CHAPTER VI.

How John Griffin kept His Vow.

JOHN GRIFFIN'S illness was not to end in death. At his next visit the doctor saw a slight improvement in his patient's condition. The favourable symptoms continued, and in a few days Dr. Thornton, much to his satisfaction, could pronounce the old man out of danger.

Mrs. Griffin's joy at thus being relieved from her terrible dread was unbounded. She overwhelmed her husband with tokens of her affectionate solicitude; and though she was often repaid with scant thanks or impatient words, and found old Griffin in his time of convalescence more irritable and difficult to please than she had ever known him, she took his crossness in very good part. It was but natural, she argued, that, after all he had endured, he should be rather fractious, when he at last began to get well. Griffin was not the first man who had found the slow, tedious process of recovering health and strength more trying to his patience than the acute suffering which had preceded it.

How was it now with John Griffin's vow to befriend little Maggie? Did he forget it, as so many forget the resolutions made in sickness, when the dreaded stroke is removed and the blessing of health restored to them? No, he did not forget it; it abode in his mind as a resolve to be carried out when he was strong and well again, and found a convenient time in which to attend to it. But his conscience did not trouble him so keenly concerning the purchase of the Worcester jug, now that death, which seemed so near, had again receded into the distance.

Still, Griffin truly meant to make inquiries about Maggie, and to do what he could to make reparation to her for the wrong done to her mother, only in his present weak and languid state he did not feel that he could hurry himself about it. He shrank from speaking to his wife on the subject. He fancied that she would not understand his remorse concerning the good bargain he had made, and that she would wonder at his taking such interest in a child of whom they knew nothing.

So he said not a word about little Maggie, though he kept wishing that his wife would mention her again. He would have liked to know if she had heard any more of the child. Yet he did not put any questions which could draw forth the information he desired; and, little guessing what was in his mind, Mrs. Griffin said nothing on the subject for some time.

But though she was silent concerning her, Mrs. Griffin had not forgotten the little orphan. The child had indeed passed from her mind during the worst days of her husband's illness, when his state demanded her utmost care and attention. But as soon as he began to mend, and became less dependent on her, her heart, set free from its painful suspense, had leisure to dwell upon little Maggie, and wonder how she was faring. She said nothing to her husband about the child, for the simple reason that she did not wish to recall to his mind his business affairs, for she saw that Griffin was disposed to fret and worry over the loss of trade which resulted from his illness. He had always managed his shop without aid, save such as his wife could give him. A jealous dislike to teaching any one the secrets of his trade had kept him from taking an apprentice.

So, whilst he had been laid aside, the business had been almost at a stand-still, except so far as his wife's interposition had been able to meet the customers' requirements. John Griffin felt an eager longing to get back to his shop again. He was sure that things must be getting into a terrible muddle there, and feared that some of his treasures might get broken during his absence. But Dr. Thornton laid such stress on his taking care, and not exposing himself to cold, that the old man dared not hurry out of his sick room.

Mrs. Griffin was hoping from day to day that little Maggie would come again as she had promised. But she did not come, and Mrs. Griffin began to fear that the child was already lodged in the workhouse. She longed to put on her bonnet, and slip round to Mrs. Cook's lodgings to make inquiries about Maggie; but she could not get away from home even to go that short distance. It was impossible to leave the shop in the day-time, and towards evening Griffin usually grew so weary and fretful that he could not bear his wife to be out of his sight for five minutes.

Thus it happened that, without their exchanging a word on the subject, similar thoughts were often passing through the minds of husband and wife. At last, however, they came to an understanding.

It was a Sunday evening, and Mrs. Griffin was free from all cares respecting the shop. Griffin had taken a fresh start on the road towards recovery. He had come downstairs for the first time, and was sitting in an arm-chair by the fire, having just partaken with good appetite of a meal of tea, bread and butter, and salted herring. He was looking more like himself, as his wife told him, than she had seen him look for many a day, and some of the bright content which had returned to his countenance was reflected on hers as she sat and watched him. She really might leave him now in safety for a few minutes, if only he would not think her unkind for proposing such a thing.

"John," said Mrs. Griffin, suddenly, "Thursday will be Christmas Day!"

"So it will," returned he; "dear, dear, what a long time I've been ill. It's quite time I got about to look into things again."

"You'll soon be able to now, I hope," said his wife, brightly; then, feeling that there was no longer any need to keep silence, she added, "I do wonder what sort of a Christmas that poor dear child will spend. Did I ever tell you, John, about her bringing her mother's books for us to keep for her?"

"What child do you mean?" asked her husband, though he fancied he knew.

"Why, you know," returned Mrs. Griffin, "the dear little girl who brought the plates, and said that her mother was dead, and that she was going to be sent to the workhouse."

"Yes, I remember," he said, shortly; "but what about her mother's books?"

"I'll tell you," said his wife; and at considerable length, and with much circumlocution, she told him of Maggie's visit, and repeated all that the child had said. "And I asked her to come again, and to tell Mrs. Cook not to send her to the workhouse just at once; but she's not been near the place since, so I suppose they've sent the poor child away. She's a good-for-nothing woman, that Mrs. Cook. I doubt she has misused the dear little thing."

"And so she said that I was a good man," observed old Griffin, musingly; "well, she made a mistake there."

"Nonsense, Griffin," said his wife; "what a queer notion that is you've taken into your head. If you're not a good man, I don't know where I should find one."

Old Griffin shook his head, and was silent.

"I should like to have a look at those books that the child brought," he said, after a while; "fancy her trusting us so, poor little maid."

He sighed as he spoke, for he felt that he was unworthy the child's innocent trust.

"Yes, and such a sweet little girl, as she is too," said his wife, warmly; "she reminded me of our little Polly, John. It made my heart ache, to think of her being sent to the workhouse. But I'll fetch you the books."

She went away in search of them, and her husband was left alone, with many strange and unwonted thoughts working within his mind.

"I wonder if it would be a very foolish thing to do," he said to himself, musing over an idea which had occurred to him; "the old woman would like it. I reckon she would say 'yes,' in a moment, if I asked her."

But whatever project Griffin was pondering, until his own mind was decided on the subject, he would not venture to lay the proposal before his wife, whose feelings regarding it he could so well divine.

Mrs. Griffin soon returned with the books. She placed them before her husband—a Bible bound in faded purple morocco, with rims and clasp of tarnished gold, and a rather smaller prayer-book of similar appearance.

Griffin turned the books over in his hands ere he opened them, examining the bindings as if he were trying to appraise their value.

"We shall see what the child's name is here, I reckon," he said, glancing at the writing on the fly-leaf of the prayer-book. "Can you find me my glasses, wife?"

"She said her name was Knight—Maggie Knight," remarked Mrs. Griffin, as she handed him his spectacles.

But the name John Griffin read on the fly-leaf was not Knight. "Margaret Platten, the gift of her mother," were the words written in faded ink, and below was added a date now more than twenty years old.

"Platten!" said the old dealer, thoughtfully. "I've never heard that name before, that I know of. Have you?"

His wife shook her head, saying, "The child said the books were her mother's,—that may have been her maiden name," she observed.

"I tell you what, old woman," said Griffin, in the tone of one who stated an indisputable fact; "these are the kind of books that gentlefolks use, and depend upon it I was right when I said that that widow was a real lady. I knew it as soon as I saw her. There was a way with her that only the quality has."

"But she must have been very poor," objected his wife; "the child was miserably dressed, and I'm sure Mrs. Cook's was a wretched place for a lady to live at."

"That may be," returned her husband; "I'm not saying she wasn't poor; I know well enough she was that; but still I hold that she was one who had known better days. She was a lady who had come down in the world."

"Poor soul!" said Mrs. Griffin, in a tone of pity. "And to think that her child should be sent to the workhouse!"

Griffin had taken up the Bible, and was looking at it. He knew what the book was, for Bibles came to him occasionally in the way of business, but with its contents he was unacquainted. He knew, however, that it was the Book of God, and that teachers and preachers of righteousness founded their denunciations of evil upon its doctrines. As he now carelessly opened it, his eyes were arrested by certain words, which struck home to his conscience like an arrow sent by a sure hand. He felt a thrill of fear as he read them:

"To turn aside the needy from judgment, and to take away the right from the poor of My people, that widows may be their prey, and that they may rob the fatherless! And what will ye do in the day of visitation, and in the desolation which shall come from far? To whom will ye flee for help? and where will ye leave your glory? Without Me they shall bow down under the prisoners, and they shall fall under the slain. For all this His anger is not turned away, but His hand is stretched out still."

What strange words were these? He had never read any like them. He could not understand what they meant; but none the less did they fill his soul with vague dread, and revive the sense of sin which had disquieted him as he lay on his sick bed, but had become less vivid with the return of health and strength. One thing was clear enough. God was angry with those who ill-treated widows or "robbed the fatherless." And he had done it! He was guilty of this sin before God. The threatening language of the Book was such as he deserved. He trembled with the fear of judgment. But he meant well. He had repented. He had vowed that he would make atonement to the child for the wrong he had done her mother, and he must do it without delay, for did not God Himself require it at his hands?

"Whatever is the matter, John?" asked his wife in alarm, for he had uttered a heavy groan as he closed the Bible, and pushed it from him.

"Matter enough," he returned; "wife, what is a man to do, when he has made a great mistake, and done something very wrong?"

"Why, the best thing he can do is to try to set it right, I should say," replied his wife, in surprise; "but you've done nothing very wrong, John."

"Yes, I have; I've done a great wrong," he said, firmly; "and I want you to help me to set it right."

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked.

"It's that child I'm thinking of," he said, hurriedly, in a voice that betrayed agitation; "I cheated her mother shamefully over that Worcester jug. Yes, I can't call it by a fairer name, it was downright cheating, and nothing else. The jug was worth at least four pounds, and I gave her only fifteen shillings for it. She was so poor and miserable-looking,—half-starved, indeed, she seemed; it was a shame of me. It's been lying on my conscience ever since."

For a few moments Mrs. Griffin kept silence, whilst she stared at her husband in astonishment. His words had brought her sudden enlightenment. Strange to say, she had not till now once thought of looking at Griffin's "good bargain" from the widow's point of view. She deemed it only natural, and quite justifiable, that he should try to depreciate and beat down to their lowest price the goods which were offered for sale. Though she had repudiated the idea that money could yield her any comfort in the event of her husband's death, Mrs. Griffin had acquired a habit of saving and hoarding, and had always been pleased to hear that Griffin's business was prospering, and his gains amounting to a good round sum. But during her husband's illness these selfish tendencies, the natural outcome of her dull narrow life, had been checked.

Little Maggie's visit, awaking the maternal instincts which had long slumbered in the childless mother's heart, had roused Mrs. Griffin's better, truer self. Love for a little child has often had power to change the whole current of a woman's thoughts. It was so with Mrs. Griffin. She saw the circumstances connected with the purchase of the jug in quite another light now.

"To be sure, John, you were hard upon the poor lady," she said, at length; "I never thought of that before, even though I heard the child say that the money her mamma got for the jug would not pay the rent and all they owed. Ah! The poor soul must have wanted money bad enough! It was a pity you gave her so little. It wouldn't have mattered if she had been a rich body. It's only right to get as much as you can out of the rich, I take it; but one shouldn't be hard on a poor widow."

"It's wrong to pay too little, I reckon, whether it's done to rich or poor," said John, whose conscience had received enlightenment during the weary hours of illness; "anyhow, I'm sorry I did it over that jug. I've repented of that sin at least, and now I'm thinking how I can best make it up to the little maid."

"Oh, John!" exclaimed his wife, eager to make a suggestion.

But he held up his hand to stay her words.

"Wait a bit, old woman," he said; "hear what I have to say first, and then we'll see if we're both of one mind. Do you know, I've been thinking many times of our little Polly, since I was took ill."

"Ah, so have I, John, often and often," cried his wife, the ready tears springing to her eyes.

"How many years is it since the little one died; do you remember?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, John; don't you?" she returned, rather reproachfully; "it'll be one and twenty years come next February."

"So long ago as that, is it?" he replied, with a sigh, to think how fast the years of his manhood were vanishing. "And she was nine years old when she died. She would have been a woman of thirty had she lived—old enough to be the mother of that little dark-eyed maid."

Mrs. Griffin looked wonderingly at her husband. She did not understand to what his words were tending. It was impossible for her to picture her lost child a grown woman of thirty. To her mother little Polly would always be—just little Polly.

"Do you see what I'm driving at, old wife?" asked Griffin, speaking with much embarrassment and hesitation. "I'm thinking that if our Polly had died when she was a woman, and left an orphan child behind her, we should have brought that child up as our own. It might have been just such another as this little Maggie. Perhaps I'm foolish to trouble about the child; but the looks of her took my fancy. It do seem a pity that such a one should go to the workhouse. She's worth taking care of, for she's real good quality, as any one can see, so if you think we could do with her here—"

"Oh, John, John, I see what you mean," exclaimed his wife, eagerly; "you think we could have her here, and bring her up in little Polly's place. No, I won't say that; no child could be like our own little Polly, but you would let her live with us."

"Would you like that?" he asked.

"You know I should like it above everything," she replied; "you know how I love children. But would you like it? Do you really mean it? For I've heard you say sometimes, and it has cut me to the heart to hear you say it, John, that it was a good thing we'd got no children, because p'raps they'd be running in and out of the shop and a-breaking your china."

"Did I say that?" he returned. "Well, well, I hope this little maid wouldn't break things. Any way, we might try the experiment for a week or two; and then, if we didn't like having her, we could send her away. Now, what are you a crying for, old woman?"

"It makes me cry to think of it," said Mrs. Griffin, hastily wiping her eyes; "it's a good thought of yours, John, and I don't believe you'll ever repent of it. But there's no time to be lost. It's full a fortnight since the child was here. Very likely that good-for-nothing Mrs. Cook has sent her already to the workhouse. If you wouldn't mind being left alone for a few minutes, Griffin, I'd run round now and inquire about the child."

"All right, go along with you, the sooner the better," said old Griffin; "I shall be very comfortable here till you come back."

So Mrs. Griffin hurriedly put on her bonnet and shawl, and set off for Mrs. Cook's.

John sat alone by the fire, and pondered the rather hasty decision he had made. Had he done a very foolish thing? It was true, as his wife had reminded him, that he had often of late years thought it an advantage that they had no hungry little mouths to feed, and no restless little hands that might meddle and make mischief amongst his treasures. He had congratulated himself on the saving of expense and trouble which this fact involved.

And now he was about to burden himself with the maintenance of a strange child,—a little girl of whom he knew nothing, save that she was of pretty and winning appearance. A few weeks ago he would have said that it was impossible for him to commit such an act of folly. Yet he could not regret his decision. As he sat and waited for his wife's return, which was delayed far beyond the few minutes of which she had spoken, he felt as eager to take charge of little Maggie as ever he had felt to secure some rare china cup or antique vase. He wondered at the strength of this new, strange feeling.

Well, he had vowed that if he rose from his sick bed he would be a different man, and this was the beginning of it. He knew not how to turn right round and start on a new course; but he was feebly groping towards the light, and in so doing was in a happier, more hopeful state than when he had walked contentedly in darkness. Though he knew not the Son of God, nor His claims upon his love, Griffin was already about to serve Him, for we cannot lay our hand, whether for good or evil, upon even the least of our human family without touching the Divine Brother of man Himself.

And as he sat by the fire, brooding over the past, and resolving to be a better man in the future, old Griffin found comfort in the words he had read in the Book:

"For all this His anger is not turned away, but His hand is stretched out still."

Could it be that the hand of God was stretched out to him—a sinful old man like him?

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