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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