Chapter XIII: Gone!

DAISY was still crying when they entered. Her face was pressed into the pillow, and her sobs sounded through the room. Mary Davis motioned Isaac to the bedside, and he stood there, saying nothing, with a rather astonished look upon his face. Daisy had always been so cheery in her ways, that he could scarcely remember seeing her shed tears since she was quite a child.

Mary waited a little while, and then said: "Daisy, here's your father come to see you."

Daisy turned her head quickly, and lifted her tearful eyes to his. Then she wrung her hands together, and broke out anew into a passion of sobs. "O father, father," she cried, "I can't walk or stand. I've tried, and I can't. And you will get so tired of me; you will wish I was dead. O father, I don't know what to do; I don't know how to bear it."

"Can't you stand yet, Daisy?" asked Isaac, in a perplexed and dubious tone.

"No, no, no," sobbed Daisy. "I tried, and I fell down. My legs seem almost as if they were dead, father. I don't know if I shall ever be able to stand again."

"Don't know if ever you'll be able to stand again!" echoed Isaac, in tones of dismay.

"No," moaned Daisy. "Perhaps never—never."

"Who's ever a-going to do your work?" asked Isaac. "I can't afford to keep a woman, Daisy. It's sheer ruination,—and I haven't got a penny to spare—not one penny."

"Ah, I knew you'd say so," Daisy answered sorrowfully, yet struggling to be calmer. "Father, you'll get so tired of me soon; you'll wish I was dead. And I would rather die and go to Heaven—oh, much, much rather—if only I might. But I mustn't be in a hurry, if God doesn't wish it for me yet. Only—oh, father, I don't know what to do!"

"You hear her, Mr. Meads," said Mary Davis slowly. "You hear what she's telling you. She thinks you'll be tired of her, and want her to die, because she can't slave for you any longer,—she that's your own little Daisy, the only child you've got. If she's taken, you'll have nobody left you then—not a soul in all the world to care for you. I wonder if you'd mind? You'd have your gold still—only your gold. Maybe that's all you want."

"Who says I've got gold?" asked the old man tremblingly, an expression of fear coming over his face. "I tell you, woman, I ain't got one penny to spare,—not one penny. I'm only a poor old man."

"O yes, I know," said Mary calmly, with a touch of contempt. "You and I know one another pretty well, Mr. Meads, by this time. You can't take me in, as you take most people in. Poor!—" and her voice suddenly changed. "Yes, it's true, that, and no mistake. You are a poor man, Mr. Meads,—poor and miserable too. Any man 'ud be poor who had his heart wrapped up in gold. But it'll be taken from you some day,—mind that. It's your idol, and it'll be taken from you."

Isaac shook as if he had the palsy, and his lustreless eyes stared hard at Mary. "It'll be took!" he muttered hoarsely, "Who says it'll be took? I've got it all safe—all safe. There isn't a soul knows where I put it."

"Maybe yes, and maybe no," Mary answered. "Don't you be too sure, Mr. Meads. There's often a deal more known by folks around than you think for. You needn't look at me like that. I don't know where you keep your hoard,—no, nor I don't want to. The gold that can kill your love for your own child has a curse upon it, and I wouldn't finger it if I could. But it'll be taken from you some day, or you'll be taken from it. And what'll you have then?"

Daisy's tears were at an end. She had lain silently listening thus far, and now she stretched out both hands to him, saying, "Father, don't you love me?"

Isaac made no answer. He stared fixedly at Mary Davis, muttering, "I've got it safe."

"Then keep it safe, if you will," answered Mary, who was losing patience. "But don't make believe you haven't got pence when you've got pounds, for I can't stand it."

"Nursie, don't be angry with him," said Daisy softly. "He can't understand."

"I'm angry with him for your sake, Daisy," Mary answered, drawing a long breath. "How ever you stand it all as you do, passes me. I don't feel like a Christian when I see him."

"But you must," said Daisy quietly; and then again she asked, "Father, don't you love me at all?"

Isaac made no response. He did not seem to take in the sense of Daisy's question, for Mary's words were still haunting him, and he could only think of one thing at a time. Daisy's lips quivered, and her eyes filled anew, and Mary thought the scene had lasted long enough for her. "Come, Mr. Meads," she said, "it's time you should go. Say good-bye to Daisy."

"Good-bye, father," Daisy said submissively. "You'll come again, to-morrow, won't you?"

Isaac made no attempt to remain. He went slowly back into the parlour, and there sat until bed-time, lost in helpless thought. What could Mary Davis mean? How should anybody be aware of his carefully-guarded hoard?

Mary Davis had spoken, on the impulse of the moment, that which her womanly common-sense dictated to her. She had no doubt whatever that Mr. Meads really did possess a considerable amount of money. She knew that the conjectures of other people on this head amounted to almost certainty. She felt it to be by no means unlikely that an attempt might some day be made by evil-disposed persons to discover his supposed hoards. She remembered that at his age he must in any case soon leave all that he had. Her words were the outcome of these thoughts.

Mary spoke under impulse, not at all expecting to make so deep an impression on him. But a strange thing happened, following upon her words,—especially strange in that it did so closely follow after them.

Isaac retired at his usual time, taking his solitary candle to the bedroom, bolting the door, drawing the window-curtains closer, peering suspiciously under the bed and the wardrobe.

These and other preparations completed, he went to the corner, where the bag of gold habitually lay hidden in the hollow behind the deep wainscoting. He touched the spring, and bent to lift his treasure,—this golden treasure, so dear to his heart.

Isaac started back in horror and afright. Where was the bag? His hand found only a vacant space.

Ghastly pale, and shaking like an aspen, Isaac brought the candle from the table, and stared into the hole. Yes, it was empty—quite empty. The bag was gone.

Breathing hard, and with the air of a man stupefied by a sudden blow, Isaac put the panel back into its place, and then stood thinking, or trying to think.

"There's t'other hole," he muttered feebly. "I don't know as I mightn't—maybe—have put it in there."

He knew he had not done so, yet he tried to believe that it was possible. He knew well that the second small hiding-place could not have contained the big bag of gold, even if it had not been already half filled by a tin box, holding Bank of England notes, yet he tried to defer the agony of his loss by cheating himself into the notion that perhaps somehow the gold was there.

The second spring did not answer so readily to his touch as the first had done. Isaac slowly woke to the fact that it had been tampered with. Icy drops broke out on his face. What if here too—?

The wood-work yielded suddenly, and Isaac almost fell backwards with the force he had been exerting. He grasped the back of a chair, and steadied himself. Then he stooped and looked in.

A deep groan broke from Isaac. For the box of bank-notes was gone also.

Dazed and stunned, Isaac staggered to a chair. He was utterly bewildered. It did not at first occur to him that any steps might be taken for the recovery of the stolen money. He only knew that it was lost.

"Gone! gone!" broke now and then from his parched lips.

Isaac could not have told how long he sat there in his despair. The candle-end burnt itself out slowly, and after many flickerings and flarings up, the flame was quenched.

That roused the old man from his stunned condition. He sat more upright, and peered into the darkness. Words were suddenly coming back to him—words recently uttered by Mary Davis, but forgotten hitherto in the shock of his discovery. Mary Davis had spoken of his gold,—had foretold that he would some day lose it. What if Mary Davis had found his hiding-places, and had abstracted his treasure? The idea occurred to him distinctly. He did not suspect her of any intention to steal, for he knew her of old to be scrupulously honest; but she might, he thought, have laid hands on the money to use it for Daisy, since she so often complained that he would not allow Daisy enough; and somehow the dishonesty of such an act did not strike Isaac. He quite believed Mary to be capable of it.

Stumbling across the room, striking against pieces of furniture in the dark, he unbolted his door with nervous haste, reached Daisy's door, found it fastened, and rapped heavily.

Daisy, roused from her quiet sleep, gave a startled cry, and Mary, who had not yet gone to bed, hastened to her side. "Don't you be frightened, dear; it's nothing," she said. "Don't tremble, Daisy. It's only your father."

"But what can he want?" asked Daisy fearfully, as Isaac shouted hoarse demands for admittance.

"You can't come in now; it's too late," Mary called from beside Daisy.

Isaac was past taking in the sense of what she said. He battered furiously with all the strength at his command, finding relief in the action, and shouting incoherent words.

"It isn't like father to get in this sort of state," Daisy said tremblingly. "Nurse, what can it be? I never knew him in such a rage. He'll break in soon. The lock is so weak."

Mary had her own fears on that head. She went close to the door and called out, "Stop, Mr. Meads, stop. What is it you want?"

"I want my money," Isaac cried in a frenzy of distress. "I want my money. It's gone, every penny of it; and I mean to have it back. If you don't give it me this minute, I'll—"

The threat following was indistinct, but Mary could imagine its import. Though she had never before seen Isaac Meads in precisely this condition, she knew that a man completely overcome by passion is capable of almost any deed. Isaac Meads was old and feeble, yet the strength lent by rage might well make him temporarily more than a match for any ordinary woman. Mary thought of Betsy Simmons' strong frame longingly.

"Listen to me, Mr. Meads," she called. "I've not got your money, and I don't know anything about it."

"You told me it 'ud be taken, and you've gone and got it," yelled Isaac.

"It's a lie, Mr. Meads. I've not touched one farthing of your money," Mary answered. "But if it's gone, you'd best not waste your time here. Why don't you go straight to the police-station? Every minute you put off, the less likely you are to get your money back."

"Police-station!" Isaac said helplessly, and he ceased his battering.

"Yes, the police-station, down to the left, near the other end of the road. You'd best bring a policeman back with you, and see if he can find out anything. I wouldn't lose a minute if I was you. The thief'll get right off, if you do."

She heard the old man totter away,—how feebly she did not know. She heard him go out of the house, and shut the door behind him. But long as she waited and listened, she did not hear him return; and at length she came to the conclusion that he and the policeman must have started in pursuit of the thief, deferring their examination of the bedroom till later. It was a very simple thought of Mary's—helped on, perhaps, by her dread of meeting him, and her fear of leaving Daisy. She did once or twice wonder whether she was quite right not to go out and look after him. Yet, for Daisy's sake, how could she?

Mary would not have had far to go. The shock of his loss was telling rapidly on the old man, and the brief strength of passion was fast dying away. He only managed to get as far as the garden-path. There he fell to the ground, having no power to rise again; and there, when morning dawned, he was found, lying helplessly, damp with the night dews. When they carried him indoors, and laid him on his bed, he only stared about muttering monotonously, "Gone! gone! gone!" like the knell of a passing bell.