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?"