CHAPTER XI.
Colonel Platten receives a Strange Request.
THE doctor found John Griffin even worse than Maggie's words had led him to expect. The old man lay with flushed, anxious face, breathing heavily, each breath costing him severe pain. Dr. Thornton spoke kindly and soothingly to him, and stayed long beside his bed, doing all he could to relieve his sufferings. Ere he left, his patient seemed a little easier, but nevertheless Dr. Thornton went away with the conviction that old Griffin would not struggle through this attack as he had through the former one.
And now, as in that other illness, John Griffin had a burden of sin upon his mind, which he pondered in hours of pain and sleeplessness. Again he resolved that with returning health he would take an early opportunity of setting right the wrong he had done.
But several days passed, and he grew no better.
Fresh symptoms and complications presented themselves, baffling the doctor's skill. He came every day to see the old man, and did his utmost for him; but, after a while, his visits became shorter and shorter, and Mrs. Griffin wondered at the change she observed in the doctor's appearance. It struck her that he was looking almost as ill as his patient, and his manner had grown so quiet, that he scarce said an unnecessary word.
Even Maggie felt the change in him, and shrank back in awe at the sight of his grave, pale face. He never stopped to speak to her now before leaving the house; he did not even pat her on the head if he met her on the stairs.
He came into the house, examined his patient, prescribed for him, and then took his departure with an automaton-like precision. What could have wrought such a change in the kind-hearted, genial doctor?
Ere long, an acquaintance coming in to inquire for the invalid, gave Mrs. Griffin a sufficient explanation. "Have you heard?" she asked. "That Dr. Thornton's wife is very ill, and not expected to live? They say she caught cold at a ball, and has got inflammation of the lungs. Won't it be sad if he loses her? For they haven't been married a year yet."
When Mrs. Griffin knew this, she could no longer wonder at the doctor's grave, silent demeanour. She thought that it was very good of him to come every day to see Griffin, and do so much for him, whilst he was in sore trouble about his dear young wife.
Little Maggie was very grieved to hear the news. She could not bear to think that the "pretty lady," whose visit to the shop had given her such delight, and who had looked so lovely when she saw her in her own home, should be ill. She prayed every day that God would soon make her grandfather well; now she added to her prayer a similar request concerning the "pretty lady."
At last, one day, Dr. Thornton came to the house looking quite a different man. He entered with a light, quick step; and his face, though still pale and worn, had a bright and happy expression.
Maggie peeped out of the shop at the sound of his entrance, and seeing this change in his appearance, the child ventured to address him.
"Good-morning, Dr. Thornton," she said; "is your wife better?"
"Yes, thank you, Maggie; she is very much better, I am thankful to say," he replied, with a bright smile; "I hope she will soon recover now." And in his gratitude for the child's sympathy, he stooped and gave her a kiss.
"I'm very glad to hear that," said Maggie, smiling; "do you think my grandfather will soon get better too?"
The doctor's look changed. "I don't know, I hope so," he said, and went hurriedly upstairs.
As he entered the sick room, the doctor saw a great change in old Griffin's appearance. He knew then that there would be no getting better for his patient. The end was drawing near.
The old man was sleeping, and Dr. Thornton would not have him roused. Perhaps in this deep sleep, which seemed so restful, he would pass away.
Dr. Thornton beckoned Mrs. Griffin from the room, and tried to prepare her for what might soon happen. She had long felt that thus it would be, yet her grief, when told that all hope was at an end, was bitter indeed. Her sorrow touched Dr. Thornton keenly, contrasting as it did with his own joyous relief from fear and anxiety.
But though she broke down utterly at first, Mrs. Griffin soon recovered herself, and put her grief aside for the sake of the loved sufferer. She went back with a calm though sorrow-stricken face to take her place beside her husband's bed.
Presently little Maggie stole into the room, and sat down on the other side of the bed. She had often sat there during old Griffin's illness. He liked to know that his "little maid" was near him. Sometimes, when he felt a little better, she had read to him from her mother's Bible, or sung him the hymn which he liked so well to hear.
Whilst they sat thus, John Griffin suddenly opened his eyes, and looked round first at his wife, and then at Maggie.
"Both here!" he said, with a smile. "That's right."
"So you're awake at last, John," said his wife, coming forward to give him some nourishment; "the doctor's been here, but he would not wake you because you was so sound asleep."
"What did the doctor say about me?" asked the old man.
Mrs. Griffin knew not how to reply. She shrank from telling him what the doctor had said. But old Griffin saw her hesitation, and could guess its meaning.
"I know, my wife, I know," he said, faintly; "I have not long to live. I don't want the doctor to tell me that. But there is something to be done ere I die. I must repent and forsake my sins, or the Lord will not forgive me. I must try to undo the wrong I have done my little maid."
"You wronged Maggie!" exclaimed his wife, in astonishment. "Why, John, what do you mean? You've been as good to her as if she were your own child!"
"Why, grandfather, what can you be thinking of?" put in Maggie, hastily. "You've always been good to me, so good and kind."
"I've meant to be good to you, Maggie," he murmured; "but I've wronged you nevertheless, though 'twas my love for you led me to do it. It was all along of that Worcester jug. Will you do something for me, Maggie?"
"Of course I will,—anything!" she cried.
"Then I want you to go to Colonel Platten, the gentleman who bought the jug of me. He lives in a large house at the top of Lockyer Street. Any one will show you the house. Give him my duty, and beg him to come to me at once. Say that I have something of importance to tell him. It is about the Worcester jug. Lose no time, my child, for I have little to count on now."
Maggie went without another word, and made all the haste she could. The short December day was drawing to a close as she sped quickly up the lane on her way to Lockyer Street. As she went her heart was heavy with the thought that soon her adopted grandfather must die and leave her, and that perhaps this would be the last errand on which she would run for him.
Maggie had no difficulty in finding the colonel's house. The first tradesman's boy she met in the street could direct her to it. With a feeling of awe she recognized the house as that outside which she had stood so long with her mother on that bitter winter's night a year ago.
Pushing back the gate, Maggie hurried to the front door, and rang the bell sharply.
A servant appeared in answer to her summons, who was about to scold Maggie for startling the house by such a loud peal; but the child's pale, anxious face stayed her anger.
"Please I want to see Colonel Platten," said Maggie, breathlessly.
"Then you can't," replied the servant, "for he is not at home."
"Not at home!" exclaimed Maggie, in a tone of despair. "Oh, what shall I do?"
"Is it anything so very particular?" said the servant, struck by the child's look and manner. "Can't you leave a message with me?"
"Oh, no, I must see him," said Maggie; "it is very important, and it may soon be too late."
"Then you had better go to Dr. Thornton's," said the servant; "the colonel is most likely there. Do you know where the doctor lives?"
Maggie only replied by a nod, as she darted through the gate, and ran at full speed in the direction of Dr. Thornton's house.
"Whatever can she want?" said the servant.
Maggie found the colonel at Dr. Thornton's house, as she had been led to expect. He was sitting in his daughter's sick room, when a servant came to tell him that a little girl was below, very anxious to speak with him.
"A little girl to see me!" he exclaimed, in surprise. "You must be making a mistake. It is surely the doctor she wants."
"No, sir, she asked for Colonel Platten. She says she comes from John Griffin, who keeps an old curiosity shop. She said you would know who he was."
"Oh, I know," said a weak voice from the couch, where Maud was sitting up supported by pillows, "I know the child. She is the sweetest little thing. Let her come up here, papa; I should like to see her."
"My dear Maud, do you think that is wise?" remonstrated her father. "The girl has probably come on some begging errand. Why should you fatigue yourself by listening to her story?"
"It won't fatigue me, papa, and I'm sure she's no beggar," returned Maud; "do let her come. I am tired of lying here and seeing nobody."
Colonel Platten thought this one of the strangest of his daughter's many strange whims, but he judged it best not to oppose it.
"Very well, my dear, it shall be as you wish," he said, and bade the servant bring the child up.
Maggie's appearance as she entered the sick room was not at all such as the colonel expected to see. He saw a pretty, dark-eyed child, dressed in neat, trim style, who came in with a quiet, composed manner, only her flushed cheeks and rapid breathing betraying the excitement she felt. In an instant the colonel's thoughts were carried back over many years, to the days when just such a little dark-eyed girl as this had been the only child of his home. In his surprise he could not speak for a few moments, but stood silently regarding the child with a look of admiration and interest.
Eager as she was to tell her errand, Maggie forgot it for a minute as she gazed sadly at her "pretty lady," now so white and wasted.
"Well, Maggie," said Mrs. Thornton, as she met the child's earnest gaze, "what brings you here to-night?"
"I came to see Colonel Platten," said Maggie.
"Here I am, child," said the colonel, from his place on the hearth-rug; "what have you to say to me?"
"Oh, please, sir, grandfather has sent me," said the child, falteringly; "he is very ill, and the doctor says he is going to die. And he wants to see you first, for he has something particular to say to you. Would you be so good as to go to him, please, sir?"
"What can your grandfather have to say to me?" demanded Colonel Platten, ill-pleased with the strange request. "I know nothing of him."
"Oh yes, you do, please, sir," Maggie hastened to explain; "my grandfather keeps the old curiosity shop, where you bought that beautiful Worcester jug, with pictures painted upon it. It's about that jug that grandfather wants to speak to you."
"About that jug!" exclaimed the colonel, with a sudden start. What could the old man have to tell him? he wondered.
"Yes, sir; you will come, won't you?" pleaded Maggie. "Grandfather is very ill, and he said it might be too late, if you did not come soon."
"Yes, I will come." decided the colonel.
"You will not leave me all alone, papa?" cried Maud, in distress.
"I am very sorry, Maud; but what can I do?" asked the colonel, in perplexity.
"Do not go," urged his daughter; "what does it matter whether or not you hear something about an old jug?"
"Oh, please let him come!" cried Maggie, turning to the lady with tears in her eyes. "Grandfather wishes it so much."
"Well, will you stay with me whilst papa goes?" asked Maud, who had taken a great fancy to the pretty child.
Maggie hesitated. It was hard to stay away even for an hour from her grandfather's bedside; but she felt bound to do all she could to gain the fulfilment of his last wish.
"Yes, I will stay with you," she said.
And without heeding her evident reluctance, Mrs. Thornton bade her remove her hat and jacket, and come and sit beside her couch.
After kissing his daughter the colonel quitted the room, and a few minutes later they heard him leave the house.
CHAPTER XII.
Maggie is Claimed.
"DID you have your tea before you came out, Maggie?" asked Mrs. Thornton, when they were alone.
"No," said Maggie; "but I didn't want any."
In truth she had eaten very little that day, and was beginning to feel faint for want of food.
"You shall have some tea with me," said the lady. "I am just going to have a cup. Ring that bell for me, please, and then Mary will bring it."
In a few minutes a very appetizing meal was placed before the child. But she did but scant justice to the dainties which Mrs. Thornton pressed upon her. Her heart was too heavy for her to care much about eating.
"I have been very ill, Maggie, since I last saw you," said the lady, presently.
"Yes, I know; I was very sorry to hear it," said Maggie. "I asked God to make you well."
"You asked God to make me well," exclaimed the lady, in astonishment; "what could make you trouble yourself about me, child?"
"Because I love you; you are so pretty," said Maggie, with the perfect simplicity of childhood.
The lady smiled and blushed. She thought Maggie's artless words a very nice compliment.
"You really are better, aren't you?" asked the child. "You don't think you will die now, do you?"
"Oh dear no, I hope not," replied the lady, with a shudder; "what a question to ask me! My husband says I am out of danger now, and getting well fast. At one time I was dreadfully afraid I was going to die."
"Why were you afraid?" asked the child. "Didn't you think that Jesus would take you to heaven?"
The lady's face flushed again—this time with a flush of shame.
"No, Maggie," she said, in low, tremulous tones, "I could not feel sure about heaven. I thought I knew all about those things; but when death seemed near, I couldn't feel sure that I was good enough to go to heaven."
"Jesus would have made you good enough, if you had asked Him," said Maggie; and then she repeated in a low voice:
"'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.'
"That's a verse of my hymn; do you know it?"
"Yes, I have heard the words before," said Mrs. Thornton. "Can you sing that hymn?"
"Oh yes," said Maggie; "I often sing it."
"Then sing it to me now," said the lady.
Maggie hesitated. How could she sing in that strange house the hymn she had lately sung so often beside her grandfather's bed? She felt more inclined to cry than to sing. But she thought it would be unkind to refuse; so with an effort she kept down her emotion, and sang the hymn right through, though in a voice that was sad and tremulous.
"Thank you, dear; you sing very sweetly," said Maud, when she had done.
And then the young lady lay back with closed eyes, and was silent so long that Maggie fancied she was sleeping.
But Maud had but closed her eyes that she might think undisturbedly. She was in truth pondering the words of the child's hymn, and for the first time realizing the preciousness of the truth, that "whilst we were yet sinners, Christ died for us."
To little Maggie, sitting beside the couch, the time passed slowly and wearily. Her heart was in that other room, where old John Griffin was awaiting the approach of death. She longed to know how he was. It seemed as if the colonel would never come to release her.
"Are you getting tired, Maggie?" asked Mrs. Thornton, when some slight movement of the child attracted her attention. "You have been sitting there so long, as quiet as a mouse. I love to have you near me. I wish you were my little sister. How should you like now to come and live here with me, and be my little sister?"
Maggie shook her head. "I would rather stay with grandfather," she said.
But then the tears came into her eyes, and her chest heaved with emotion as she remembered that it was impossible for her to be much longer John Griffin's "little maid;" for was he not going to leave her?
Mrs. Thornton saw her tears, and could guess the thought that caused them.
"You are very fond of your grandfather, Maggie," she said, gently; "have you always lived with him?"
"Oh no," said Maggie; "only since last year. He is not really my grandfather, you know. I have no one belonging to me. I should have gone to the workhouse if Mr. and Mrs. Griffin had not been so good as to let me live with them."
"You don't mean it?" said the lady. "How you surprise me! Tell me all about it."
And Maggie told her sad story; and as they talked together another half-hour slipped by.
Then, at last, Maggie heard the front door open, and the steps of men in the hall.
Mrs. Thornton's ears too caught the sound. "Leslie has come home," she said, with a look of delight.
They came upstairs together, the colonel and Dr. Thornton, talking in low, earnest tones as they ascended. They even lingered outside the door for a few minutes to continue their talk. Then the colonel entered, looking strangely agitated, and Dr. Thornton followed.
Colonel Platten walked quickly to where Maggie stood, she having risen from her chair in her haste to be off.
The child was surprised to see that he carried in his hand the Bible and prayer-book which had belonged to her mother. In another moment, to her still greater astonishment, she found herself clasped in the stately old soldier's arms, whilst he kissed her on the forehead.
Then releasing her, he turned to Mrs. Thornton, who was no less amazed than Maggie at this sudden manifestation of affection.
"Maud," he said, "this little girl is my grandchild, the daughter of your sister Maggie. What John Griffin has told me, and these books—which are well-known to me—prove it plainly enough. My poor girl is dead—she died miserably; but she has left me this child to care for. Maggie, I am your grandfather."
"You are not!" cried Maggie, indignantly, as she tried to push him away. "Mr. Griffin is my grandfather, and I want no other grandfather. Oh, please let me go to him! He is very ill, and he wants me, I know he does. I can't stay here another minute."
"Yes, Maggie, you shall go to him," said Dr. Thornton, interposing; "he is longing for you to come. My chaise is at the door, and will take you there in a few minutes. The colonel has come on purpose to fetch you."
And the doctor helped the child to wrap herself up for the drive.
"I would not trouble her with explanations if I were you," he said to Colonel Platten, as they went downstairs. "She will be glad to hear it in time, I have no doubt; but just now she can think only of old Griffin."
CHAPTER XIII.
Old Griffin Falls Asleep.
JOHN GRIFFIN lay with closed eyes, breathing heavily, when little Maggie re-entered the sick room. It seemed to the child's anxious gaze that he was looking far worse than when she had left him. She stole to his side, and laid her little hand tenderly on his. Mrs. Griffin sat on the other side of the bed, holding his right hand. She was quite calm; but her face was very sad as she watched the last moments of him whose life had been linked to hers for more than thirty years.
The child's light touch seemed to awake the old man to consciousness, for he opened his eyes, and casting a glance round the room, murmured, "My little maid; where is my little maid?"
"I'm here, grandfather, close beside you," said Maggie, leaning forward to kiss him.
Old Griffin looked up at her with a bright smile of recognition. "It is you," he said, feebly; "I'm so glad you've come."
Then, making a great effort, he said, as clearly as his failing breath would permit, "Maggie, I've told all—all about the Worcester jug. The colonel knows; you belong to him now. You must be a good girl, and do as he tells you."
"I'll try to be good, grandfather," said the child, with quivering lips.
"You've always been a good little maid to me," he said. "And you'll not forget the old woman, Maggie. It'll be hard for her to be left all alone. And, Maggie, I've tried to undo all the wrong I have done. I've repented of my sins. Do you think the Lord will forgive me? Will He open the gate for me?"
"The gate is open," said little Maggie, scarce knowing what she said; "wide, wide open."
"Say the words again," he murmured.
"What words?" she asked, wonderingly. Then guessing his meaning, she repeated:
"'There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin,
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven and let us in.'"
A faint smile stole over the face of the dying man. "Yes," he murmured, "He has paid the price. He died for me."
Presently a slight movement of the hand she held told his wife that he wished to speak to her. She bent over him to catch the low words.
"Old wife, I'm thinking that I shall find our little Polly there. And you'll come by-and-by. It won't be very long."
"No, it won't be long," she responded, brokenly.
He said no more; there was silence in the room, save for the sound of his heavy, painful breathing. At last that grew fainter, and he passed into a doze.
Little Maggie must have slept too, as she sat beside him, for it seemed to her as if but a few minutes had passed, when an hour later she was roused by the sound of Mrs. Griffin's bitter sobs. Then she saw Colonel Platten standing near her.
"Come with me, my dear," he said, as he tried to draw her away; but she resisted his touch.
"Don't!" she cried. "I must stay with grandfather. I cannot leave him now."
"My child, he has left you," said the colonel, tenderly. "His spirit has passed from earth. You must let me be your grandfather now."
And as Maggie glanced at the still, white face, and saw Mrs. Griffin weeping unrestrainedly, she knew that his words were true; and crying aloud in her grief for the loss of her friend, she suffered him to lead her away.
Colonel Platten would gladly have taken Maggie at once to his own home; but the child refused to leave Mrs. Griffin alone in her sorrow. She stayed with her through the sad, still days till John Griffin's body was carried to its resting-place in the quiet cemetery. The house would have been dreary indeed without the presence of the child. Maggie's little arms clinging around her neck, and Maggie's soft kisses pressed against her withered cheek, comforted the old woman more than any words could have done. She shrank from the thought that the discovery of Maggie's parentage, and her relationship to the colonel, must result in her losing the child whom she loved so dearly.
But, after some deliberation, Colonel Platten resolved that he would not separate Maggie from the woman who had been so good to her. He offered Mrs. Griffin a home in his house as Maggie's guardian and friend. Her duties would be very simple, and only such as she would delight to perform.
Mrs. Griffin gladly agreed to his proposal. She was thankful that she might still be near her darling, and have the joy of serving her.
So the business in which old Griffin had taken such pride was disposed of; and his widow removed, with such of her household treasures as she would not part with, to two rooms at the top of Colonel Platten's large house in Lockyer Street.
But ere she settled down to her new life, there another change awaited her. Mrs. Thornton was regaining strength but slowly, and the doctor wished to send her away from Plymouth for a time. So it was arranged that she, Maggie, and the colonel, with Mrs. Griffin as their attendant, should go for a month to Bournemouth.
Dr. Thornton was very pleased to see how well the whole party, and in particular his dear young wife, looked when they returned. He observed in Maud a greater change than the mere return of health as time went on.
She had seen life in its true light as she lay on her sick bed; and after that solemn revelation she could not sink back into her old light, thoughtless self. But she was not a whit less charming or less bright for the change which had been wrought in her. Her beauty shone with a purer lustre under the influence of the womanly graces which gradually crowned it, as she bravely took up her duties as a doctor's wife, and faithfully shared her husband's self-denial and anxiety. Their wedded life knew a fuller, richer joy as together they trod the noble path along-which Jesus has led the way, striving by His help to make their own lives worthy, and the lives of others better and happier.
Though at first she had shrunk timidly from his advances, Maggie's heart soon began to be drawn to her grandfather, who spared no pains to win her love. His heart was thrilled with pain as he learned from the child's simple words what cruel suffering his daughter had known. The idea of his beautiful Maggie dying in want and misery in a wretched lodging-house at but a short distance from his own home was insupportable. He was convinced from what little Maggie told him of her mother's going to Lockyer Street on the night on which she died, that it was a desire to obtain his forgiveness, and to ask him to show kindness to her child, which had induced her to return to Plymouth in her poverty and failing health.
Colonel Platten saw much for which to reproach himself as he looked back on the past; but Maggie's presence in his home brought him comfort. Under her influence, his manner grew gentler, and his face lost somewhat of its proud, stern look. His love for the child deepened every day; and as she responded to it, the bond between them grew to be a strong one.
But Maggie could never forget that other grandfather who had adopted her when she was poor and friendless, and who had always been so good and kind and patient to his "little maid." She often accompanied Mrs. Griffin on her visits to her husband's grave; and when spring came, Maggie took great pains to plant "forget-me-nots" and sweet mignonette upon the mound beneath which lay the mortal remains of the china-dealer.
And as long as she lived, Maggie guarded as a priceless treasure the old Worcester jug, which had played so important a part in her history.
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LONDON: KNIGHT, PRINTER, MIDDLE STREET E. C.