Chapter IX: Old Isaac

"FATHER," Daisy said.

It was not the first word she had uttered, but it was her first word in a clear and natural voice. Long days and nights of stupor had passed, and when at length sense returned it came slowly. She began first to notice things about her with languid glances of interest, and then there was an occasional "thank you," or a faint smile of recognition. She showed no surprise at her own condition, or at the presence of her nurse. But she seemed to be gradually waking up, as if from a trance; and one day she opened her eyes, to say with unexpected distinctness:—

"Father!"

"He's in the other room, Miss Daisy," said Mary Davis.

Daisy looked at Mary steadily. "I've been ill a very long time, haven't I, Nursie?" she asked, in her soft voice, which had become weak as well as soft.

"No, Miss Daisy, dear, not so very long. It's a good many days."

"Days! It seems—years," said Daisy, making a pause. "It has been so nice, Nursie. I thought I was a little child again, and you were taking care of me, only I was afraid it was a dream, and I didn't want to wake up. So I tried not."

"But you're awake now, my dear," said Mary.

"I suppose I am," murmured Daisy, shutting and opening her eyes with a rather distressed look. "My head is so strange, I feel as if I were somebody else. And my legs seem tied down to the bed. Isn't it funny?"

"Very funny," said Mary, with a smile to hide a heart-ache. "You mustn't mind being weak for a time."

"I suppose it was the rain made me so ill. It rained—hard," said Daisy slowly, with a puzzled expression, as if she were trying to recall something. Then she seemed quite tired out, and lay again as she had lain so much of late; only Mary Davis thought there was more of sleep and less of stupor about her unconsciousness.

Later in the afternoon the doctor came in. He was the Parish doctor, a stout quick-mannered man, sometimes a little apt to be sharp as well as quick; but, like most people, he was gentle with Daisy.

When she opened her eyes and smiled at him, he said, "Come, you are better to-day."

"Mayn't I see father, please?" asked Daisy.

"Well, yes, perhaps you may," said Mr. Bennet. "Do you think it would do you good?"

"No," said Daisy, without any hesitation. "I only think I ought."

"Why won't it do you good, my dear?" asked Mr. Bennet, bending down to look into her eyes.

"I'm tired," Daisy said. "But there's nobody else to take care of father."

"O yes; there's Mrs. Davis to take care of you both," said Mr. Bennet cheerily. "Where do you feel tired? All over?"

"Yes, everywhere," said Daisy. "And my legs are so heavy, I can't move them,—and my head too."

The doctor's broad hand was laid on Daisy's forehead, not pressing much; yet she moaned, and for an instant her eyes had a wandering look.

"She can't bear that, sir," Mary Davis said. "Her head do seem very bad still."

"Yes. She mustn't see her father yet," said Mr. Bennet decidedly. "Keep her as quiet as possible, and if Mrs. Simmons comes in from over the way, don't you have too much talk."

"No, sir," said Mary Davis.

"I like Mrs. Simmons," said Daisy. "She is kind—and so big—"

"Well, yes, she's big undoubtedly," said the doctor. "Much bigger than you will ever be, Daisy."

Daisy seemed to take the words in a sense which the doctor had certainly not intended. She asked calmly:—

"Shall I never be well again?"

"Tut, tut! Nonsense!" said Mr. Bennet. "Why, you're ever so much better to-day."

Daisy smiled a little; not as if she were quite sure that he meant what he said. Mary Davis presently followed the doctor, as he left the room, and while opening the front door she asked anxiously: "Will Miss Daisy soon be up again, please, sir?"

"Can't say. Can't say at all," responded Mr. Bennet hastily. "There's no knowing. It has been a terrible shock to the nervous system altogether, and the head is a good deal affected,—no doubt about that. She's a delicate little creature. May pass off soon, or may not. How is your husband going on? You saw him yesterday, did you not?"

"Yes, sir. It's like to be a long business with him, they say; but he's been more himself than Miss Daisy has been. His arm is shocking bad, and he has a deal of pain."

"Well, well, the worst cases are not always those where there's most pain—not by any means," said Mr. Bennet. "Your husband will have gained experience for the future, when he comes out of the hospital."

"Yes, sir; in more ways than one, maybe," said Mary quietly. "He says he means to sign the pledge, and to turn over a new leaf."

"A good day for you if he does," said the doctor, aware of John Davis' propensities. "Good evening. Keep that child quiet, and don't let her old father bother her."

Mary returned to the bedroom, with this injunction full in her mind. To her astonishment, she found old Isaac Meads in the sick room, seated beside Daisy's bed, with his chin resting on the knob of his stick, and his eyes fixed solemnly upon Daisy. He had evidently crossed the passage unobserved, while she was speaking with the doctor. Daisy lay with shut eyes, unconscious of his presence.

Mary Davis was at a loss what to do. She did not wish to rouse Daisy, yet silent signs and beckonings proved of no avail. The old man did not see, or chose to ignore them. Mary laid one hand on his shoulder to draw attention, and with the other she pointed to the door; but Isaac shook off her hand, and doggedly retained his seat.

"You must go away," Mary whispered. "The doctor says so. You are not to come here, Mr. Meads."

"Not to come here? And who's got any right to say that to me?" growled Isaac. "Isn't it my own house? Eh?"

"Hush—hush!" whispered Mary. "Hush! You will startle Miss Daisy and make her worse."

But Daisy had heard. She opened her eyes, and a smile broke over her face as she said, "Father."

"Didn't I know she'd know me?" asked Isaac Meads. "Whatever in the world makes you keep on lying here all this time, Daisy? Ain't you going to get up and be busy? Everything'll go to wrack and ruin if you don't, and I haven't got one penny to spare—not one penny."

"I'll get up as soon as ever I can," said Daisy. "I can't stand yet, father."

"Can't you stand?" inquired Isaac, in a tone of dismay.

"No," Daisy answered. "My legs are so heavy, father, I can't move them."

"Couldn't you if I was to help you up?" asked Isaac, suiting action to word. Daisy shrank from his outstretched hands.

"No, father, I couldn't. Please don't touch me,—oh, please!"

"Mr. Meads, you'll please to go!" said Mary indignantly. "The doctor said you weren't to be here at all. Why, you'll just kill Miss Daisy outright, if you go on like this."

"I'm not a-going if I don't choose. Old Meadow is my house if it's anybody's," grumbled Isaac. "If I've a mind to stay with Daisy, who's to hinder?"

Mary was alarmed at Daisy's shortened breath and dilated eyes. She went close to the bed, laying a protecting hand on her, and the movement seemed to excite the old man's ire.

"Get away with you, woman," he cried wrathfully, shaking his stick. "'Tisn't the first time. Yes, yes, I know you now; always a-meddling in somebody's concerns. If I didn't remember you at first, I do now. Get away with you, and leave Daisy to them as have a right over her. If I tell her to get up, she's got to get up, and she shall too."

Despite a quick movement on Mary's part, the old man seized Daisy's arm, and made a feint of pulling her to a sitting posture. Perhaps it was more of pretence than reality, but it was enough. Daisy uttered a low cry, and became unconscious.

"Are you crazy, Mr. Meads?" asked Mary, hardly able to contain herself. "Are you quite crazy? Do you want to kill your only child, your poor little Daisy? See what you have done,—yes, look—look at her. How will you feel if she never comes to again?"

Isaac's fit of childish anger was at an end. He stared stolidly at the white face on the pillow.

Another figure had appeared on the scene, a capacious figure, filling a goodly space in the doorway.

"See, that's what he has done," Mary said bitterly, turning to Mrs. Simmons. "And the poor little darling was getting on so nicely. That's what he has done! I shouldn't wonder if he has killed her outright."

"What's he been after?" asked Mrs. Simmons, coming forward.

"Why, he's wanting her to get up and work, and save his coppers," said Mary. "She that hasn't power to lift her head off the pillow, nor to turn herself in bed! I doubt me sometimes she never will have power again. He loves his money a deal better than he loves his own flesh and blood. And I can't get him out of the room; and if she comes to and sees him here, I shouldn't wonder if it was as much as her life was worth."

"Well, that's a pretty piece of work, if there ever was one!" said Mrs. Simmons, contemplating the old man's crouching form. "Now then,—will you go, Mr. Meads?"

Mrs. Simmons was a large woman, and Isaac Meads was not a large man. He gave her a glance, and moved.

"Come, be quick!" said Betsy Simmons. "And mind, if ever you dare to come inside this door again, without the doctor's leave—"

The rest of the sentence was left to Isaac's imagination. He beat a hasty retreat.