CHAPTER IV.

John Griffin makes a Vow.

HURRYING upstairs with many prickings of heart for having left him so long to himself, Mrs. Griffin came breathless to her husband's bedside. She found him looking flushed and uneasy.

"Who have you been chattering to down in the shop?" he asked, very crossly. "I should think you might have cut short your gossip for once."

John Griffin was far from being ill-tempered; but even the most good-humoured of men are apt to get rather bearish when enduring severe pain.

"It was such a dear little girl," began Mrs. Griffin, scarcely heeding his irritable tones in her eagerness to tell the news; "she's brought your plates, and oh, John, her mother's dead!"

"What do you mean? Whose mother's dead?" he asked, his tone sharper than before.

"Why, you know that poor widow who sold you the jug you was so pleased with," said Mrs. Griffin; "and the plates we thought you wouldn't get, the child has brought just now. The reason she did not bring them before was because her mother died that very night."

"What night?" he asked.

"Why, Monday night, of course, after they got back from here," said his wife; "the poor soul was lodging at Mrs. Cook's. Her death must have been awful sudden. The child says she broke a blood-vessel. You noticed that she looked very ill, and you remember how she coughed. The poor little girl says she is to be taken to the workhouse, for she's left all alone in the world with no one to look to."

Mrs. Griffin's words were checked by a deep groan from her husband.

"What's the matter?" she asked, anxiously. "Is the pain worse?"

"Mortal bad," he replied; "it cuts me like a knife."

"Dear, dear," said his wife, full of pity; "I'll get you another hot poultice; p'raps that 'll ease it."

And as she hurried about to attend to his wants, she said no more of the widow or her child. Griffin could not have heeded her words had she spoken. All his powers of mind and body were held captive by acute pain. But his wife's words had had their effect on him. The news of little Maggie's sudden bereavement had suggested to him the possibility that death might be near for him also.

The doctor looked grave when he came that evening, and found old Griffin worse; graver still the next morning, when the patient's temperature was higher than before, whilst his strength was diminished by a restless night of pain.

Dr. Thornton was a young and handsome man, but with the thoughtful, quiet demeanour which befitted his profession. He was very kind-hearted, and his straightforward manner quickly won the confidence of his patients. He had not been long in practice, and his work lay mainly amongst the poorer classes; but he did not think it beneath him to give poor people his best attention, nor to employ for their advantage every alleviation which his knowledge and skill could devise. He cherished an enthusiastic belief that his profession was the finest one in the world, and he shrank from no self-denial which its pursuit might demand. Leslie Thornton's friends often spoke of him as a "good fellow," and never was the epithet more justly applied.

When he had carefully examined his patient, and given the wife every instruction she needed, he stood silent by the bed for a few minutes, his face wearing a look of grave deliberation. He had sent Mrs. Griffin away, that he might feel free to speak as he would to his patient; but still he hesitated, debating with himself whether it would be better to tell the old man what a critical point his malady had reached, or to leave him unprepared to meet death, if death should come. Whilst he hesitated, old Griffin's voice decided the question for him.

"I be very bad, doctor," he said feebly; "I never felt anything like it before. I'm as weak as a baby. But I suppose you're going to set me up again. I haven't got to the end yet?"

His last words were uttered as a question, and the doctor could not meet them with equivocation.

"I don't give up hope for you, Griffin," he said; "I've seen men pull through worse illnesses than this; but at your age such an attack is a serious thing. It is only right I should tell you that it may be beyond my power to save you."

The change which passed over old Griffin's face was very slight. His eyelids drooped, his lips quivered for a moment, that was all.

"Perhaps, if you wished it, it would be well for you to see a clergyman," suggested Dr. Thornton.

"No, no, I want no parsons," said the old man, with sudden fierceness; "I've done very well without them all my life, and I'll do without them to the end."

"Then you're not afraid to die?" asked the doctor.

"No, I'm not afraid," said the old man, doggedly; "what would be the good? If I am to die, I must die. It'll be hard for the poor old wife; she's had a sight of trouble in the past with losing her babies and little Polly, and she won't like to lose me too. But sending for a parson wouldn't make it any better."

"Have you no sins to repent of?" asked Dr. Thornton.

"Repent?" repeated the old man, feebly. "Why should I repent? I've been no worse than other people. I've always worked hard, and supported myself honestly. I've done nobody any harm."

But even as he spoke there came to the old man's mind a vision of the pale, sad-looking widow, and her little dark-eyed girl. Could he say he had done no one any harm, when he remembered how he had dealt with them? And the poor woman was dead. Perhaps he would meet her in that other world of which he had some dim notions.

"Do you believe in a God?" asked the young man, presently, curious to know whether this strange old fellow had any religious belief whatever.

Griffin made a slight movement of the head, which seemed to signify affirmation.

"Do you ever pray?" asked Dr. Thornton.

"Not since I was a boy," was the reply.

"You have heard of the Lord Jesus Christ?"

"May be, I dare say I have; but I don't know much about Him," said old Griffin, dully,—"religion was never in my line."

His words startled Leslie Thornton. It seemed marvellous that in a town notorious for the number of its Christian sects, living within sound of the bells of many churches, and with several places of worship of different kinds only a short distance from his door, one could be found so ignorant of spiritual things as this man appeared to be.

There was silence in the room for a few minutes. The young doctor was conscious of a painful sense of embarrassment. He asked himself whether he ought not to make an effort to enlighten the dull, dark spirit of this man, who lay on the borderland of death. But never had speech seemed so difficult. A sense of his own ignorance and uncertainty kept him silent.

"I am not fit to talk to you about these things," he said, at last, very awkwardly; "but you ought to hear about the Lord Jesus, who died for us sinners. I wish you would send for a clergyman."

"No, thank you, sir," said the old man, stolidly; "I am much obliged to you, but I shall do very well as I am; I want no parson."

And so the doctor left him apparently undisturbed by any qualms of conscience. But Dr. Thornton's words had made more impression than he imagined. Old Griffin was not so stoically indifferent to the possible approach of death as he had chosen to appear. A vague feeling of uneasiness had been awakened, which grew more clearly defined as his thoughts wandered back into the past, and many an incident of bygone years came to mind again.

He fought against the fear of death. He was not going to give up hope yet. The doctor had said that he might recover, and he did not mean to die if he could help it. But still he could not banish from his mind the thought of that solemn possibility.

The doctor had asked him if he had not sins to repent of. Certainly he had sinned; he could not deny that; but his sins were not worse than the sins of most people. Would God remember them against him? Would He punish him for his sins? Weak and worn though he was, Griffin tried to examine himself concerning the evil he had done. He had not always been strictly honest in his dealings; but then what man of business was? There were tricks in all trades. He had sometimes told a lie in order to further a sale; but there had seemed no great harm in that. The sin which lay most heavily on his conscience, as he reviewed the past, was his dishonest transaction with regard to the old Worcester jug. It was mean of him, he owned to himself, not to have given its full value to the poor widow who was evidently sorely in need of money. Could the same thing happen again he would certainly act differently. He wished it were possible now to make amends. But the poor woman was dead; he could do nothing for her. Still there was the child; could he help her? He would thankfully do it if he could, and so get rid of this burden, which pressed so heavily on his mind.

And thinking thus, John Griffin made a vow—a solemn vow—which he hoped that God would hear and approve. If his life were prolonged, and he rose from this bed of sickness, he would early make it his business to inquire into the little orphan's state, and befriend her, if he found that she needed a friend.

"Old woman," he said to his wife, a little later, "do you think I've been a bad man?"

"A bad man, John? By no means," said Mrs. Griffin, emphatically; "you've never drank nor swore, nor done anything very bad that I know of. You've always worked hard enough for two men; and I'm sure you've been a good husband to me. What makes you ask that?"

"There's things I could wish undone," said old Griffin, feebly; "if I get about again I'll try to do different."

"Don't ee talk like that, Griffin," said his wife, beginning to cry; "it cuts me to the heart."

"Don't cry, old wife," said her husband, gently; "if I should go, you won't be left so badly off. I've saved a nice little sum. There's money in the savings bank, and money invested in the funds, and the stock of old china in the shop is worth a good round price."

"Oh, John, what good would money do me, if I was left all alone?" sobbed the poor woman. "I hope I should soon follow you. I couldn't live long without you, I know. If little Pally had lived, it would have been different perhaps but now—"

Her words were lost in a choking sob.

Griffin drew a weary sigh, caused by pain, both bodily and mental. What had been the good of his toiling and saving all these years, if this was to be the end? The rare old china and antique ornaments below could give him no comfort now. They seemed worthless, like everything else in this short, vain life. He knew that his wife set no value on them. She would have been happier as the wife of a poor man with a house full of children.

He closed his eyes, and sighed again. Presently he sank into an uneasy doze. His wife sat by his side, and watched him anxiously. By-and-by he began to murmur in his sleep.

Bending close she caught the words, "the little maid."

"He's thinking of our Polly," said the mother to herself. But she was mistaken. The little white face, with sad, beseeching eyes, which haunted the sufferer's dreams, was not the face of little Polly.

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