Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: 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.
I. THE WIDOW'S OPINIONS
II. STRUCK
III. DAISY'S NEEDS
IV. AN UNTIDY HOME
V. A DANGER ESCAPED
VI. TWO NURSES
VII. PAST DAYS
VIII. GOLD
IX. OLD ISAAC
X. DAISY'S WISH
XI. A RICE PUDDING
XII. DAISY'S TROUBLE
XIII. GONE
XIV. A MOTHER'S WORK
XV. SORRY AND GLAD
XVI. ISAAC'S LOSS
XVII. MONEY AGAIN
XVIII. OUT OF DANGER
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."