make their homes in the village, walking to and from the town every day.
Betsy Simmons dearly liked a little gossip with her customers, and she was particularly taken with the gentle face and manner of Mary Davis. Usually she was reserved in her remarks about her opposite neighbour, especially with strangers. It happened, however, that the old man, Isaac Meads, was in the shop when Mary Davis entered it; and after his departure Mrs. Simmons had naturally mentioned his name.
Thereupon Mary Davis had asked some questions about him, showing so marked an interest in the subject that Betsy Simmons had been drawn on to say more than was usual with her. She descanted on the odd ways of the old man, and on the sweetness of his young daughter, Daisy Meads, until the entrance of Janey Humphrey made a break. After Janey's departure, the thread of the talk seemed broken.
"That child, now!" Mrs. Simmons said,—not returning at once to the subject of the Meads family, as Mary Davis had hoped she might do,—"she's a fair specimen, Mrs. Davis, of what you'll see here, and better than ordinary I may say. Her father's a well-meaning man, and he don't drink often, which isn't too common." Mary Davis sighed quietly. "And he brings home his wages pretty regular; and that isn't too common neither. And her mother's a well-meaning woman too—wants to do her best, I don't doubt. Yes, I'll say that of Janet Humphrey—she does want to do her best. But dear me, she's never straight. Go when you will, the place is all of a mess, and the children are dirty, and nothing is where it should be. Mrs. Humphrey's for ever cleaning up, and never clean. That's what I say. Always cleaning, and never clean! It's the way of the folks about here. She don't have a go at her work, and get it done, and make things tidy; but she potters about, and she washes a little, and scrubs a little, and cooks a little, and don't finish off anything out of hand. Works like a slave, of course—folks of that sort mostly do,—and has nothing to show for it. I wonder she hasn't driven her husband to the bad long ago; for he never has a dinner fit to eat, nor a tidy corner to sit down in. And yet she isn't lazy, nor a gossip."
"It's a pity," Mary Davis said absently. "But, Mrs. Simmons, there was something you began to say about Miss Meads over the way."
"To be sure,—yes. Well, as I was saying—What was it I was saying?"
"He'd broke his wife's heart, and was near breaking of his daughter's," said Mary Davis promptly.
"Just so," said Mrs. Simmons, with emphasis. "Not as she complains. O no, she isn't of the grumbling sort. She don't say a word: only goes about smiling, with that sweet face of hers, like a little angel. She's scarce more than a child to look upon, and yet she's got a sort of old way, and there's trouble in her face, beside the sweetness; trouble of a sort, as if she'd had no proper childhood. Well, but I was going to say about the old man, and I'm near forgetting; they do say he isn't near so poor as he makes believe to be. It's no business of yours nor mine, I dare say, but I have heard said as he's got a lot of money stowed away somewhere. He don't make no use of it, if he has. He's that shabby, he goes about scarce fit to be seen; and he's that particular, he'd sooner go without a meal, I do believe, than pay one farthing more for it than he means to. Times and again I've let him have goods under the price, sooner than he should go off empty-handed. Not as I'd mind about him; but Miss Daisy's sweet face comes up, and I can't say a word. Yes, I call her 'Miss Daisy' most commonly. She don't mind, and it seems to suit her better than 'Miss Meads.'"
Mary Davis murmured something about the old man being fond of his daughter.
"Couldn't say as to that," responded Mrs. Simmons. "He mighty fond of himself. Maybe he's fond of her too, after a sort,—but it's a queer sort. If you want to catch a sight of Miss Daisy, you'd best be at the school feast this afternoon. Lots of folks go. It is in the big meadow round near Farmer Grismond's. She's sure to be there, for she has a class in the Sunday-school."
[CHAPTER II.]
STRUCK!
THE "big meadow round near Farmer Grismond's" presented a gay scene that afternoon. Two long tables were early spread at its upper end, under the shade of some large elms; and four rows of bright-faced children went in extensively for tea and buns and cake. Some of the children's mothers had kept them on short commons since breakfast, in preparation for the school feast: so no wonder the little things were hungry.
The clergyman, Mr. Roper, was present; and his wife, with several other ladies to help, was very busy, pouring out tea and handing plates of bread-and-butter. Mrs. Roper was a kind-hearted little lady, always busy about something.
The big meadow belonged to Farmer Grismond, and the annual June school feast had taken place in it for many a year past. He never refused leave,—not even when he had not succeeded in carrying his hay beforehand; but he rarely failed in this. The school children always hoped that they might find a few ridges or cocks remaining in which to riot; and the ladies were never sorry for so easy a method of amusing the children. But Farmer Grismond naturally preferred to have it all safely stacked as soon as possible.
Although hay making was just over in the "big meadow," it was going on still in the adjoining field. The sun shone brightly, but Farmer Grismond saw signs of a speedy change in the weather, and he could allow no delay. So, while the children ran races and scrambled for sugar-plums and played games in the next meadow, he was hard at work. The mown grass lay in long ridges, and women in print sun-bonnets stood among men in smock-frocks, all busily engaged with their pronged forks, tossing and turning. For this was a good many years ago; and Farmer Grismond liked old-fashioned ways; and hay making machines had not yet obtained entrance upon his farm.
Mary Davis found her way to the big meadow in the course of the afternoon, as advised by Mrs. Simmons. Her husband was at work that day among Farmer Grismond's haymakers. He was a mason, and work was promised him in Little Sutton a week later; but in his young days he had been a country boy, and had practised haymaking. So, hearing that the farmer wanted additional help, he had offered himself. Mary Davis was thankful for any employment for him, thankful for anything that should keep him for a few hours out of the public-house. That was John Davis' weakness. He was an affectionate husband, and really a well-meaning man, in a general way; but he was weak as water, utterly without strength of principle or resolution; and he seldom came out of a public-house quite sober.
Mary Davis took a look at the haymakers first, and had a kind word from Farmer Grismond, a stout burly man, with a face as red as his own pocket-handkerchief, from the blaze of the sun. "Good day, Mrs. Davis,—I hope you are quite well," he said cheerily, having already seen her. "Your husband is doing capitally for an unpractised hand,—clever fellow, I should say. I wish I had a dozen more like him. But it's of no use. The rain is coming too quick."
"You don't think it will rain to-day, sir, do you?" asked Mary.
He pointed towards a bank of dark clouds, which Mary had not noticed. "If it keeps off two hours I shall be surprised," he said.
Farmer Grismond was much too busy for chitchat, so Mary made her way into the next field. She asked one or two people quietly "If they could tell her which was Miss Meads." But the answer in each case was: "No, I don't see her just now; she's somewhere near." So Mary stood about, and waited patiently.
Farmer Grismond was in the right. Other people, less observant, did not take notice of the coming change, till suddenly a cloud rolled over the face of the sun; and then everybody looked up startled, and many said, "Dear me, is it going to rain?" Yet still the games and shouts and merry laughter went on. One or two remarked that the absence of sunshine was comfortable; it had been so very hot. There was no coolness yet, however, but only a close heavy heat, like that of an oven.
The greater number of the children had collected near the lower part of the field, in the vicinity of a large cow-house, and some were running in and out of the cow-house. Mrs. Roper kept guard over them there; and several of her friends about this time said good-bye to her, and went home, expecting rain. Mrs. Roper, however, did not like to cut the children's pleasure short, and she hoped the threatening shower might keep off for an hour or two yet.
At the upper end of the field, quite far away from the rest, several children were having a merry game among the trees, and somebody said to Mary, "That's Daisy Meads' class, over yonder." So Mary immediately made her way all across the meadow, and watched the game. She noticed at once a rather older girl with the little ones, slight and small in figure, and dressed in a plain stuff dress and brown bonnet. At first Mary took her for one of the older school children, till she heard her called, "Teacher, Teacher!" and till she saw that the little pale face within the brown bonnet was scarcely that of a child. It was a sweet face, delicate and small, with a smile which came and went like sunshine, and there was something round the mouth which told of long endurance of trouble.
Mary Davis had found what she wanted. That was Daisy Meads; and she knew it.
She could not interrupt the game: so she waited still. Presently some of the children began to flag, and Daisy Meads herself seemed to have had enough. She stood, with her back against a tree, near Mary Davis, her hand pressed against her side.
"You're tired, Miss," Mary ventured to say; and Daisy, looking round, saw her for the first time.
"Yes, I can't run any more. It gives me a 'stitch,'" said Daisy. "Are you one of the mothers? I don't seem to know you—and yet—"
A puzzled expression came into her face, and she looked earnestly at Mary.
"I'm only just come to Banks, and I haven't got any children," said Mary. "My husband's John Davis, and he's haymaking in the next field."
"I thought I didn't exactly know you," said Daisy. "And yet—it is curious, but I seem to remember your face."
"I shouldn't wonder but you do, Miss Daisy, seeing I've had you in my arms many a time."
Daisy came nearer, looking earnestly still. "Then I do know you," she said. "I thought I did. And you are Nurse—my own dear Nursie."
Daisy did not hesitate a moment, but threw her arms round Mary Davis, and kissed her warmly. No spectators were near except the little children; but she would probably have done the same in any case.
"Dear good kind Nursie, you can't think how often I have longed to see you. Why did you never write? But I don't wonder, after the way things happened. Only I always knew you loved me still. I did feel so lonely after you went—and I do still," Daisy said sadly, speaking in a low quick voice. "Nursie, he is worse than ever. I can't do anything with him."
"Only God can, Miss Daisy."
Daisy's eyes were full of tears, but a smile broke over her face.
"Yes," she said, "God can, and that is my comfort. I am always praying for him. But he won't hear about religion, and he seems to care for nothing at all but just trying to save and lay by. And he is growing an old man now. It does seem so sad. But I try to do everything I can to please him, and perhaps some day things will be different. And you are married, Nursie. Your name used not to be Davis. Ought I to call you 'Mrs. Davis?' It does not sound natural."
"I shouldn't like to be anything but 'Nurse' to you, Miss Daisy," said Mary. "I've been married close upon four years."
"That was three years after you left us. Yes, I was only a little thing, nine years old then, but I remember all perfectly, and the comfort that you were to poor mother."
"And she died, Miss Daisy? But I don't need to ask. I knew she couldn't last long."
"Only a few weeks after you left us," said Daisy, her face growing sorrowful. "It was very hard to bear the loss of both together. And the time has seemed so long and slow since. I can't believe sometimes that I am only sixteen. I feel so old and grave."
"You are not well, Miss Daisy," said Mary anxiously.
"Yes, I think I am well, only old," said Daisy, lifting her soft child-like face. "I seem to have lived such a very long time. But tell me about your husband, Nursie. Is he good and kind?"
"He's kind, Miss Daisy, commonly. If only it wasn't for the—"
Mary did not finish her sentence, but Daisy understood. How many a poor wife has to say the same. A good husband, a kind husband, an affectionate husband—a man who would be all these, if only it wasn't for the drink!
Daisy looked her sympathy, and would have expressed it in words, but a sudden interruption came. A flash of brilliant lightning shone in their faces, and a heavy crash of thunder followed.
A general rush of children might be seen in the distance, towards the cow-house, encouraged by Mrs. Roper; and the little ones of Daisy's class made a like rush to the shelter of the tall elm trees, some of them screaming. But Daisy sprang after them.
"Stop, all of you," she cried. "You must not go under the trees. Children, do as you are told. Come to me."
Terrified as they were, they obeyed her, and a frightened cluster drew round the girlish figure. A second flash and crash came, and some of them wailed piteously.
"Now listen to me," said Daisy Meads steadily. "You mustn't, any of you, go near a single tree. It is very very dangerous to do so in a storm. If the lightning strikes anywhere it always strikes something tall. If a tree were struck, and you were standing at the bottom, you might be killed. There is another flash. But you need not mind the noise of the thunder, for thunder never hurts anybody."
The peal was so loud that Daisy had to pause. Mary Davis looked wonderingly at her, as she stood, pale and quiet, among the clinging children.
"Hadn't we better get them under shelter somewhere, Miss Daisy?" she asked. "There's a shed in the next field, where they are haymaking, quite away from trees, and much nearer than the cow-house."
"Then that will do," said Daisy decisively.
She pulled up one little crying girl from the ground, and Mary Davis carried the youngest. As they hurried through the nearest gate, rain pattered heavily around them, and the haymakers, leaving their now useless work, sped away in different directions for shelter. One man, not far from the hut, lifted a pile of hay on his fork, held it erect over his head, and under this shelter proceeded deliberately towards a tree, smiling at his own cleverness. The children had by this time clustered into the hut, and Daisy stood panting in the doorway. She gave one look, and exclaimed: "Oh, how mad!"
Mary Davis glanced in the same direction, not understanding. "That's my husband, Miss Daisy," she said. "He seems bent on keeping himself dry. But I'd best go and tell him not to go near the trees, if it's dangerous." Mary had her doubts whether Daisy's idea were not a delusion, being ignorant, as many people are, about the nature of lightning.
"Your husband! But he mustn't do that," said Daisy breathlessly. She did not wait to explain, but darted straight out into the rain, and reached the man. "Put your fork down,—don't hold it up!" she cried. "Don't you know that's dangerous? There's iron on it."
John Davis stood still, and looked at Daisy in surprise. He did not know what she meant, and he was in no hurry to lower his new-fangled umbrella, of which, indeed, he felt rather proud. Daisy did not try the effect of argument. She put out her little hand impulsively to grasp the handle, intending to drag it from him. John swerved, loosening instinctively his own grasp, and her hand only fell upon his arm. Another instant, and the uplifted hayfork would have fallen.
But it was just too late. A zigzag stream of blue light leapt out from the black cloud overhead, accompanied by a harsh and rattling peal of thunder. Daisy Meads and John Davis lay senseless, side by side, upon the half-made hay.
[CHAPTER III.]
DAISY'S NEEDS.
ISAAC MEADS had not been to the school feast. He did not trouble himself about such frivolities. What mattered buns and banners, and tea and games to him? Or, in other words, what mattered the good and the happiness and the innocent enjoyment of two hundred children, for whom others were thinking and working? Isaac Meads had not learnt to care for others' joys.
It had been very much against the old man's will that Daisy had undertaken a class in the Sunday-school. She would never have undertaken it without his consent, and probably no one less gently and kindly persistent than Mrs. Roper would have won his consent. Once yielded, he did not withdraw it, but he objected still, in his sullen silent fashion. Isaac Meads was a very silent, and oftentimes a very sullen man. He did not fly into violent passions, like some people, but he sulked and grumbled, and spent a great part of his life in a most uncomfortable fog, so far as his own temper was concerned. The worst of such a fog is that it does not only affect oneself, but touches those about one. So poor Daisy knew a great deal already about that particular kind of foggy atmosphere in a house. It is a much worse kind than the yellowest and densest of London fogs.
Isaac had never taught in a Sunday-school himself, and therefore he did not see why Daisy should do so. There was a difference in the two cases: for if Isaac had been set down with a dozen children, and desired to give them a lesson out of the Bible, he would not have had the least idea what to say; whereas Daisy's mind was so full of thoughts that she could never get half she wanted into the time allowed. But Isaac reasoned out matters from his own notions, and not from actual facts: so no wonder his conclusions were wrong. He looked upon Sunday-schools and Churches, and religion altogether, as very tiresome and superfluous matters, and he took good care for his own part to have as little as possible to do with them.
There was one thing which Isaac Meads really loved, one thing which he really did count worth working for, and striving for, and living for. Not religion, not God, not the great future! Isaac could not for a moment say with David, "THOU, O God, art the thing that I long for;" and he was content to leave the question of his own home and happiness through the awful countless ages of a coming eternity just to chance. But there was one thing that Isaac Meads did love, did long for, did count worthy of his best attention; and that one thing was MONEY.
Whether he had much or little of it, few people knew; but whether he loved what he had nobody could doubt. Whether such as he had was stored up in his house, or put away in a savings bank, the world around was ignorant; but whether his money possessions were deeply treasured in his own heart, everybody might see.
Isaac loved money. He did not merely like it, did not merely enjoy what it could bring him. He loved money for its own sake, with a real heart-devotion for the poor senseless gold which could give him no love in return. He loved money with that heart-love which a man can bestow upon one object only, everything and everybody else being secondary to it. There was a throne in Isaac Meads' heart, as there is a throne in the heart of every man, belonging by right to God Himself: and that throne, in the secret chamber of his being, was occupied by Money.
Mrs. Simmons had seemed doubtful whether he really cared for his daughter Daisy.
It was quite true, as she had said, that he cared for himself best. Love to self always goes with love for money.
But he loved Daisy too, only it was with a lower and secondary sort of affection. He was proud of her, and he leant upon her in his dull home life. He never felt comfortable when she was away. He was a man with no friends, no occupation; with nothing to do except to take care of his money. He was past earning it now; so all the energies of his feeble old age were bent to the task of saving instead of getting. He grudged the spending of a single unnecessary penny.
It was money itself, not money's worth, which Isaac so loved. That terrible heart disease, "the root of all evil," as money-love is called in the Bible, takes different forms with different people; and in old Isaac Meads it was to be seen in its most grovelling form of all, the sheer love of base coin.
He sat dismally alone that sunny afternoon in the dingy front parlour of "Old Meadow." There were some books in a book-case at one end of the room, but Isaac Meads never dreamt of indulging in the unprofitable occupation of reading. Why should he? If he had read fifty books, he would not have gained a penny by so doing. He had only one mode of testing the worth of things or actions. Would they "bring in" so much? If not, they had no charm for him. Poor old Isaac!
Daisy had made the room very neat before she went. She did most of the house-work herself, with only a girl to help. Isaac grumbled often at the expense of the girl, and in his heart he wished often to dismiss her altogether. While Daisy was a child some such help had been an absolute necessity, but now that she was sixteen and a child no longer, he did not see why Daisy should not do the whole herself. It was a good-sized house, to be sure, but some rooms were shut up; and though Daisy had a strong love for keeping everything clean, like her mother before her, Isaac had not the least objection to any amount of dust.
He thought he would speak about this to Daisy, on her return from the school feast, and would insist on a change. Then he wondered whether Daisy would perhaps get some tea and a bun, and so would not need anything more when she came back. If so, her presence at the feast was a saving to his pocket, and he was glad of it.
Isaac did not look a happy old man, sitting there all alone, buried in these thoughts, with his wrinkled forehead, and dull eyes, and dropping lower jaw. He was not at all an attractive or lovable old man. Daisy worked hard to keep his clothes tidy, but he persisted in wearing an old coat of tindery texture, which almost dropped into holes with its own weight. He had one other suit, very aged, yet tolerably respectable, but he would scarcely ever put it on, for he was terribly afraid of its wearing out and having to be replaced. He often told Daisy that she was doing her best to ruin him; and if she ventured to ask anything for herself, he sometimes positively cried like a little child. He did not see why Daisy's clothes, once bought, needed ever to wear out.
The room grew dark, as the old man sat musing, for clouds had crept over the sun, and a stormy blackness gathered round. Isaac hardly noticed the change, until he was startled by a sudden and blinding flash, straight in his eyes, followed by a loud thunder-crash.
He pushed his chair back into the shade between the two windows, disliking the glare. If Daisy had been present he would have affected indifference: but being alone he did not disguise from himself a feeling of uneasiness, almost amounting to fear. The lightning blazed, and the thunder crashed again and again; and he pushed his chair yet farther into the shade. There had not been so heavy a storm for a long while in Banks. Isaac muttered once or twice, "Shouldn't wonder if something was struck, I shouldn't! Why don't Daisy make haste home?"
But Daisy was long in returning. The storm came nearer, and the flashes were in quick succession, and rain pattered heavily on the trees outside. Presently, however, the pauses between the lightning grew longer, and slowly the storm seemed to grumble and growl itself away into the distance.
Suddenly Isaac was roused from the half sleepy state into which he had fallen, by a smart ringing and knocking at the front door. He sat still, wondering what it could all be about. Then the door was opened and he heard a suppressed shriek from the girl, Bess, and a voice said, "Hush, hush, you will frighten the old man. Where is he? Let me go to him first."
"He's in yonder," gasped Bess, in tones of blank dismay.
But Isaac rose and came out, in a tremor of fear. He thought the house must be on fire, and he wanted to go after a certain strong little iron box, locked up in another room. Mrs. Roper met him just at the parlour door, and she began to say pityingly, "Stop a moment, Mr. Meads, stop,—such a sad thing has happened."
Isaac would not stop. He pushed past her into the passage. There he was brought to a standstill. For Daisy, carried by two men, lay, white and helpless and senseless, with shut eyes and no sign of life in her.
"Which is Daisy's room?" asked Mrs. Roper. "Upstairs, I suppose?"
"No, it isn't," said the dismayed Bess. "There isn't no upstairs room used. Miss Daisy, she sleeps in here."
Daisy was carried in and laid upon her narrow bed. As they placed her, so she remained, one little hand dropping weakly over one side, and not a tinge of colour in the still face. The half-closed lids had a stiffened look, and only a faint twitching now and then round the parted lips showed her to be alive.
Daisy had lain thus, ever since she and John Davis were struck down together. The cruel flash which had torn and shattered John's right arm, burning the hair from his head and the very eyebrows from his face, and melting the metal buttons of his shirt, yet strange to say not killing him, had not even scorched Daisy. Only, from the moment that she had dropped to the ground, she had not stirred, or spoken, or looked at anybody.
The two men, Jem Humphrey and Will Saunders, who had carried Daisy, stood waiting for further directions, and old Isaac gazed at Daisy with a fixed stare, which might have meant grief, or bewilderment, or both.
Mrs. Roper, a slight and active little lady, with kind eyes, and a quick manner which could become very cordial at times, went close to Isaac and laid her hand on his arm, to draw his attention. He had only stared vacantly when she spoke, seeming not to understand.
"Listen to me," she said; "Daisy is very ill, Mr. Meads, and she may be ill many days. I had her carried into my house, and sent for Mr. Bennet at once. He cannot tell at present how long this state will last—it is impossible to know—but he will look in and see her again in an hour or two."
Isaac's dull eyes travelled slowly from Daisy's senseless form to Mrs. Roper's kind sad face,—she always looked sad when others were in trouble.
"Been—a' struck—with lightning," he muttered, as if the idea had just managed to find its way into his poor old mind, through a doorway which had long been well-nigh clogged up with gold-dust. "Been a' struck with lightning! And whose fault's that, I'd like to know?" Isaac glared round quite fiercely, as if he wanted very much to punish somebody for what had happened.
"It is nobody's fault," said Mrs. Roper. "It is nobody's fault, Mr. Meads. Daisy saw a man holding up a pitchfork, and, knowing the danger to him, she bravely rushed to stop him, and he and she were struck together. We hope she is not so much hurt as he is, but we cannot tell yet. It is a great trouble for you, Mr. Meads, but it comes from God's Hand, and you have to be thankful that it is not worse. Daisy might have been killed on the spot. Now you must all three go out of the room, and leave me with Daisy. Bess and I have to put her to bed. Then I will come and speak to Mr. Meads about a nurse, and I shall want one of you men to go on an errand—so please do not both leave yet."
Isaac looked stupefied, but Will Saunders pulled him away. Humphrey had work to do elsewhere, which could not be longer delayed: so Saunders remained behind, doing his best to cheer the old man, and receiving small response for his pains. Isaac sat dolefully in silence, with staring eyes and dropping jaw, lost in a remembrance of Mrs. Roper's last words. When Mrs. Roper at length came into the room, Saunders thoughtfully retired into the passage, leaving the two alone together. He was the chief carpenter in Banks, young still, and a remarkably thoughtful and obliging man in his ways.
"Daisy is in bed," Mrs. Roper said, standing in front of old Isaac; and he stood up slowly, waiting to hear what she would say. "We have put her to bed, and I do not think she has been quite unconscious all the time, though she does not open her eyes yet. But I have come now to ask you about a nurse. I will watch by her till some one can come. That is all I can do, I fear, and she will need good nursing, poor child. You must hire somebody, Mr. Meads."
Isaac's face grew longer and longer. "Doctor and nurse!" he ejaculated. "And how ever in the world am I to pay for doctor and nurse, I'd like to know! It'll be ruin—stark ruin!"
"Come, come,—you and I know better, Mr. Meads," Mrs. Roper said significantly, for she happened to be more intimately acquainted with the condition of Isaac Meads' affairs than perhaps anybody else in Banks. "No danger of ruin at present. Of course you must have doctor and nurse, and of course you must pay for them too. Why, you would not wish Daisy to die for want of proper care, would you,—your own little Daisy! We sent off John Davis to the hospital, for there was nothing else to be done in his case; but everybody felt sure that you in your position wouldn't and couldn't want your dear little Daisy to go to the hospital—couldn't want it, Mr. Meads. All Banks would have cried shame upon the notion; and you would be shocked at it yourself as much as anybody,—would you not?"
Isaac certainly did look shocked, but whether at the idea of Little Sutton hospital for Daisy was another matter. "Nurse!—and doctor!—and medicine!" he murmured. "It'll be stark ruin. And all of 'em free in the hospital."
Mrs. Roper drew a step nearer.
"Don't talk about the hospital for Daisy," she said in a low voice. "If you do not wish to be despised by everybody in the place, don't let Saunders or any one hear a whisper of it. There are so many who love Daisy. And it is not a right thought. You know that the hospital is meant for those who are poor,—and, Mr. Meads, you know you are not poor."
Isaac quailed before the lady's bright keen gaze, and he shivered all over. "Who says so?" he asked entreatingly. "I haven't got one penny to spare,—not one penny."
"You and I understand one another, Mr. Meads," said Mrs. Roper quietly. "It would not be honest to send Daisy to the hospital, even if you love her so little as to want to get rid of the poor child in such a way. You see what I mean,—it would not be honest. Now tell me, who will you have to nurse Daisy?"
"It's an awful expense," Isaac said mournfully, and tears actually ran down his furrowed cheeks.
"The expense need not be heavy," said Mrs. Roper. "There is a nice woman, Mary Davis, the wife of the man who has been struck. She has gone with him to the hospital,—poor fellow,—but she will have to leave him there. She told me that she would gladly nurse your Daisy, while he does not need her, receiving only food and lodging."
"And no pay?" asked Isaac eagerly.
"I think she ought to have payment, but she seems quite willing to do the work without. You ought to pay her, Mr. Meads,—still, that question I must leave with yourself. Shall I send a message to her through Saunders? She will be at the Rectory before long; and I will sit with Daisy until she comes to take my place. Daisy cannot be left alone, and Bess has no experience. Will you have Mrs. Davis? Very well,—then the matter is settled."
Mrs. Roper went to speak with Saunders; and Isaac sat alone once more, in silence which was only broken now and then by sighing mutters, "It'll be ruination,—sheer ruination! Why couldn't she ha' been taken to the hospital?"
[CHAPTER IV.]
AN UNTIDY HOME.
MRS. HUMPHREY'S cottage was in its usual uncomfortable condition of "cleaning up." She had begun "putting straight" in the morning, and she had been at it ever since, off and on. Yet, though evening was come, things were not straight. It would have been a mystery to any orderly housewife, how she managed to be so busy, and to get so little done.
Some men's wives waste a great deal of time in perpetual gossiping with the neighbours, and then of course it is not surprising that their homes should be in a mess. But wasting time in that particular fashion was not one of Janet Humphrey's faults. She did not care for gossip, and she did not care for the neighbours. Indeed, it was rather a subject of complaint among the said neighbours that "Mrs. Humphrey was so unsociable, nobody could get to know her." She rather took a pride in holding aloof, and in not allowing her children to associate with the children around more than could be helped.
Janey, the eldest of the party, the little nine years old maiden of the curl-papers, sat on a chair, in the pink cotton which she had worn at the school feast, nursing the baby; and the baby, a plump infant of nine months, being hungry, was screaming lustily. Jackey and Sukey, aged eight and seven, were quarrelling in the window; and Willie and Tommy, aged five and three, were rolling about upon the floor, with rough heads and smeared faces, each having a piece of bread-and-butter. Janet herself, with a soiled cap and a heated anxious face, was hurrying to and fro distractedly. Some damp clothes hung round the fire, and cooking utensils were scattered uncomfortably here and there, while the china used at the mid-day meal lay still unwashed upon the wooden table.
"Father'll be in directly, and he'll be so vexed not to find things straight." This was Janet's usual observation every evening, as if it were quite an uncommon event for him to find them so; whereas in reality it was a matter of daily occurrence. "Oh dear, dear, whatever am I do? If I'd known it would have taken so long, I'd never have got those things washed out to-day. To-morrow would have done as well. Do stop that child's crying, Janey. It goes through my head. And those children,—if I wash them one minute, they're not fit to be seen the next."
Janet's "minute" was a long one on this occasion, since she had not found time to wash them for several hours. She came forward, and pulled Tommy up with a jerk, whereupon he burst into a howl. "Have done, will you?" said Janet pettishly, giving him a little shake. "Father'll be back directly, and he'll be angry. Where's the soap? O dear,—nobody knows what I have to go through. I don't think there ever was such a set of children. Stop crying this minute, Tommy, or you shan't have one single bit more of bread-and-butter."
Whereupon Tommy wailed the more, and a man's head appeared in the doorway.
"Not ready—as usual!" said Jem.
"No, and shan't be for another hour," said Janet sharply; for the general condition of things made her feel cross, though she was not naturally ill-tempered.
"Then I'm best out of the way," said Jem rather gruffly, and he disappeared.
"There! and he'll go to the public, and get into trouble, as sure as can be," exclaimed Janet despairingly. "Whatever did make me speak like that to him? Well, I must just get on, and make things straight. Stop crying, Tommy, do,—come now, be a good boy, and mother will give him a halfpenny."
The promised bribe took effect, and Tommy's howls lessened. Janet decided to defer the washing for fear of setting him off again. She slipped a halfpenny into one grimy little hand, and a piece of bread into the other, and placed him again on the floor. Then, having given her children an unwholesome lesson on the easiest mode of getting their own way, she turned round, flurried and annoyed, to find herself facing Mrs. Simmons.
"Good evening," said Mrs. Simmons. "I came to bring a few apples for the young ones, Mrs. Humphrey; and I had to make bold to walk in, seeing I couldn't manage to get a hearing through the clamour."
Janet looked and felt ashamed. "I'm sure I'm very much obliged," she said. "It's a bad day with me—cleaning up."
"Why, so was yesterday, wasn't it?" asked Mrs. Simmons, taking a seat, and regarding attentively Tommy's dingy and buttery cheeks.
"Well, yes,—but I didn't get done," said Janet uncomfortably. "I take a bit a day, you see, so as to get through things."
"You don't seem quite through 'em yet," said Betsy, surveying the scene. "I saw your husband going off just now, seemingly in a huff."
"He hadn't any reason. I'm sure it wasn't my fault," Janet said, in a melancholy tone, "I've toiled hard enough and to spare. I'm pretty near ready to drop this minute. Janey came back and told me what had happened, and it gave me such a turn, I haven't felt right since."
Betsy Simmons' rather grim look softened. "Ah,—Poor little Miss Daisy," she said. "And poor Davis too, for the matter of that. Not a bit less one than the other, only the one seems to come nearer to us. Yes, it's an awful thing to have happened, and nobody can know yet if either of the two will get over it. The man suffers terribly, they say, and poor little Miss Daisy just lies still with shut eyes and don't know anybody. Well, well,—I don't doubt it's all for the best,—and she's ready for death, if anybody ever was. I wish I was as sure I was ready myself. But it's an awful thing to be struck down, all in a moment."
"I wish you wouldn't talk so. It turns me quite queer," said Janet.
"You do look as if a cup of tea would do you good," said Mrs. Simmons.
"I haven't had time to get one. There's no getting anything done, with a pack of children about."
"You should train your children to be a help and not a hindrance," said Mrs. Simmons, rising, with a business-like air. "That's what I would do. Why, dear me, there isn't one but might take his share of work, unless it's the baby. Even Tommy isn't too small to pick up scraps, and clear away crumbs. Now you sit still a few minutes, Mrs. Humphrey, and get a bit of quiet, and I'll do for you. I couldn't take a cup of tea, for my part, or anything else, in such a mess as this. You sit still, and just see!"
Janet looked astonished, but obeyed. Mrs. Simmons divested herself of shawl and bonnet, folding the former, and laying the latter neatly upon it. She never flung off what she wore, or tossed articles of clothing anywhere, as some people are apt to do when in a hurry.
Then she proceeded to "tidy" the room. Janet had been "tidying" all day, quite in vain; for the simple reason that as fast as she made one part tidy she made another part untidy. Betsy Simmons, on the contrary, advanced steadily, step by step, placing everything in order, putting away this, hanging up that, pushing chairs back against the wall, collecting stray scraps of paper, string and cotton, and working a rapid transformation. Once Janet protested, "I shall want that directly, Mrs. Simmons; it's no good putting it by."
"Want it! And if you do," said Mrs. Simmons, "what then, Mrs. Humphrey? Can't you get it out again? I shall want my bed by-and-by, but I don't keep it at hand all day in my shop. It saves a deal of trouble, to put everything straight away in its right place the moment it's been used."
"But the children'll only drag all the chairs crooked in another minute," said Janet.
"Chairs are meant to be used," said Mrs. Simmons, in an oracular manner. "But there's no need for them all to stand about the whole day like a set of dancing dervishes. If every child was taught to put his chair back straight against the wall after he's done with it, the world would be over so much tidier."
"Why, I don't do that," said Janet.
"More's the pity!" said Mrs. Simmons.
Having swept up the hearth,—an operation which Janet rarely performed, because it was sure to need sweeping again before long,—Mrs. Simmons brought out water and soap. The missing soap she had accidentally discovered, lying hidden under Janet's bonnet. The elder children submitted with tolerable composure to having their dirty little faces and hands made clean and shining. Tommy, however, had a strong dislike to soap, and Tommy shrieked his disapproval.
"He won't like it," gasped Janet, in dismay.
"Then he'll have to get along without the liking," said Betsy Simmons calmly, as she lifted Tommy into a convenient position.
"Tommy will be a good boy, won't he?" said Janet coaxingly. "Mother will give him a nice bun if he is good."
"Give him a bun for having his face washed!" said Mrs. Simmons. "And a halfpenny for stopping crying! He's like to cost you dear at this rate, Mrs. Humphrey. Haven't you got any better use for your pennies than that?"
Janet sat rebuked; ashamed yet angry. Tommy yelled, but he yelled in vain. Mrs. Simmons quietly soaped him, scrubbed him, sponged him, and dried him. A clean though tearful little boy was presently seated on a chair, and told to "be good."
"He wouldn't let me do all that, now," said Janet.
Mrs. Simmons turned round quite indignantly. "Wouldn't let!" she said. "A baby of three not let his mother do as she likes with him! What on earth do you mean, Mrs. Humphrey?"
"Well, I don't know,—it doesn't seem as if I could manage them like you do," said Janet.
"Maybe not,—because you don't set to work the right way," said Mrs. Simmons. "Give in to a child because he cries, or bribe him to be good, and your mastery over him is gone. But once make him understand that you mean what you say, and that he has to do what he's told, and your trouble's at an end. Why, dear me, I wonder what my mother would have said, when I was a girl, if any one of us—and she had a dozen children—had set up for a moment against her will. Not we! There wasn't such a thing known among us. Mother's will was law, and no mistake. But for all that we loved her more than I can tell, and she did toil for us. The world never looked the same to me, Mrs. Humphrey, since mother died."
"Everybody isn't like that, though," Janet said hopelessly, as Mrs. Simmons placed the teapot on the table.
[CHAPTER V.]
A DANGER ESCAPED.
MRS. SIMMONS gave Janet Humphrey a little more good advice still, before she had done with her: and Janet took the good advice humbly. For whatever Janet's faults might be, she had not among them the silly pride which will not bear to be told of being in the wrong.
"I am sure I wish I could do better," she said, standing at the open door with Betsy Simmons, when the latter was about to leave. "I don't pretend to say everything is as it should be. But it isn't so easy to keep straight as some folks fancy."
"No, that it isn't," said Mrs. Simmons. "I'm on your side of the matter there. It isn't easy to get out of bad habits and into good ones. A deal of striving and praying have to go to it."
"Why, Mrs. Simmons, you wouldn't surely have me pray about keeping my house straight!"
"And about getting up early, and having the rooms clean, and the children tidy, and the meals comfortable! Surely I would," said Betsy Simmons. "I don't see that you're likely to get things right without praying. You've a deal to fight against—laziness and forgetfulness and what-not! And you'll want help from above, if ever a woman does."
"But such little things," remonstrated Janet.
"Ah, that's where you mistake," said Mrs. Simmons. "That's where you and others go wrong. They are not little things at all, but big things. It don't seem so very much, perhaps, if one day or another you don't get done in time, and the place is all of a muck, and the children are in a mess, and the dinner isn't properly cooked, and your husband goes somewhere else for the comfort he can't find in his own house. Maybe each time it's a small matter alone. But it's no small matter if you stop short of your duty in that state of life where God has put you. And it won't be a small matter, if your husband is driven from his home so often that at last he takes to the public-house instead."
"My husband isn't one of them as is for ever in and out at the public," said Janet hastily, forgetting her own lately-expressed fear.
"Maybe not, but he isn't one that never goes there. Mind you don't give him a push down hill with your own hand, Mrs. Humphrey. A man won't commonly stand more than a certain amount and degree of uncomfortableness. I can tell you I didn't like the look in his face to-day, as I saw him coming away from your door."
Janet felt uneasy.
"I'll try—I will really try," she said. "I shouldn't like that. He's so steady mostly, I didn't somehow think there was danger he'd ever turn to being anything else."
"The more steady he is, the more shame he shouldn't have a cosy house to sit quiet in," said Mrs. Simmons.
"I'll try," repeated Janet. "I'll do things different. And you'll come in sometimes, and tell me how, won't you?"
"I'm glad enough to help anyone I can," said Betsy Simmons. "But it's other help than mine you'll need to keep straight. Now, if I was you, Mrs. Humphrey, I'd see to having everything nice, and the children off to bed early, before he comes back again. Don't let him find you in a mess a second time."
"But Tommy don't like being sent to bed early."
"And if he don't, what then?"
"Why, he'll scream," said Janet.
"That's soon settled," said Mrs. Simmons. "Tuck him up, and he'll soon scream himself out. All the more need to have it over while your husband's away. And if I was you, Mrs. Humphrey, I'd put the little ones to sleep every evening before he comes back from work, until they've learnt to go off quiet without any screaming. It'll be the best lesson they ever had yet."
"But they won't—" began Janet.
"Talk of 'won't' about a parcel of babies!" said Mrs. Simmons. "I'll tell you what,—I never yet saw the child, big or little, who couldn't be mastered, if one knew how to do it. You needn't think it's a matter of scolding and storming. The gentler you speak the better, so as only you make a child understand that you mean what you say. But if your children's 'won't' is stronger than your 'must,'—why, all I can say is, you're scarce fit to be a mother. You'd best send them away, and pay somebody else to do the bringing up for you."
"I never could bear to see a child unhappy," said Janet.
"Yes, yes. I know the feeling. It sounds a deal kinder than it really is. So you don't mind bearing to see your husband unhappy, and you let them do just whatever they like, never thinking of the misery they'll be in after life to themselves and others,—and thinking least of all of the Life that's to come, and whether your children are to be happy then or not. That isn't tender-heartedness. It's downright cruelty."
"I hope it'll all come right with them," Janet said uneasily.
"I hope so too, but I don't see as you've much reason to expect it. If you don't train them up now in the way they should go, it isn't very likely they'll take to walking in it by-and-by."
Janet was not offended by Mrs. Simmons's plain speaking. She said again that she would "try;" and when Betsy Simmons was gone she returned indoors.
"Mother, do you like Mrs. Simmons?" asked Janey, in a doubtful voice, as Janet began to undress the baby.
"Yes, she's good and she's true," Janet answered. "She says a sharp word sometimes, but she don't mean it unkindly. Janey, I wonder if you couldn't help me now, by getting Willie ready. I want to have him and Tommy and baby in bed, against father comes back. And you've got to smooth your hair too."
Janey entered into the spirit of the thing with astonishing quickness. Tommy was, as usual, the most troublesome, and Janet kept him in her own hands. He always kicked and cried while being undressed, and generally he gained his will in the shape of repeated delays. This evening, to his infantine astonishment, the kicks and cries were of no avail. Janet was heated and sorry, but she persevered, and, to her surprise, Tommy was no sooner fairly in bed than he turned himself round and dropped asleep,—"sound as a top," Janey remarked.
"I am glad I went on," said Janet. "Now we'll pop Willie in, and baby will soon be off too. Dear me, I do think father will be pleased. He does like a bit of quiet."
Jem Humphrey presently reappeared, rather later than Janet had expected. She found time beforehand to put everything neatly away, and to spread the table for supper. There was only a half-loaf of stale bread, besides cheese. Not that they could not afford more; for Jem received good wages, and he seldom squandered money on himself: but Janet had not taken the trouble to prepare anything else. She had counted herself too busy, and had said that "things would do as they were." Now she was sorry that she had not managed better.
Jem looked moody and vexed still, and he sat down without a word. But as his eyes travelled round the kitchen, noting its unwonted order, marking the absence of noisy babies, and perceiving the clean cap on Janet's smooth hair—not often smooth, alas!—an expression of relief came over his face.
"Why, whatever in the world have you been after?" he asked. "I shouldn't know the place."
"Mrs. Simmons came in, and helped me to tidy up," said Janet.
"I wish she'd come every day," muttered Jem.
"She couldn't do that," said Janet. "But I do mean to try—really and truly, Jem. I don't mean to have things all of a mess, if I can help it. I know I've been wrong, and I'll try to make a difference from this very day."
Jem looked at Janet and said no more. He took a hunch of bread, and ate silently.
"I might have got you something warm. I wish I had," said Janet.
"Well, it's been cold comfort you've given me lately, there's no manner of doubt," said Jem. "I shouldn't have minded a hot potato or two,—and it wouldn't have been such a vast deal of trouble neither."
Janet made no answer to this, and supper progressed with the addition of very few remarks. When it was over he took to a book from the Parish Lending Library, and read diligently. Janet cleared the table, mindful still of Mrs. Simmons' exhortations, and presently the elder children were sent to bed. Jem was at length alone with his wife. He put down his book and looked at her.
"Janet, you're just in time," he said, and his voice was a little husky. "You're just in time, but it's only just. It was getting to be beyond bearing, and I was angry. I don't say I was in the right, but I do say things were getting to be beyond bearing. I haven't been to the public this evening, but I made up my mind I'd go to-morrow, and take to it every evening after, regular,—and I made up my mind I'd take a drop too much and pay you out. And I'd have done it too!"
Janet came nearer, a frightened look on her face.
"You won't go, Jem,—you won't do that," she faltered. "Promise me you won't."
"No, I won't," Jem answered, in a clear firm voice. "I won't, Janet,—and, God helping me, I'll never even mean to do it again. But I was near it to-day. I suppose there's a sort of evil spirit gets hold on a man once in a while. If I'd begun, there's no knowing where I'd have stopped."
"O Jem, I'll never forget," Janet said earnestly.
[CHAPTER VI.]
TWO NURSES.
BETSY SIMMONS did not return home on leaving the Humphreys' cottage. This was the weekly half-holiday in Banks, and all shops were closed early, including her own. So, having plenty of time at her disposal, she passed along the other side of the road, and stopped before the front door of "Old Meadow."
Bell-pulling was useless there. Mrs. Simmons tried her hand at it, but, as she expected, the crazy wire yielded feebly, and brought no response. After a minute's waiting, she pushed open the door and entered.
Nobody was visible. Mrs. Simmons deposited her umbrella in a corner, gave her boots a good rubbing on the mat,—for the heavy rain of the storm had left mud,—and peered cautiously into the parlour.
Isaac Meads sat there alone, his head dropping forward on his chest in sleepy style, and his lower jaw falling with its wonted unhappiness of expression. Mrs. Simmons drew back, not feeling as if she cared to have speech with the old man. But a second impulse came over her, and she stepped forward. He looked so lonely and miserable; might he not be in need of a kind word?
"Good evening to you, Mr. Meads," she said, in her full pleasant tones. "I've come to ask how your little girl is." Mrs. Simmons herself was so large a person that she always thought of Daisy as a "little girl," and in a time of illness such thoughts naturally find expression in words.
Isaac Meads woke up very slowly out of his fit of drowsiness, and stared blankly at his visitor.
"Is your little girl any better by this time?" asked Mrs. Simmons, pitching her voice higher. She never could quite understand whether his slowness of understanding sprang from stupidity or deafness. "I haven't been able to get her out of my mind all day, poor little dear, and I'm sure I couldn't rest without hearing how she is before night."
"She hadn't got no business to go and get struck with lightning," growled Isaac Meads, enough awake to bring out the uppermost ideas in his feeble old mind. "It's an awful expense—doctor and nurse and all! It's just awful; and I was a-thinking I wouldn't put up no longer with having a girl. It would have been a saving."
"Why, you don't mean to say—," began Mrs. Simmons.
Then she stopped, and stood looking at him, her clear strong sense coming to the conclusion that the old man was crazy. So he was, with the craziness of money greed.
"Somebody'd ought to have seen after her," said Isaac Meads. "It's all along of them school feasts. She shan't go to none of them again."
"She isn't like to go anywhere yet awhile, judging by all accounts," said Betsy Simmons, her womanly indignation mastering other sensations. "Doctor and nurse an expense! Well, I never! What's your money good for, if it isn't to be spent on her? Isn't she your own flesh and blood,—the only thing you have got belonging to you, and the sweetest girl as ever was? I never! If that's all you've got to say about the matter, I'm ashamed of you, Mr. Meads—downright ashamed. Why didn't you go to the school feast yourself to see after her? Wasn't everybody else in the same danger—least-ways, except for the pitchfork? Why, dear me, do you think trouble is never to come to you, as well as to other people?"
Whether or no Isaac Meads took in the sense of Mrs. Simmons' eager words may be doubted. His lack-lustre eyes did not wander from her face; but when she paused there was only a low and renewed mutter about "expense."
"You've got a nurse," said Mrs. Simmons shortly.
"She's come. I didn't get her," said Isaac, with something of energy. "It wasn't my doing, and she's nought to me. She was my servant once, but she isn't now. It wasn't none of my doing."
"It don't seem half as if you counted Miss Daisy to be your own," said Betsy Simmons. "Not much good asking of you how she is. I'd best go and see for myself."
Without more ado Mrs. Simmons quitted the parlour, and went straight across to the little back room where she knew Daisy Meads slept.
It was a sunshiny room on a summer evening, and the blinds were partially lowered, so as to lessen the glare. But the sun was near his setting, and some warm red rays crept in below those frail and aged blinds, to fall upon Daisy's white face.
She was lying quite quietly, and with no sign of suffering about her, except in the occasional twitchings round the mouth. Mary Davis stood beside the bed, looking earnestly, when Mrs. Simmons entered; and neither woman showed surprise at the sight of the other.
"I'm come to see if I can be of use," Mrs. Simmons said. "Poor little dear! It's bad, isn't it, Mrs. Davis? And she don't come round yet?"
"She's opened her eyes twice," Mary Davis answered; "but she don't seem to know nothing nor nobody. The doctor says the mischief isn't in the sight. He thought at first it might be that."
"Then that's something to be thankful for—if it isn't a worse mischief," said Mrs. Simmons. "She don't seem in pain neither."
Mary Davis shook her head, not quite assuringly. "No, but she do moan if I try to move her, or make her take something. It just goes to my heart."
"Well, look here," said Betsy Simmons, after a pause, "I'm just over the way, Mrs. Davis, and I'm ready to help. It isn't that I'm anxious to do much for old Mr. Meads, but Miss Daisy's given me many a smile and kind word since first she came to this place, and I'd do anything I could for her, poor little dear! Maybe she'll be well again in a day or two, and maybe she won't. Seems to me the 'won't' is more likely than the 'will.' But there's no knowing. And you can't be in this room always, and never get out."
"I don't mind for that," Mary Davis answered. "But the day after to-morrow is visiting-day at the hospital, and it would be a fret to me if I couldn't get there for a sight of my husband."
"To be sure you must; and you shall too. That's easy managed," said Mrs. Simmons. "Most part of my business is done before three, and after that my little maid'll keep shop for me while I come here. She's a handy girl, and I can trust her right and left. I've often left her in charge for an hour. I'll do it now, and I'll come and take your place. So you be easy in your mind, and don't you worry. How did it all come about, Mrs. Davis? I've heard a dozen tales, more or less, and I don't see how they can all be true."
Mary Davis in subdued tones described the scene at the school feast, tears coming into her eyes as she spoke of Daisy's brave attempt to save her husband from the effects of his own rashness. "She knew the danger, Mrs. Simmons, though we didn't, and yet she never thought of herself. But that's her all over, and it always was. It seems queer that lightning should take to one thing more than another, but Mr. Bennet says so it is. He says any manner of iron or steel touching us is dangerous in a storm, and he's known a lady's hand hurt from having a needle in her fingers. To be sure there's the lightning conductor on the Church, but I didn't think of that before. Mr. Bennet says my husband was just making a lightning conductor of himself. It's a pity folks can't learn more of such things when they are young. But Miss Daisy was always so quick to take in and remember, even when she was but a mite of a child."
"Yes; you've known Miss Daisy before?" Mrs. Simmons said, in an inquiring tone.
[CHAPTER VII.]
PAST DAYS.
MARY DAVIS was not unwilling to give the information desired.
"Yes," she said. "I was Miss Daisy's nurse, not to say general servant in the house as well, except that I had a girl under me. From the time Miss Daisy was three to the time she was nine, I lived with them. A little darling she was, and so like her mother. I always did say Mrs. Meads was a real lady in her ways,—not the least bit like Mr. Meads in his ways. How in the world she ever married him!—but she told me once it wasn't of her own will. She had a life of it, poor thing—brought up so different as she must have been too! And Miss Daisy takes after her. I'd never have wanted to leave of my own choice, but Mr. Meads was for ever talking of the expense of my keep; and though it's little enough of wages I had from him, I couldn't get along without eating. I bore a deal for the sake of his wife and little Miss Daisy; but he worried and worried and treated me so bad, that at last it seemed as if I couldn't bear myself under the way he went on. Not as I really ever thought of leaving, but I got vexed with things being as they were, and I answered my master again when he scolded, which wasn't right. He was wrong of course, but I put myself in the wrong too. I've been often enough sorry since, for if I had just held my tongue I might have stayed on awhile longer, and been with Mrs. Meads to the last. I don't know how ever she managed after I went."
"Mr. Meads got very angry with me one day for spending a penny too much on something, and he did just storm at me and no mistake. And I got angry and answered him back, and at last he ordered me out of the house that minute. Mrs. Meads couldn't do anything, she was always so frightened of her husband, and Miss Daisy was but a child, and he wasn't weak and broken as he is now. How Miss Daisy did sob, to be sure. I couldn't get the sound of the sobs out of my mind for weeks. I think I was so vexed with Mr. Meads, I didn't myself feel the worst till after I was gone. I had to put my things together there and then, and to go straight home by train,—and mother was so glad to have me she wouldn't let me look out for another place at first; and then she fell ill, and I nursed her, and after a while I married."
"But I didn't hear nor see anything more of Mr. and Mrs. Meads. When I came to think the matter over, I was so ashamed of myself I couldn't resolve to write; and when I did write, a good bit later, I hadn't any answer. So I made sure Mrs. Meads had died, for she had been long in ill-health, and no hope of her recovery,—and it's most like that Mr. Meads burnt the letter, and never told little Miss Daisy of it. I hope I'm safe in telling all this to you, Mrs. Simmons. I wouldn't like it talked about; but I've got no friends in Banks, and somehow I seemed drawn to you the first moment I heard you speaking about dear Miss Daisy."
"Yes, yes, I saw you took an uncommon interest in her and in the old man," said Mrs. Simmons. "I couldn't make out why at all. But don't you be afraid, my dear. I'll keep your tale to myself, and nobody shan't hear a word. It's well you're here to nurse Miss Daisy, for I doubt me the old man wouldn't have had a stranger."
"I don't know as he counts me anything else," said Mary, "I told him who I was, but he didn't seem to remember. His memory is all of a fog, like. He's let me come because I didn't look for payment. It's as much as ever he'll do to let me have enough food to keep me going."
"Well, if you're short, mind you come to me," said Mrs. Simmons heartily. "Dear! dear! What a man he is! What ever made him take first to such ways?"
Mary Davis shook her head, unable to explain. She thought it was "nature."
"Nature has a deal to answer for, there's no doubt," said Mrs. Simmons shrewdly. "But it don't explain everything."
Then they stood looking at Daisy, and as they looked the pale eyelids were slowly lifted, and the dim eyes seemed to gaze at something.
"Miss Daisy," said Mary Davis gently, "Miss Daisy, my dear,—don't you know me?"
But there was no response. Daisy did not seem to hear the words. Mary Davis laid a hand on her forehead, with slight pressure, and there was a distressed faint moan.