Chapter VIII: Gold

IT was growing late as the two women watched and talked by Daisy's bedside,—talked rather more perhaps than was quite wise, for one cannot always be sure how far a sick person is really unconscious.

While they were thus busied, Isaac Meads retired from the parlour to his own bedroom, on the same floor, and at the back of the house. He did not go in on his way to ask about Daisy, for the idea of so doing never occurred to him. His mind was engrossed with other thoughts.

Isaac Meads always retired to bed by nine o'clock at the latest, and he always expected Daisy to do the same. Supper and candles, and in winter firing also, were saved by this habit.

He fastened carefully the bolt of the parlour window, and turned the big rusty key in the front door, forgetting or not knowing that Mrs. Simmons would have to unlock it again to pass out. Then, bearing the solitary candle which had been his companion, he went slowly with dragging footsteps to his own room, bolted himself in, and placed the light on the table,—an old green card-table standing in the centre.

This was Isaac Mead's happiest time,—the only hour in all the twenty-four which, after a certain fashion, he really did enjoy.

Pleasure had to be delayed yet a few minutes. Isaac performed a careful tour of his apartment, in slow shambling fashion. Candle in hand, he peered under the bed, he peeped into the cupboard, he shook each curtain, he displaced every movable piece of furniture. Not the skinniest and wiriest little street Arab could have escaped detection in the course of that search.

Satisfied at length that he was really alone, Isaac once more placed his candle on the table, and went to a dark corner beside the old wardrobe. There he touched a spring, cleverly hidden from careless observation, and a small piece of the deep wainscoting sprang out.

A hollow place in the wall was disclosed by this move. Isaac bent low, and carefully dragged up a heavy leathern bag. This bag he carried to the table, not without difficulty.

Now came Isaac's time of enjoyment. His shaking fingers untied the strings, and drew forth from the bag handfuls of gold. He piled sovereigns before him in a succession of little heaps, gazing at the same with admiring affection. He held them in his withered hands, and counted them over with ardent pleasure. His aged face brightened, and his lustreless eyes gleamed. For here was where Isaac's heart had found its home. If he loved nothing else in life, he loved gold.

Presently he put back the piles of sovereigns in the bag, and restored the bag to its hole behind the wainscoting, gloating over it to the last moment with greedy eyes, and sighing as it vanished from sight.

Isaac had not done yet. He went to another corner of the room, close beside the heavy four-post bed, and stooped down as if to touch another spring.

Something made him pause and stand up. What was that sound? Could it be only the crawling of a snail outside the window pane?

Isaac was suddenly seized with trembling dismay. For he saw that a corner of the window had been left uncovered by blind and curtain,—strangely unnoticed by himself. Possibly he might have pulled the curtain aside, unknowingly, as he passed. What if anyone had peeped in?

Isaac hastened to the window, and stared through the little bit of exposed pane. His limbs shook, and a cold perspiration broke out all over him. This window opened on a lonely corner of the back yard, but anybody might wander round from the road.

Enjoyment was at an end. Isaac could see nobody, looking into the darkness, yet that did not prove nobody to be there. He covered the window over, and stood near it a long while, listening and trembling. Nothing happened, and presently he went to bed, not venturing to gloat any more over his treasure that night.