PAST DAYS.
MARY DAVIS was not unwilling to give the information desired.
"Yes," she said. "I was Miss Daisy's nurse, not to say general servant
in the house as well, except that I had a girl under me. From the time
Miss Daisy was three to the time she was nine, I lived with them. A
little darling she was, and so like her mother. I always did say Mrs.
Meads was a real lady in her ways,—not the least bit like Mr. Meads in
his ways. How in the world she ever married him!—but she told me once
it wasn't of her own will. She had a life of it, poor thing—brought up
so different as she must have been too! And Miss Daisy takes after her.
I'd never have wanted to leave of my own choice, but Mr. Meads was for
ever talking of the expense of my keep; and though it's little enough
of wages I had from him, I couldn't get along without eating. I bore a
deal for the sake of his wife and little Miss Daisy; but he worried and
worried and treated me so bad, that at last it seemed as if I couldn't
bear myself under the way he went on. Not as I really ever thought of
leaving, but I got vexed with things being as they were, and I answered
my master again when he scolded, which wasn't right. He was wrong of
course, but I put myself in the wrong too. I've been often enough sorry
since, for if I had just held my tongue I might have stayed on awhile
longer, and been with Mrs. Meads to the last. I don't know how ever she
managed after I went."
"Mr. Meads got very angry with me one day for spending a penny too
much on something, and he did just storm at me and no mistake. And I
got angry and answered him back, and at last he ordered me out of the
house that minute. Mrs. Meads couldn't do anything, she was always
so frightened of her husband, and Miss Daisy was but a child, and he
wasn't weak and broken as he is now. How Miss Daisy did sob, to be
sure. I couldn't get the sound of the sobs out of my mind for weeks.
I think I was so vexed with Mr. Meads, I didn't myself feel the worst
till after I was gone. I had to put my things together there and then,
and to go straight home by train,—and mother was so glad to have me she
wouldn't let me look out for another place at first; and then she fell
ill, and I nursed her, and after a while I married."
"But I didn't hear nor see anything more of Mr. and Mrs. Meads. When I
came to think the matter over, I was so ashamed of myself I couldn't
resolve to write; and when I did write, a good bit later, I hadn't any
answer. So I made sure Mrs. Meads had died, for she had been long in
ill-health, and no hope of her recovery,—and it's most like that Mr.
Meads burnt the letter, and never told little Miss Daisy of it. I hope
I'm safe in telling all this to you, Mrs. Simmons. I wouldn't like it
talked about; but I've got no friends in Banks, and somehow I seemed
drawn to you the first moment I heard you speaking about dear Miss
Daisy."
"Yes, yes, I saw you took an uncommon interest in her and in the old
man," said Mrs. Simmons. "I couldn't make out why at all. But don't you
be afraid, my dear. I'll keep your tale to myself, and nobody shan't
hear a word. It's well you're here to nurse Miss Daisy, for I doubt me
the old man wouldn't have had a stranger."
"I don't know as he counts me anything else," said Mary, "I told him
who I was, but he didn't seem to remember. His memory is all of a fog,
like. He's let me come because I didn't look for payment. It's as much
as ever he'll do to let me have enough food to keep me going."
"Well, if you're short, mind you come to me," said Mrs. Simmons
heartily. "Dear! dear! What a man he is! What ever made him take first
to such ways?"
Mary Davis shook her head, unable to explain. She thought it was
"nature."
"Nature has a deal to answer for, there's no doubt," said Mrs. Simmons
shrewdly. "But it don't explain everything."
Then they stood looking at Daisy, and as they looked the pale eyelids
were slowly lifted, and the dim eyes seemed to gaze at something.
"Miss Daisy," said Mary Davis gently, "Miss Daisy, my dear,—don't you
know me?"
But there was no response. Daisy did not seem to hear the words. Mary
Davis laid a hand on her forehead, with slight pressure, and there was
a distressed faint moan.
"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."