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.