"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.
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.
"That's the only sound she makes," said Mary sorrowfully. "And if I try to lift her, she's like a log."
"It'll be an illness calling for patience, I shouldn't wonder," said Mrs. Simmons. "Now mind you, I'm ready to come in if I'm wanted,—and I'm not looking for money rewards, any more than you are yourself, Mrs. Davis. I'll come of an afternoon or a night, just as you please. I don't say I'm ready for morning work,—that's another matter. But don't you have scruples about asking me,—see you don't."
IT was growing late as the two women watched and talked by Daisy's bedside,—talked rather more perhaps than was quite wise, for one cannot always be sure how far a sick person is really unconscious.
While they were thus busied, Isaac Meads retired from the parlour to his own bedroom, on the same floor, and at the back of the house. He did not go in on his way to ask about Daisy, for the idea of so doing never occurred to him. His mind was engrossed with other thoughts.
Isaac Meads always retired to bed by nine o'clock at the latest, and he always expected Daisy to do the same. Supper and candles, and in winter firing also, were saved by this habit.
He fastened carefully the bolt of the parlour window, and turned the big rusty key in the front door, forgetting or not knowing that Mrs. Simmons would have to unlock it again to pass out. Then, bearing the solitary candle which had been his companion, he went slowly with dragging footsteps to his own room, bolted himself in, and placed the light on the table,—an old green card-table standing in the centre.
This was Isaac Mead's happiest time,—the only hour in all the twenty-four which, after a certain fashion, he really did enjoy.
Pleasure had to be delayed yet a few minutes. Isaac performed a careful tour of his apartment, in slow shambling fashion. Candle in hand, he peered under the bed, he peeped into the cupboard, he shook each curtain, he displaced every movable piece of furniture. Not the skinniest and wiriest little street Arab could have escaped detection in the course of that search.
Satisfied at length that he was really alone, Isaac once more placed his candle on the table, and went to a dark corner beside the old wardrobe. There he touched a spring, cleverly hidden from careless observation, and a small piece of the deep wainscoting sprang out.
A hollow place in the wall was disclosed by this move. Isaac bent low, and carefully dragged up a heavy leathern bag. This bag he carried to the table, not without difficulty.
Now came Isaac's time of enjoyment. His shaking fingers untied the strings, and drew forth from the bag handfuls of gold. He piled sovereigns before him in a succession of little heaps, gazing at the same with admiring affection. He held them in his withered hands, and counted them over with ardent pleasure. His aged face brightened, and his lustreless eyes gleamed. For here was where Isaac's heart had found its home. If he loved nothing else in life, he loved gold.
Presently he put back the piles of sovereigns in the bag, and restored the bag to its hole behind the wainscoting, gloating over it to the last moment with greedy eyes, and sighing as it vanished from sight.
Isaac had not done yet. He went to another corner of the room, close beside the heavy four-post bed, and stooped down as if to touch another spring.
Something made him pause and stand up. What was that sound? Could it be only the crawling of a snail outside the window pane?
Isaac was suddenly seized with trembling dismay. For he saw that a corner of the window had been left uncovered by blind and curtain,—strangely unnoticed by himself. Possibly he might have pulled the curtain aside, unknowingly, as he passed. What if anyone had peeped in?
Isaac hastened to the window, and stared through the little bit of exposed pane. His limbs shook, and a cold perspiration broke out all over him. This window opened on a lonely corner of the back yard, but anybody might wander round from the road.
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Enjoyment was at an end. Isaac could see nobody, looking into the darkness, yet that did not prove nobody to be there. He covered the window over, and stood near it a long while, listening and trembling. Nothing happened, and presently he went to bed, not venturing to gloat any more over his treasure that night.
"FATHER," Daisy said.
It was not the first word she had uttered, but it was her first word in a clear and natural voice. Long days and nights of stupor had passed, and when at length sense returned it came slowly. She began first to notice things about her with languid glances of interest, and then there was an occasional "thank you," or a faint smile of recognition. She showed no surprise at her own condition, or at the presence of her nurse. But she seemed to be gradually waking up, as if from a trance; and one day she opened her eyes, to say with unexpected distinctness:—
"Father!"
"He's in the other room, Miss Daisy," said Mary Davis.
Daisy looked at Mary steadily. "I've been ill a very long time, haven't I, Nursie?" she asked, in her soft voice, which had become weak as well as soft.
"No, Miss Daisy, dear, not so very long. It's a good many days."
"Days! It seems—years," said Daisy, making a pause. "It has been so nice, Nursie. I thought I was a little child again, and you were taking care of me, only I was afraid it was a dream, and I didn't want to wake up. So I tried not."
"But you're awake now, my dear," said Mary.
"I suppose I am," murmured Daisy, shutting and opening her eyes with a rather distressed look. "My head is so strange, I feel as if I were somebody else. And my legs seem tied down to the bed. Isn't it funny?"
"Very funny," said Mary, with a smile to hide a heart-ache. "You mustn't mind being weak for a time."
"I suppose it was the rain made me so ill. It rained—hard," said Daisy slowly, with a puzzled expression, as if she were trying to recall something. Then she seemed quite tired out, and lay again as she had lain so much of late; only Mary Davis thought there was more of sleep and less of stupor about her unconsciousness.
Later in the afternoon the doctor came in. He was the Parish doctor, a stout quick-mannered man, sometimes a little apt to be sharp as well as quick; but, like most people, he was gentle with Daisy.
When she opened her eyes and smiled at him, he said, "Come, you are better to-day."
"Mayn't I see father, please?" asked Daisy.
"Well, yes, perhaps you may," said Mr. Bennet. "Do you think it would do you good?"
"No," said Daisy, without any hesitation. "I only think I ought."
"Why won't it do you good, my dear?" asked Mr. Bennet, bending down to look into her eyes.
"I'm tired," Daisy said. "But there's nobody else to take care of father."
"O yes; there's Mrs. Davis to take care of you both," said Mr. Bennet cheerily. "Where do you feel tired? All over?"
"Yes, everywhere," said Daisy. "And my legs are so heavy, I can't move them,—and my head too."
The doctor's broad hand was laid on Daisy's forehead, not pressing much; yet she moaned, and for an instant her eyes had a wandering look.
"She can't bear that, sir," Mary Davis said. "Her head do seem very bad still."
"Yes. She mustn't see her father yet," said Mr. Bennet decidedly. "Keep her as quiet as possible, and if Mrs. Simmons comes in from over the way, don't you have too much talk."
"No, sir," said Mary Davis.
"I like Mrs. Simmons," said Daisy. "She is kind—and so big—"
"Well, yes, she's big undoubtedly," said the doctor. "Much bigger than you will ever be, Daisy."
Daisy seemed to take the words in a sense which the doctor had certainly not intended. She asked calmly:—
"Shall I never be well again?"
"Tut, tut! Nonsense!" said Mr. Bennet. "Why, you're ever so much better to-day."
Daisy smiled a little; not as if she were quite sure that he meant what he said. Mary Davis presently followed the doctor, as he left the room, and while opening the front door she asked anxiously: "Will Miss Daisy soon be up again, please, sir?"
"Can't say. Can't say at all," responded Mr. Bennet hastily. "There's no knowing. It has been a terrible shock to the nervous system altogether, and the head is a good deal affected,—no doubt about that. She's a delicate little creature. May pass off soon, or may not. How is your husband going on? You saw him yesterday, did you not?"
"Yes, sir. It's like to be a long business with him, they say; but he's been more himself than Miss Daisy has been. His arm is shocking bad, and he has a deal of pain."
"Well, well, the worst cases are not always those where there's most pain—not by any means," said Mr. Bennet. "Your husband will have gained experience for the future, when he comes out of the hospital."
"Yes, sir; in more ways than one, maybe," said Mary quietly. "He says he means to sign the pledge, and to turn over a new leaf."
"A good day for you if he does," said the doctor, aware of John Davis' propensities. "Good evening. Keep that child quiet, and don't let her old father bother her."
Mary returned to the bedroom, with this injunction full in her mind. To her astonishment, she found old Isaac Meads in the sick room, seated beside Daisy's bed, with his chin resting on the knob of his stick, and his eyes fixed solemnly upon Daisy. He had evidently crossed the passage unobserved, while she was speaking with the doctor. Daisy lay with shut eyes, unconscious of his presence.
Mary Davis was at a loss what to do. She did not wish to rouse Daisy, yet silent signs and beckonings proved of no avail. The old man did not see, or chose to ignore them. Mary laid one hand on his shoulder to draw attention, and with the other she pointed to the door; but Isaac shook off her hand, and doggedly retained his seat.
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"You must go away," Mary whispered. "The doctor says so. You are not to come here, Mr. Meads."
"Not to come here? And who's got any right to say that to me?" growled Isaac. "Isn't it my own house? Eh?"
"Hush—hush!" whispered Mary. "Hush! You will startle Miss Daisy and make her worse."
But Daisy had heard. She opened her eyes, and a smile broke over her face as she said, "Father."
"Didn't I know she'd know me?" asked Isaac Meads. "Whatever in the world makes you keep on lying here all this time, Daisy? Ain't you going to get up and be busy? Everything'll go to wrack and ruin if you don't, and I haven't got one penny to spare—not one penny."
"I'll get up as soon as ever I can," said Daisy. "I can't stand yet, father."
"Can't you stand?" inquired Isaac, in a tone of dismay.
"No," Daisy answered. "My legs are so heavy, father, I can't move them."
"Couldn't you if I was to help you up?" asked Isaac, suiting action to word. Daisy shrank from his outstretched hands.
"No, father, I couldn't. Please don't touch me,—oh, please!"
"Mr. Meads, you'll please to go!" said Mary indignantly. "The doctor said you weren't to be here at all. Why, you'll just kill Miss Daisy outright, if you go on like this."
"I'm not a-going if I don't choose. Old Meadow is my house if it's anybody's," grumbled Isaac. "If I've a mind to stay with Daisy, who's to hinder?"
Mary was alarmed at Daisy's shortened breath and dilated eyes. She went close to the bed, laying a protecting hand on her, and the movement seemed to excite the old man's ire.
"Get away with you, woman," he cried wrathfully, shaking his stick. "'Tisn't the first time. Yes, yes, I know you now; always a-meddling in somebody's concerns. If I didn't remember you at first, I do now. Get away with you, and leave Daisy to them as have a right over her. If I tell her to get up, she's got to get up, and she shall too."
Despite a quick movement on Mary's part, the old man seized Daisy's arm, and made a feint of pulling her to a sitting posture. Perhaps it was more of pretence than reality, but it was enough. Daisy uttered a low cry, and became unconscious.
"Are you crazy, Mr. Meads?" asked Mary, hardly able to contain herself. "Are you quite crazy? Do you want to kill your only child, your poor little Daisy? See what you have done,—yes, look—look at her. How will you feel if she never comes to again?"
Isaac's fit of childish anger was at an end. He stared stolidly at the white face on the pillow.
Another figure had appeared on the scene, a capacious figure, filling a goodly space in the doorway.
"See, that's what he has done," Mary said bitterly, turning to Mrs. Simmons. "And the poor little darling was getting on so nicely. That's what he has done! I shouldn't wonder if he has killed her outright."
"What's he been after?" asked Mrs. Simmons, coming forward.
"Why, he's wanting her to get up and work, and save his coppers," said Mary. "She that hasn't power to lift her head off the pillow, nor to turn herself in bed! I doubt me sometimes she never will have power again. He loves his money a deal better than he loves his own flesh and blood. And I can't get him out of the room; and if she comes to and sees him here, I shouldn't wonder if it was as much as her life was worth."
"Well, that's a pretty piece of work, if there ever was one!" said Mrs. Simmons, contemplating the old man's crouching form. "Now then,—will you go, Mr. Meads?"
Mrs. Simmons was a large woman, and Isaac Meads was not a large man. He gave her a glance, and moved.
"Come, be quick!" said Betsy Simmons. "And mind, if ever you dare to come inside this door again, without the doctor's leave—"
The rest of the sentence was left to Isaac's imagination. He beat a hasty retreat.
DURING many hours after Isaac's visit to the sick room, Daisy was more or less unconscious. She moaned often, and sometimes she started and cried out in fear, and now and then she would grasp at Mary Davis as if for protection. Occasionally she seemed to know her nurse, and then again the blank would come back, blotting out all sense. This state passed slowly away, and Daisy regained gradually her lost ground. But Mary made up her mind that Isaac Meads should not be again admitted into his child's presence. She kept the door bolted thenceforward, and never left Daisy alone for even a few seconds without locking it behind her. Isaac made one or two more attempts to enter, and found himself foiled.
"Father hasn't been to see me again," Daisy remarked unexpectedly one evening, several days later.
"He's been wanting to, but I didn't think it was good for you," Mary answered.
"But perhaps it isn't right to keep him away," said Daisy. "Poor father has nobody else, you know."
"It's his own fault if he hasn't," said Mary. "I'm not going to have him frighten you, and make you ill again, Daisy." She not seldom addressed the sick girl thus, as she had been wont in past years to address the little child, dropping half-unconsciously the "Miss," which had at first come naturally. Daisy looked so small and young, lying in her narrow bed, that Mary Davis began to think of her again as quite a child.
"I should not be so frightened, perhaps, a second time," said Daisy calmly. "I have been thinking about it, Nursie. Father wouldn't really want to hurt me, I am sure,—and you know it wouldn't do to keep him always from me."
"Not always. Only till you are better, dear," Mary said.
"But perhaps I never shall be better," said Daisy slowly. "I can't sit up yet, or move my legs. You can't think how heavy they seem. What does the doctor say is the reason, Nursie?"
"He don't say very clear, Miss, but he seems to think it is a sort of paralysis-like, from the lightning stroke,—not as he's used that word neither." Mary forgot at the moment that the real cause of Daisy's illness had never yet been recalled to her.
Daisy had hitherto asked few questions, and her doing so now took Mary by surprise. "Seems as if the power was all gone out of you; and he don't say just how long it'll last."
Daisy repeated the word "lightning," as if in surprise, and then she lay thinking.
"Yes," she said at length, "I remember now,—I remember the storm coming on; and the thunder; and the children being so frightened. And your husband put up his pitchfork. He didn't know any better, I suppose. But I don't seem to remember anything particular afterwards. Did the lightning really strike me?"
Mary Davis nodded. "Yes, and my husband too, Daisy."
"Then that is why he is ill in hospital. If he wasn't, I suppose you could not have come to nurse me. Is he hurt the same as I am?"
"No," Mary said. "His arm is badly burnt, and he is a good deal scorched beside; but it don't seem to have taken away all his strength nor made his legs bad, like with you."
"I dare say he is much the worst, really," said Daisy. "And the doctor doesn't know how long I shall be ill, Nursie?"
"He don't say, Miss Daisy."
"Father wouldn't like me to live on for years, if I couldn't walk," said Daisy, with a touching look of sadness. "He wouldn't like the expense, Nursie. It would be better for me to die."
"Miss Daisy, you mustn't talk so," said Mary.
"But I think it would be better," repeated Daisy. "Father would not want me, if I could not work for him, and there is nobody else. No one to take care of me except you, and your husband will want you by-and-by. Don't you think, Nursie, that perhaps I shall die soon?" Daisy did not sob, but her chest heaved quickly, and two large tears fell upon the white sheet.
"I think God knows best what is right for you, dear, and you oughtn't to want to die sooner than it's His will you should," said Mary, hardly able to command her voice.
"Yes, He knows best," said Daisy, tears dropping again. "And He loves me. I haven't been afraid once about dying, all the time I have been ill. It seemed so easy, when I thought of the Lord Jesus dying for me on the Cross. But—Nursie, I do feel afraid of having to live a long while, if I can't stand or work or do anything,—and nobody except father to take care of me. I'd a great deal rather die."
"I wouldn't be afraid," said Mary, leaning over the bed, and trying to smile. "If God is able to take care of you when you die, don't you think He's able to take care of you while you're alive too?"
"Yes,—able," said Daisy in a low voice.
"And don't you think He will, Daisy?"
"I ought to feel sure," said Daisy, with a distressed look. Then she asked quite suddenly, "Nursie, do you love God?"
"I hope so," faltered Mary Davis.
"I mean real love," said Daisy. "I mean the sort of love that makes you want to obey Him, and want to be with Him. You didn't in old days, did you, Nursie?" She always spoke of her childhood's years as "old days."
"No," Mary Davis answered at once, quite decidedly. "I don't say I hadn't a sort of wish to do right, Miss Daisy, but I didn't really try to serve God from my heart, and I don't think I loved Him at all."
"And you do now?"
"I hope so," said Mary Davis.
"I hope I do too," said Daisy slowly. Then she paused, and looked up, a bright smile lighting her whole face. "No,—I don't hope—I know I do. I think I love the Lord Jesus in just the sort of way I used to love mother. I can't love poor father like that, can I? It is more like being so very sorry for him. Nursie, I don't know what I should do, if God didn't love me. I don't know what in the world I should do. It's just my one real comfort."
"Then, Miss Daisy," said Mary, "if you feel like that, you won't need to be frightened any more about getting well, because you know He'll take care of you. Hasn't He said, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee'?"
"Yes," said Daisy thoughtfully, "I am quite sure. I ought to be quite sure. I suppose that is the real meaning of 'casting all your care on Him, for He careth for you.' I'll try not to be afraid any more."
"You don't know how to make a rice pudding. No, I shouldn't wonder if you don't," said Mrs. Simmons.
Janet Humphrey intimated that this was a mistake. She knew quite well how to make a rice pudding.
"O yes—you make a pudding of a sort, I don't doubt," said Mrs. Simmons. "Put a lot of rice into some milk, and boil it for half an hour into a sort of pap, fit to turn the stomach of anybody as looks at it; or maybe you have a grand concern, with sugar and butter and eggs in it. I dare say that's good to the taste,—and it had ought to be. But it isn't cheap, and folks have to give a thought to cheapness once in a while. What do you have mostly in the way of puddings?"
"Well, my husband likes a good custard pudding as much as anything," said Janet.
"Shouldn't wonder if he does. Maybe he'd like a turkey supper, and salmon for breakfast, as much as anything, too," said Mrs. Simmons.
Janet did not perceive the satire. "I haven't got him salmon for a good while past," she said. "It seems to cost a lot."
"There's a good many gentlefolk who don't touch salmon from year's end to year's end, without they come across it in a friend's house," said Mrs. Simmons. "And there's a good many more who are mighty sparing of eggs in puddings, because of the expense. Why, dear me, when I was cook in Mrs. Mason's family,—and a real out-and-out lady was Mrs. Mason, though she wasn't rich,—if I says to her, 'Why shouldn't we have a baked custard pudding, mum, for a change?' knowing she liked it uncommon; 'Why, Simmons,' says she, 'that'll take three or four eggs to make it big enough for us all, and you don't think I can afford four eggs to one pudding, do you?' says she. She was wonderful careful about her expenses always, and that's how it was her husband got along as well as he did, I make no doubt."
"Well, I never thought gentlefolks had to count the price of eggs in a pudding," said Janet.
"There's often a deal more calculating of expenses in a gentleman's kitchen than there is in a cottage kitchen," said Mrs. Simmons. "And I'll tell you the reason why, if you like. The reason why is because a gentleman commonly counts himself called upon to lay by for a rainy day, and to provide for his children after he's dead, and a working man too often don't count himself called upon to do anything of the sort. There'd be a deal less poverty and distress in the country, if once our men could be got to look ahead, and if their wives could be got to see that saving is a twin-duty to spending."
"I never thought about that," said Janet. "Jem works steady, and he mostly brings home enough."
"And how if he was to be taken ill, or if he was to fall and break his leg, or if work was to stop?" asked Mrs. Simmons.
"Well, I don't know. I suppose things would come right somehow," said Janet.
"I shouldn't wonder if they were to go a good way wrong first," said Mrs. Simmons.
"It's no good looking forward and expecting troubles," said Janet.
"No, it isn't," said Mrs. Simmons. "But looking forward and expecting troubles, is a different sort of thing altogether from doing what lies in your power to keep off trouble. Why, when bees and ants lay by food against the winter, you wouldn't blame them and say they were expecting to be starved, would you? The starvation would come, sure enough, if they didn't lay by."
"Well, I know Mr. Roper is always telling us in his preaching that we've got to trust," said Janet in self-defence.
"That's true enough. He tells you to trust what, Mrs. Humphrey?"
Janet seemed rather at a loss. "I've heard him say many times we had to trust," she repeated.
"You'd best listen with both your ears next time," said Mrs. Simmons, "seeing you've only managed to lay hold on half the sense of what he said. You've got to trust GOD, Mrs. Humphrey. That means that if you are God's faithful servant and child, you needn't worry and fret for your future, but while you do the little you can do, you may trust Him to do all that you can't do, and to care for you in need. But I can tell you it don't mean that you are to live a life of self-indulgence and pleasure, and trust God to do for you what He has given you the power to do for yourself, just to save you a bit of trouble and thought."
"I'm sure it isn't much pleasure I ever have in my life," said Janet, almost in tears. "I'm always working and slaving for somebody."
"You wouldn't be one grain the happier for having no work," said Mrs. Simmons calmly. Then she suddenly put a direct question: "Your husband gets good wages, Mrs. Humphrey, and he brings them pretty near all to you, for you've told me so. Now how much of them wages have gone this year into the Savings Bank?"
"There don't seem much to spare," faltered Janet. "The children are always wanting something new,—and food costs such a lot."
"Then I'd make the children wait a bit longer, and I'd have food that costs less," said Mrs. Simmons gravely. "I tell you, Mrs. Humphrey, it's a sin and a shame to go on month after month, spending every penny you get, and never making provision for the changes that's sure to come sooner or later. It's a sin and a shame. You don't suppose you and your husband will keep health for ever, do you? Why, either one of you might die to-morrow. What would become of those poor little ones of yours, if your husband and you were both taken?"
"I wish you wouldn't talk like that," said Janet, with a shiver.
"Then I won't, if you don't like; but it's truth," said Mrs. Simmons. "It's truth, and it has got to be faced. You go and do your best, and then you may trust God; but if you don't do the little you can, I don't see what call you have to trust."
"But what am I to do?" asked Janet helplessly.
"Begin to lay by at once. Don't wait till next month or next year. There's the Post Office Savings Bank, which is perfectly safe, and it'll hold as small sums as you like. I'd keep a locked box by me, with a hole in the top, and I'd slip in every penny I could spare. It'll grow wonderfully quick, I can tell you. I'm not advising you to become a miser, like poor old Mr. Meads, loving the money more than your own flesh and blood. But I do say it's your duty to provide all you can against a rainy day, and to teach your children to help you. I shouldn't wonder but there's many a penny goes in goodies, which don't do nobody any good."
"Why, they get the goodies at your shop," said Janet.
"That don't make no difference. My goodies are wholesome and won't hurt the children. But if they're properly fed, they don't need a lot of goodies between meals. It's a bad habit, and a wasteful one. You might save many a penny that way."
"Well, I'll think about it," said Janet.
"And now about the rice pudding," said Mrs. Simmons.
Janet looked relieved, and her face cleared.
"About the rice pudding," said Mrs. Simmons again. "When I was cook at Mrs. Mason's, there wasn't any pudding we had oftener. Mr. Mason scarce counted he'd dined without one. But I didn't make it like you make yours, though I'd been used to your way before I went to Mrs. Mason. I had to learn their way, and a good way I found it,—cheap and nourishing too."
"How was it?" asked Janet.
"There was no butter in the pudding, and no eggs, and no sugar," said Betsy Simmons.
"No sugar!" repeated Janet.
"Not a grain," said Mrs. Simmons. "A little sugar was eaten with the pudding after it was made, most commonly, though I don't care even for that. The pudding was made in a deepish dish, and it was nothing but milk and rice,—good Carolina rice. Mr. Mason liked it milky, and I used to put a good wine-glassful of rice into two quarts of milk, and that made a big enough pudding for his whole party. Same way it would have been half a wine-glassful to one quart of milk. But most people like it just a little more substantial, and maybe you'd come to putting an extra quantity of rice, according to taste. That's as may be."
"It don't sound nice," said Janet.
"I dare say it don't," said Mrs. Simmons. "Wait till you have tried. The secret of that pudding, and the secret of ever so much cooking beside, is SLOW DOING. We used to dine at half-past one, and by half-past nine I used to have my pudding ready,—the rice measured and put into the dish, and the milk poured in over. Then I used to put it into the oven and bake it slowly from three and a half to four hours. And of course it took some trouble and attention; for if the oven was too hot, the pudding got dried up and burnt; and if the oven was too cold, the pudding came out pale and sickly-looking and only half done; and if I moved it about too much in the oven, the milk would sometimes curdle. But I got into the way of it after a while, and I used to send up beautiful puddings, just nicely browned, with the milk thickened till it looked almost like cream, and the rice-grains quite tender, yet each one whole and separate from the rest."
"It sounds a deal of trouble," said Janet.
"It's worth the trouble," said Mrs. Simmons. "Cheap and wholesome food pretty nearly always gives trouble, but it's worth while. If you wanted to sit in an arm-chair, Mrs. Humphrey, with your hands before you, you had no business to marry a working man."
"O no,—I don't want that," said Janet. "I'll try to make the pudding as you say."
"You'd better. You won't be sorry after," said Mrs. Simmons. "And if you're inclined for a change, there's tapioca and sago can be made into puddings in pretty much the same way, only I'd put some sugar into them, and I'd use more of the tapioca or sago than of the rice. But you'll find there's nothing the children will take to like the plain rice pudding, if only you do it carefully and give it to them nice and hot."
"I WONDER if I couldn't manage to stand, if I tried," said Daisy wistfully. She had had the thought in her mind for some days before it came out. A month had passed since old Isaac's last visit to her room, and Daisy as yet seemed not much better. John Davis in hospital was making steady advance towards recovery, and Daisy was often haunted by a dread of the time when Mary would have to leave her. "I can't think what I shall do," she murmured sadly one day to her nurse, and then after some thought she broke into the wonder whether she might not be able to stand, if she tried.
"You'd be quick enough up if you could, Daisy," said Mary Davis.
"But perhaps I've grown lazy, Nursie," said Daisy. "Perhaps I ought just to try. You lift me and do everything for me, so that I haven't had to try. I'm sure father must be getting vexed at my staying in bed so long."
Mary Davis would not tell Daisy how vexed Mr. Meads was, nor how he grudged Daisy's nurse every mouthful of food that she ate. Her one aim was to shelter Daisy. But she did sometimes wonder how things were to end.
"Nurse," said Daisy suddenly, "I want to see father again."
"By-and-by," said Mary.
"No, not by-and-by. I want to see him now," said Daisy with firmness. "I am quite sure I ought, Nursie. He must be so lonely, with nobody to see after him all day. You needn't leave me alone with him, if you don't like, but I mast see him, please."
"He'll make you ill again, Miss Daisy."
"No, I don't think so. I'm better than I was—a great deal," said Daisy. "My head isn't so strange, and I don't seem to be so startled at everything. If only my legs didn't feel so heavy, I should think I was going to be quite well very soon indeed. Nursie, dear, I want to see father presently, but I do want first, please, to try if I can stand."
"You can't stand," said Mary gravely.
"I want to make sure. Father is sure to ask me, and then I can tell him that I've tried. I really can sit up a little now, with the pillows behind me, and I don't see why I shouldn't stand,—just for a second or two. I'd rather not ask Mr. Bennet, because he might tell me to wait, and I do want to try."
Mary did not argue the question longer. Daisy's imploring face was quite too much for her. She carefully wrapped a warm dressing-gown round the prostrate thin figure, and then she very gently lifted Daisy up and out of bed, placing and holding her in an upright position.
"Nursie, am I standing? I can't be sure," said Daisy, with dilated anxious eyes and quick breathing. "Are my feet down flat on the floor? It feels so queer."
"Yes, you're standing now, Daisy," said Mary Davis.
"Don't let go, please," said Daisy faintly. "The room is all going round. My legs are just as heavy as in bed, Nursie."
"Yes, dear. I'll put you back now," said Mary.
The words seemed to rouse Daisy. "No, no, I haven't tried standing alone yet," she said hurriedly. "Let me go a moment, Nursie."
"My dear, you can't," said Mary.
"I want to try. Please—oh, please, do, quickly."
Mary relaxed partially her firm hold, intending to do no more, but at the same instant Daisy with a quick movement pushed both her hands away. It was the work of a moment. Before Mary could grasp her again, Daisy had sunk in a heap on the ground.
"O Nursie, I can't, I can't," she said despairingly. "Oh, what shall I do?"
Mary uttered no reproaches. She lifted Daisy up from the floor, not without difficulty, laid her in the bed, and drew the clothes over her. Daisy hid her face in the pillow, with a burst of heart-broken sobbing.
"I did think I should be able," she moaned. "I didn't think it would be so bad. Nursie, I don't believe I shall ever be able to walk again. And what will father say?"
"There's no use looking forward for troubles that mayn't ever come," said Mary quietly. "If the trouble is sent by God, Mr. Meads'll have to bear it, and so will you, Miss Daisy. But you don't know yet as it will come. Nobody can tell yet. It's as like as not you'll be walking all right in a few weeks or months."
"Does Mr. Bennet say so?" asked poor Daisy, weeping still.
"He says it's a good sign that you're able to bear sitting up a bit. He says he don't know how long it'll be, but he hopes you'll get on better by-and-by."
Daisy fell into a fresh fit of sobs. "Oh, I did think I should be able to stand just for a moment," she said. "I did think I could. And it seemed as if I hadn't the least feeling in my legs."
"And you are so weak too," said Mary. "That makes the matter worse."
"Father will be so disappointed. I shouldn't mind if it wasn't for him. I can't think what he will say!" moaned Daisy, quite overcome by her bitter disappointment.
It came suddenly into Mary's head that this would be no bad time for Isaac to see Daisy again. She acted on the moment's impulse, not quite wisely, perhaps, since she could not tell at all how the old man would behave, and Daisy was already upset. Leaving the bedroom, she went quickly across to the parlour, and there accosted Isaac with the words,—
"Do you want to see Daisy, Mr. Meads?"
"I'd have seen her long ago, if it hadn't been for you," grumbled Isaac.
"I'll take you in now, if you promise me not to stay a moment longer than I give you leave."
Isaac Meads grunted a response.
"You mustn't be there many minutes, for Daisy is weak, but she wants to have a sight of you again."
"She isn't going to die?" asked Isaac, with some show of interest.
"No," said Mary sharply. "Much you'd care if she did. Come."
Mary was vexed with herself the next moment for her sharp way of speaking. After all, the old man could scarcely be counted to have his full wits. She led the way, and Isaac shuffled after.
DAISY was still crying when they entered. Her face was pressed into the pillow, and her sobs sounded through the room. Mary Davis motioned Isaac to the bedside, and he stood there, saying nothing, with a rather astonished look upon his face. Daisy had always been so cheery in her ways, that he could scarcely remember seeing her shed tears since she was quite a child.
Mary waited a little while, and then said: "Daisy, here's your father come to see you."
Daisy turned her head quickly, and lifted her tearful eyes to his. Then she wrung her hands together, and broke out anew into a passion of sobs. "O father, father," she cried, "I can't walk or stand. I've tried, and I can't. And you will get so tired of me; you will wish I was dead. O father, I don't know what to do; I don't know how to bear it."
"Can't you stand yet, Daisy?" asked Isaac, in a perplexed and dubious tone.
"No, no, no," sobbed Daisy. "I tried, and I fell down. My legs seem almost as if they were dead, father. I don't know if I shall ever be able to stand again."
"Don't know if ever you'll be able to stand again!" echoed Isaac, in tones of dismay.
"No," moaned Daisy. "Perhaps never—never."
"Who's ever a-going to do your work?" asked Isaac. "I can't afford to keep a woman, Daisy. It's sheer ruination,—and I haven't got a penny to spare—not one penny."
"Ah, I knew you'd say so," Daisy answered sorrowfully, yet struggling to be calmer. "Father, you'll get so tired of me soon; you'll wish I was dead. And I would rather die and go to Heaven—oh, much, much rather—if only I might. But I mustn't be in a hurry, if God doesn't wish it for me yet. Only—oh, father, I don't know what to do!"
"You hear her, Mr. Meads," said Mary Davis slowly. "You hear what she's telling you. She thinks you'll be tired of her, and want her to die, because she can't slave for you any longer,—she that's your own little Daisy, the only child you've got. If she's taken, you'll have nobody left you then—not a soul in all the world to care for you. I wonder if you'd mind? You'd have your gold still—only your gold. Maybe that's all you want."
"Who says I've got gold?" asked the old man tremblingly, an expression of fear coming over his face. "I tell you, woman, I ain't got one penny to spare,—not one penny. I'm only a poor old man."
"O yes, I know," said Mary calmly, with a touch of contempt. "You and I know one another pretty well, Mr. Meads, by this time. You can't take me in, as you take most people in. Poor!—" and her voice suddenly changed. "Yes, it's true, that, and no mistake. You are a poor man, Mr. Meads,—poor and miserable too. Any man 'ud be poor who had his heart wrapped up in gold. But it'll be taken from you some day,—mind that. It's your idol, and it'll be taken from you."
Isaac shook as if he had the palsy, and his lustreless eyes stared hard at Mary. "It'll be took!" he muttered hoarsely, "Who says it'll be took? I've got it all safe—all safe. There isn't a soul knows where I put it."
"Maybe yes, and maybe no," Mary answered. "Don't you be too sure, Mr. Meads. There's often a deal more known by folks around than you think for. You needn't look at me like that. I don't know where you keep your hoard,—no, nor I don't want to. The gold that can kill your love for your own child has a curse upon it, and I wouldn't finger it if I could. But it'll be taken from you some day, or you'll be taken from it. And what'll you have then?"
Daisy's tears were at an end. She had lain silently listening thus far, and now she stretched out both hands to him, saying, "Father, don't you love me?"
Isaac made no answer. He stared fixedly at Mary Davis, muttering, "I've got it safe."
"Then keep it safe, if you will," answered Mary, who was losing patience. "But don't make believe you haven't got pence when you've got pounds, for I can't stand it."
"Nursie, don't be angry with him," said Daisy softly. "He can't understand."
"I'm angry with him for your sake, Daisy," Mary answered, drawing a long breath. "How ever you stand it all as you do, passes me. I don't feel like a Christian when I see him."
"But you must," said Daisy quietly; and then again she asked, "Father, don't you love me at all?"
Isaac made no response. He did not seem to take in the sense of Daisy's question, for Mary's words were still haunting him, and he could only think of one thing at a time. Daisy's lips quivered, and her eyes filled anew, and Mary thought the scene had lasted long enough for her. "Come, Mr. Meads," she said, "it's time you should go. Say good-bye to Daisy."
"Good-bye, father," Daisy said submissively. "You'll come again, to-morrow, won't you?"
Isaac made no attempt to remain. He went slowly back into the parlour, and there sat until bed-time, lost in helpless thought. What could Mary Davis mean? How should anybody be aware of his carefully-guarded hoard?
Mary Davis had spoken, on the impulse of the moment, that which her womanly common-sense dictated to her. She had no doubt whatever that Mr. Meads really did possess a considerable amount of money. She knew that the conjectures of other people on this head amounted to almost certainty. She felt it to be by no means unlikely that an attempt might some day be made by evil-disposed persons to discover his supposed hoards. She remembered that at his age he must in any case soon leave all that he had. Her words were the outcome of these thoughts.
Mary spoke under impulse, not at all expecting to make so deep an impression on him. But a strange thing happened, following upon her words,—especially strange in that it did so closely follow after them.
Isaac retired at his usual time, taking his solitary candle to the bedroom, bolting the door, drawing the window-curtains closer, peering suspiciously under the bed and the wardrobe.
These and other preparations completed, he went to the corner, where the bag of gold habitually lay hidden in the hollow behind the deep wainscoting. He touched the spring, and bent to lift his treasure,—this golden treasure, so dear to his heart.
Isaac started back in horror and afright. Where was the bag? His hand found only a vacant space.
Ghastly pale, and shaking like an aspen, Isaac brought the candle from the table, and stared into the hole. Yes, it was empty—quite empty. The bag was gone.
Breathing hard, and with the air of a man stupefied by a sudden blow, Isaac put the panel back into its place, and then stood thinking, or trying to think.
"There's t'other hole," he muttered feebly. "I don't know as I mightn't—maybe—have put it in there."
He knew he had not done so, yet he tried to believe that it was possible. He knew well that the second small hiding-place could not have contained the big bag of gold, even if it had not been already half filled by a tin box, holding Bank of England notes, yet he tried to defer the agony of his loss by cheating himself into the notion that perhaps somehow the gold was there.
The second spring did not answer so readily to his touch as the first had done. Isaac slowly woke to the fact that it had been tampered with. Icy drops broke out on his face. What if here too—?
The wood-work yielded suddenly, and Isaac almost fell backwards with the force he had been exerting. He grasped the back of a chair, and steadied himself. Then he stooped and looked in.
A deep groan broke from Isaac. For the box of bank-notes was gone also.
Dazed and stunned, Isaac staggered to a chair. He was utterly bewildered. It did not at first occur to him that any steps might be taken for the recovery of the stolen money. He only knew that it was lost.
"Gone! gone!" broke now and then from his parched lips.
Isaac could not have told how long he sat there in his despair. The candle-end burnt itself out slowly, and after many flickerings and flarings up, the flame was quenched.
That roused the old man from his stunned condition. He sat more upright, and peered into the darkness. Words were suddenly coming back to him—words recently uttered by Mary Davis, but forgotten hitherto in the shock of his discovery. Mary Davis had spoken of his gold,—had foretold that he would some day lose it. What if Mary Davis had found his hiding-places, and had abstracted his treasure? The idea occurred to him distinctly. He did not suspect her of any intention to steal, for he knew her of old to be scrupulously honest; but she might, he thought, have laid hands on the money to use it for Daisy, since she so often complained that he would not allow Daisy enough; and somehow the dishonesty of such an act did not strike Isaac. He quite believed Mary to be capable of it.
Stumbling across the room, striking against pieces of furniture in the dark, he unbolted his door with nervous haste, reached Daisy's door, found it fastened, and rapped heavily.
Daisy, roused from her quiet sleep, gave a startled cry, and Mary, who had not yet gone to bed, hastened to her side. "Don't you be frightened, dear; it's nothing," she said. "Don't tremble, Daisy. It's only your father."
"But what can he want?" asked Daisy fearfully, as Isaac shouted hoarse demands for admittance.
"You can't come in now; it's too late," Mary called from beside Daisy.
Isaac was past taking in the sense of what she said. He battered furiously with all the strength at his command, finding relief in the action, and shouting incoherent words.
"It isn't like father to get in this sort of state," Daisy said tremblingly. "Nurse, what can it be? I never knew him in such a rage. He'll break in soon. The lock is so weak."
Mary had her own fears on that head. She went close to the door and called out, "Stop, Mr. Meads, stop. What is it you want?"
"I want my money," Isaac cried in a frenzy of distress. "I want my money. It's gone, every penny of it; and I mean to have it back. If you don't give it me this minute, I'll—"
The threat following was indistinct, but Mary could imagine its import. Though she had never before seen Isaac Meads in precisely this condition, she knew that a man completely overcome by passion is capable of almost any deed. Isaac Meads was old and feeble, yet the strength lent by rage might well make him temporarily more than a match for any ordinary woman. Mary thought of Betsy Simmons' strong frame longingly.
"Listen to me, Mr. Meads," she called. "I've not got your money, and I don't know anything about it."
"You told me it 'ud be taken, and you've gone and got it," yelled Isaac.
"It's a lie, Mr. Meads. I've not touched one farthing of your money," Mary answered. "But if it's gone, you'd best not waste your time here. Why don't you go straight to the police-station? Every minute you put off, the less likely you are to get your money back."
"Police-station!" Isaac said helplessly, and he ceased his battering.
"Yes, the police-station, down to the left, near the other end of the road. You'd best bring a policeman back with you, and see if he can find out anything. I wouldn't lose a minute if I was you. The thief'll get right off, if you do."
She heard the old man totter away,—how feebly she did not know. She heard him go out of the house, and shut the door behind him. But long as she waited and listened, she did not hear him return; and at length she came to the conclusion that he and the policeman must have started in pursuit of the thief, deferring their examination of the bedroom till later. It was a very simple thought of Mary's—helped on, perhaps, by her dread of meeting him, and her fear of leaving Daisy. She did once or twice wonder whether she was quite right not to go out and look after him. Yet, for Daisy's sake, how could she?
Mary would not have had far to go. The shock of his loss was telling rapidly on the old man, and the brief strength of passion was fast dying away. He only managed to get as far as the garden-path. There he fell to the ground, having no power to rise again; and there, when morning dawned, he was found, lying helplessly, damp with the night dews. When they carried him indoors, and laid him on his bed, he only stared about muttering monotonously, "Gone! gone! gone!" like the knell of a passing bell.
"THINGS are ever so much better than they used to be. Why, it feels like a different house," Janet Humphrey said to Mrs. Simmons, on the afternoon of the same Saturday when old Isaac Meads found his treasure to have vanished. The Humphreys had just been enjoying a good hot dinner, with "father" of course to share it, and Mrs. Simmons had dropped in afterwards, to find Janet, tidy and smiling, with the baby in her arms.