CHAPTER VII.
Christmas Day.
JOHN GRIFFIN sat long alone, waiting for his wife to return. He grew uneasy as one quarter of an hour after another passed, and yet she did not come. It was but a few steps to Mrs. Cook's lodgings, what could be keeping her so long?
But at last he heard the sound of a vehicle stopping before the door of his house, and in a few moments his wife entered, bearing triumphantly in her arms what appeared to be a large bundle.
"I've got her, John," was all she said, and then she placed her bundle lightly on the hearth-rug, and ran back to dismiss the cabman, whom she had been obliged to employ.
The bundle stirred after Mrs. Griffin had placed it on the rug. A little white hand found an opening in the closely-wound shawl; and as it pushed the wrapping back, John saw a pair of dark eyes looking at him.
"How do you do, my dear?" he asked.
The child smiled faintly, but made no other response.
Griffin now noticed that her face was pale and wasted, and her eyes dull and heavy.
Just then his wife came bustling back.
"Why, what's the matter with the little maid?" he asked. "Is she bad?"
"Yes, poor little darling; and no wonder, you'd say, if you saw the place where I found her," replied Mrs. Griffin, in a tone of indignation; "a nasty, cold garret, John, close under the roof, with the wind coming in through the chinks enough to freeze you. And as for dirt! If you'll believe me, the dust was an inch thick on the floor. All the poor dear had to lie on was a heap of flocks, and a bit of a cobweb of a blanket to cover her. Mrs. Cook says the child has been bad for the last fortnight; but it's my belief that she has half-starved her. I had to fetch a cab to bring her home in, for she was too weak to walk, and I'm not strong enough to carry her so far, though 'tis but a little way. Now, wait a bit, my darling, whilst I get you some nice good beef-tea."
Mrs. Griffin talked fast to keep down the emotion which threatened to overcome her. She now brought a saucepan, and in a few minutes had warmed over the fire some of the excellent beef-tea which she had made for her husband. Then, lifting the little girl on to her lap, she gently fed her with spoonfuls of the warm broth, into which she had crumbled some bread.
Griffin leaned forward in his chair to watch the child being fed. To his joy, Maggie did not refuse the food, but took it with evident relish. She tried to sit up for a moment, and take a look round the room; but, weak and dizzy, her head quickly sank back on Mrs. Griffin's shoulder.
"Poor little maid!" said old Griffin, tenderly. "Poor little maid!"
"It was well I went when I did, John," said Mrs. Griffin; "I believe Mrs. Cook had forgotten the child's existence, and would have left her to starve. She was in drink as usual, and made high words about being troubled with beggarly brats."
Maggie had opened her eyes again on hearing Mrs. Cook's name, and her face wore a frightened look.
"You won't send me back to her?" she asked, in a feeble voice.
"No, that we won't, dear, you may be sure of that," returned Mrs. Griffin; "you shall never see that horrid woman again, if I can help it. Poor little dear, see how thin she has grown, Griffin. Still I hope that all she wants is good nursing and feeding. I'll take her upstairs now, give her a nice warm bath, and put her to bed."
Maggie nestled in the old woman's arms with an air of intense satisfaction, and pressing her to her bosom with a mother's tenderness, Mrs. Griffin carried her away.
When John Griffin went upstairs, half-an-hour later, he found Maggie snugly established in a little bed in a corner of their room. Polly had been wont to sleep in that cot. It was like a revival of bygone days to see it occupied once more.
"Come and look at her, John," said his wife; "she looks so sweet, poor little darling!"
Maggie already appeared better for Mrs. Griffin's loving ministrations. She had dropped asleep almost as soon as she was placed in bed. Her white face, with dark hollows beneath the eyes, was sad to see; but a faint smile lingered on her lips, and the smooth forehead, over which fell dark rings of hair, curling from the bath, had lost its shadow of fear.
A lump seemed to rise in Griffin's throat as he looked at her. His eyes grew dim.
"It's just as if our Polly had come back to us again," he murmured hoarsely.
"Not quite like our own little Polly," replied his wife, jealous for her child's memory. "But, John, we will be very good to this child for the sake of our own little Polly."
"Ay, ay," he returned; and if ever a man meant what he said he did then.
Mrs. Griffin nursed Maggie tenderly during the next few days, though her care for the child did not make her neglectful of her husband. But he was hourly becoming less and less of an invalid.
Mrs. Griffin was right in her conjecture that all Maggie needed was love and care. Treated with harshness and neglect, and in constant dread of blows, the child had sunk into a miserably low state of mind and body. Crouching for long hours on her comfortless bed in the garret, to which Mrs. Cook, having let all the better rooms, had dismissed her, Maggie had sobbed and mourned for the mother, who whilst she lived had striven so hard to save her child from suffering. Though often faint for want of food, Maggie had preferred to remain there, rather than by going downstairs run the risk of encountering Mrs. Cook, from whom she shrank with the utmost aversion and fear. So low had the child's strength ebbed, that probably she would have died ere long had not Mrs. Griffin come to her succour.
"I am so glad to be here," said little Maggie simply, the next morning, when old Griffin and his wife stood beside her bed, watching her as she took her breakfast of bread and milk. "I think God must have sent you to fetch me. I kept praying to Him; but I thought He had forgotten me, for I was left all alone, and no one came to me. But He had not forgotten me, you see, for you came at last."
"Yes, my dear; and I'll always take care of you,—you need not fear," said Mrs. Griffin, scarce able to understand this childish expression of faith, but feeling more and more convinced that Maggie was the sweetest child she had ever known, except her own little Polly.
Griffin turned away, conscious of a strange humbling sensation. He was learning from little Maggie how poor a man he had been in the past.
It was wonderful how quickly Maggie's child-nature revived under the sunshine of kindness and love. In a day or two she was running about the house, still looking pale and thin, it is true, but bright and happy nevertheless. With the elasticity of childhood, she had already thrown off the memory of her dark experience, and abandoned herself to the enjoyment of the pleasanter circumstances in which she now found herself.
How strange it was to John Griffin and his wife to hear the child's happy laugh ring through the house, and the sound of her feet as they bounded lightly across the floor.
On the morning of Christmas Day, John Griffin was in his shop, taking advantage of the holiday to put his things in order. It was a bright, sunshiny day. There had been a slight hoarfrost at dawn, just enough to remind the world that it really was winter; but now the sun was as warm, and the air even milder than on many a spring day. The church bells rang out with a merry, festive sound, and the streets were already filling with churchgoers and holidaymakers.
The dwellers in the lane were not much in the habit of going to church. On this morn there was more idling and gossiping than on most days; but the men and women who lounged about the doorways looked no whit more respectable than usual, and the rough children who played in the road were as ragged and dirty as ever. Unhappily, the many public-houses which the lane could boast were already doing a brisk trade.
It was nothing to old Griffin that this was Christmas Day, except that he was glad to have leisure to arrange his shop. How could the day be anything to him, when he was ignorant of the Saviour whose birth it commemorates? But he liked the sound of the merry bells, and they set him whistling as he moved about amongst his precious wares.
Suddenly his wife appeared at the door of the shop. She had an agitated look as she held up her finger to warn him to be silent.
"Hush, John," she whispered, as he was about to speak, "I want you to listen to that dear child. She's singing so prettily, and the very words that our Polly used to sing. Don't you remember her learning them at Sunday-school?"
Griffin came to where his wife stood, and began to listen.
Little Maggie was in the inner room. Mrs. Griffin had given her a doll that had been Polly's. It had cost the bereaved mother some sacrifice of feeling to give into another child's hands the toy which for so many years she had guarded as a sacred relic; but she had her reward in seeing Maggie's joy over her gift. Now, as Maggie hushed her dolly to sleep, she was singing in a sweet, childish treble, the well-known words:
"'Around the throne of God in heaven
Thousands of children stand,
Children whose sins are all forgiven—
A holy, happy band—
Singing, glory! glory! glory!'"
"Oh, John," cried Mrs. Griffin, when Maggie suddenly ceased singing; "I can't help thinking that perhaps our little Polly is there!" And covering her face with her apron, she burst into tears.
"Come, come, old wife," said John, not unkindly, but with an air of embarrassment, "don't ee take on so over a bit of a song."
"It doesn't make me unhappy, John," sobbed his wife; "don't think that, although I am crying. I'd be glad to know she was there. I've always thought of her dear little body lying in the cold earth; but if I could have been sure that she was up in heaven, singing with the children there, I'd have been more comforted about her this long time past."
"Deary me! Well, maybe it is so," said Griffin, thinking to himself what queer fancies women take into their heads.
"John," said his wife, as she wiped her eyes, "little Maggie says that she would like to go to church. Would you mind if I went for once?"
"Mind? Of course not," he returned, sharply. "You can please yourself about it. You can't say that I have ever kept you from going to church."
"No, but I knew you did not like me to go," said his wife, meekly, as she went away.
It was true, as he said, that he had never forcibly prevented her from going to church, but his influence had been strong enough to restrain her from doing so. She knew with what contempt he regarded parsons and churchgoers. She had had hard work to persuade him to allow their little Polly to attend Sunday-school. Since the child's death, Mrs. Griffin, from fear of incurring her husband's scorn, had scarcely ever entered a place of worship, though before that time she had been accustomed to attend church pretty regularly.
But on this Christmas Day, though she could plainly see that Griffin disliked the idea of her going, Mrs. Griffin took little Maggie to a church at the foot of the hill, up which the child had toiled with her mother on the last night of her earthly life. Maggie told Mrs. Griffin how she had come that way before, and talked to her of the mother whom she had not forgotten, although she was so happy in her new home.
How old yet new seemed that Christmas morning service to Mrs. Griffin! It was strange to hear again, after so many years, the familiar story of a Saviour's coming to redeem the world. The glad tidings had a sweetness for her now that they had lacked in earlier years. There are some who have to learn by hard experience what it is to be weary and heavy-laden, ere they can welcome the gentle sound of the Saviour's, "Come unto Me!"
"I'm glad that I went, John," she said to her husband, when she came back; "it was good to hear the Christmas hymns again. They sang, 'Hark the herald angels sing!' and 'O come, all ye faithful!' Little Maggie was delighted. I think I shall go again, for I do believe there's a blessing comes with going to church."
In the new hope and joy that the child had brought her, Mrs. Griffin felt herself lifted above all fear of her husband's sneers.
Griffin gave a low grunt, the precise meaning of which it would be difficult to define. He would not admit that his wife was right, yet something withheld him from uttering words of contempt.
In the evening, John Griffin again spent some time in his shop; but he did not stay there very long. His treasures had no longer the first place in his life. Little Maggie's society had a greater attraction for him now. He loved to watch her pretty looks and ways; and the more he observed her, the more he admired the child, and felt his heart going out in love to her. He was constantly drawing his wife aside to whisper to her some comment on the child's appearance.
"Do you note what pretty little feet she has?" he would say. "It's only amongst the real gentry that you see such an arched instep. And look at her tiny hands, and those little shell-like ears. She reminds me of a piece of rare old Sèvres. Depend upon it, she's the best porcelain, or I don't know a piece when I see it."
His wife would smile at his words; but she too had her pride in the child, and was determined to keep her as clean and neat as any lady's child could be.
When Griffin went back to the little sitting-room, he found his wife at work altering a garment of Polly's to make it fit Maggie; whilst the child sat by her side, with her mother's Bible open on her knee.
"Oh, John," cried his wife, looking up with a delighted face as her husband opened the door, "Maggie can read so prettily; do come and listen to her."
John sat down and listened. Maggie was reading the old story of the angels bringing the glad tidings to the shepherds in the fields at Bethlehem. To Griffin and his wife the child's reading seemed wonderful. Her mother had taken great pains to teach her to read well, and she pronounced each word so clearly and correctly, and gave such pretty expression to what she read, that it was very pleasant to listen to her.
John Griffin was not much of a reader. The only book he ever studied was the well-thumbed handbook on china, which he always spoke of emphatically as "the book."
He listened now with wonder and interest as little Maggie read of the glad tidings of great joy to which his ears had so long been closed.
"Shall I sing you the hymn that mamma and I always used to sing on Sunday evenings?" said Maggie as she closed the Bible, pleased that her reading had been so much appreciated.
"Yes, do my dear," said Mrs. Griffin.
And in her sweet childish voice, Maggie sang the simple, touching words:
"'There is a green hill far away
Without a city wall,
Where the dear Lord was crucified,
Who died to save us all.
"'We may not know, we cannot tell,
What pains He had to bear;
But we believe it was for us
He hung and suffered there.
"'He died that we might be forgiven,
He died to make us good,
That we might go at last to heaven,
Saved by His precious blood.
"'There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin,
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven and let us in.
"'Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming blood,
And try His works to do.'"
"Do you like that?" Maggie asked, when she had finished, feeling surprised at the silence which followed her song.
"Yes, it is very pretty, my dear," said Mrs. Griffin, in a voice that was not quite steady.
"What does it mean about unlocking the gate of heaven?" asked Griffin, abruptly. "Where is heaven?"
Maggie's dark eyes instinctively looked upward. "Where Jesus is," she said, softly. "Mamma is there now; for she told me that though she had been a wicked woman, she knew that Jesus had forgiven her sins. And oh, Mrs. Griffin, your little Polly that you were telling me about this morning, she must be there too, don't you think? 'Around the throne of God in heaven,' you know."
"Maybe she is," murmured Mrs. Griffin, tears that were not all of sorrow coming into her eyes. "I've been thinking of that."
"Jesus!" thought old Griffin. "The Lord Jesus Christ of whom the doctor spoke to me."
Then aloud, he asked: "Who is Jesus?"
"Why, don't you know?" exclaimed little Maggie, looking at him in astonishment.
"Never mind whether I know, 'you' tell me," returned John Griffin.
"Jesus is the Son of God, who died for us," said Maggie.
"Died for us!" repeated old Griffin, wonderingly. "Who do you mean by 'us?'"
"Us means everybody, of course," said the child: "it means 'you,'" she added, pointing to the old man; "and 'you,'" pointing to his wife; "and 'me,' and all the people that are in the world."
"Did He really die for me?" asked Griffin, with a strange tremor in his voice.
"Why, yes, I tell you so," said Maggie; "and the hymn says so too."
"I knew all about it once," remarked Mrs. Griffin, with a deep-drawn sigh; "but I have not thought of these things for a long time till to-day."
"I wish you would sing that song again, my little maid," said John Griffin, after a few minutes' silence.
So Maggie sang her hymn again, even more sweetly and clearly than before.
Then Mrs. Griffin decided that it was time for Maggie to go to bed, and led her away, whilst Griffin sat alone with the words ringing in his ears:—
"'Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming blood,
And try His works to do.'"
CHAPTER VIII.
Maud Platten visits the Shop.
"How very dirty your china looks, Mr. Griffin," said Maggie, coming into the shop the next morning, "why don't you dust it?"
"I've no time to dust the things," said the old man, with a smile; "they come and go too fast to make it worth while to clean them, let alone the risk of breaking them."
"I can dust them for you, if you like," suggested the child; "I know how to dust, for I used to help mamma put the room tidy."
"No, no, thank you, my dear; they're best left as they are," replied old Griffin; "you're like all good women folk, fond of cleaning and putting things straight. But I daren't trust my china in your little fingers."
"I should be very careful," said Maggie, rather hurt that her offer of help should be thus received; "oh, there is mamma's jug!"
She had caught sight of the old Worcester jug, which Griffin had placed in a prominent position in the window. Almost before he knew what she was about, she had it in her hands, and was looking lovingly at the pictures painted upon it.
"Oh, what a pity you have let it get so dusty," she cried; "do let me dust it, Mr. Griffin. I know just how mamma used to do it."
"Very well, let me see how you can dust it," said John Griffin, with a smile; "the wife will give you a cloth, if you ask her."
Maggie bounded away, and soon returned duster in hand, and a look of proud importance on her face.
"Mind you are very careful," said the dealer, who was not without anxiety as he saw the jug in Maggie's hands; "that jug is worth a sight of money."
"Is it? How much?" asked Maggie, promptly.
Old Griffin turned away, and did not reply. There was a flush of shame on his face, for the child's question reminded him of the wrong he had done her mother.
"Mamma did not want to sell the jug," said Maggie, heedless that her question remained unanswered; "she liked it so much, and she had had it ever since she was a little girl. But she had no money to buy anything with, so that she was glad you gave her some for it. She said you were a good old man."
A PLEASANT DUTY.
"She was wrong there," said old Griffin.
"What do you mean?" asked little Maggie, in a tone of innocent surprise. "Aren't you a good man, Mr. Griffin?"
"No, no," he said, hastily; "I'm far from being good."
Little Maggie looked troubled. "But you mean to be good, don't you?" she said, after a minute. "You'll try?"
"I'd like to be good," said old Griffin, in an undertone.
Maggie seemed satisfied with this admission, and now turned all her attention to the jug, which she was carefully polishing.
"There now!" she exclaimed, presently, holding it up for admiration. "Doesn't it look a deal better than it did?"
"Yes, indeed, you've made it look fine," returned the old man; "now mind how you put it down."
"May I dust it every day?" asked Maggie as she replaced the jug in the window.
"If you'll always be very careful with it," he replied.
After this Maggie never neglected to dust the Worcester jug. She took both pride and pleasure in the self-imposed duty, for the jug was fully as precious to her as to the china-dealer, though she set a different sort of value upon it.
Maggie spent many an hour with old Griffin in his shop, and proved such a pleasant companion that he, who had formerly been so afraid of a child's intrusion into his sanctum, was now never so happy as when Maggie was with him. He taught her to call him grandfather, and treated her in all respects as his grandchild. Strange talks they had together, in which the old man learned many a deep though simple truth from the lips of the little girl.
Sometimes Maggie would sing to him, whilst he was engaged in mending china. Of all her songs, the one which he loved best to hear was that which told of "a green hill far away, without a city wall." Maggie sang it so often to him and his wife, that they soon knew the words by heart, yet they did not grow weary of them.
One day Maggie was with old Griffin in his shop, when a chaise drove up to the door, from which a gentleman got down, and then waited to assist a lady to alight.
"It's Dr. Thornton," said John Griffin, looking through the window, "and he's got a young lady with him."
In another moment the doctor and Maud Platten came into the shop.
"How are you, Griffin?" said Dr. Thornton. "This is not a professional visit. I've brought a lady to see your curiosities. I told her you would be happy to show them to her."
"She's kindly welcome, sir," said the old dealer; "I'm always glad for people to see my things, whether they are going to buy or not. It ain't much that I've got to show, still there's some nice pieces here. Be careful how you walk, please, miss, we haven't much room to spare."
"Why, who is this, Griffin?" asked Dr. Thornton, as his gaze fell on little Maggie, who stood with eyes fixed on the young lady, whose pretty dress and far prettier face called forth the child's strongest admiration. "I did not know you had a little girl."
"She's my grandchild, sir," said old Griffin, shortly; "she has lost her parents, and has come to live with us."
"Oh, indeed! She will be a nice little companion for you and your wife," said the doctor, as he laid his hand caressingly on the child's curly head.
Griffin had determined that he would give no explanation but this to any one who questioned him concerning Maggie. He had adopted the child as a grand-daughter, and he did not see that there was any harm in allowing people to suppose that she really was related to him. Naturally a reserved man in all matters connected with his private history, he was unwilling that any one should know the circumstances which had led him to take Maggie into his home. Mrs. Cook, of course, could tell folks what she knew, but his customers and acquaintance were not likely to come in contact with Mrs. Cook.
"What a dear little girl!" said Maud Platten, turning from the vase to which Griffin had directed her attention, to look at little Maggie. "What lovely dark eyes she has!"
The moment before she spoke, Leslie Thornton had been observing, certainly not for the first time, the beauty of her eyes. Turning now to look at the child, he was struck with a certain resemblance between her and Maud. Both had large, dark, liquid eyes; but there was a serious, almost sad look lurking in the depths of the child's eyes, of which the bright laughing orbs of the woman showed no sign.
Maggie's face glowed with joy as she heard the lady's kind words; and when Maud stooped and lightly kissed her cheek, the child felt as happy as possible. She kept close to the young lady as she moved cautiously through the narrow lane between the piled-up goods, examining one thing after another with a bright, intelligent interest that gladdened old Griffin's heart as, growing eloquent, he discoursed on the merits of his china, and gave her a full and particular history of each specimen which he brought to her notice.
Dr. Thornton bought some rare old plates to adorn the walls of his drawing-room; and then, having stayed in the shop for nearly half-an-hour, the lady and gentleman wished the old china-dealer and his grandchild, "good day," and took their departure.
"Isn't she lovely, grandfather?" said Maggie, standing at the door to watch the chaise drive down the lane. "I never saw any one so pretty. And her voice was so soft and sweet. I'm so glad she kissed me."
"Like to like," said old Griffin to himself. "The child belongs to gentlefolks, and she takes to gentlefolks."
"I fancy that we shall hear before long that Dr. Thornton is married," he said, aloud.
"What! To that pretty lady!" cried Maggie, joyfully. "Why do you think so?"
The old man's eyes twinkled merrily behind his thick-rimmed spectacles—"I saw a many things that made me think so, Maggie," he said.
A fortnight later old Griffin knew that this conjecture was correct. Walking through the streets of Plymouth one morning, he heard the bells of the old church ringing noisily; and when curiosity moved him to inquire the meaning of their merry din, he was told that the bells were ringing because Dr. Thornton had been married that morning to Colonel Platten's daughter.
"Colonel Platten's daughter?" said old Griffin, in a tone of interrogation. "Who may Colonel Platten be?"
"Why, surely you know the old colonel, who lives up at the top of Lockyer Street?" said his informant.
"No, I don't know him," said Griffin; "he has never done business with me. Dr. Thornton has, though, and I think I have seen the young lady who is his bride. Well, I wish them joy,—for he's a good man, the doctor is. I shan't soon forget how he brought me through that illness of mine."
As he went on his way John Griffin said to himself—"Colonel Platten! How strange that the name should be the same as that in my little maid's books. I wish I had asked how it was spelt. There can't be anything in it though, surely."
John Griffin now always thought and spoke of Maggie as his "little maid." The child grew dearer and dearer to his heart. He counted her his most precious possession. Nor did his wife fail to show as much love for the child. Maggie's coming had brought light and joy to the home of the old couple. Mrs. Griffin's face had lost its melancholy look, and wore quite a new expression as she attended to the child's wants, making and mending for her with an ardour which made the tasks their own reward.
Though Griffin still took a great delight in his old china, a delight which he taught Maggie to share, his life was no longer buried in his business. Sometimes, as the spring advanced, he would close the shop at an early hour, that he might take his "little maid" and his "old woman" for a walk by the sea. It would be difficult to say who enjoyed those walks the most,—little Maggie, who had such delight in seeing the waves break upon the rocks, or in gathering shells and sea-weed, which by diligent search might be discovered on the beach, or the two old people who found their pleasure in watching hers.
Mrs. Griffin generally took Maggie to church on Sunday mornings; and, though Griffin would not accompany them, he said not a word against their going. He would even seem interested in Maggie's childish account of the service and the singing. And he was always willing to hear Maggie read from her mother's Bible, and sing the hymn which her mother had taught her.
Thus, from the lips of a little child, the old man gradually learned to know and love and trust the Son of Man, who died for him, and began to try, though but feebly and imperfectly, to do His works.
CHAPTER IX.
The Worcester Jug finds a Purchaser.
CHRISTMAS was again drawing near. It was almost a year since little Maggie came to John Griffin's home, and he and his wife held her as dear as if she had always belonged to them, when one afternoon Colonel Platten, on his return from a visit to Stoke, passed through the lane in which the old china-dealer lived. What had brought him that way he could scarcely tell; and as he walked along, with his upright, military carriage and proud, stern face, he looked with disdain on the dingy tenements and strange, uninviting shops on either side the way.
Though he still maintained his soldierly bearing, the colonel was beginning to be painfully conscious of increasing years. He felt himself, too, to be a lonely as well as an old man. Since his daughter's marriage, his home had seemed to him a dreary, desolate place; for his boys were often away, and then the large, well-furnished rooms, empty and silent, had a comfortless, lonesome feeling. He had long retired from the army, and without occupation, he found time hang heavily on his hands. He knew that he was sure of a welcome at his daughter's home, but he shrank from intruding too often on the young couple. Besides, young Mrs. Thornton appeared to find a variety of engagements and pleasures in her new estate, and had not much leisure to bestow upon her father.
So Colonel Platten was returning home on this winter afternoon with no pleasurable anticipations. The day was gloomy, and his thoughts were suited to it. He was brooding over the dulness and weariness of his present life, when suddenly his eye was caught by an object which in a moment recalled with startling vividness certain earlier, brighter days lying far back in his history.
He was passing the old curiosity shop, and it was the Worcester jug that arrested his attention, still occupying a conspicuous place amid the many articles in the window. Its appearance struck him as familiar. As he glanced at it, he thought it remarkably like a certain jug that had belonged to his first wife. It was a family relic which had descended to her, and she had guarded it with care, taking great pride in its beauty and antiquity. He had been wont to see it stand on a chiffonier in his wife's drawing-room, in company with certain Oriental bowls and plates, then just coming into demand as fashionable ornaments. After his wife's death he had allowed his daughter to consider these curiosities as her own property, and to his annoyance the girl had taken with her the greater part of the old china, amongst it the Worcester jug, when she wilfully quitted her father's house, and by so doing incurred his lasting displeasure.
The old colonel felt startled at seeing again, as he fancied, this jug which had belonged to the daughter whom he had cast off and forgotten,—no, not forgotten,—he had found it impossible to forget her, though he had striven to do so. Of late the thought of the child whom he had dearly loved, ay, and still loved—for love will not soon die, though we do our best to kill it—had constantly haunted his mind. He had even secretly endeavoured to find out if she were still living, but his efforts to trace her had proved of no avail. How he would act in the event of his discovering her, he had not yet decided. He would not own to himself that he was ready to forgive her; but he felt an irrepressible longing for some tidings of her. So it was little wonder that he started and grew pale and tremulous at the sight of that old Worcester jug.
He went close to the window and looked at it with an eager gaze. Yes, it seemed exactly the same. But he must examine it more closely. So the tall stately colonel strode into the shop, and by an impatient tap of his cane on the floor quickly brought Griffin to the spot.
"What can I do for you, sir?" asked the old china-dealer.
"I want to look at that jug that you have in the window," said the gentleman.
Griffin reached the jug with alacrity. He was anxious to find a purchaser for it. It had remained on his hands for some time, because he was determined to have his price for it, and had refused several offers which he considered too low. It was not on his own account that he was anxious to make so large a sum by it. He had long resolved that whatever money the jug might fetch should be Maggie's.
"That's the jug you mean, sir?" he said, as he placed it in the colonel's hands. "Real old Worcester, and quite perfect too."
Colonel Platten's hands trembled as he turned the jug round and round, and examined it closely. As far as his recollection served him it might be the very same jug.
"It is strange," he said; "this jug seems to be exactly similar to one which I had once in my possession."
"Did you lose it, sir, or was it broke?" asked the dealer, looking greatly interested in the answer.
"I lost it, or at least it was removed from my house," said the colonel, stiffly. "I am wondering whether this may by any possibility be the same. Can you tell me if it is an unusual thing to find two jugs of this kind of exactly the same shape and pattern?"
"A most unusual thing, I should say, sir," replied Griffin, with the air of one whose opinion was of weight; "you see, this is a very old jug, considerably more than a hundred years old, I should think. These pictures and flowers were painted by hand. It's quite a work of art, as one may call it, sir. There may have been many jugs made after a similar design; but I don't suppose there was ever one painted exactly like it. You're sure the pictures are the same, sir?"
"Yes, I know them well," replied the colonel, with a deep-drawn sigh; "will you tell me how this jug came into your possession?"
"There's the old Worcester mark, you see, sir," said John Griffin, turning the jug bottom upwards, and choosing to ignore for a moment the question for which he was not quite prepared; "do you remember if that was on the jug you had?"
"Yes, I believe so; I seem to recognize it," said Colonel Platten, curtly; "but will you be good enough to answer my question?"
He spoke in the severe, commanding tone of one accustomed to be obeyed. But, though his imperious manner might draw forth words, it failed to elicit the truth.
His resentment of the colonel's tone strengthened Griffin's first impulse to withhold all information concerning the purchase of the jug, and the child, whom it had been the indirect means of introducing to his home.
"You want to know how it came into my possession, sir?" he said, deliberately. "Let me see. I bought it of some one, I suppose; but it's a long time agone now."
"Will you try to remember of whom you bought it?" asked the colonel, in a tone of eager earnestness.
"Really, sir, I can't say," returned old Griffin. "I need have the brain of a Philadelphia lawyer to remember all the folks as comes to me with china to sell."
"Then you cannot explain how this jug came into your hands?" said the colonel.
Griffin stubbornly shook his head. He was not going to tell this fine, proud gentleman all about his little Maggie, if he knew it.
The colonel looked very disappointed.
"Will you buy the jug, sir?" asked the china-dealer.
"Yes, I will buy it," said Colonel Platten; "what is the price?"
"Five guineas, sir," said old Griffin; "this sort of china is very rare now, and I cannot ask less."
"I daresay it is worth it," said the gentleman, absently, and drawing some money from his pocket, he paid the sum forthwith. "Send it to my house as soon as possible, if you please,—Colonel Platten's, Lockyer Street."
And the colonel turned and left the shop without seeing the startled, confused look which came to the old man's face as his customer gave his name.
Colonel Platten! The same name as that written in his little maid's books. Then no doubt that jug was the very one which the colonel had missed. But how had it come into the possession of the poor widow of whom he had purchased it so cheaply? Had she stolen it and the books, too, from the colonel's house? No, he could not believe it of her. She was a lady, he was sure of that. He remembered that she had spoken of the jug as a family relic. Could it be that she was related to the old colonel? What a mystery it all seemed, to be sure! Perhaps if he had told the colonel the truth about the jug, he would have claimed little Maggie as belonging to him. As he thought this, Griffin said to himself that he was glad he had kept back the truth. He could not bear to think of losing the child whom he held so dear.
But Griffin could not long congratulate himself on the deception he had practised. His conscience awoke, and began to trouble him. A year ago he would have seen no harm in concealing by evasive words a fact he did not wish to confess. But of late he had been learning of the Son of Man, and trying to do His works. A sense of shame came over him as he realised how readily and unwittingly he had fallen into the power of temptation. He had wronged both God and man by telling a lie.
Unhappily, John Griffin tried to find excuses for what he had done. The colonel's manner had been so unpleasant that he was naturally provoked by it. It was surely well for Maggie that he had kept silence. The little maid was perfectly happy with him and his wife; she would not welcome any change that should remove her from their home.
But though he tried hard to convince himself that he had not after all done anything so very bad, old Griffin could not feel at ease concerning the matter. He was alone in the house, his wife having gone to Devonport to see a friend, and taken Maggie with her, so he had plenty of leisure to reflect upon what he had done.
At last, he resolved that when he carried the jug to Colonel Platten's house that evening, he would ask to see the colonel, and fully explain to him the circumstances under which it had come into his possession. Having thus resolved to do the right thing, old Griffin's mind was relieved of its burden.
When Mrs. Griffin and Maggie had come home, and the child, sleepy and tired, was being put to bed, Griffin set off to carry the Worcester jug to Colonel Platten's. He had said nothing to his wife about his having sold it, feeling unwilling to hear her discuss the matter that night.
As he went along, Griffin was rehearsing in his mind all he would say to the colonel. But he might have spared himself the trouble, for when he reached the house he was informed that Colonel Platten was not at home; so all he could do was to leave the jug and come away.
"Well, I meant to tell him," he muttered to himself as he went down the street; "it's not my fault if he's not at home." And he tried to persuade himself that he had done enough, and might now let the matter rest.
It was a keen winter's night. The wind blew from the north, and was icy cold. Griffin buttoned his coat tightly around him, but the sharp blast caught his breath and chilled him through and through. As he struggled on, panting and wheezing, he was painfully conscious that old age was coming upon him apace. When he reached home, his wife chid him for going out on such a night without his woollen comforter. She gave him some warm posset, hoping thus to ward off the effects of exposure; but Griffin had caught a severe cold, which rapidly developed, in spite of all her precautions.
CHAPTER X.
Maggie goes to the Doctor's House.
ALTHOUGH when he awoke the next morning he felt very poorly, John Griffin insisted on rising and going about his work as usual. He had not been long in the shop, when little Maggie ran in, duster in hand, ready for her self-appointed duty. But, turning to the spot where the jug had always stood, she was surprised to find its place empty.
"Oh, grandfather," she exclaimed, "what have you done with my jug? I can't see it anywhere."
"Why, I've actually sold it at last, Maggie," he replied; "what do you think of that?" Though Griffin had felt rather doubtful how the child would take this news, he was not prepared to see such dismay as her face now expressed.
"Sold it?" she cried. "Sold mamma's pretty jug! Oh, grandfather, you don't mean that you have done 'that?'"
"But, my dear, you knew the jug was for sale, did you not?" replied the china-dealer. "I put it in the window hoping some one would take a fancy to it and buy it."
"Yes, I knew that; but I did not think you would really sell it," replied the child, inconsistently; "and oh, how could you sell it and send it away without ever telling me? Now I shall never be able to dust it any more." And Maggie burst into tears, and began to sob in the hearty, unrestrained way which gives such relief in childish sorrows.
The sight of her distress made old Griffin miserable. He had never seen Maggie cry thus before, and he felt as if he were a monster of cruelty.
"Come, come, Maggie; don't take on so," he said. "I did not think you would be so silly. Don't you want to know how much money I got for the jug? Look here," he added, opening a drawer as he spoke, "here it is—five bright sovereigns and five bright shillings! And it's all yours, Maggie; I don't mean to touch a penny of it. Isn't that better than keeping the jug?"
"No, I don't care for the old money!" cried Maggie, passionately. "I would much rather have had the jug. I wish the money were all at the bottom of the sea, rather than you should have sold the jug."
"Now, Maggie, you are a naughty girl," said Griffin, losing patience with her as her sobs redoubled in intensity; "you know I did it for your good, and it's very ungrateful of you to make such a fuss. I can't have you here, if you're going to make that noise; you'll frighten all my customers away."
It was the first time John Griffin had spoken to her so sharply; and, startled by the change in his manner, and not without a dim consciousness that she really was a very naughty girl, Maggie went sobbing to tell her grief to Mrs. Griffin.
Left by himself, Griffin felt almost as unhappy as the child. Many things combined to make him feel ill at ease. His bodily discomfort was considerable, and he had the fear of an illness before him; whilst his mind persistently dwelt on the Worcester jug, and the way in which he had deceived Colonel Platten regarding it. Yet he could not immediately resolve to set the wrong right, for the fear of losing his "little maid" caused him to shrink from telling her story to the colonel.
The sound of Maggie's sobs came to Griffin's ears from the inner room, and as he heard them he said to himself: "Poor little maid, I am afraid I was too hard on her. I did not think her heart was so set upon the jug."
At last the sound of sobbing died away, and there was stillness in the house. After a while Griffin heard a light step coming along the passage; then the door of the shop was pushed a little way open, and Maggie timidly looked in.
"Come in, my dear; don't be afraid," said old Griffin, encouragingly.
Maggie crept gently to his side, and said in a voice still suggestive of tears: "Grandfather, I'm sorry I was so naughty to you just now; will you forgive me?"
Old Griffin bent down and kissed her. "Of course, my dear, of course," he said; "don't think any more of what I said. I'm a cross old man, especially when I feel as I do this morning."
As he spoke, John Griffin thought that perhaps he ought to ask Maggie's forgiveness, for he could not feel sure that he had not wronged her a second time with respect to the old Worcester jug.
"Do you feel very bad?" asked the child, gently.
"Bad enough," returned the old man; "I can't breathe without pain. But there, there! It's no use making a fuss."
But, unwilling though he was to make a fuss, ere evening came old Griffin was forced to give in and own that he felt very ill.
Mrs. Griffin was greatly alarmed to find her husband assailed by a similar attack to that from which he had suffered so severely twelve months before.
"I am afraid he is going to be very ill," she said to Maggie, when she came downstairs from her husband's room, having done everything which her wisdom could suggest to check the progress of the mischief; "I wish Dr. Thornton could see him. I wonder who would fetch him for me?"
"I'll go, granny," cried Maggie, eagerly; "I know where Dr. Thornton lives. Grandfather showed me the house one day, when we were coming from the Hoe."
"Wouldn't you be afraid to go?" asked Mrs. Griffin. "It's getting late. I scarcely like to let you."
"Oh, I am not a bit afraid," said Maggie; "I'll run very fast all the way, and I'll ask Dr. Thornton to come as quickly as possible."
"Well, I don't know what to say," replied Mrs. Griffin, divided between anxiety for her husband and fear for the child's safety; "you'll promise me to be very careful in crossing the roads?"
"Yes, yes," said Maggie, accepting this as consent, and hastily putting on her hat.
Mrs. Griffin hesitated no longer, but pinning a warm shawl round the child, despatched her to fetch the doctor.
Maggie ran quickly up the lane, and in a marvellously short time arrived breathless at the doctor's door.
"Is Dr. Thornton at home, please?" she asked of the servant who opened the door.
"No, he is not," she replied; "but we expect him every moment. Won't you come in, and wait till he comes?"
It seemed to Maggie that this was the best thing to do under the circumstances, so she stepped into the hall, and seated herself on the chair to which the servant pointed.
The interior of the doctor's house looked bright and pleasant to the child's eyes. She observed with pleasure the coloured oil-cloth, the pretty stair-carpet, with its glittering rods, and the cunningly devised lamp that hung from the ceiling. But presently a fairer sight than any of these objects gladdened Maggie's eyes. A fairy-like vision appeared on the staircase—a young lady, dressed in dazzling white, with bright ornaments on her neck and wrists, and flowers in her hair. She ran lightly down the steps; then, startled at seeing Maggie, she stood for a moment looking wonderingly at her.
Maggie recognized her as the pretty lady whom Dr. Thornton had brought to see John Griffin's curiosities. She was looking lovelier than ever now, with a bright flush on her cheeks, her dark eyes shining like gems, and her coral lips slightly parted, as she stood by the child's side breathing rapidly.
"Why are you waiting here, little girl?" she asked.
"I am waiting for the doctor," replied Maggie; "I want him to come to grandfather; he is very ill."
"I do not think he will be able to come to-night," said the young lady; "won't to-morrow do as well?"
"Oh no! It would be so much better if the doctor could come to-night," said Maggie; "he is really very ill, he can hardly breathe."
Maud Thornton drew a short, impatient sigh. "What is your name?" she asked. "I fancy I have seen you before. I seem to know your face."
"I am Maggie, Mr. Griffin's little girl,—Mr. Griffin of the old curiosity shop, you know."
"Ah, to be sure, 'that' place. I remember now that I saw you there when we bought our plates. And so Mr. Griffin is ill?"
Maggie was about to reply, when the hall door was suddenly opened by a latch-key, and the doctor came in.
Mrs. Thornton shivered and shrank before the breath of cold air that entered with him.
The doctor's first glance fell on his wife, and he exclaimed in astonishment at her appearance:
"My dear! Dressed like that, you are not going out to-night?"
"But I am, Leslie," she replied, in a tone of determination; "have you forgotten Mrs. Thompson's ball?"
"No, dear, I have not forgotten it," he replied, gently; "but I told you this morning that I thought you ought not to go. After being so ill for the last three days, you are running a very serious risk in venturing out this bitter night in that thin dress, and to a ball of all places. I hoped you had given up the idea of going."
"Then you were very much mistaken," she replied; "do you think I can give up so easily a pleasure I have been counting on for weeks? And as for my having been very ill, you know it was only a cough and a pain at my side. But you doctors like to make a grand fuss over nothing. I would never have married a doctor had I known what fidgety husbands they make."
A look of pain crossed Leslie's face. "Don't say that, love," he said, "I can't bear to hear you say it, even in jest. You must go to-night if your heart is set upon it; but pray put on plenty of wraps, and be very careful. If we doctors are fidgety, it is because we know to what serious consequences a neglected cold may lead."
As he spoke, Dr. Thornton turned to put down his hat, and for the first time became aware of Maggie's presence.
"What little girl is this?" he asked in surprise.
"Oh, she waited to see you," replied his wife; "her grandfather is ill. But don't go there to-night," she added, in a whisper; "I want you to get ready at once to accompany me to Mrs. Thompson's."
"If the man is very ill, I must go to-night," said Leslie. Then turning to Maggie, he asked, "What is your grandfather's name, my child?"
"John Griffin," answered Maggie.
"What, John Griffin of the china shop? Is he ill again? I'm sorry for that. I hope it's nothing serious."
"Yes, please, sir, he's very bad," said Maggie, solemnly; "and Mrs. Griffin told me to say that she would be very much obliged to you if you would come as soon as possible."
"I'll come almost directly," said the doctor; "you run home now, I shall be there nearly as soon as you are."
Mrs. Thornton walked into the dining-room with a frown on her pretty face. "It's always thus," she said to herself, angrily; "he never can go anywhere with me! I wish he were not a doctor. But I will go to-night, if I go by myself."