SORRY AND GLAD.
"IT'S gone, Daisy, gone! It's all gone! I'm a poor man now. The gold's
gone—gone—gone. I haven't anything left, Daisy."
They could do nothing to comfort old Isaac Meads for his loss, so at
last they brought Daisy to him. It was now a month since the robbery,
and the thief had not been discovered. No one had any hope that he
would ever be discovered. Too good a start had been allowed him at the
first. Isaac's treasure had utterly vanished.
He had been very ill since that evening, so ill that a great part of
the month had been passed in unconsciousness or in delirium. But all
through his wanderings of mind, he had kept up one monotonous cry of
"Gone! gone!" and now that he was creeping back to life, the same
plaint went on, only more bitterly.
Strange to say, Daisy had taken a sudden turn for the better, at the
very time of her father's greatest danger. She could scarcely yet
stand quite alone, but she had been able to walk slowly across the
room, with the help of Mary's arm, and the doctor spoke hopefully of
complete restoration to health. They had hitherto kept her from her
father, fearing the possible effects of excitement and distress. But
at length Daisy's own pleadings and the condition of the unhappy old
man prevailed. Daisy was carried across the passage in a chair, by Mary
Davis and Betsy Simmons, and was set down by her father's bedside.
Daisy looked very small and thin still, after her long illness, but the
bright look in her face was in strange contrast with the utterly dismal
and gloomy expression of old Isaac's unshaven and fallen visage.
"Oh, poor father, isn't he changed?" she said sorrowfully, her smile
clouding over. Then she laid her hand on his and said, "Father, don't
you know me?"
Yes, he knew her, that was plain; and the first thing he did was to
break into his pitiful cry of "Gone, gone!—all gone, Daisy!" But
suddenly he paused, as if with a new thought, looked round eagerly,
and tried to draw Daisy closer, muttering, "Daisy, don't you tell, now
don't you tell. I've something to say to you."
The two women kindly moved away, and stood in the window, talking.
Daisy bent towards him. "Yes, father," she said.
"I durstn't do anything. She'd maybe pay me out," whispered Isaac. "But
mind you, Daisy, it's she has gone and taken the money. It's she. See
you look out sharp and get it back, else you'll be a workhouse lass,
Daisy."
Isaac's pointing thumb left no doubt as to his meaning.
"O no no, indeed," said Daisy hurriedly. "O, father. It's nothing of
that sort. You mustn't think so for a moment, for it's quite untrue."
"Who was it, if it wasn't she?" demanded Isaac.
"It was somebody else," said Daisy; "somebody who got in through your
window, and who had man's boots. The police know that, but they can't
tell who it was. Nobody can tell. Only it was a man, father, not a
woman."
"When ever is the money a-going to be found?" demanded Isaac.
He had asked that question often of Mary Davis during the last month,
as she had cared for him and tended him in his helplessness, toiling
hard without hope of reward, for love of Daisy; and she had answered
often, to soothe him, "Oh, I dare say it won't be long first, Mr.
Meads. You must have patience."
But Daisy laid her hand upon his, and said gently, "I
think—perhaps—never, father."
"Never!" echoed Isaac, with a tremulous start.
"I think perhaps not," said Daisy. "I'll tell you why father. I think
you have loved the gold so much that it has kept you back from caring
about God and Heaven. And so it has had to be taken away. And I don't
much expect it will ever come back, because then you might love it
again too much, and that would be so dreadful."
"So dreadful!" repeated Isaac mechanically, not as if he understood.
"Yes, dreadful," echoed Daisy's soft voice. "It is a dreadful thing,
father, to love money more than you love God. I think that must be why
the gold has gone."
Isaac caught up the words, and broke anew into his sorrowful cry. "It's
gone, Daisy," he moaned, "all gone! I'm a poor man now. I haven't
anything left."
She let him say this over and over, as he seemed disposed, but
presently she chimed in with, "Yes, father, it's all gone—all gone. You
haven't anything left."
The two women looked on curiously, half inclined to remonstrate, yet
half disposed to think that Daisy knew well what she was about.
"It's all gone, Daisy," repeated Isaac once more and he burst into
tears.
"Yes; I'm so glad, father," said Daisy.
The old man looked up at her in startled wonderment, and Daisy smiled.
"I'm so glad it is gone, so very glad," she said.
"Why, Daisy—you don't know what you're a-saying," protested Isaac.
"Why, Daisy! you'd have been a rich woman one day, with lots of gold,
and now there'll be near upon nothing for you, It's all gone!" and the
last word sounded like a sob.
"I don't want to be rich," said Daisy. "I don't care about riches,
father. They wouldn't make me happy. I'd a great great deal rather be
poor now for a few years, than see you poor, up to the very end."
"See me poor!" said Isaac, perplexed.
"Father, having gold doesn't make a man rich," said Daisy. "You've had
gold, but you have been poor. I want to see you free and rich now, able
to think of something better."
"Something better!" repeated Isaac helplessly.
"Something better than gold," said Daisy. "That is what I mean. As long
as you had the gold you didn't seem able to think of anything else.
And, father, the gold wasn't really yours,—not yours for always, for
ever. You only had it for a little while. And if it hadn't been stolen
from you now, you would have had to leave it soon. You couldn't have
taken it with you when you died."
"I'm not a-going to die yet. Whatever makes you talk about dying?"
asked Isaac uneasily.
"I think about it often," said Daisy gently. "You and I have both been
so near death lately, father. We are both getting well now, but it
won't be for very long, you know. Father, I don't think I should have
been afraid to die. Should you?"
Isaac's glances wandered about the room uncomfortably.
"I don't know as I'd need," he said. "I haven't been so particular
bad,—not like some folks. I've never took a thing that wasn't mine,—not
like that thief that's stolen my money. He deserves to be hanged, he
does."
Daisy was looking so pale that the two women came to her side.
"You've been here long enough," Mary said. "It's no use talking too
long to him, Daisy. He don't half understand."
"I wanted to say more," Daisy answered sadly. "But I suppose I am
too tired. Yes, I'll go back. Only I must come again—every day. Poor
father."