Chapter III: 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?"