The Golden Shoemaker
by J. W. Keyworth · English · Gutenberg #22124 · 463,629 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Golden Shoemaker
Author: J. W. Keyworth
Release date: July 23, 2007 [eBook #22124]
Most recently updated: January 2, 2021
Language: English
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THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER:
or, "Cobbler" Horn.
by
J.W. KEYWORTH,
Author of "_Mother Freeman_,"
"_The Churchwarden's Daughter_," _&c._, _&c._
[Illustration: "'Come here, missy!'"--_Page 38._]
London:
J. Williams Butcher,
2 & 3, Ludgate Circus Buildings, Farringdon Street, E.C.
Contents.
Chapter Page
I. BEREAVED! 1
II. AUNT JEMIMA 8
III. HOW MISS JEMIMA MANAGED HER BROTHER'S HOUSE 13
IV. "ME LUN AWAY" 19
V. "THE LITTLE TWIN BRETHREN" 22
VI. THE FATHER'S QUEST 25
VII. WHAT HAD BECOME OF THE CHILD? 36
VIII. THE SHOEMAKER BECOMES "GOLDEN" 41
IX. A STRANGE CLIENT FOR MESSRS. TONGS AND BALL 47
X. MISS JEMIMA IS VERY MUCH ASTONISHED 52
XI. "COBBLER" HORN ANSWERS HIS LETTERS, AND RECEIVES
THE CONGRATULATIONS OF HIS FRIENDS 58
XII. "COBBLER" HORN PAYS A VISIT TO HIS LANDLORD 65
XIII. FREE COBBLERY 72
XIV. "THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER" WAITS UPON HIS MINISTER 76
XV. "COBBLER" HORN ENGAGES A SECRETARY 85
XVI. THE ATTACK ON THE CORRESPONDENCE 91
XVII. A PARTING GIFT FOR "THE LITTLE TWIN BRETHREN" 98
XVIII. THE NEW HOUSE 105
XIX. A TALK WITH THE MINISTER ABOUT MONEY 110
XX. "COBBLER" HORN'S VILLAGE 116
XXI. IN NEED OF REPAIRS 123
XXII. "THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER" INSTRUCTS HIS LAWYERS 129
XXIII. MEMORIES 138
XXIV. ON THE OCEAN 149
XXV. COUSIN JACK 163
XXVI. HOME AGAIN 176
XXVII. COMING INTO COLLISION WITH THE PROPRIETIES 184
XXVIII. BOUNDER GIVES WARNING 193
XXIX. VAGUE SURMISINGS 201
XXX. A NOVEL DIFFICULTY FOR A MAN OF WEALTH 207
XXXI. "COBBLER" HORN'S CRITICS 217
XXXII. "IN LABOURS MORE ABUNDANT" 232
XXXIII. TOMMY DUDGEON ON THE WATCH 239
XXXIV. A "FATHER" AND "MOTHER" FOR THE "HOME" 249
XXXV. THE OPENING OF THE "HOME" 255
XXXVI. TOMMY DUDGEON UNDERTAKES A DELICATE
ENTERPRISE 267
XXXVII. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH 275
XXXVIII. A LITTLE SHOE 285
XXXIX. A JOYOUS DISCOVERY 293
XL. TOMMY DUDGEON'S CONTRIBUTION 305
XLI. NO ROOM FOR DOUBT! 313
XLII. FATHER AND DAUGHTER 326
XLIII. THE TRAMP'S CONFESSION 339
THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER.
CHAPTER I.
BEREAVED!
In a small house, in a back street, in the large manufacturing town of
Cottonborough, the young wife of "Cobbler" Horn lay dying. It was the
dusk of a wild evening in early winter; and the cruel cough, which could
be heard every now and then, in the lulls of the wind, from the room
upstairs, gave deepening emphasis to the sad fact that the youthful wife
and mother--for such also she was--had fallen a victim to that fell
disease which sweeps away so much of the fair young life of our land.
"Cobbler" Horn himself was engaged just now in the duties of his calling,
in the little workshop behind the kitchen. The house was very small. The
kitchen and workshop were the only rooms downstairs, and above them were
three small chambers. The one in which the dying woman lay was over the
workshop, and the sound of her coughing came down with sharp distinctness
through the boarded floor, which was the only ceiling of the lower room.
"Cobbler" Horn knew that the death of his wife was probably a question of
a few hours at most. But he had promised that the boots on which he was at
work should be finished that night; and he had conscientiously withdrawn
from his wife's bedside that he might keep his word.
"Cobbler" Horn was a man of thirty or so. He was tall, and had somewhat
rugged features and clear steadfast eyes. He had crisp black hair, and a
shaven face. His complexion was dark, and his bare arms were almost as
brown as his leathern apron. His firmly set lips and corrugated brow, as
he bent now over his work, declared him to possess unusual power of will.
Indeed a strength of purpose such as belongs to few was required to hold
him to his present task. Meanwhile his chief misgiving was lest the noise
he was compelled to make should distress his dying wife; and it was
touching to see how he strove to modify, to the utmost degree which was
consistent with efficient workmanship, the tapping of the hammer on the
soles of the boots in hand.
Sorrowing without bitterness, "Cobbler" Horn had no rebellious thoughts.
He did not think himself ill-used, or ask petulantly what he had done that
such trouble should come to him. His case was very sad. Five years ago he
had married a beautiful young Christian girl. Twelve months later she had
borne their little dark-eyed daughter Marian. Two years thereafter a baby
boy had come and gone in a day; and, from that time, the mother had
drooped and faded, day by day, until, at length, the end was close at
hand. But "Cobbler" Horn was a Christian, and did not repine.
His task was finished at last, and, with a sigh of relief, he rose to his
feet. In that moment, he became aware of a tiny figure, standing in the
open doorway of the kitchen. It was that of a little four-year-old girl,
clad in a ruby-coloured dress, which matched to perfection her dark skin
and black hair. Her crimson cheeks were dashed with tears, and she looked
like a damask rose just sprinkled by a shower of rain. The light in her
dark eyes, which glistened with intense excitement beneath her jet-black
hair, indicated that her tears were those of indignation rather than
grief. How long she had been standing there he could not tell; but, as
soon as she saw that her father had finished his work, little Marian--for
she it was--darted forward, and throwing her arms around his neck, with a
sob, let her small dusky head fall upon the polished breast-piece of his
leathern apron.
"What's amiss with daddy's poppet?" asked the father tenderly, as he
clasped the quivering little form more closely to his breast.
The only answer was a convulsive movement of the little body within his
arms.
"Come, darling, tell daddy." Strange strugglings continued within the
strong, encircling arms. This little girl of four had as strong a will as
her father; and she was conquering her turbulent emotions, that she might
be able to answer his questions. In a moment she broke away from his
clasp, and, dashing the tears from her eyes with her little brown hands,
stood before him with glowing face and quivering lip.
"Me 'ant to see mammy!" she cried--the child was unusually slow of speech
for her age. "Dey 'on't 'et Ma-an do upstairs."
"Cobbler" Horn took the child upon his knee, and gently stroked the small
dusky head.
"Mammy is very ill, Marian," he said gently.
"Me 'ant to see mammy," was the emphatic response.
"By and bye, darling," replied the father huskily.
"What 'oo going to c'y for, daddy?" demanded the child, looking up hastily
into her father's face. "Poor daddy!" she continued, stroking his cheek
with her small brown hand, "Isn't 'oo very well?"
"I'm not going to cry, darling," said the father, bowing his head over his
child, and taking into his strong hand the little fingers which still
rested against his face. "You don't understand, my poor child!"
There followed a brief pause.
"P'ease, daddy," pleaded Marian presently, "Ma-an _must_ see mammy. Dere's
such pitty fings in se shops, and me 'ants to do with mammy to see dem--in
morning."
The shops were already displaying their Christmas decorations.
Marian's father gave a great gasp.
"Marian shall see mammy now," he said solemnly, as he rose from his stool
still holding the child to his breast.
"I'se so glad!" and she gave a little jump in his arms. "Good daddy!"
"But father's little poppet must be quiet, and not talk, or cry."
"No," said Marian with childhood's readiness to make a required promise.
The child had not seen her mother since the previous day, and the altered
face upon the pillow was so strange to her, that she half turned away, as
though to hide her face upon her father's shoulder.
The gleaming eyes of the dying mother were turned wistfully towards her
child.
"See, poppet; look at mammy!" urged the father, turning the little face
towards the bed.
"Mother's darling!"
There was less change in the mother's voice than in her face; and the next
moment the little dark head lay on the pillow, and the tiny, nut-brown
hand was stroking the hollow cheek of the dying woman.
"'oo is my mammy, isn't 'oo?"
"Yes, darling; kiss mammy good-bye," was the heart-breaking answer.
"Me tiss 'oo," said the child, suiting the action to the word; "but not
dood-bye. Me see 'oo aden. Mammy, se shops is so bootiful! Will 'oo take
Ma-an to see dem? 'nother day, yes 'nother day."
"Daddy will take Marian to see the shops," said the dying mother, in
labouring tones. "Mammy going to Jesus. Jesus will take care of mother's
little lamb."
The mother's lips were pressed in a last lingering kiss upon the face of
her child, and then Marian was carried downstairs.
When the child was gone, "Cobbler" Horn sat down by the bedside, and took
and held the wasted hand of his wife. It was evident that the end was
coming fast; and urgent indeed must be the summons which would draw him
now from the side of his dying wife. Hour after hour he sat waiting for
the great change. As the night crept on, he watched the deepening shadow
on the beloved face, and marked the gathering signs which heralded the
brief triumph of the king of terrors. There was but little talk. It could
not be otherwise; for, every moment, utterance became more difficult to
the dying wife. A simple, and affectionate question and answer passed now
and then between the two. At infrequent intervals expressions of spiritual
confidence were uttered by the dying wife; and these were varied with a
few calmly-spoken directions about the child. From the husband came, now
and then, words of tender encouragement, mingled with morsels of
consolation from the good old Book, with, ever and anon, a whispered
prayer.
The night had almost passed when the end came. The light of the grey
December dawn was struggling feebly through the lattice, when the young
wife and mother, whose days had been so few, died, with a smile upon her
face; and "Cobbler" Horn passed out of the room and down the stairs, a
wifeless husband and the father of a motherless bairn.
CHAPTER II.
AUNT JEMIMA.
It was Aunt Jemima who stepped into the vacant place of Marian's mother.
She was the only sister of "Cobbler" Horn, and, with the exception of a
rich uncle in America, from whom they never heard, and a wandering cousin,
a sad scapegrace, she was her brother's only living relative.
"Cobbler" Horn's sister was not the person to whom he would have chosen
to entrust the care of his motherless child, or the management of his
house. But he had no choice. He had no other relative whom he could summon
to his help, and Aunt Jemima was upon him before he had had time to think.
She was hurt that she had not been called to the death-bed of her
sister-in-law. But the omission rather increased, than diminished, the
promptitude with which she wrote to announce that she would come to her
bereaved brother without delay, and within a week she was duly installed
as mistress of his house.
"I thought I had better come at once," she said, on the night of her
arrival. "There's no telling what might have happened else."
"Very good of you, Jemima," was her brother's grave response.
And so it was. The woman meant well. She loved her brother sincerely
enough; and she had resolved to sacrifice, for his sake and his child's,
the peace and freedom of her life. But Aunt Jemima's love was wont to
show itself in unlovely ways. The fact of meaning well, though often a
good enough excuse for faulty doing, is not a satisfactory substitute
for the doing of that which is well. Your toleration of the rough
handling inflicted by the awkwardness of inconsiderate love does not
counteract its disastrous effects on the susceptible spirit and the
tender heart, especially if they be those of a child. It is, therefore,
not strange that, though "Cobbler" Horn loved his sister, he wished she
had stayed away. She was his elder by ten years; and she lived by herself,
on the interest of a small sum of money left to her by their father, at
his death, in a far off village, which was the family home.
"You'll be glad to know, Thomas," she said, "that I've made arrangements
to stay, now I'm here."
They were sitting by the fire, towards supper-time; and the attention of
"Cobbler" Horn was divided between what his sister was saying and certain
sounds of subdued sobbing which proceeded from upstairs. Very early in the
evening Aunt Jemima had unceremoniously packed Marian off to bed, and the
tiny child was taking a long time to cry herself to sleep in the cold,
dark room.
"Never mind the child," said Aunt Jemima sharply, as she observed her
brother's restless glances towards the staircase door; "on no account must
she be allowed to have her own way. It was high time she went to bed; and
she'll soon be fast asleep."
"Yes, Jemima," said the troubled father; "but I wish you had been more
gentle with the child."
"Fiddlesticks!" was the contemptuous exclamation of Aunt Jemima, as she
regarded her brother severely through her spectacles; and she added,
"Since you have wished me to take the oversight of your house and child,
you must leave me to manage them as I think fit."
"Cobbler" Horn did not venture to remind his sister that he had not
expressed any such wish. Being so much his senior, and having at least
as strong a will as his own, Jemima Horn had always maintained a certain
predominance over her brother, and her ascendancy still prevailed to some
extent. Making no further reference to the child, he sat listening by
turns to a prolonged exposition of his sister's views on the management of
children, and to the continued wailings which floated down from the room
above, until, at length, as a more piteous cry than all frantically voiced
his own name, "faver," his self-restraint gave way, and he rose hastily
and went upstairs.
Aunt Jemima watched him in grim silence to the foot of the stairs.
"Mind," she then called after him, "she is not to come down."
"Cobbler" Horn did not so far set his sister at defiance as to act in flat
contradiction to her decree. Perhaps he himself did not think it well that
the child should be brought downstairs again, after once having been put
to bed. But, if Marian might not come down, Marian's father might stay up.
As soon as his step sounded on the stairs the child's wailing ceased.
"Zat zoo, daddy?" and the father felt, in the darkness, that two tiny arms
were stretched out towards him in piteous welcome. Lighting the candle,
which stood on the table by the window, he sat down on the edge of the
bed, and, in a moment, Marian's little brown arms were tightly clasped
about his neck. For a brief space he held the child to his breast; and
then he gently laid her back upon the pillow, and having tucked the
bed-clothes well about her, he kissed the little tear-stained face,
and sat talking in the soothing tones which a loving parent can so well
employ.
Leaving him there, let us make a somewhat closer inspection of Miss
Jemima, as she sits in solitary state before the fire downstairs. You
observe that she is tall, angular, and rigid. Her figure displays the
uprightness of a telegraph pole, and her face presents a striking
arrangement of straight lines and sharp points. Her eyes gleam like points
of fire beneath her positively shaggy brows. Her complexion is dark, and
her hair, though still abundant, is already turning grey. Her dress is
plainness itself, and she wears no jewelry, all kinds of which she regards
with scorn. Her old-fashioned silver watch is a family heirloom, and a
broad black ribbon is her only watch-guard.
Yet there is nothing of malice or evil intent in Aunt Jemima's soul. She
is no less strictly upright in character than in form. She cannot tolerate
wickedness, folly, or weakness of any kind. So far well. The lack of her
character is the tenderness which is woman's crowning grace. When she is
kind it is in such a way that one would almost prefer for her to be
unkind.
Such is Aunt Jemima, as we see her sitting in front of her brother's fire,
and as we know her to be. Need we wonder that, "Cobbler" Horn's heart
misgave him as to the probable fate of his little Marian in such rough,
though righteous, hands?
When "Cobbler" Horn at length came downstairs, his sister was still
sitting before the fire. On his appearance, she rose from her seat.
"Thomas, I am ashamed of you," she said, as she began, in a masterful way,
to make preparations for supper. "Such weakness will utterly spoil the
child. But you were always foolish."
"I am afraid, sister," was the quiet reply, "that we shall hardly agree
with one another--you and I--on that point."
CHAPTER III.
HOW MISS JEMIMA MANAGED HER BROTHER'S HOUSE.
On entering upon the management of her brother's house, Aunt Jemima
laid down two laws, which were, that the house was to be kept spotlessly
clean, and that everything was always to be in its right place; and her
severe, and even fierce, insistence on the minute fulfilment of these
unexceptionable ordinances soon threatened utterly to banish comfort
from her brother's house.
The restrictions this masterful lady placed upon her patient brother
constituted a state of absolute tyranny. Lest her immaculate door-step
should be soiled, she would rarely allow him to enter the house by the
front-door. She placed a thick mat inside his workshop, at the doorway
leading into the front-room; and she exercised a lynx-eyed supervision
to ensure that he always wiped his feet before coming in. She would never
permit him to go upstairs without putting off his boots. She removed his
hat from the wall of the front-room, and hung it on a nail in a beam,
which was just over his head as he sat at work in his shop; and whenever
she walked, with her policeman-like tread, in the room above, the hat
would fall down, and strike him on the head. He bore this annoyance for
a day or two, and then quietly removed hat and nail to one of the walls.
Strong-natured though he was, "Cobbler" Horn felt it no weakness to yield
to his sister in trifles; and he bore with exhaustless patience such
vexations as she inflicted on him alone. But he was firm as a rock where
the comfort of any one else was concerned. It was beautiful to see his
meek submission to every restriction which she laid upon him; it was
sublime to behold his stern resistance to such harsh requirements as she
proposed to lay upon others.
More than one battle was fought between the brother and sister on this
latter point. But it was on Marian's account that the contention was most
frequent and severe. Sad to say, the coming of Aunt Jemima seemed likely
to drive all happiness from the lot of the hapless child. Rigid and cruel
rules were laid upon the tiny mite. Requirements were made, and enforced,
which bewildered and terrified the little thing beyond degree. She was
made to go to bed and get up at preternaturally early hours; and her
employment during the day was mapped out in obedience to similarly
senseless rules. Her playthings, which had all been swept into a drawer
and placed under lock and key, were handed out by Aunt Jemima, one at a
time, at the infrequent intervals, during which, for brief periods, and
under strict supervision, the child was permitted to play. Much of the day
was occupied with the doing of a variety of tasks few of which were really
within the compass of her childish powers. Aunt Jemima herself undertook
to impart to Marian elementary instruction in reading, writing, and
kindred acts. Occasionally also the child was taken out by her grim
relative for a stately walk, during which, however, she was not permitted,
on any account, to linger in front of a shop window, or stray from Aunt
Jemima's side. And then, in the evening, after their early tea, while Aunt
Jemima sat at her work at the table, the poor little infant was perched on
a chair before the fire, and there required to sit till her bed-time, with
her legs dangling till they ached again, while the tiny head became so
heavy that it nodded this way and that in unconquerable drowsiness, and,
on more occasions than one, the child rolled over and fell to the floor,
like a ball.
One lesson which Aunt Jemima took infinite pains to lodge in Marian's
dusky little head was that she must never speak unless she was first
spoken to; and if, in the exuberance of child-nature, she transgressed
this rule, especially at meal-times, Aunt Jemima's mouth would open like a
pair of nut-crackers, and she would give utterance to a succession of such
snappish chidings, that Marian would almost be afraid she was going to be
swallowed up. A hundred times a day the child incurred the righteous ire
of this cast-iron aunt. From morning to night the little thing was
worried almost out of her life by the grim governess of her father's
house; and Aunt Jemima even haunted her dreams.
Marian had one propensity which Aunt Jemima early set herself to repress.
The child was gifted with an innate love of rambling. More than once, when
very young indeed, she had wandered far away from home, and her father
and mother had thought her lost. But she had always, as by an unerring
instinct, found her way back. This propensity it was, indeed, necessary to
restrain; but Aunt Jemima adopted measures for the purpose which were the
sternest of the stern. She issued a decree that Marian was never to leave
the house, except when accompanied by either her father or Miss Jemima
herself. In order that the object of this restriction might be effectually
secured, it became necessary that Miss Jemima should take the child with
her on almost every occasion when she herself went out. These events were
intensely dreaded by Marian; and she would shrink into a corner of the
room when she observed Aunt Jemima making preparations for leaving the
house. But she made no actual show of reluctance; and it would be
difficult to tell whether she was the more afraid of going out with
Aunt Jemima, or of letting Aunt Jemima see that she was afraid.
It was a terrible time for the poor child. On every side she was checked,
frowned upon, and kept down. If she was betrayed into the utterance of a
merry word she was snapped at as though she had said something bad; and
ebullitions of childish spirits were checked again and again, until their
occurrence became rare. And yet this woman thought herself a Christian,
and believed that, in subjecting to a system of such complicated tyranny
the bright little child who had been committed to her charge, she was
beginning to train the hapless mite in the way she should go.
It was a very simple circumstance which first indicated to "Cobbler" Horn
the kind of training his child was beginning to receive. Happening to go,
one morning, into the living-room, he found that his sister had gone out,
and, for once, left Marian a prisoner in the house. The child was seated
on a chair, with her chubby legs hanging wearily down, and a woe-begone
expression on her face. Taking courage from the absence of her dreadful
aunt, Marian asked her father to give her some of her toys, and to let her
play. Finding, to his surprise, on questioning the child, that she had
been forbidden to touch her playthings without express permission, and
that they were put away in the drawer, he readily gave her such of them as
she desired, and crowned her happiness by remaining to play with her till
Aunt Jemima returned.
This incident created a feeling of uneasiness in the father's mind; but it
was a circumstance of another kind which fully revealed to him the actual
state of things. Passing through the room one evening when Marian was on
the point of going to bed, he paused to listen to the evening prayer of
his child. She knelt, in her little night-clothes, at Aunt Jemima's knee.
The father sighed, as he waited for the sound of the simple words which
had been learnt at the dictation of the tender mother-voice which was now
for ever still. What, then, were his astonishment and pain when Marian,
instead of repeating her mother's prayer, entered upon the recital of a
string of theological declarations which Aunt Jemima dictated to her one
by one!
"Cobbler" Horn strode forward, and laid a strong repressive hand upon
the child; and Aunt Jemima will never forget the flash of his eye and the
stern tones of his voice, as he demanded that Marian should be permitted
to pray her mother's prayer.
After this he noticed frequent signs of the tyranny of which Marian was
the victim, and interposed at many points. But it was only in part that
he was able to counteract the cruel discipline to which Aunt Jemima was
subjecting his child.
CHAPTER IV.
"ME LUN AWAY."
Winter passed drearily away--a wet one, as it happened, with never once
the white gleam of snow, and scarcely a touch of the healthy sting of
frost. "Cobbler" Horn had not ceased to sorrow for his dead wife; and,
when the spring was well advanced, there befell him another, and scarcely
less severe bereavement, though of a different kind.
There had been no improvement in the relations between Aunt Jemima and the
child. Aunt Jemima still maintained the harsh system of discipline which
she had adopted at first; and the result was that the child had been led
to regard her father's sister with as near an approach to hatred as was
possible to her loving little heart. Marian's heart was big, almost to
bursting, with concealed sorrow. Like her father, young as she was, she
found it easier to bear grief than to tell it out. She did not want her
father to know how miserable she was. Her childish soul was filled with
bitterness, and her young life was being spoiled. Such of her pleasures as
had not been taken from her were divested of all their charm. Almost her
sole remaining joy was to snatch, now and then, a bit of clandestine love
with her father, when, on some rare occasion, Aunt Jemima happened to be
out of the way.
Recognising the uselessness of resisting a hand so hard and strong as that
of Aunt Jemima, Marian had lately meditated another way of escape from the
wretchedness of her lot. She contemplated an expedient which occurs more
readily than any other to the youthful victim of oppression, but which had
probably never before presented itself to the mind of a child so young.
The expedient is one, indeed, which seldom effects its purpose, and is
usually productive of a plentiful crop of troubles. But Marian had no
fear. She was full of one thought. She could not any longer endure Aunt
Jemima; and she must make it impossible for Aunt Jemima to scold, or
smack, or restrain her any more. She must escape, without delay, from the
sound of Aunt Jemima's harsh voice, and place herself beyond the reach of
Aunt Jemima's rough hand. True, there was her father. How could she leave
him? This would have been impossible to her if she had realised what she
was about to do. But it seemed so easy and pleasant to slip out into the
bright spring morning, and trot away into the mysterious and delightful
country, which lay outside the town. Nor did she dream of the hardships
and danger which might be awaiting her out in the strange, unloving
world, into which she had so lightly resolved to launch her little life.
So it came to pass that, on a certain bright May morning, Marian took her
opportunity, and went out into the world.
Marian's opportunity was furnished by the fact that Aunt Jemima had gone
out, leaving Marian at home, and, for once, had forgotten to lock the
door. As soon as Aunt Jemima's back was turned, the child huddled her
little pink print sun-bonnet upon her small black head, and, with one
furtive glance over her shoulder towards her father's workshop, whence she
could distinctly hear the quick "tap-tap" of his hammer, she opened the
front-door, and slipped into the street. Her first action was to shoot a
keen glance, from her sharp little eyes, to right and left. There was no
one to be seen but one of the funny little twin men who kept a huckster's
shop across the way. This little man was a great friend of Marian's, and
he called to her now in joyous tones, as he stood in the doorway of his
shop, to come over and see what he had in his pocket. Marian gave a
decided shake of her head.
"No; Ma-an going away. Tum another time."
Then, murmuring to herself, "Me lun away," she set off down the street,
with a defiant swagger of her small person, and her bonnet-strings
streaming out upon the wind; and the little huckster watched her with
an admiring gaze, little thinking into what wilds of sorrow those tiny
twinkling feet had set off to run.
CHAPTER V.
"THE LITTLE TWIN BRETHREN."
The name of the little hucksters across the way was Dudgeon. As to age,
they were on the verge of thirty--Tommy having entered the world a few
minutes previous to John. They were so much alike that it was difficult to
distinguish them when apart. John was just a shade lighter in complexion
than Tommy, and Tommy overtopped his brother by something like an inch.
The twins were so small as to seem insignificant; but their meek
amiability was an efficient set off against their physical deficiencies.
If there was any measure of self-assertiveness between them, it belonged
chiefly to Tommy. Though both the little men were kind to Marian, Tommy
was her especial friend; and it was he who had watched her as she ran
away. The twins were both bachelors; though John had kept company for
several years with a young woman of exemplary patience. Tommy, who was
a sincere Christian, was a member of the church to which "Cobbler" Horn
belonged. John occasionally attended the services at the same place, but
could not be persuaded to join the church.
The close resemblance between the brothers was the cause of many ludicrous
mistakes. In their boyhood, they had frequently been blamed for each
other's faults and misdeeds; and it was characteristic of Tommy that he
had quietly suffered more than one caning which his brother ought to have
received. But, when it had been proposed to administer to him a dose of
medicine which had been prescribed for John, he had quietly protested and
explained the mistake.
When the twins grew up, similar blunders continued to occur; and the
little men had frequent opportunities of unlawfully profiting by the
errors in which their close resemblance to each other often involved their
friends. But, to the credit of these worthy little men be it said, they
conscientiously declined to avail themselves of the opportunities of
illegitimate benefit thus thrown in their way.
It was a curious sight to see these two queer little men standing,
sitting, or walking, side by side. The minister of their chapel would
often speak of the first occasion on which he had seen John Dudgeon. It
was one Sunday evening, shortly after he had assumed the pastorate of
the church. The service had just commenced, and the eye of the minister
happened to rest, for a moment, on the humble figure of Tommy Dudgeon,
who was, as usual, in his place. The minister had already made the
acquaintance of Tommy, but of the existence of John he was not yet aware.
What, then, was his astonishment, the next moment, to see another Tommy
Dudgeon, as it seemed, come in and take his place beside the one already
in the pew! For a breathing space the new pastor imagined himself the
victim of an optical illusion; and then he rubbed his eyes, and concluded
that Tommy Dudgeon had a twin brother, and that this was he.
It was not surprising that these two peculiar little men should have
excited the amusement of those to whom they were known. Their amazing and
almost indistinguishable resemblance to each other, and the consequent
unconscious mutual mimicry of tone and gesture which prevailed between
them, while they were a source of frequent perplexity, were also
irresistibly provocative of mirth. What wonder that those who saw the
little hucksters for the first time should have felt strongly inclined to
regard them in a comic light; or that the mere mention of their names
should have unfailingly brought a smile to the faces of those to whom
their peculiarities were known!
The boys of the Grammar School, which was situated in a neighbouring
street, had, from time immemorial, furnished Tommy and John Dudgeon with
an epithet accommodated from classic lore, and dubbed them, "the _little_
Twin Brethren."
CHAPTER VI.
THE FATHER'S QUEST.
When Aunt Jemima came home, she was surprised, in no small degree, at the
absence of Marian. With gathering indignation she called up the stairs,
then searched the house, and finally presented herself before her brother,
who was quite alone in his workshop, and sat calmly working on his stool.
"Then she is not here?"
"Who? Marian?" responded "Cobbler" Horn in no accent of concern, looking
up for a moment from his work. "No, I thought she was with you."
"No; I left her in the room for a moment, and now she is nowhere to be
found."
There seemed to "Cobbler" Horn no reason for alarm, and, as his sister
returned to the kitchen, he quietly went on with his work. But Aunt
Jemima's mind was ill at ease. Once more she searched the house, and
called and called again. There was no response, and the silence which
followed was profound and ominous. Swiftly she passed, with growing
alarm, through her brother's workshop, and out into the yard. A glance
around, and then a closer search; but still no sign of the missing child.
The perturbed woman re-entered her brother's presence, and stood before
him, erect and rigid, and with outstretched hands.
"The child's gone!" was her gloomy exclamation.
"Gone!" echoed "Cobbler" Horn blankly, looking up. "Where?"
"I don't know; but she's gone quite away, and may never come back."
Then "Cobbler" Horn perceived that his sister was alarmed; and,
notwithstanding the occasion, he was comforted by the unwonted tenderness
she had expressed. As for Marian, he knew her for a born rambler; and it
was not the first time she had strayed from home.
"Perhaps," he said placidly, "she has gone to the little shop over the
way."
Then he resumed his work, as though he had simply told his sister where
she would be likely to find her spectacles.
Aunt Jemima took the hint, as a drowning person catches at a straw. She
made her way to the front-door, and having opened it, was on the point of
crossing the street, when Tommy Dudgeon emerged from the shop, and came
over towards where she stood.
"Good morning, ma-am," he said, halting at a respectful distance. "You are
looking for little miss?"
"Well," snapped Aunt Jemima, "and if I am, what then? Do you know where
she is?"
"No, ma-am; but I saw her go away."
Miss Jemima seized the arm of the little man with an iron grip.
"Man! you saw her go away, and you let her go?"
With difficulty Tommy freed his arm.
"Well, ma-am, perhaps I ought----"
"Of course you ought," rapped out the lady, sharply. "You must be a
gabey."
"No doubt, ma-am. But little miss will come back. She knows her way about.
She will be home to dinner."
Having spoken, Tommy was turning to recross the street.
"Stop, man!"
Tommy stopped and faced around once more.
"Which way did she go?"
"That way, ma-am," replied Tommy, pointing along the street, to Aunt
Jemima's left-hand, and his own right.
The troubled lady instantly marched, in the direction indicated, to the
end of the street; but, finding that five ways branched off therefrom, she
returned baffled to her brother's house, and sought his presence once
more.
"Thomas," she cried, almost fiercely, "the child has certainly run away!"
Still "Cobbler" Horn was not alarmed.
"Well," he said calmly, "never mind, Jemima. She has a habit of going off
by herself. She knows her way about, and will not stray far. She will be
back by dinner-time, no doubt."
Though by no means satisfied, Miss Jemima was fain to accept this view of
the case for the time. With a troubled mind, she resumed her suspended
domestic duties. Unlikely as it might seem, she could not banish the dread
that Marian had actually run away; and, as the morning passed, the fear
grew stronger and stronger in the troubled lady's breast that she would
see her little niece no more. Accordingly when dinner-time arrived, Aunt
Jemima was not surprised that Marian did not appear. The dinner consisted
of Irish stew--Marian's favourite dish. On the stroke of twelve it was
smoking on the table. For the twentieth time the perturbed lady went to
the door, and gazed wistfully up and down the street. Then, with a sigh,
she re-entered the house, and called her brother to dinner.
"Cobbler" Horn, feeling sure that Marian would soon return, had dismissed
the fact of her disappearance from his mind; and when, on coming in to
dinner, he found that she was still absent, he was taken by surprise.
In reply to his inquiry, Aunt Jemima jerked out the opinion that the child
would not come back at all.
"Why shouldn't she?" he asked. "I've known her stay away longer than this,
and there's no occasion for alarm."
So saying, he addressed himself to his dinner with his usual gusto; but
Miss Jemima had no appetite, and the show of eating that she made was but
a poor pretence.
"Don't be so much alarmed, Jemima," said her brother, making progress with
his dinner. "I've no doubt the child is amongst her friends. By and bye
I'll go out and hunt her up."
He still had no fear that his little daughter would not soon return. He
accordingly finished his dinner with his usual deliberation; and it was
not until he had completed one or two urgent pieces of work, that he, at
last, put on his hat and coat, and taking his stout blackthorn stick, set
out in search of his missing child.
All the weary afternoon, he went from house to house, amongst friends and
friendly neighbours; but no one had seen Marian, or knew anything as to
her whereabouts. Every now and then he returned home, to see if the child
had come back. But each time he found only Aunt Jemima, sitting before the
fire like an image of grim despair. She would look up with fierce
eagerness, on his entrance, and drop her gaze again with a gasp when she
saw that he was alone.
Long before the afternoon was over the father's unconcern had given place
to serious alarm. He was not greatly surprised that he had failed to find
Marian in the house of any of their friends; but he wondered that she had
not yet come home of her own accord. While he would not, even now, believe
that Marian had run away, he was compelled to admit that she was lost.
But what was that? He had turned once more towards home, and had entered
his own street, and there was Marian, playing with some other children, on
the pavement, just in front. Her back was towards him, as she bent down
over her play. But there was no mistaking that thick, night-black hair,
and the little plump brown legs which peeped out beneath the small frock.
With the promptitude of absolute certainty, he put out his strong hands
and lifted the child from the ground. Then he uttered a cry. It was not
Marian after all! He put her down--he almost let her drop, and the
startled child began to cry. "Cobbler" Horn hastily pushed a penny into
her hand, and strode on. He staggered like one who has received a blow.
It seemed almost as if he had actually had his little one in his arms,
and she had slipped away again.
When he reached home, his sister was still sitting in grim silence,
before the now fireless grate. On her brother's entrance, she looked
up as aforetime. "Cobbler" Horn sank despondently into a chair.
"Nowhere to be found!" he said, with a deep sigh.
"We must have the tea ready," he added, as though at the dictate of a
sudden thought.
"Ah, you are tired, and hungry."
Aunt Jemima hesitated on the last word. Could her brother be hungry? She
thought she would never wish to taste food again.
"No," he said quickly; "but Marian will want her tea. Put the dinner away.
It is cold, Jemima."
"I put her plate in the oven," said Aunt Jemima, in a hollow voice, as she
rose from her seat.
"Ah!" gasped the father. The little plate had become hot and cold again,
and its contents were quite dried up. Aunt Jemima put the plate upon the
oven-top; and then turned, and looked conscience-stricken into her
brother's face. Severe towards herself, as towards others, she
unflinchingly acknowledged her great fault.
"Brother, your child is gone; and I have driven her away."
She lifted her hands on either side of her head, and gently swayed herself
to and fro once--a grim gesture of despair.
"I do not ask you to forgive me. It is not to be expected of you--unless
she comes back again. If she does not, I shall never forgive myself."
"Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, rising from his seat, and placing his hand
lightly on her shoulder, "You are too severe with yourself. That the child
is lost is evident enough; but surely she may be found! I will go to the
police authorities: they will help us."
He turned to the door, but paused with his hand on the latch.
"Jemima," he said, gently, "you must not talk about my not forgiving you.
I would try to forgive my greatest enemy, much more my own sister, who has
but done what she believed to be best."
The authorities at the police-station did what they could. Messages were
sent to every police centre in the town; and very soon every policeman on
his beat was on the look-out for the missing child. At the same time, an
officer was told off to accompany the anxious father on a personal search
for his little girl. First of all, they visited the casual ward at the
workhouse, and astonished its motley and dilapidated occupants by waking
them to ask if they had fallen in with a strayed child on any of the roads
by which they had severally approached the town. When they had recovered
from their first alarm beneath the gleam of the policeman's bulls-eye,
these waifs of humanity, one and all, declared their inability to supply
the desired information. The officer next conducted his companion into the
courts and bye-ways of the town. Many a den of infamy was filled with a
quiver of alarm, and many a haunt of poverty was made to uncover its
wretchedness before the horrified gaze of "Cobbler" Horn. But the missing
child was not in any of these. Next they went a little way out on one or
two of the country roads. But here all was dark: and they soon retraced
their steps.
Having ascertained that nothing had been heard at the police-station of
his child, "Cobbler" Horn at length turned homeward, in the early morning,
with a weary heart. Miss Jemima was still sitting where he had left her,
and he sadly shook his head in response to the appeal of her dark hollow
eyes. During the hour or so which remained before dawn, "Cobbler" Horn
restlessly paced the house, pausing, now and then, to open the front-door
and step out into the street, that he might listen for the returning
patter of the two little feet that had wandered away.
Before it was fairly light, he left his sister, still distraught and rigid
in her chair, and went into the streets once more. What could he do which
he had not already done? From the first his heart had turned to God in
prayer, and this seemed now his sole remaining resource. Yes, he could
still pray; and, as he did so now, his belief grew stronger and stronger
that, if not now, yet sometime, he would surely find his child again.
Not many streets from his own he met a woman whom he knew. She lived, with
her husband, in a solitary cottage on the London Road--the road into which
"Cobbler" Horn's street directly led, and she was astir thus early, she
explained, to catch the first train to a place some miles away. But what
had brought Mr. Horn out so soon? "Cobbler" Horn told his sorrowful story,
and the woman gave a sudden start.
"Why," she said, "that reminds me. I saw the child yesterday morning. She
passed our house, trotting at a great rate. It was washing day, and,
besides, I had my husband's dinner in the oven, or I think I should have
gone after her."
"Cobbler" Horn regarded the woman with strange, wide-open eyes.
"If you had only stopped her!" he cried. "But of course you didn't know."
With that, he left the woman standing in the street, and hurried away.
Very soon he was walking swiftly along the London Road. The one thought in
his mind was that he was on the track of his child at last. He passed the
wayside cottage where the woman lived who had seen Marian go by, and went
on until, moved by a sudden impulse, he paused to rest his arms upon the
top of a five-barred gate, and look upon the field into which it led. Then
he uttered a cry, and, tearing open the gate, strode into the field. Lying
amidst the grass was a little shoe. It was one of Marian's without a
doubt. Had he not made it himself? He picked it up and hid it away in the
pocket of his coat. Marian had evidently wandered that way, and was lost
in the large wood which lay on the other side of the field. To reach the
wood was the work of a few moments. Plunging amongst the trees, he soon
came upon a pool, near the margin of which were some prostrate tree
trunks. Near one of these the ground was littered with shreds of what
might have been articles of clothing; and amongst them was a long strip of
print, which had a familiar look. He picked it up and examined it closely.
Then the truth flashed upon him. It was one of the strings of Marian's
sun-bonnet! Holding it loosely between his finger and thumb, he gazed upon
the foul green waters of the pond. Did they cover the body of his child?
He had no further thought of searching the wood. With a shudder he turned
away, and hurried home.
Aunt Jemima had bestirred herself, and was moving listlessly about the
house.
"Jemima, do you know this?" She took the strip of print into her hand.
"Yes," she said, "it is----"
He finished her sentence. "----the string of her bonnet."
"Yes."
He told her where he had found it, and showed her the shoe.
The pond was dragged, but nothing was discovered. They searched the wood,
and scoured the country for miles around; but they came upon no further
trace of the missing child.
CHAPTER VII.
WHAT HAD BECOME OF THE CHILD?
When Marian left her father's house, she had but one idea in her mind. Her
sole desire was to escape from Aunt Jemima; and it seemed to her that the
most effectual method of doing so was to get into the country as fast as
she could. It was not likely, she thought, that there would be any Aunt
Jemimas in so pleasant a region as she had always understood the country
to be. She knew vaguely which direction to take, and supposed that if she
kept on long enough, she would ultimately reach her destination. What she
would do when she got there she had not paused to think. At present she
was simply thrilling with the sweet consciousness of liberty, and enjoying
her scamper in the fresh spring morning air. It was not likely, perhaps,
that Marian would run right away from home, and stay away. Like any other
little chick, she would make for home at roosting time, if hunger did not
constrain her to turn her steps thitherward at a much earlier hour.
Marian's surmise that the way she had taken led into the country proved to
be correct. The street widened out into a road, the houses became fewer
and brighter till they ceased altogether; and the child realized, with a
little tremor, that, at last, she was out in the country all alone. Her
feeling was one of timid joy. All around her were the green fields and
waving trees; and the only house in sight was a little white-washed
cottage far on in front. It cost Marian an effort to pass a man with a
coal cart who presently loomed in view; but when she found that he
slouched by without taking any notice of her, she took heart again and
tripped blithely on.
Presently she found herself opposite to the little white-washed cottage;
and she remembered that she had been there once or twice with her father.
She would have been better pleased, just now, if the cottage had been on
some other road. How could she pass it without being seen? This was
plainly impossible; for there was the woman of the house--being the same
whom Marian's father met the following morning--hanging out the clothes in
the garden, close to the hedge. Marian trotted on, pretending not to know
that there was any one near. Then she felt hot all over, as she became
aware the woman had seen her, and was calling across the road. But she
just gave her dusky little head a determined shake, and pursued her way.
The woman, being weighted with an accumulation of domestic cares, without
a second thought, and much to her subsequent regret, let the little
runaway go by.
When Marian had left the cottage out of sight behind, she began to feel
lonely, and to be very much afraid. There was not a human being in sight,
except herself; and the only dwelling she could see was a farm-house,
perched on the top of a hill, away across the fields. She slackened her
pace, and looked furtively around. Then she went on more quickly again;
but, in a few moments, a slight bend in the road brought before her a
sight at which she stopped short and uttered a cry of alarm. An
exceedingly ill-favoured man, and a no more prepossessing woman, were
sitting upon the bank, by the road-side, discussing a dinner of broken
victuals. They were thorough-going tramps, of middle age. Marian would
have fled; but their evil eyes held her to the spot.
"What a pretty little lady!" said the man, holding out a very dirty hand.
"Come here, missy!"
But Marian shrank back with a smothered cry.
"I've finished my dinner, I have," said the man, getting up.
"So have I," echoed the woman, following his example; "and we'll go for
a walk with little miss."
"What a precious lonely road!" she remarked, when she had glanced this way
and that, to make sure that no prying eyes were near. "Catch hold o' the
little 'un, Jake; and we'll take a stroll in the fields."
There was a perfect understanding between this precious pair; and Marian
was promptly lifted over a five-barred gate, and led by the woman across
a grass field, towards a wood on the other side, while the man followed
stolidly in the rear. A few paces from the gate Marian's shoe came off;
but she was as much too frightened to say anything about it, as she was to
ask any questions of her captors, or to resist their will. Having reached
the wood, they plunged into its recesses, and at length halted before a
large pool, at the edge of which there lay upon the ground the trunks of
some trees which had been cut down. Taking her seat on one of these, the
woman drew Marian to her side, and, while the man stood by with an evil
smile, proceeded to strip off some of the child's clothes. Marian began to
cry, but was silenced with a rough shake and a threat of being thrown into
the pond. Having divested the child of most of her garments, the woman
took from a dirty bundle which she carried a draggled grey wool shawl,
which she wrapped tightly, crosswise, around Marian's body, and tied in
a hard knot behind her back.
Perceiving that Marian had lost one of her shoes, the hag sent her
husband back to look for it, while she proceeded with the metamorphosis
of the hapless infant who had fallen into her hands. She smeared the
little face with muddy water from the margin of the pool; she jerked out
the semi-circular comb which held back Marian's cloud of dusky hair, and
let the thick locks fall in disorder about her head and face; she dragged
the little sun bonnet in the green slime at the margin of the pool, and,
on pretence of tying it on the child's head, wrenched off one of the
strings, which she heedlessly left lying on the ground.
At this point the man returned without the missing shoe.
"It doesn't matter," said his spouse. "Lend me your knife."
She then proceeded to cut and slash Marian's remaining shoe in a most
remorseless manner, after which she replaced it on the child's foot, and
wrapped around the other foot a piece of dirty rag.
"Come now," said the woman, having rolled up Marian's clothes with the
rubbish in her bundle; "we wanted a little girl, and you'll just do." So
saying, she took tight hold of the child's hand.
"I want my daddy!" cried Marian, finding her voice at last.
"That's your daddy now," said the woman, pointing to the man: "and I'm
your mammy. Come along!" and, with the word, she set off at a vigorous
pace, dragging the child, and, followed heavily by her husband, through
the wood, and across the field, and then out upon the road, away and away,
with their backs turned towards Marian's home.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE SHOEMAKER BECOMES "GOLDEN."
One morning, about twelve years after the disappearance of Marian, there
came to her father a great, and almost overwhelming surprise.
It is not necessary to dwell on the manner in which the twelve years had
passed. Nothing had ever been heard of Marian. The most thorough search
was made, but without result; and at length, the stricken father was
constrained to accept the conviction that his child was indeed gone from
him into the great world, and, bowing his head in the presence of his
God, he covered his bruised heart with the fair sheet of a dignified
self-control, and settled down to his work again, like a man and a
Christian.
Yet he did not cease inwardly to grieve. If his child had gone to her dead
mother, there would have been strong consolation, and, perhaps, in time,
contentment might have come. But she was gone, not to her mother, but out
into the cold, pitiless world; and his imagination dwelt grimly on the
nameless miseries into which she might fall.
Miss Jemima still kept her brother's house; but she had been greatly
softened by her self-accusing grief. And now, as the brother and sister
sat at breakfast one autumn morning, came the surprise of which we speak.
It came in the form of a letter, which, before opening it, "Cobbler" Horn
regarded, for some moments, with a dubious air. The arrival of a letter at
his house was a rare event; and but for the fact that the missive bore his
name and address, he would have thought there was a mistake, and, even
now, the addition of the sign, "Esq." to his name left the matter in some
doubt. The stoutness of the blue envelope, and the bold character of the
handwriting, gave the packet a business-like look. For a moment, "Cobbler"
Horn thought of his lost child. A slight circumstance was sufficient, even
yet, to re-awaken his hopes; and he still clung to the conviction that,
some day, his child would return. The letter, however, contained no
reference to the great sorrow of his life; and, indeed, its contents were
such that he forgot, for the time being, Marian, and everything else. He
looked up with a gasp of astonishment; and then, turning his attention
again to the letter, deliberately read it through, and, when he had
finished, calmly handed it to his sister. She read a few words, and
broke off with a cry.
"Thomas!"
"Yes, Jemima, I am a rich man, it seems. Read on, and say what you think;"
and "Cobbler" Horn rose from his seat, and went quietly into his workshop.
Miss Jemima devoured her brother's letter with greedy eyes. It was from
a firm of London lawyers, and contained a brief announcement that the
rich uncle of "Cobbler" Horn had died, in America, without a will; that
"Cobbler" Horn was the lawful owner of all his wealth; and that they, the
lawyers, awaited "Cobbler" Horn's commands. Would he call upon them at
their office in London, or should they attend him at his private, or any
other, address? In the meantime, he would oblige by drawing upon them for
any amount of money he might require.
With what breath she had left Miss Jemima hurried into her brother's
workshop.
"Thomas," she demanded, flourishing the letter in his face, "what are you
going to do?"
"Think," he answered concisely, without looking up from the hob-nailed
boot between his knees, "and pray, and get on with my work."
"But this letter requires an answer! And," with a glance of disgust around
the rough shop with its signs of toil, "you are a rich man now, Thomas."
"That," was the quiet reply, "does not alter the fact that I have
half-a-dozen pairs of boots to mend, and two of them are promised for
dinner-time. Leave me, now, Jemima, and we'll talk the matter over this
evening. I don't suppose the gentlemen will be in a hurry."
Miss Jemima withdrew as she was bidden, thinking that there was one
gentleman, at least, who was not in a hurry.
All day long "Cobbler" Horn quietly worked on in the usual way. He did
this partly because he loved his work and was loath to give it up, partly
because he had so much work on hand, and partly that he might think and
pray, which he could always do best on his cobbler's stool. He found it
difficult to realize what had taken place; but when, at last, he fairly
grasped the fact that he was now a rich man, mingled feelings of joy
and dread filled his breast. There was little taint of selfishness in
"Cobbler" Horn's joy. It was no gratification to him to be relieved of
the necessity to work. Nor was he fascinated with the prospect of luxury.
His joy arose chiefly from the thought of the amount of good he would now
be able to do. It was impossible that he should form anything like an
adequate conception of the vast power for good which had been placed in
his hands. The boundless ability to benefit his fellowmen with which he
had been so suddenly endowed could not be realized in the first moments
of his great surprise, yet he perceived faint glimmerings of possibilities
of benevolence beyond his largest-hearted dreams.
Thoughts of his long-lost child stole over him ever and anon. If she had
been left to him, he would have rejoiced in his good fortune the more, on
her account. But she was gone.
The joy of "Cobbler" Horn was chastened by a solemn dread. A great
responsibility had been laid upon him from which he would have infinitely
rather been free. He prayed, with trembling, that he might prove worthy of
so great a trust.
At dinner-time Miss Jemima questioned her brother as to his intentions.
His answers were brief and indefinite. The matter could not be settled in
a moment. In the evening they would talk things over, and decide what to
do.
The evening came, and brother and sister sat before the fire.
"Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, "I must accept this great responsibility."
"You surely did not think of doing anything else?" exclaimed the startled
lady.
"Well--yes--I did. The burden seemed so great that, for a time, I shrank.
But the Lord has shown me my duty. I could have desired that we might have
remained as we were. But there is much consolation in the thought of all
the good we shall be able to do; and--well, the will of the Lord be done!"
Miss Jemima was astounded. Her brother had become rich beyond the dreams
of avarice, and he talked of resignation to the will of God!
"Then you will answer the letter at once?" she said.
"Yes, to-morrow."
"And you will go to London?"
"Yes, next week, I think."
"Next week! Why not this week? It's only Monday."
"There is no need to hurry, Jemima. There might be some mistake. And it's
as well to give the gentlemen time to prepare."
"Lawyers don't make mistakes," said Miss Jemima: "And as for preparing,
you may be sure they have done that already."
But nothing could induce "Cobbler" Horn to hasten his movements; and his
sister was fain to content herself with his promise to write to the
lawyers the next day, which he duly fulfilled.
CHAPTER IX.
A STRANGE CLIENT FOR MESSRS. TONGS AND BALL.
The day on which "Cobbler" Horn had proposed to the lawyers to pay them
his promised visit, was the following Monday, at three o'clock in the
afternoon, and by return of post there came a letter from the lawyers
assenting to the arrangement. During the week which intervened, "Cobbler"
Horn did not permit either himself or his sister to mention to a third
person the change his circumstances had undergone. Nor did he encourage
conversation between his sister and himself on the subject of his suddenly
acquired wealth. And neither his manner of life nor the ordering of his
house gave any indication of the altered position in which he was placed.
He did not permit the astounding news he had received to interfere with
the simple regularity of his life. Miss Jemima might have been inclined
to introduce into her domestic arrangements some outward and visible sign
of the altered fortunes of the house; but her brother's will prevailed,
and all things continued as before. The "golden shoemaker" even continued
to work at his trade in the usual way. And all the time he was
thinking--thinking and praying; and many generous purposes, which
afterwards bore abundant fruit, began to germinate in his mind.
At length the momentous day arrived, and "Cobbler" Horn travelled by
an early train to London, and, having dined frugally at a decent
eating-house, presented himself in due time at the offices of Messrs.
Tongs and Ball. The men of law were both seated in the room into which
their new client was shown. One of them was a very little, round, rosy,
middle-aged man, with an expression of countenance so cherubic that no
one would have suspected him of being a lawyer; and the other was a tall,
large-boned, parchment-faced personage, of whom almost any degree of
heartlessness might have been believed. The two lawyers rose and bowed
as "Cobbler" Horn was shown in.
"Mr. Horn?"
"Thomas Horn, at your service, gentlemen."
"This is Mr. Tongs," said the tall lawyer with a waive of his hand towards
his rotund partner; "and I am Mr. Ball," he added, drawing himself into an
attitude which caused him to look much more like a bat than a ball, and
speaking in a surprisingly agreeable tone. Upon this there was bowing all
around, and then a pause.
"Pray take a seat, Mr. Horn," besought Mr. Ball.
"Cobbler" Horn modestly obeyed.
"And now, my dear sir," said Mr. Ball, when he himself and his partner had
also resumed their seats, "let us congratulate you on your good fortune."
"Thank you, gentlemen," said "Cobbler" Horn gravely. "But the
responsibility is very great. I am only reconciled to it by the thought
that I shall now be able to do many things that I have long desired to
do."
"Ah," said Mr. Ball, "it is one of the gratifications of wealth that a man
is able to follow his bent--whether it be travelling, collecting pictures,
keeping horses, or what not."
"Of course," echoed Mr. Tongs.
"No, no, gentlemen," dissented "Cobbler" Horn, "I was thinking of the good
I shall now be able to do. But let us get to business; for I should be
sorry to waste your time."
Both lawyers protested. Waste their time! They could not be better
employed!
"You are very kind, gentlemen."
"Not at all," was the candid reply.
"You have come into a very large fortune, Mr. Horn," continued Mr. Ball,
as he began to untie a bundle of documents. "You are worth very many
thousands; in fact you are almost a millionaire. I think I am right, Mr.
Tongs?"
"Yes," assented Mr. Tongs, "oh yes, certainly."
"All the documents are here," resumed Mr. Ball, as he surveyed a sea of
blue and white paper which covered the table; "and, with your permission,
Mr. Horn, we will give you an account of their contents."
The lawyer then proceeded to give his client a statement of the
particulars of the fortune of which he had so unexpectedly become
possessed.
"We hope, Mr. Horn," he said, in conclusion, "that you may do us the
honour to continue the confidence reposed in us by your late uncle."
"I beg your pardon, sir?" said "Cobbler" Horn.
"I ventured to hope that my partner and I might be so fortunate as to
retain the management of your affairs. I believe you will find that
since--"
"Oh yes, of course," "Cobbler" Horn hastened to interpose. He had not
dreamt of making any change. The lawyers bowed their thanks.
"May we now ask," said Mr. Ball, "whether you have any special commands?"
"I think there are one or two requests I should like to make. I have a
sister, and I believe my uncle left another nephew."
"A sad scrapegrace, my dear sir," interposed Mr. Ball, whose keen legal
instinct gave him some scent of what was coming next.
"Cobbler" Horn held up his hand.
"Can you tell me, gentlemen, whether there are any other relatives of my
uncle's who are still alive?"
"We have every reason to believe that there are not."
"Very well, then, I wish my uncle's property to be divided into three
equal portions. One third I desire to have made over to my sister, and
another to be reserved for my cousin. The remaining portion I will retain
myself."
"But, my dear sir," cried Mr. Ball, "the whole of the property is legally
yours!"
"True," was the quiet reply; "but the law cannot make that right which is
essentially wrong, and my sister and cousin are as much entitled to my
uncle's money as I am myself."
Mr. Ball was dumfounded.
"My dear sir," he gasped, "this is very strange!"
But "Cobbler" Horn was firm.
"You will find this scapegrace cousin of mine?" he asked.
The lawyers said they would do their best; and, when some further
arrangements had been made, with regard to the property, "Cobbler" Horn
took his departure, leaving his two legal advisers to assure one another,
as they stood together on the hearthrug, that he was the strangest client
they had known.
CHAPTER X.
MISS JEMIMA IS VERY MUCH ASTONISHED.
Miss Jemima Horn was sufficiently curious as to the result of her
brother's visit to the lawyers, to render her restlessly eager for his
return. He came back the same night. He had work to finish in the cobbling
line; and besides he had no fancy for any bed but his own.
After supper, the brother and sister sat down before the fire, for the
talk to which Miss Jemima had been looking forward all day long.
"Well, brother," she queried, "I suppose you've heard all about it?"
"Yes, in a general way."
"And what is the amount?"
"I'm almost afraid to say. The gentlemen said little short of a million!"
Miss Jemima threw up her hands with a little jerk of wonder, and gazed at
her brother with incredulous surprise.
"Where is it all?" was her next enquiry.
"Some in England, and some in America."
"It's not all in money, of course?" she asked, in doubtful tones.
"No," said her brother, opening his eyes: "it's in all sorts of ways. A
great deal of it is in house property. There's one whole village--or
nearly so."
"A whole village!"
"Yes, the village of Daisy Lane. It was the family home at one time, you
know."
This was true. The village of Daisy Lane, in a Midland county, had been
the cradle of the race of Horn. "Cobbler" Horn and his sister, however,
had never visited the ancestral village.
"Well?" queried Miss Jemima.
"Well, uncle had a fancy for owning the village; so he bought it up bit
by bit."
"Only to think!" exclaimed Miss Jemima. "And what else is there?"
"Well, there's money in all sorts of forms that I understand very little
about."
"It's simply wonderful!" declared Miss Jemima.
"And then there's the old hall at Daisy Lane. Uncle meant to end his days
there; but God has ordered otherwise, you see."
"And you will go to live there?"
"No," answered her brother, slowly; "I think not, Jemima."
"But----"
"Sister, I don't think we should be happy in a grand house--at any rate
not all at once. But there's something else I want to talk about."
Of late years the ascendancy had completely passed from Miss Jemima to her
brother; and now, though she would fain have talked further about the old
family mansion, she submissively turned her attention to what her brother
was about to say.
"It is probable, Jemima," he begun, "that there has never been a rich man
who had so few relatives to whom to leave his wealth as had our uncle."
"Yes: father and Uncle Ira were the only members of Uncle Jacob's family
who ever married; and the brothers and sisters are all dead now. We are
almost alone in the world."
"Except one cousin, you know," said "Cobbler" Horn.
"You mean Uncle Ira's scapegrace, Jack. But no one knows where he is. He
may be dead for all we know."
Somehow Miss Jemima did not seem to desire that there should be any other
relatives of her uncle to the front, just now, but her brother and
herself.
"If Jack is dead," said "Cobbler" Horn, "there will be no more to say. But
if he is alive, he must have his share of uncle's money; and I have left
it with the legal gentlemen to find him if they can."
"Thomas," protested Miss Jemima, "do you think it would be right to hand
over uncle's hard-earned money to that poor wastrel?"
"His right to the money, Jemima, is as good as ours."
"Perhaps so; but I feel convinced that uncle would not have wished for any
part of his money to go to Jack. It would be like flinging it into the
sea."
"Yes; but that cuts both ways, Jemima. Uncle would never have willed his
money to me, any more than to Jack. But God has given it to me, and I mean
to use it in the way of which I believe He will approve."
"And that is not all," he hastily resumed. "I have another relative;" and
he directed a look of loving significance towards his sister's face. "Do
you think that, if I admit the claim of our poor scapegrace cousin to a
share of our uncle's money, I shall overlook the right of the dear sister
who has been my stay and comfort all these sorrowing years?"
"But--but----" began Miss Jemima, in bewildered tones.
"Yes, you are to have your share too, Jemima."
"But, brother I don't desire it. If you have the money, it's all the same
as though I had it myself."
With all her severity, there was not an atom of selfishness in Miss Jemima
Horn.
"It's all arranged," was her brother's reply. "I instructed the lawyers to
divide the property into three equal portions."
Miss Jemima, supposing that an arrangement with the lawyers was like the
laws of the Medes and Persians, which "altered not," felt compelled to
submit; but it was with the understanding that her brother took entire
management of her portion of the money, as well as his own.
There was little further talk between "Cobbler" Horn and his sister that
evening. Their early bed-time had arrived; and "Cobbler" Horn, having
read a chapter in the Bible, offered a fervent prayer, in which he asked
earnestly that his sister and himself might receive grace to use rightly
the great wealth which had been entrusted to their charge.
"If we should prove unfaithful, Lord," he said, "take it from us as
suddenly as Thou hast given it."
"Oh, brother," cried Miss Jemima, as they were going up to bed, "some
letters came for you this morning."
"Cobbler" Horn took the four or five letters, which his sister was holding
out to him, with a bewildered air.
"Are they really for me?" he asked.
"Small doubt of that," said Miss Jemima.
The opening of letters was, as yet, to "Cobbler" Horn, a ceremony to be
performed with care. He drew a chair to the table, and deliberately took
his seat. He took up the first letter, and, having read it slowly through,
placed it in Miss Jemima's eager hand. It was a request, from a "gentleman
in distress," for a loan of twenty pounds--a "trifle" to the possessor of
so much wealth, but, to the writer "a matter of life or death."
"This will never do!" pronounced Miss Jemima; and the lady's lips emitted
a gentle whistling sound.
"How soon it seems to have got wind!" exclaimed "Cobbler" Horn.
"It's been in the papers, no doubt."
"So it has," he said; "I saw it myself in a newspaper that I bought this
evening, to read in the train. It called me the 'Golden Shoemaker.'"
"Ah!" cried Miss Jemima. "I've no doubt it will go the round." The good
lady was not greatly averse to such a pleasant publication of the family
name.
"Well," she resumed, "what do the other letters say?"
They were all similar to the first. One was from a man who had invented a
new boot sewing-machine, and would take out a patent; another purported to
came from a widow with six young children, and begged for a little--ever
so little--timely help: and the other two were appeals on behalf of
religious institutions.
"Penalty of wealth!" remarked Miss Jemima, as she took the letters from
her brother's hand.
"I suppose I must answer them to-morrow," groaned "Cobbler" Horn.
"Answer them!" exclaimed Miss Jemima. "If you take my advice, you'll throw
them into the fire. There will be plenty more of the same sort soon.
Though," she added thoughtfully, "you'll have to read your letters, I
suppose; for there'll be some you'll be obliged to answer."
"Well," said "Cobbler" Horn quietly, as they turned to the stairs, "we
shall see."
CHAPTER XI.
"COBBLER" HORN ANSWERS HIS LETTERS, AND RECEIVES
THE CONGRATULATIONS OF HIS FRIENDS.
When, after a somewhat troubled night, "Cobbler" Horn came down next
morning, his attention was arrested by the letters lying, as he had left
them, on the table, the night before.
"Yes," he said, in answer to his thoughts; "I think I'll deal with them
straight away." So saying, he drew a chair to the table, and, having found
a few sheets of time-stained note paper, together with a penny bottle of
ink, and an old crippled pen, he sat down to his unwelcome task. The
undertaking proved even more troublesome than he had thought it would be.
The pen persisted in sputtering at almost every word; and when, at crucial
points, he took special pains to make the writing legible, the too
frequent result was an indecipherable blotch of ink. When the valiant
scribe had wrestled with his uncongenial task for half an hour or more,
his sister came upon the scene. Quietly she stepped across the floor.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, peeping over her brother's shoulder, "so you are
answering them already!"
"Cobbler" Horn started, and a huge blot fell from his pen into the midst
of his half-finished letter.
"I'm afraid I shall not be able to send this, now," he said, with a
patient sigh.
"No," said Miss Jemima, laconically, "I'm afraid not. You are writing to
the 'widow,' I see; and you are promising her some help. That's very well.
But, in nine cases out of ten, what strangers say of themselves requires
confirmation--especially if they are beggars; so don't you think that,
before sending money to this 'widow,' it would be as well to ask for
the name of some reliable person who will vouch for the truth of her
statements? You must not forget, what you often say, you know, that you
are the steward of your Lord's goods."
This was an argument which was sure to prevail with "Cobbler" Horn.
"No doubt you are right, Jemima," he said; "and, however reluctantly, I
must take your advice."
"That's right," said Miss Jemima.
"You haven't answered the other letters?" she then asked, with a glance
over the table.
"No."
"Well, hadn't you better put them away now, and get to your work? After
breakfast you must get a new pen and a fresh bottle of ink. Then we'll
see what we can do together."
In an emergency which demanded the exercise of the practical good sense,
of which she had so large a share, Miss Jemima regained, to some extent,
her old ascendency over her brother. He quietly gathered up his letters,
and, placing them on the chimney-piece, retired to his workshop.
At breakfast-time Miss Jemima's prognostication began to receive
fulfilment in the arrival of the postman with another batch of letters.
This time the number had increased to something like a dozen. Having
received them from the hands of the postman, "Cobbler" Horn carried them
towards his sister with a somewhat comical air of dismay.
"So many!" exclaimed she. "Your cares are accumulating fast. You will have
to engage a secretary. Well, we'll look at them by and bye."
Scarcely was breakfast over than there came a modest knock at the door,
which, on being opened by Miss Jemima, revealed the presence of the elder
of the little twin hucksters, who still carried on business across the
way.
Miss Jemima drew herself up like a sentry; and little Tommy Dudgeon,
finding himself confronted by this formidable lady, would have beaten
a hasty retreat. But it was too late.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," he began humbly; "I came to see your brother."
"I don't know," was the lady's lofty reply. "My brother has much business
on hand."
"No doubt, ma'am; but--but--"
At this point "Cobbler" Horn himself came to the door, and Miss Jemima
retreated into the house.
"Good morning, Tommy," said "Cobbler" Horn heartily, "step in."
"Thank you, Mr. Horn," was the modest reply, "I'm afraid I can't. Business
presses, you know. But I've just come to congratulate you if I may make so
bold. Brother would have come too; but he's minding the twins. It's
washing day, you see. He'll pay his respects another time."
John Dudgeon had been married for some years, and amongst the troubles
which had varied for him the joys of that blissful state, there had
recently come the crowning calamity of twins--an affliction which would
seem to have run in the Dudgeon family.
"We are glad you have inherited this vast wealth, Mr. Horn," said Tommy
Dudgeon. "We think the arrangement excellent. The ways of Providence are
indeed wonderful."
"Cobbler" Horn made suitable acknowledgment of the congratulations of his
humble little friend.
"There is only one thing we regret," resumed the little man; "and that is
that your change of fortune will remove you to another sphere."
"Cobbler" Horn smiled.
"Well, well," he said, "we shall see."
Whereupon Tommy Dudgeon, feeling comforted, he scarcely knew why, said
"Good morning" and ambled back to his shop.
About the middle of the morning "Cobbler" Horn and his sister sat down to
deal with the letters. First they glanced at those which had arrived that
morning, and then laid them aside for the time, until, in fact, they had
dealt with those previously received. First came that of the assumed
widow, to which Miss Jemima induced her brother to write a cautious reply,
asking for a reference. To the man who asked for the loan of twenty
pounds, Miss Jemima would have sent no reply at all; but "Cobbler" Horn
insisted that a brief but courteous note should be sent to him, expressing
regret that the desired loan could not be furnished. It did not need the
persuasion of his sister to induce "Cobbler" Horn to decline all dealings
with the importunate inventor; but it was with great difficulty that she
could dissuade him from making substantial promises to the religious
institutions from which he had received appeals.
"I think I shall consult the minister about such cases," he said.
The investigation of the second batch of letters was postponed until the
afternoon.
During the morning, and at intervals throughout the day, others of
"Cobbler" Horn's neighbours came to offer their congratulations, and were
astonished to find him seated on his cobbler's stool, and quietly plying
his accustomed task. To their remonstrances he would reply, "You see this
work is promised; and if I am rich, I must keep my word. And then the
habits of a lifetime are not to be given up in a day. And, to be honest
with you, friends, I am in no haste to make the change. I love my work,
and would as lief be sitting on this stool as anywhere else in the world."
There came some of his poorer customers, who greatly bewailed what they
regarded as his inevitable removal from their midst. They could not
congratulate him as heartily as they desired. They would rather he had
remained the poor, kind-hearted, Christian cobbler whom they had always
known. Many a pair of boots had he mended free of charge for customers who
could ill afford to pay; not a few were the small debts of poor but honest
debtors which he had forgiven; and not seldom had clandestine gifts of
money or food found their way from his hands to one or another of these
regretful congratulators. Perceiving the grief upon the faces of his
friends, "Cobbler" Horn contrived, by means of various hints, to let them
know that he would still be their friend, and to remind them that his
enrichment would conduce to their more effectual help at his hands.
On one point all his visitors were agreed. Great wealth, they said, could
not have come to any one by whom it was more thoroughly deserved, or who
would put it to a better use. "The Lord," affirmed one quaint individual,
"knew what He was about this time, anyhow."
In the afternoon, "Cobbler" Horn and his sister set about the task of
answering the second batch of letters. They were all, with one exception,
of a similar character to those of the first. The exception proved to be
a badly-written, ill-spelled, but evidently sincere, homily on the dangers
of wealth, and ended with a fierce warning of the dire consequences of
disregarding its admonition. It was signed simply--"A friend."
"You'll burn that, I should think!" was Miss Jemima's scornful comment on
this ill-judged missive.
"No," said "Cobbler" Horn, putting the letter into his breast pocket; "I
shall keep it. It was well meant, and will do me good."
By tea-time their task was finished; and "Cobbler" Horn heaved a sigh of
relief as he rose from his seat. But just then the postman knocked at the
door, and handed in another and still larger supply of letters, at the
sight of which the "Golden Shoemaker" staggered back aghast. The fame of
his fortune had indeed got wind.
"Ah," exclaimed his sister, who was setting the tea-things, "you'll have
to engage a secretary, as I said."
CHAPTER XII.
"COBBLER" HORN PAYS A VISIT TO HIS LANDLORD.
The day following his trip to London "Cobbler" Horn paid a visit to his
landlord. His purpose was to buy the house in which he lived. Though he
realized that he must now take up his actual abode in a house more suited
to his altered circumstances, he wished to retain the possession and use
of the one in which he had lived so long. The humble cottage was endeared
to him by many ties. Here the best part of his life had been passed. Here
his brief but blissful married life had been spent, and here his precious
wife had died. Of this house his darling little Marian had been the light
and joy; and her blithe and loving spirit seemed to haunt it still. These
memories, reinforced by a generous purpose on behalf of the poor
neighbours whom he had been wont to help, decided him to endeavour to make
the house absolutely his own.
"Cobbler" Horn did not tell his sister of his intention with regard to the
house. He simply said, after breakfast, that he was going out for an hour;
and, though Miss Jemima looked at him very hard, she allowed him to depart
unquestioned.
"Cobbler" Horn's landlord who was reputed to be enormously rich, lived in
one of the most completely hidden parts of the town, which was approached
by a labyrinth of very narrow and dirty streets. As "Cobbler" Horn pursued
his tortuous way to this secluded abode, he pondered, with some misgiving,
the chances that his errand would succeed. He knew his landlord to be a
man of stubborn temper and of many whims; and he was by no means confident
as to the reception with which his intended proposal would meet. It was
characteristic that, as he thought of the difficulties of his enterprise,
he prayed earnestly that, if God willed, he might obtain the gratification
of his present desire. Then, with growing confidence and quickened step,
he proceeded on his way, until, at length, he stood before his landlord's
house.
The house was a low, dingy building of brick, which stood right across the
end of a squalid street, and completely blocked the way. Over the door was
a grimy sign-board, on which could faintly be distinguished the vague yet
comprehensive legend:
"D. FROUD,
DEALER."
The paint upon the crazy door was blistered and had peeled off in huge
mis-shapen patches; the door-step was almost worn in two; the windows
were dim with the dust of many years.
The door was opened by a withered crone, who, to his question whether Mr.
Froud was in, answered in an injured tone, "Yes, he was in; he always
was;" and, as she spoke, she half-pushed the visitor into a room on the
left side of the entrance, and vanished from the scene. The room was very
dark, and it was some time before "Cobbler" Horn could observe the nature
of his surroundings. But, by degrees, as his eyes became accustomed to the
gloom, he perceived that the centre of the apartment was occupied with an
old mahogany table, covered with a litter of books and papers. There stood
against the wall opposite to the window an ancient and dropsical chest of
drawers. Facing the door was a fire-place, brown with rust, innocent of
fire-irons, and piled up with heterogeneous rubbish. The walls and
chimney-piece were utterly devoid of ornaments. The paper on the walls
was torn and soiled, and even hung in strips. On the chimney-piece were
several empty ink and gum bottles, an old ruler, and a further assortment
of similar odds and ends. The only provision for the comfort of visitors
consisted of two battered wooden chairs.
At first "Cobbler" Horn thought he was alone; but, the next moment, he
heard himself sharply addressed, though not by name.
"Well, it's not rent day yet. What's your errand?"
It was a snarling voice, and came from the corner between the window and
fire-place, peering in which direction, "Cobbler" Horn perceived dimly
the figure of the man he had come to see. Mr. Daniel Froud had turned
around from a high desk at which he had been writing in the gloom. How he
contrived to see in so dark a corner was a mystery which belonged to the
wider question as to the penetrating power of vision in general which he
was known to possess. The small boys of the neighbourhood declared that he
could see in the dark like a cat. He now moved a step nearer to "Cobbler"
Horn, and stood revealed, an elderly, and rather undersized, grizzled,
gnarled, and knotted man, dressed in shabby and antiquated clothes.
"Good morning, Mr. Froud," said "Cobbler" Horn, extending his hand, "I've
come to see you on a little business."
"Of course you have," was the angry retort; and taking no notice of his
visitor's proffered hand, the man stamped his foot impatiently on the
uncarpeted floor. "No one ever comes to see me about anything else but
business. And I don't want them to," he added with a grim chuckle. "Well,
let us get it done. My time is valuable, if yours is not."
"My time also is not without value," was the prompt reply. "I want to ask
you, Mr. Froud, if you will sell me the house in which I live."
If Daniel Froud was surprised, he completely concealed the fact.
"If I would sell it," was his coarse rejoinder, "you, 'Cobbler' Horn,
would not be able to buy it."
"I am well able to buy the house, Mr. Froud," was the quiet response.
Daniel Froud keenly scrutinized his visitor's face.
"I believe you think you are telling the truth," he said. "Mending
pauper's boots and shoes must be a profitable business, then?"
"I have had some money left to me," said "Cobbler" Horn.
The interest of Daniel Froud was awakened at once.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "that is it, is it? But sit down, Mr. Horn," and the
grizzled reprobate pushed towards his visitor, who had hitherto remained
standing, one of his rickety and dust-covered chairs.
"Cobbler" Horn looked doubtfully at the proffered seat, and said that he
preferred to stand.
"If you are willing to sell me the house, Mr. Froud," he said, "name your
price. It is not my intention to waste your time."
Daniel Froud still pondered. It was no longer a question whether he should
sell "Cobbler" Horn the house: he was beginning already to consider how
much he should ask for it.
"So you really wish to buy the house, Mr. Horn?" he asked.
"Such is my desire."
"And you think you can pay the price?"
"I have little doubt on that point."
"Well"--with a sudden jerk forward of his forbidding face--"what do you
say to £600?"
Unsophisticated as he was, "Cobbler" Horn felt that the proposal was
exorbitant.
"You are surely joking?" he said.
"You think the price too small?"
"I consider it much too large."
"Well, perhaps I was joking, as you said. What do you think of £500?"
"I'm afraid even that is too much. I'll give you £450."
Daniel Froud hesitated for some minutes, but at last said, "Well, I'll
take your offer, Mr. Horn; but it's a dreadful sacrifice."
A few minutes sufficed to complete the agreement; and then, in taking his
departure, "Cobbler" Horn administered a word of admonition to his
grasping landlord.
"Don't you know, friend," he said, "that it is a grievous sin to try to
sell anything for more than it is worth? And how contemptible it is to be
so greedy of money! It does not seem to me that money is to be so eagerly
desired, and especially if it does one no more good than yours seems to be
doing you. Good morning, friend; and God give you repentance."
Mr. Froud had listened open-mouthed to this plain-spoken homily. When he
came to himself, he darted forward, and aimed a blow with his fist, which
just failed to strike the back of his visitor, who was in the act of
leaving the room.
Confronting him in the doorway was the old crone who kept his house.
"Was that Horn, the shoemaker?" she asked.
"Yes, woman."
"Horn as has just come into the fortune?"
"Well--somewhat."
"'Somewhat!' It's said to be about a million of money! Look here!" and she
showed him a begrimed and crumpled scrap of newspaper, containing a full
account of "Cobbler" Horn's fortune.
With a cry, Daniel Froud seized the woman, and shook her till it almost
seemed as though the bones rattled in her skin.
"You hell-cat! Why didn't you tell me that before?"
The wretched creature fell back panting against the door on the opposite
side of the passage.
"Daniel Froud," she said, when she had sufficiently recovered her breath,
"the next time you do that I shall give you notice."
With which dreadful threat, she gathered herself together, and hobbled
back to her own quarter of the dingy house, leaving Mr. Froud to bemoan
the absurdly easy terms he had made with "the Golden Shoemaker."
"If I had only known!" he moaned; "if I had only known!"
That evening "Cobbler" Horn told his sister what he had done, and why he
had done it; and she held up her hands in dismay.
"First," she said, "I don't see why you should have bought the house at
all; and, secondly, you have paid far more for it than it is worth."
CHAPTER XIII.
FREE COBBLERY.
"I suppose you'll be looking out for a tenant for this house, when you've
found somewhere for us to go?" queried Miss Jemima, at breakfast the next
morning.
"Well, no," replied her brother, "I think not." "Why," cried Miss Jemima,
"I hope we are not to go on living in this poky little place!"
"No, that is not exactly my intention, either," said "Cobbler" Horn. "We
must, I suppose, remove to another house. But I wish this one to remain
very much as it is; I shall want to use it sometimes."
"Want to use it sometimes!" echoed Miss Jemima, in a mystified tone.
"Yes; you see I don't feel that I can give up my lifelong employment all
at once. So I've been thinking that I'll come to the old workshop, now and
then, and do a bit of cobbling just for a change."
Here he paused, and moved uneasily in his chair.
"It wouldn't do to charge anything for my work now, of course," he
continued; "so I've made up my mind to do little bits of jobs, now and
again, without any pay, for some of the poor people round about, just for
the sake of old times, you know."
Miss Jemima's hands went up with their accustomed movement of dismay.
"Why, that will never do," she cried. "You'll have all the thriftless
loons in the town bringing you their boots and shoes to mend."
"I must guard against that," was the quiet reply.
"Well," continued Miss Jemima, in an aggrieved tone, "I altogether
disapprove of your continuing to work as if you were a poor man. But you
ought, at least, to make a small charge. Otherwise you will be imposed
upon all round."
Finding, however, that she could not move her brother from his purpose,
Miss Jemima relinquished the attempt.
"Well, Thomas," she concluded, "you can never have been intended for this
world and its ways. There is probably a vacancy in some quite different
one which you ought to have filled."
The next few days were largely spent in house hunting; and, after careful
investigation, and much discussion, they decided to take, for the present,
a pleasantly situated detached villa, which stood on the road leading out
past the field where, so many years ago, "Cobbler" Horn had found his
little lost Marian's shoe. The nearness of the house to this spot had
induced him, in spite of his sister's protest, to prefer it to several
otherwise more eligible residences; and he was confirmed in his decision
by the fact that the villa was no great distance from the humble dwelling
he was so reluctant to leave. They were to have possession at once; and
Miss Jemima was permitted to plunge without delay into the delights of
buying furniture, engaging servants, and such like fascinating concerns.
During these busy days, "Cobbler" Horn himself was absorbed in the
arrangements for the rehabilitation of his old workshop. He subjected it
to a complete renovation, in keeping with its character and use. A new
tile floor, a better window, a fresh covering of whitewash on the walls,
and a new coat of paint for the wood-work, effected a transformation as
agreeable as it was complete. He kept the old stool; but procured a new
and modern set of tools, and furnished himself with a stock of the best
leather the market could supply.
He had no difficulty in letting his poor customers know of his charitable
designs, and he soon had as much work as he could do. As his sister had
warned him, he had many applications from those who were unworthy of his
help. He did not like to turn any of the applicants away; but he did so
remorselessly in every instance in which, after careful investigation, the
case broke down, his chief regret being that his gratuitous services were
rarely sought by those who needed them most. But this is to anticipate.
It was in connection with what was regarded as the _quixotic_ undertaking
of Miss Jemima's brother to mend, free of charge, the boots and shoes of
his poor neighbours, that he soon became generally known as "Cobbler"
Horn.
CHAPTER XIV.
"THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER" WAITS UPON HIS MINISTER.
"Cobbler" Horn's correspondence was steadily accumulating. Every day
brought fresh supplies of letters; and the humble cottage was in danger
of being swamped by an epistolary inundation, which was the despair of
"Cobbler" Horn, and a growing vexation to his sister's order-loving soul.
For some time "the Golden Shoemaker" persisted valiantly in his attempt to
answer every letter he received. Miss Jemima's scornful disapproval was of
no avail. In vain she declared her conviction that every other letter was
an imposture or a hoax, and pointed out that, if people wanted their
letters answered, they ought to enclose a stamp. Then, for the twentieth
time, she repeated her suggestion that a secretary should be engaged. At
first her brother waived this proposal aside; but at length it became
imperative that help should be sought. "Cobbler" Horn was like a man who
attempts, single-handed, to cut his way through a still-accumulating
snow-drift. The man must perish, if help do not come; unless "Cobbler"
Horn secured assistance in dealing with his letters, it was impossible to
tell what his fate might be. It was now simply a question by what means
the needed help might best be obtained; and both "Cobbler" Horn and his
sister agreed that the wisest thing would be to consult the minister of
their church. This, accordingly, "Cobbler" Horn resolved to do.
"Cobbler" Horn's minister officiated in a sanctuary such as was formerly
called a "chapel," but is now, more frequently designated a "church." His
name was Durnford; and he was a man of strongly-marked individuality--a
godly, earnest, shrewd, and somewhat eccentric, minister of the Gospel. He
was always accessible to his people in their trouble or perplexity, and
they came to him without reserve. But surely his advice had never been
sought concerning difficulties so peculiar as those which were about to
be laid before him by "Cobbler" Horn!
It was about ten o'clock on the Monday morning following his visit to the
lawyers, that "Cobbler" Horn sat in Mr. Durnford's study, waiting for the
minister to appear. He had not long to wait. The door opened, and Mr.
Durnford entered. He was a middle-aged man of medium height, with keen yet
kindly features, and hair and beard of iron grey. He greeted his visitor
with unaffected cordiality.
"I've come to ask your advice, sir, under circumstances of some
difficulty," said "Cobbler" Horn, when they were seated facing each other
before a cheerful fire.
This being a kind of appeal to which he was accustomed, the minister
received the announcement calmly enough.
"Glad to help you, if I can, Mr. Horn," he said.
There was a breeziness about Mr. Durnford which at once afforded
preliminary refreshment to such troubled spirits as sought his counsel.
"Thank you, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn, "I'm sure you will. You have heard
of the sudden and unexpected----"
"To be sure!" broke in the minister, leaping to his feet, and grasping his
visitor's hand, "Pardon me; I quite forgot. Let me congratulate you. Of
course it's true?"
"Yes, sir, thank you; it's true--too true, I'm afraid."
Mr. Durnford laughed.
"How if I were to commiserate you, then?" he said.
"No, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn gravely, "not that either. It's the Lord's
will after all; and it's a great joy to me to be able to do so much that I
have long wished to do. It's the responsibility that I feel."
"Very good," replied the minister; "such joy is the purest pleasure wealth
can give. But the responsibility of such a position as yours, is, no
doubt, as you say, very great."
"Yes, sir; I feel that I hold all this wealth in trust from God; and I
want to be a faithful steward. I am resolved to use my Lord's money
exactly as I believe He desires that I should--in fact as He Himself
would use it, if He were in my place."
"Excellent, Mr. Horn!" exclaimed the minister; "you have spoken like a
Christian."
"Thank you, sir. But there's another thing; it seems so dreadful that
one man should have so much money. Do you know, sir, I'm almost a
millionaire?"
He made this announcement in very much the same tone in which he would
have informed the minister that he was stricken with some dire disease.
"Is your trouble so great as that?" asked Mr. Durnford, in mock dismay.
"Yes, sir; and it's a very serious matter indeed. It doesn't seem right
for me to be so rich, while so many have too little, and not a few nothing
at all."
"That can soon be rectified," said Mr. Durnford.
"Perhaps so, sir; though it may not be so easy as you suppose. But there's
another matter that troubles me. I can't think that this great wealth has
been all acquired by fair means. Indeed I have only too much reason to
suspect that it was not. I feel ashamed that some of the money which my
uncle made should have become mine. I feel as though a curse were on it."
"Ah!" exclaimed the minister, with a long-drawn sigh, "such feelings do
you credit, Mr. Horn; but don't you see that God means you to turn that
curse into a blessing?"
"Yes; and yet I am almost inclined to wish my uncle had taken his money
with him."
"Scarcely a charitable wish, from any point of view," said Mr. Durnford,
smiling. "It seems to me that nothing could have been better than the
arrangement as it stands."
"Well, at any rate, I wish it were possible to restore their money to any
persons who may have been wronged."
"A laudible, but impossible wish, my dear sir; but, though you cannot
restore your uncle's wealth to those from whom it may have been wrongfully
acquired, you can, in some measure, make atonement for the evil involved
in its acquisition, by employing it for the benefit of those in general
who suffer and are in need."
"Yes," assented "Cobbler" Horn, with emphasis; "if I thought otherwise,
every coin of the money that I handled would scorch my fingers to the
bone."
After this there was a brief silence, and the minister sat back in his
chair, with closed eyes, smiling gently.
"I beg your pardon," he said, in another moment, starting forward, "I have
been thinking of all the good that might be done, if every rich man were
like you. But you came to ask my advice?"
"Yes, sir," replied "Cobbler" Horn; "and I am keeping you too long."
"Not at all, my dear sir! Your visit has refreshed me greatly. Your talk
is like a cool breeze on a hot day. It is not often that a millionaire
comes to discuss with me the responsibilities of wealth. But let me hear
what the peculiar difficulty is of which you spoke."
"Well, sir, there is a serious inconvenience involved in my new position,
with which I am quite unable to grapple."
"Ah," said the minister, raising his eye-brows, "what is that?"
"Why it is just the number of letters I receive."
"Of course!" cried the minister, with twinkling eyes. "The birds of prey
will be upon you from every side; and your being a religious man will, by
no means, mitigate the evil."
"Ah, I have no doubt you are right, sir! And it's a sort of compliment to
religion, isn't it?"
"Of course it is," said Mr. Durnford; "and a very beautiful way of looking
at it too."
"Thank you, sir. Well, there are two sides to my difficulty. First I wish
to answer every letter I receive; but I cannot possibly do it myself."
"No," said the minister. "But surely many of them need not be answered at
all."
"Yes, sir, by your leave. My sister says that many of the letters are
probably impostures. But you see I cannot tell certainly which are of that
kind. She also points out that very few of them contain stamps for reply.
But I tell her that a few stamps, more or less, are of no moment to me
now."
"I don't know," broke in the minister, "which more to admire--your
sister's wisdom or your own goodness."
"Cobbler" Horn deprecatingly waved his hand.
"Now, sir," he resumed, "Jemima advises me to engage a secretary."
"Obviously," assented the minister, "that is your best course."
"I suppose it is, sir; but I am all at sea, and want your help."
"And you shall have it," said the minister heartily. "There are scores of
young men--and young women too--who would jump at the chance of such a
post as that of your secretary would probably be."
"Thank you, sir; but you said young _women_?"
"Precisely. Young women often accept, and very efficiently fill, such
posts."
"Indeed? I don't know how my sister----"
"Of course not. But suppose we look for a moment at the other side of your
difficulty."
"Very well, sir; the other trouble is that I find it hard to decide
what answers to send to a good many of the letters. They are mostly
applications for money; and it's not easy to tell whether they are
genuine. Then there are a great many appeals on behalf of all sorts of
good objects. May I venture to hope, sir, that you will give me your
advice in these matters?"
"With pleasure!" replied Mr. Durnford, with sparkling eyes.
"Thank you, sir; thank you very much indeed," said "Cobbler" Horn, greatly
relieved. "And will it be too much if I ask you to advise me, in due
course, as to the best way of making this money of my uncle's do as much
good as possible, in a general way?"
"By no means," protested Mr. Durnford, "I am entirely at your service, my
dear sir. But now," he added, after a pause, "I've been considering, and I
think I can find you a secretary."
"Ah! who is he, sir?"
"It is she, not he."
"But, sir!"
"Yes, I know; but this is an exceptional young lady."
"A _young_ lady?"
"Yes, a capable, well-behaved, Christian young lady. I have known her for
a good many years, and would recommend her to anybody. I know she is
looking out for such a situation as this. She would serve you well--better
than any young man, I know--and would be a most agreeable addition to your
family circle. Besides, by engaging my friend, Miss Owen, you would be
affording help in a case of real need and sterling merit. The girl has no
parents, and has been brought up by some kind friends. But they are not
rich, and she will have to make her own way. Now, look here; suppose the
young lady were to run down and see you? She lives in Birmingham."
"Do you really think it would be advisable?"
"Indeed I do. She'll disarm Miss Horn at once. It'll be a case of love at
first sight."
"Well, sir, let it be as you say."
"Then I may write to her without delay?"
"If you please, sir."
"Pray for me, Mr. Durnford," said "Cobbler" Horn, as he took his leave.
"I will, my friend," was the hearty response.
"It's not often," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, "that a Christian man is placed
in circumstances of such difficulty as mine."
The minister laughed heartily and long.
"I really mean it, sir," persisted "Cobbler" Horn, with a deprecatory
smile. "When I think of all that my having this money involves, I almost
wish the Lord had been pleased to leave me in my contented poverty."
"My dear friend," said the minister, "that will not do at all. Depend upon
it, the joy of using your wealth for the Lord, and for His 'little ones,'
will far more than make up for the vanished delights of your departed
poverty."
CHAPTER XV.
"COBBLER" HORN ENGAGES A SECRETARY.
On his way home from the minister's house, "Cobbler" Horn was somewhat
exercised in his mind as to how he should tell his sister what he had
done. He could inform her, without hesitation, that the minister had
recommended a secretary; but how should he make known the fact that the
commended secretary was a lady? He was not afraid of his sister; but he
preferred that she should approve of his doings, and he wished to render
his approaching announcement as little distasteful to her as might be. But
the difficulty of doing this would be great. It would have been hard to
imagine a communication likely to prove more unwelcome to Miss Jemima than
the announcement that her brother contemplated the employment of a lady
secretary. Nor was the difficulty of the situation relieved by the fact
that the lady was young, and possibly attractive. It would have been as
easy to impart a delectable flavour to a dose of castor-oil, as to render
agreeable to his sister the announcement he must immediately make. Long
before he reached home, he relinquished all attempt to settle the
difficulty which was agitating his mind. He would begin by telling his
sister that the minister had recommended a secretary, and then trust to
the inspiration of the moment for the rest.
Miss Jemima, encompassed with a comprehensive brown apron, stood at the
table peeling the potatoes for dinner.
"You've been a long time gone, Thomas," she said complacently--for Miss
Jemima was in one of her most amiable moods.
"Yes; we found many things to talk about."
"Well, what did he say on the secretary question?"
"Oh, he has recommended one to me who, he thinks, will do first-rate."
"Ah! and who is the young man? For of course he is young; all secretaries
are."
"The person lives in Birmingham," was the guarded reply, "and goes by the
name of Owen."
Miss Jemima felt by instinct that her brother was keeping something back.
She shot at him a keen, swift glance, and then resumed the peeling of the
potato just then in hand, which operation she effected with such extreme
care, that it was a very attenuated strip of peeling which fell curling
from her knife into the brown water in the bowl beneath.
"What is this young man's other name?" she calmly asked.
"Well, now, I don't know," said "Cobbler" Horn, with a shrewd smile.
"Just like you men!" whipped out Miss Jemima, pausing in her work; "but I
suppose, as the minister recommends him, it will be all right."
There was nothing for it now but a straightforward declaration of the
dreadful truth.
"Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, "I mustn't mislead you. It's not a young
man at all."
Miss Jemima let fall into the water, with a sudden flop, the potato she
was peeling, and faced her brother, knife in hand, with a look of wild
astonishment in her eyes.
"Not a young man!" she almost shrieked, "What then?"
Her brother's emphasis had been on the word _man_, and not on the word
_young_.
"Well, my dear," he replied, "a young----in fact, a young lady."
Up went Miss Jemima's hands.
"Thomas!"
"Yes, Jemima; such is the minister's suggestion."
Miss Jemima, who had resumed her work, proceeded to dig out the eye of a
potato with unwonted prodigality.
"Mr. Durnford," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, "tells me it is a common thing for
young ladies to be secretaries now-a-days; and he very highly recommended
this one in particular."
Miss Jemima knew, that if her brother's mind was made up, it would be
useless to withstand his will.
"When is she coming?" was all she said.
"I don't know. Mr. Durnford promised to write and ask her to come and see
us first. You shall talk with her yourself, Jemima; and, believe me, if
there is any good reason to object to the arrangement, she shall not be
engaged."
Miss Jemima permitted herself just one other word.
"I am surprised at Mr. Durnford!" she said; and then the matter dropped.
Two days later, in prompt response to the minister's letter, Miss Owen
duly arrived. Mr. Durnford met her at the station, and conducted her to
the house of "Cobbler" Horn. He had sent her, in his letter, all needful
information concerning "Cobbler" Horn, and the circumstances which
rendered it necessary for him to engage a secretary.
"They reside at present," he said during the walk from the station, "in a
small house, but will soon remove to a larger one."
"Cobbler" Horn was busy in his workshop when they arrived; but Miss Jemima
was awaiting them in solitary state, in the front-room. The good lady had
meant to be forbidding and severe in her reception of the "forward minx,"
whom she had settled it in her mind the prospective secretary would prove
to be. But the moment her eyes beheld Miss Owen she was disarmed. The
dark-eyed, black-haired, modestly-attired, and even sober-looking girl,
who put out her hand with a very simple movement, and spoke, with
considerable self-possession truly, but certainly not with an impudent
air, bore but scant resemblance to the "brazen hussey" who had haunted
Miss Jemima's mind for the past two days.
"Cobbler" Horn came in from his workshop, and greeted the young girl with
an honest heartiness which placed her at her ease at once.
With almost a cordial air, Miss Jemima invited the visitors to sit down.
As Miss Owen glanced a second time around the room, a look of perplexity
came into her face.
"Do you know, Miss Horn," she said, "your house seems quite familiar to
me. I almost feel as if I had been here before. Of course I never have.
It's just one of those queer feelings everybody has sometimes, as if what
you are going through at the time had all taken place before."
She spoke out the thought of her mind with a simple impulsiveness which
had its own charm.
"No doubt," said Miss Jemima, with a start; but she was deterred from
further remark by Mr. Durnford's rising from his seat.
"I think I'll leave you," he said, "and call for Miss Owen in--say a
quarter of an hour. With your permission, Mr. Horn, she will sleep at
our house to-night."
"Don't go, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn. "Your presence will be a help to
us on both sides."
It needed no further pursuasion to induce the minister to remain: with
his assistance, "Cobbler" Horn soon came to terms with the young lady;
and, as, upon a hint conveyed in the letter she had received from the
minister, she had come to Cottonborough prepared, if necessary, to remain,
it was arranged that she should commence her duties on the following day.
"And would it not be as well for her to come to us to-night?" asked
"Cobbler" Horn. "The sooner she begins to get used to us the better. And
she can still spend the evening with you, Mr. Durnford."
The minister looked enquiringly at Miss Owen,
"What do you say, my dear?"
"I am entirely in your hands, sir, and those of Mr. Horn."
"Well," said Mr. Durnford, "if you really wish it. Mr. Horn, Miss Owen
shall come to you to-night."
And thus it was arranged.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE ATTACK ON THE CORRESPONDENCE.
When "Cobbler" Horn's secretary awoke next morning, she experienced a
return of the feeling of familiarity with her surroundings of which she
had been conscious on first entering the house. The little white-washed
bedroom, with its simple furniture, seemed like a vision of the past.
She had a dreamy impression that she had slept in this little white room
many times before. There was, in particular, a startling appearance of
familiarity in a certain picture which hung upon the wall, beyond the foot
of the bed. It was an old-fashioned coloured print, in a black frame, and
represented Jacob's dream. For a long time she gazed at the picture. Then
she gave herself a shake, and sighed, and laughed a low, pathetic little
laugh.
"What nonsense!" she thought. "As if I could ever have been here before,
or set eyes on the picture! Though I may have seen one like it somewhere
else, to be sure."
Then she roused herself, and got out of bed. But when, having dressed, she
went downstairs, the same sense of familiarity with her surroundings
surged over her again. The boxed-up staircase seemed to her a not
untrodden way; and when she emerged in the kitchen at its foot, and saw
the round deal table spread for breakfast with its humble array, she
almost staggered at the familiarity of the scene.
"Cobbler" Horn was in his workshop, and Miss Jemima had gone into the
yard; and, as the young girl gazed around the humble room it seemed, in
some strange fashion, to have belonged to her past life. The very tap-tap
of "Cobbler" Horn's hammer, coming cheerily from the workshop behind,
awoke weird echoes in her brain, and helped to render her illusion
complete.
All breakfast-time she felt like one in a dream. She seemed to be drifting
into a new life, which was not new but old; and she almost felt as if she
had _come home_. She was utterly unable to imagine what might be the
explanation of this strange experience. She had not a glimmering of the
actual truth. She struggled against the feeling which possessed her, and
partly overcame it; but it returned again and again during her stay in the
house, though with diminished force.
After breakfast, "Cobbler" Horn invited his secretary to attack the
accumulated mass of letters which waited for despatch.
"You see, Miss Owen," he said in half-apology for asking her to begin work
so soon, "the pile gets larger every day; and, if we don't do something to
reduce it at once, it will get altogether beyond bounds."
Miss Owen turned her sparkling dark eyes upon her employer.
"Oh, Mr. Horn," she exclaimed, as she took her seat at the table, "the
sooner we get to work the better! I did not come here to play, you know."
"Cobbler" Horn poured an armful of unanswered letters down upon the table,
in front of his ardent young secretary.
"There's a snow-drift for you, Miss Owen!" he said.
"Thank you, sir," was the cheery response, "we must do our best to clear
it away."
Miss Owen was already beginning to feel quite at home with "Cobbler" Horn;
and she even ventured at this point, to rally him on the dismay with which
he regarded his piles of letters.
"Don't you think, sir," she asked, with a radiant smile, "that a little
sunshine might help us?"
"Cobbler" Horn started, and glanced towards the window. The morning was
dull.
"Yes," he said; "but we can't command----" Then he perceived her meaning,
and broke off with a smile. "To be sure; you are right, Miss Owen. It is
wrong of me to be wearing such a gloomy face. But you see this kind of
thing is all so new and strange to me; and you need not wonder that I am
dismayed."
"No," replied the secretary, with just the faintest little touch of
patronage in her tone; "it's not surprising in your case. But I am not
dismayed. Answering letters has always been my delight."
"That's well," said "Cobbler" Horn, gravely; "And I think you will have
to supply a large share of the 'sunshine' too, Miss Owen."
"I'll try," she replied, simply, with a beaming smile; and she squared her
shapely arms, and bent her dusky head, and set to work with a will, while
"Cobbler" Horn, regarding her from the opposite side of the table, was
divided between two mysteries, which were, how she could write so fast and
well, and what it was which made him feel as if he had known her all his
life?
Most of the letters contained applications for money. Some few were from
the representatives of well-known philanthropic societies; many others
were appeals on behalf of local charities or associations; and no small
proportion were the applications of individuals, who either had great
need, or were very cunning, or both.
The private appeals were of great variety. "Cobbler" Horn was amazed to
find how many people were at the point of despair for want of just the
help that he was able to give. It was past belief how large a number of
persons he had the opportunity of saving from ruin, and with how small a
sum of money, in each case, it might be done. What a manifold disclosure
of human misery and despair those letters were, or seemed to be! Some of
them, doubtless, had been written with breaking hearts, and punctuated
with tears; but which?
"I had no idea there was so much trouble in the world!" cried "Cobbler"
Horn, in dismay.
"Perhaps there is not quite so much as your letters seem to imply, sir,"
suggested the secretary.
"You think not?" queried "Cobbler" Horn.
"I feel sure of it," said the young girl, with a knowing shake of her
head. "But we must do our best to discriminate. I should throw some of
these letters into the fire at once, if I were you, Mr. Horn."
"But they must be answered first!"
"Must they, sir? Every one?" enquired the secretary, arching her dark
eye-brows. "Why it will cost you a small fortune in stamps, Mr. Horn!"
"But you forget how rich I am, Miss Owen. And I would rather be cheated a
thousand times, than withhold, in a single instance, the help I ought to
give."
"Well, Mr. Horn, I'm your secretary, and must obey your commands, whether
I approve of them or not."
She spoke with a merry trill of laughter; and "Cobbler" Horn, far from
being offended, shot back upon her a beaming smile.
They took the letters as they came. Concerning some of the applications,
"Cobbler" Horn felt quite able to decide himself. Appeals from
duly-accredited philanthropic institutions received from him a liberal
response, and so large were some of the amounts that the young secretary
felt constrained to remonstrate.
"You forget," he replied, "how much money I've got."
"But--excuse me, sir--you seem resolved to give it all away!"
"Yes, almost," was the calm reply.
There was but little difficulty, moreover, in dealing with the
applications on behalf of local interests. It was the private appeals
which afforded most trouble. Every case had to be strenuously debated with
Miss Owen, who maintained that not one of these importunate correspondents
ought to be assisted, until "Cobbler" Horn had satisfied himself that
the case was one of actual necessity, and real merit. By dint of great
persistency, she succeeded in convincing her employer that many of these
private appeals were not worthy of a moment's consideration. To each of
the writers of these a polite note of refusal was to be despatched. With
regard to the rest, it was decided that an application for references
should be made.
"I shall have to be your _woman_ of business, Mr. Horn," said Miss Owen,
"as well as your secretary; and, between us, I think we can manage."
She felt that there was a true Christian work for her in doing what she
could to help this poor embarrassed Christian man of wealth.
"Cobbler" Horn was enraptured with his secretary. She seemed to be fitting
herself into a vacant place in his life. It appeared the most natural
thing in the world that she should be there writing his letters. If his
little Marian had not gone from him years ago, she might have been his
secretary now. He sighed at the thought; and then, as he looked across at
the animated face of Miss Owen, as she bent over her work, and swept the
table with her abundant tresses, he was comforted in no small degree.
Miss Jemima's respect for the proprieties, rendered her reluctant to
absent herself much from the room where her brother and his engaging young
secretary sat together at their interesting work; and she manifested, from
time to time, a lively interest in the progress of their task.
CHAPTER XVII.
A PARTING GIFT FOR "THE LITTLE TWIN BRETHREN."
The honest joy of "the little twin brethren" at the sudden enrichment
of their friend, "Cobbler" Horn, was dashed with a deep regret. It was
excellent that he had been made a wealthy man. As Tommy Dudgeon expressed
it, "Providence had not made a mistake this time, anyhow." But, in common
with the rest of "Cobbler" Horn's neighbours, the two worthy little men
bitterly deplored the inevitable departure of their friend from their
midst. It was "not to be supposed," said Tommy again--it was always Tommy
who said things; to John had been assigned the honour of perpetuating the
family name--it was "not to be supposed that a millionaire would live in
a small house, in a narrow street, remain at the cobbler's bench, or
continue to associate with poor folks like themselves." The little
hucksters considered it a matter of course that "Cobbler" Horn would
shortly remove to another and very different abode, and they mourned
over the prospect with sincere and bitter grief.
The little men had good reason for their sorrow, for to none of all his
poor neighbours had "Cobbler" Horn been a better friend. And their regret
in view of his approaching removal was fully reciprocated by "Cobbler"
Horn himself. Of all the friends, in the network of streets surrounding
his humble abode, whom he had fastened to his heart with the golden hooks
of love, there were none whom he held more closely there than the two
little tradesmen across the way. His intercourse with them had been one of
the chief refreshments of his life; and he knew that he would sadly miss
his humble little friends.
And now the time had come for the removal, and the evening previous to the
departure from the old home, "the Golden Shoemaker" paid his last visit,
in the capacity of neighbour, to the worthy little twins. He had long
known that they had a constant struggle to make their way. He had often
assisted them as far as his own hitherto humble means would allow; and
now, he had resolved that before leaving the neighbourhood, he would make
them such a present as would lift them, once for all, out of the quagmire
of adversity in which they had floundered so long.
At six o'clock, on that autumn evening, it being already dusk, "Cobbler"
Horn opened his front door, and stood for a moment on the step. Miss
Jemima and the young secretary were both out of the way. If Miss Jemima
had known where her brother was going and for what purpose, she would have
held up her hands in horror and dismay, and might even, had she been
present, have tried to detain him in the house by main force.
"Cobbler" Horn lingered a moment on the door-step, with the instinctive
hesitation of one who is about to perform an act of unaccustomed
magnitude; but his soul revelled in the thought of what he was going
to do. He was about to exercise the gracious privilege of the wealthy
Christian man; and, as he handled a bundle of crisp bank-notes which he
held in the side pocket of his coat, his fingers positively tingled with
rapture.
The street was very quiet. A milk girl was going from door to door, and
the lamplighter was vanishing in the distance. Yet "Cobbler" Horn flitted
furtively across the way, as though he were afraid of being seen; and,
having glided with the stealth of a burglar through the doorway of the
little shop, found himself face to face with Tommy Dudgeon. The smile of
commercial satisfaction, which had been summoned to the face of the little
man by the consciousness that some one was coming into the shop, resolved
itself into an air of respectful yet genial greeting when he recognised
"Cobbler" Horn.
"Ah, good evening, Mr. Horn! You said you would pay us a farewell visit,
and we were expecting you. Come in, sir."
"Cobbler" Horn followed his humble conductor into the small but cosy
living-room behind, which the large number of its occupants caused to
appear even smaller than it was. John Dudgeon was there, and Mrs. John,
and several offshoots of the Dudgeon tree. Mrs. Dudgeon was ironing at a
table beneath the one small window, in the fading light. She was a staid
and dapper matron, with here and there the faintest line of care upon her
comely face. A couple of the children were rolling upon the hearthrug in
the ruddy glow of the fire, and two or three others were doing their
home-lessons by the aid of the same unsteady gleam. The father, swept to
one side by the surges of his superabundant family, sat on a chair at the
extreme corner of the hearthrug, with both the twins upon his knees.
"Cobbler" Horn was greeted with the cordiality due to an old family
friend. Even the children clustered around him and clung to his arms and
legs. Mrs. John, as she was invariably called--possibly on the assumption
that Tommy Dudgeon also would, in due time, take a wife, cleared the
children away from the side of the hearth opposite to her husband, and
placed a chair for the ever-welcome guest. Tommy Dudgeon, who had slipped
into the shop to adjust the door-bell, so that he might have timely notice
of the entrance of a customer, soon returned, and placing a chair for
himself between his brother and "Cobbler" Horn, sat down with his feet
amongst the children, and his gaze fixed on the fire.
For a time there was no sound in the room but the click of Mrs. John's
iron, as it travelled swiftly to and fro. Even the children were
preternaturally quiet. At length Tommy spoke, in sepulchral tones, with
his eyes still on the fire.
"Only to think that it's the last time!"
"What's the last time, friend?" asked "Cobbler" Horn, with a start.
"Why this--that we shall see you sitting there so sociable like, Mr.
Horn."
"Indeed, I hope not," was the hearty response. "You're not going to get
rid of me so easily as that, old friend."
"Why," exclaimed Tommy, "I thought you were going to remove; and I'm sure
no one could find fault with it."
"Yes: but you surely don't suppose I'm going to turn my back on my old
neighbours altogether?"
"What you say is very kind," replied Tommy; "but, Mr. Horn, we can't
expect to see you very often after this."
"Well, friend, perhaps oftener than you think." Then he told them that he
had bought the house in which he had lived amongst them, and meant to keep
it up, and come there almost every day to mend boots and shoes, without
charge for his poor customers.
"Well, to be sure!" exclaimed Tommy Dudgeon, while John chuckled
exultantly to the twins, and Mrs. John moved her iron more vigorously to
and fro, and hastily raised her hand to brush away a grateful and admiring
tear.
Meanwhile "Cobbler" Horn was considering how he might most delicately
disclose the special purpose of his visit.
"But after all," he said at length, "this is a farewell visit. I'm going
away, and, after to-morrow, I shall not be your neighbour any more."
For some moments his hand had been once more in his pocket, fingering the
bank-notes. He now drew them forth very much in the way in which a man
entrapped into a den of robbers might draw a pocket-pistol, and smoothed
them out upon his knee.
"I thought, old friend," he said, turning to Tommy Dudgeon, "that perhaps
you might be willing to accept a trifling memento of our long
acquaintance. And, indeed, you mustn't say no."
John Dudgeon was too deeply engaged with the twins to note what was said;
Tommy but dimly perceived the drift of his friend; but upon Mrs. John the
full truth flashed with the clearness of noon.
The next moment the notes were being transferred to the hands of the
astonished Tommy. John was still absorbed with his couple of babies. Mrs.
John was ironing more furiously than ever. Tommy felt, with his finger and
thumb, that there were many of the notes; and he perceived that he and his
were being made the recipients of an act of stupendous generosity. Tears
trickled down his cheeks; his throat and tongue were parched. He tried to
thrust the bank-notes back into the hand of his friend.
"Mr. Horn, you must not beggar yourself on our account."
"Cobbler" laughed. In truth, he was much relieved. It seemed that his
humble friend objected to his gift only because he thought it was too
large.
"'Beggar' myself, Tommy?" he cried. "I should have to be a very reckless
spendthrift indeed to do that. You forget how dreadfully rich I am. Why
these paltry notes are a mere nothing to such a wealth-encumbered
unfortunate as I. But I thought the money would be a help to you. And you
must take it, Tommy, you must indeed. The Lord told me to give it to you;
and what shall I say to Him, if I allow you to refuse His gift?"
And so the generous will of "the Golden Shoemaker" prevailed; and if he
could have heard and seen all that took place by that humble fireside,
after he was gone, he would have been assured that at least one small
portion of his uncle's wealth had been well-bestowed.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE NEW HOUSE.
"Cobbler" Horn's new house, which was situated, as we have seen, on one of
the chief roads leading out of the town, marked almost the verge, in that
direction, of the straggling fringe of urban outskirts. Beyond it there
was only the small cottage in which had lived, and still resided, the
woman who had seen Marian as she trotted so eagerly away into the great
pitiless world. "Cobbler" Horn had not deliberately set himself to seek a
house upon this road. But, when he found there a residence to let which
seemed to be almost exactly the kind of dwelling he required, the fact
that it was situated in a locality so tenderly associated with the memory
of his lost child, in no degree diminished his desire to make it his
abode.
"It was here that she went by," he said softly to himself, at the close of
their visit of inspection, as he stood with Miss Jemima at the gate; "and
it was yonder that she was last seen."
What were Miss Jemima's thoughts, as she followed, with her eyes, the
direction of her brother's gaze, may not be known; for an unwonted silence
had fallen on her usually ready tongue.
It was a good house, with a pleasant lawn in front, and a yard, containing
coach-house and stables, behind. The house itself was well-built,
commodious, and fitted with all the conveniences of the day. As most of
the furniture was new, the removal of the family was not a very elaborate
process. In this, as in all other things, "Cobbler" Horn found that his
money secured him the minimum of trouble. He had simply given a few
orders--which his sister, it is true, had supplemented with a great many
more--; and, when the day of removal came, they found themselves duly
installed in a house furnished with a completeness which left nothing to
be desired.
On their arrival, they were received in the hall by three smiling maids,
a coachman, and a boy in buttons. "The Golden Shoemaker" almost staggered,
as the members of his domestic staff paid due homage to their master. He
half-turned to his sister, and saw that, she, unlike himself, was not
taken by surprise. Then he hastily returned the respectful salutations of
the beaming group, and passed into the house.
It was afternoon when the removal took place, and the remainder of the day
was spent in inspecting the premises, and settling down. With the aid of
his indefatigable secretary, "Cobbler" Horn had disposed of his morning's
letters before leaving the old house, and, as it happened, the later mails
were small that day. Miss Jemima stepped into her new position as
mistress of a large establishment with ease and grace; and, assisted by
the young secretary, who was fast gaining the goodwill of her employer's
sister, was already giving to the house, by means of a few slight touches
here and there, that indescribable air of homeliness which money cannot
buy, and no skill of builder or upholsterer can impart.
To "Cobbler" Horn himself that evening was a restless time. He felt
himself to be strangely out of place; and he was almost afraid to tread
upon the thick soft carpets, or to sit upon the luxurious chairs. And
yet he smiled to himself, as he contrasted his own uneasiness with the
complacency with which his sister was fitting herself into her place in
their new sphere.
Under the guidance of the coachman, "Cobbler" Horn inspected the horses
and carriages. The coachman, who was the most highly-finished specimen of
his kind who could be obtained for money, treated his new master with an
oppressive air of respect. "Cobbler" Horn would have preferred a more
familiar bearing on the part of his gorgeously-attired servant; but
Bounder was obdurate, for he knew his place. His only recognition of the
somewhat unusual sociability of his master, was to touch his hat with a
more impressive action, and to impart a still deeper note of respect to
the tones of his voice. His bearing implied a solemn rebuke. It was as
though he said, "If you, sir, don't know your place, I know mine."
"The Golden Shoemaker," having completed his survey of his new abode
and its surroundings, realized more fuller than hitherto the change his
circumstances had undergone. The old life was now indeed past, and he was
fairly launched upon the new. Well, by the help of God, he had tried to do
his duty in the humble sphere of poverty; and he would attempt the same in
the infinitely more difficult position in which he was now placed.
Entering the house by the back way, he paused and lingered regretfully for
a moment at the kitchen door. One of the maids perceived his hesitation,
and wondered if master was of the interfering kind. He dispelled her alarm
by passing slowly on.
After supper, in the dining-room, Miss Jemima handed the old family Bible
to her brother, and he took it with a loving grasp. Here, at least, was a
part of the old life still.
"Shall I ring for the servants?" asked Miss Jemima.
"By all means," said her brother, with a slight start.
Miss Jemima touched the electric bell, with the air of one who had been
in the habit of ringing for servants all her life. In quick response, the
door was opened; and the maids, the coachman, and the boy, who had all
been well schooled by Miss Jemima, filed gravely in.
The ordeal through which "Cobbler" Horn had now to pass was very unlike
the homely family prayer of the old life. He performed his task, however,
with a simplicity and fervour with which the domestics were duly
impressed; and when it was over he made them a genial yet dignified little
speech, and wished them all a hearty good night.
"Brother," Miss Jemima ventured to remark, when the servants were gone, "I
am afraid you lean too much to the side of familiarity with the servants."
"Sister," was the mildly sarcastic response, "you are quite able to adjust
the balance."
Amongst the few things which were transferred from the old house to the
new, was a small tin trunk, the conveyance of which Miss Jemima was at
great pains personally to superintend. It contained the tiny wardrobe of
the long lost child, which the sorrowing, and still self-accusing, lady
had continued to preserve.
It is doubtful whether "Cobbler" Horn was aware of his sister's pathetic
hoard; but there were two mementos of his lost darling which he himself
preserved. For the custody of papers, deeds, and other valuables, he had
placed in the room set apart as his office, a brand new safe. In one of
its most secure recesses he deposited, with gentle care, a tiny parcel
done up in much soft paper. It contained a mud-soiled print bonnet-string,
and a little dust-stained shoe.
"They will never be of any more use to her," he had said to himself; "but
they may help to find her some day."
CHAPTER XIX.
A TALK WITH THE MINISTER ABOUT MONEY.
"Cobbler" Horn knew his minister to be a man of strict integrity and
sound judgment; and it was with complete confidence that he sought Mr.
Durnford's advice with regard to those of his letters with which his
secretary and himself were unable satisfactorily to deal. The morning
after the removal to the new house, he hastened to the residence of the
minister with a bundle of such letters in his pocket. Mr. Durnford read
the letters carefully through, and gave him in each case suitable advice;
and then "Cobbler" Horn had a question to ask.
"Will you tell me, sir, why you have not yet asked me for anything towards
any of our own church funds?"
"Well," replied the minister, with a shrewd twinkle in his eye, "you see,
Mr. Horn, I thought I might safely leave the matter to your generosity and
good sense."
"Thank you, sir. Well, I am anxious that my own church should have its
full share of what I have to give. Will you, sir," he added diffidently,
"kindly tell me what funds there are, and how much I ought to give to
each."
As he spoke, he extracted from his pocket, with some difficulty, a bulky
cheque-book, and flattened it out on the table with almost reverent
fingers; for he had not yet come to regard the possession of a cheque-book
as a commonplace circumstance of his life.
"That's just like you, Mr. Horn," said the minister, with glistening eyes.
He was a straightforward man, and transparent as glass. He would not
manifest false delicacy, or make an insincere demur.
"There are plenty of ways for your money, with us, Mr. Horn," he added.
"But what is your wish? Shall I make a list of the various funds?"
Mr. Durnford drew his chair to his writing-table, as he spoke, and took
up his pen.
"If you please, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn.
No sooner said than done; and in a few moments the half-sheet of large
manuscript paper which the minister had placed before him was filled from
top to bottom with a list of the designations of various religious funds.
"Thank you, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn, glancing at the paper. "Will you,
now, kindly set down in order how much you think I ought to give in each
case."
With the very slightest hesitation, and in perfect silence, Mr. Durnford
undertook this second task; and, in a few minutes, having jotted down a
specific amount opposite to each of the lines in the list, he handed the
paper again to "Cobbler" Horn.
Mr. Durnford's estimate of his visitor's liberality had not erred by
excess of modesty; and he was startled when he mentally reckoned up the
sum of the various amounts he had set down. But "Cobbler" Horn's reception
of the list startled him still more.
"My dear sir," said "the Golden Shoemaker," with a smile, "I'm afraid
you do not realize how very rich I am. This list will not help me much in
getting rid of the amount of money of which I shall have to dispose, for
the Lord, every year. Try your hand again."
Mr. Durnford asked pardon for the modesty of his suggestions, and promptly
revised the list.
"Ah, that is better," said "Cobbler" Horn. "The subscriptions you have set
down may stand, as far as the ordinary funds are concerned; but now about
the debt fund? What is the amount of the debt?"
"Two thousand pounds."
"Well, I will pay off half of it at once; and, when you have raised
two-thirds of the rest, let me know."
"Thank you, sir, indeed!" exclaimed the minister, almost smacking his
lips, as he dipped his pen in the ink, and added this munificent promise
to the already long list.
"It is a mere nothing," said "Cobbler" Horn. "It is but a trifling
instalment of the debt I owe to God on account of this church, and its
minister. But you are beginning to find, Mr. Durnford, that I am rather
eccentric in money matters?"
"Delightfully so!" exclaimed the minister.
"Well, the right use of money has always been a point with me. Even in the
days when I had very little money through my hands, I tried to remember
that I was the steward of my Lord. It was difficult, then, to carry out
the idea, because it often seemed as though I could not spare what I
really thought I ought to give. My present difficulty is to dispose of
even a small part of what I can easily spare."
"Ah!" exclaimed the minister, in whose face there was an expression of
deep interest.
"Now," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, "will you, Mr. Durnford, help me in this
matter? Will you let me know of any suitable channels for my money of
which you may, from time to time, be aware?"
"You may depend upon me in that, my dear sir," said the minister, with
gusto.
"Thank you, sir!" exclaimed "the Golden Shoemaker," as fervently as though
his minister had promised to make him acquainted with chances of gaining
money, instead of letting him know of opportunities of giving it away.
"And now I think of it, Mr. Durnford, I should like to place in your hands
a sum for use at your own discretion. You must meet with many cases of
necessity which you would not care to mention to the authorities of the
church; and it would be a distinct advantage to you to have a sum of
money for use in such instances absolutely at your own command. Now I am
going to write you a cheque for fifty pounds to be used as you think fit;
and when it is done, you shall have more."
"Mr. Horn!" exclaimed the startled minister.
"Yes, yes, it's all right. All the money I've promised you this morning
is a mere trifle to me. And now, with your permission, I'll write the
cheques."
Why "Cobbler" Horn should not have included the whole amount of his gifts
in one cheque it is difficult to say. Perhaps he thought that, by writing
a separate cheque for the last fifty pounds, he would more effectually
ensure Mr. Durnford's having the absolute disposal of that amount.
The writing of the cheques was a work of time.
"There, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn, at last, as he handed the two precious
slips of paper across the table, "I hope you will find them all right."
"Thank you, Mr. Horn, again and again," said the minister, as he folded up
the cheques and placed them in his pocket-book; "they are perfectly right,
I am sure."
"Has it occurred to you," he continued, "that it would be well if you were
systematic in your giving?"
"Yes; and I intend systematically to give away as much as I can."
"But have you thought of fixing what proportion of your income you will
give? Not," added the minister, laughing, "that I am afraid lest you
should not give away enough."
"Oh yes," responded "Cobbler" Horn, laughing in his turn; "I have decided
to give proportionately; and the proportion I mean to give is almost all
I've got."
"I see you are incorrigible," laughed Mr. Durnford.
"You'll find that I am. But now--" and "Cobbler" Horn regarded his
minister with an expression of modest, friendly interest in his face--"I'm
going to write another cheque."
"You must be fond of the occupation, Mr. Horn."
"Cobbler" Horn's enrichment had not, in any degree, caused the cordiality
of his relations with his minister to decline. There was nothing in
"Cobbler" Horn to encourage sycophancy; and there was not in Mr. Durnford
a particle of the sycophant.
"I believe I don't altogether dislike it, sir," assented "Cobbler" Horn in
response to the minister's last remark. "But," he added, handing to him
the cheque he had now finished writing, "will you, my dear sir, accept
that for yourself? Your stipend is far too small; and I know Mrs.
Durnford's illness in the spring must have been very expensive. Don't
say no, I beg of you; but take it----as a favour to me."
He had risen from his seat, and the next moment, with a hurried "good
morning," he was gone, leaving the astonished minister in possession of
a cheque for one hundred pounds!
CHAPTER XX.
"COBBLER" HORN'S VILLAGE.
It was the custom of "Cobbler" Horn to spend the first hour of every
morning, after breakfast, in the office, with his secretary. They would go
through the letters which required attention; and, after he had given Miss
Owen specific directions with regard to some of them, he would leave her
to use her own discretion with reference to the rest. Amongst the former,
there were frequently a few which he reserved for the judgment of Mr.
Durnford. It was the duty of the young secretary to scan the letters which
came by the later posts; but none of them were to be submitted to
"Cobbler" Horn until the next morning, unless they were of urgent
importance.
One morning, about a week after the removal to the new house, the office
door suddenly opened, and "Cobbler" Horn emerged into the hall in a state
of great excitement, holding an open letter in his hand.
"Jemima!" he shouted.
The only response was a sound of angry voices from the region of the
kitchen, amidst which he recognised his sister's familiar tones. Surely
Jemima was not having trouble with the servants! Approaching the kitchen
door, he pushed it slightly open, and peeped into the room. Miss Jemima
was emphatically laying down the law to the young and comely cook, who
stood back against the table, facing her mistress, with the rolling-pin in
her hand, and rebellion in every curve of her figure and in every feature
of her face.
"You are a saucy minx," Miss Jemima was saying, in her sharpest tones.
"'Minx' yourself," was the pert reply. "No mistress shan't interfere with
me and my work, as you've done this last week. If you was a real lady, you
wouldn't do it."
"You rude girl, I'll teach you to keep your place."
"Keep your own," rapped out the girl; "and it 'ull be the better for all
parties. As for me, I shan't keep this place, and I give you warning from
now, so there!"
At this moment, the girl caught sight of her master's face at the door,
and flinging herself around to the table, resumed her work. Miss Jemima,
in her great anger, advanced a pace or two, with uplifted hand, towards
the broad back of her rebellious cook: "Cobbler" Horn, observing the
position of affairs, spoke in emphatic tones.
"Jemima, I want you at once."
Miss Jemima started, and then, without a word, followed her brother to the
dining-room.
"Brother," she said, snatching, in her anger, the first word, "that girl
has insulted me grossly."
"Yes, Jemima, I heard; but try to forget it for a moment. I have great
news for you. This letter is about cousin Jack."
In a moment Miss Jemima had forgotten her insubordinate cook.
"So the poor creature is found!" she said when she had taken, and read,
the letter.
"Yes, and he proves to be in a condition which will render doubly welcome
the good news he will shortly receive."
"Then you persist in your intention to hand over to him a share of uncle's
money?"
"To be sure I do!"
"Well," retorted Miss Jemima, somewhat acrimoniously, "it's a pity. That
portion of the money will be dispersed in a worse manner even than it was
gathered."
"Don't say that, Jemima," said her brother gravely.
"Well," asked Miss Jemima, dispensing with further protest, "what are you
going to do?"
"The first thing is to see Messrs. Tongs and Ball. You see they ask me to
do so. I can't get away to-day. To-morrow I am to visit our village, you
know; and, as it is on the way to London, the best plan will be to go on
when I am so far."
So it was settled, and Miss Owen was instructed to write the lawyers,
saying that Mr. Horn would wait upon them on the morning of the third day
from that time.
The next morning, "Cobbler" Horn, having invested his young secretary with
full powers in regard to his correspondence, during his absence, set off
by an early train for Daisy Lane, en route for London. He had but a vague
idea as to the village of which he was the chief proprietor. He was aware,
however, that his property there, including the old hall itself, was, to
quote Mr. Ball, "somewhat out of repair"; and he rejoiced in the prospect
of the opportunity its dilapidation might present of turning to good
account some considerable portion of his immense wealth.
It was almost noon when the train stopped at the small station at which
he was to alight. He was the only passenger who left the train at that
station; and, almost before his feet had touched the platform, he was
greeted by a plain, middle-aged man, of medium height and broad of build,
whose hair was reddish-brown and his whiskers brownish-red, while his
tanned and glowing face bore ample evidence of an out-door life. He had
the appearance of a good-natured, intelligent, and trustworthy man. This
was John Gray, the agent of the property; and "Cobbler" Horn liked him
from the first.
"It's only a mile and a half to the village sir," said the man, as they
mounted the trap which was waiting outside the station; "and we shall soon
run along."
The trap was a nondescript and dilapidated vehicle, and the horse was by
no means a thoroughbred. But the whole turn-out was faultlessly clean.
"It's rather a crazy concern, sir," said Mr. Gray candidly. "But you
needn't be afraid. It will hold together for this time, I think."
"Cobbler" Horn smiled somewhat sadly, as he mounted to his seat. Here was
probably an instalment of much with which he was destined to meet that
day.
"Wake up, Jack!" said Mr. Gray, shaking the reins. The appearance of
the animal indicated that it was necessary for him to take his master's
injunction in a literal sense. He awoke with a start, and set off at a
walking pace, from which, by dint of much persuasion on the part of his
driver, he was induced to pass into a gentle trot.
"He never goes any faster than that," said the agent.
"Ah!" ejaculated "Cobbler" Horn. "But we must try to get you something
better to drive about in than this, Mr. Gray."
"Thank you, sir. It will be a good thing."
As they slowly progressed along the pleasant country road, the agent gave
his new employer sundry particulars concerning the property of which he
had become possessed.
"Nearly all the village belongs to you, sir. There's only the church and
vicarage, and one farm-house, with a couple of cottages attached, that are
not yours. But you'll find your property in an awful state. I've done what
I could to patch it up; but what can you do without money?"
"I hope, Mr. Gray," said the new proprietor, "that we shall soon rectify
all that."
"Of course you will, sir," said the candid agent. "It's very painful," he
added, "to hear the complaints the people make."
"No doubt. You must take me to see some of my tenants; but you must not
tell them who I am."
"There's a decent house!" he remarked presently, as they came in sight
of a comfortable-looking residence, which stood on their left, at the
entrance of the village.
"Ah, that's the vicarage," replied the agent, "and the church is a little
beyond, and along there, on the other side of the road, is the farm-house
which does not belong to you."
They were now entering the village, the long, straggling street of which
soon afforded "the Golden Shoemaker" evidence enough of his deceased
uncle's parsimonious ideas. Half-ruined cottages and tumbledown houses
were dispersed around; here and there along the main street, were two or
three melancholy shops; and in the centre of the village stood a
disreputable-looking public-house.
"I could wish," said "Cobbler" Horn, as they passed the last-mentioned
building, "that my village did not contain any place of that kind."
"There's no reason," responded the agent, with a quiet smile, "why you
should have a public-house in the place, if you don't want one."
"Couldn't we have a public-house without strong drink?"
"No doubt we could, sir; but it wouldn't pay."
"You mean as a matter of money, of course. But that is nothing to me, and
the scheme would pay in other respects. I leave it to you, Mr. Gray, to
get rid of the present occupant of the house as soon as it can be done
without injustice, and to convert the establishment into a public-house
without the drink--a place which will afford suitable accommodation for
travellers, and be a pleasant meeting place, of an evening, for the men
and boys of the village."
"Thank you, sir," said the agent, with huge delight. "Have I carte
blanche?"
"'Carte blanche'?" queried "Cobbler" Horn, with a puzzled air. "Let me
see; that's----what? Ah, I know--a free hand, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir," replied the agent gravely.
"Then that's just what I mean."
As they drove on, "Cobbler" Horn observed that most of the gardens
attached to the cottages were in good order, and that some of the people
had been at great pains to conceal the mouldering walls of their wretched
huts with roses, honeysuckle, and various climbing plants. Glowing with
honest shame, he became restlessly eager to wave his golden wand over this
desolate scene.
"This is my place, sir," said the agent, as they stopped at the gate of a
dingy, double-fronted house. "You'll have a bit of dinner with us in our
humble way?"
"Thank you," said "the Golden Shoemaker," "I shall be very glad."
CHAPTER XXI.
IN NEED OF REPAIRS.
After dinner, "Cobbler" Horn set out with his agent on a tour of
inspection through the village.
"We'll take this row first, sir, if you please," said Mr. Gray. "One of
the people has sent for me to call."
So saying he led the way towards a row of decrepit cottages which, with
their dingy walls and black thatch, looked like a group of fungi, rather
than a row of habitations erected by the hand of man.
At the crazy door of the first cottage they were confronted by a stout,
red-faced woman with bare beefy arms, who, on seeing "Cobbler" Horn,
dropped a curtsey, and suppressed the angry salutation which she had
prepared for Mr. Gray.
"A friend of mine, Mrs. Blobs," said the agent.
"Glad to see you, sir," said the woman to "Cobbler" Horn. "Will you please
to walk in, gentlemen."
"Just cast your eye up there, Mr. Gray," she added when they were inside.
"It's come through at last."
Sure enough it had. Above their heads was a vast hole in the ceiling, and
above that a huge gap in the thatch; and at their feet lay a heap of
bricks, mortar, and fragments of rotten wood.
"Why the chimney has come through!" exclaimed Mr. Gray.
"Little doubt of that," said Mrs. Blobs.
"Was anybody hurt?"
"No, but they might ha' bin. It was this very morning. The master was at
his work, and the children away at school; but, if I hadn't just stepped
out to have a few words with a neighbour, I might ha' bin just under the
very place. Isn't it disgraceful, sir," she added, turning to "Cobbler"
Horn, "that human beings should be made to live in such tumbledown places?
I believe Mr. Gray, here, would have put things right long ago; but he's
been kept that tight by the old skin-flint what's just died. They do say
as now the property have got into better hands; but----"
"Well, well, Mrs. Blobs" interposed the agent; "we shall soon see a change
now I hope."
"Yes," assented "Cobbler" Horn, "we'll have----that is, I'm sure Mr. Gray
will soon make you snug, ma'am."
"We must call at every house, sir," said Mr. Gray, as they passed to the
next door. "There isn't one of the lot but wants patching up almost every
day."
"Cheer up, Mr. Gray," said "the Golden Shoemaker." "There shall be no more
patching after this."
In each of the miserable cottages they met with a repetition of their
experience in the first. If the reproaches of the living could bring back
the dead, old Jacob Horn should have formed one of the group in those
mouldy and rotting cottages, to listen to the reiteration of the shameful
story of his criminal neglect. Here the windows were bursting from their
setting, like the bulging eyes of suffocating men; and here the door-frame
was in a state of collapse. In one cottage the ceiling was depositing
itself, by frequent instalments, on the floor; and in another the floor
itself was rotting away. In every case, Mr. Gray made bold to promise the
speedy rectification of everything that was wrong; and "Cobbler" Horn
confirmed his promises in a manner so authoritative that it would have
been a wonder if his discontented tenants had not caught some glimmering
of the truth as to who he was.
On leaving the cottages, Mr. Gray took his employer to one of the
farm-houses which his property comprised. They found the farmer, a burly,
red-faced, ultra-choleric man, excited over some recently-consummated
dilapidations on his premises. He conducted his visitors over his house
and farm-buildings, grumbling like an ungreased wagon. His abuse of
"Cobbler" Horn's dead uncle was unstinted, and almost every other word was
a rumbling oath. Mr. Gray assured him that all would be put right now in a
very short time; and "Cobbler" Horn said, "Yes, he was sure it would."
The farmer stared in surprise; but his blunter perception proved less
penetrative than the keen insight of the women, and he simply wondered
what this rather rough looking stranger could know about it, anyhow. He
expressed a hope that it might be as Mr. Gray said. For himself he hadn't
much faith. But, if there wasn't something done soon, the new landlord had
better not show himself there, that was all; and the aggrieved farmer
clenched his implied threat with the most emphatic oath he was able to
produce.
Their inspection of the remainder of the village revealed, on every side,
the same condition of ruin and decay; and it was with a sad and indignant
heart that "Cobbler" Horn at length sat down, in Mrs. Gray's front
parlour, to a late but welcome cup of tea.
"To-morrow," he said, "we'll have a look at the old hall."
"The Golden Shoemaker" spent the evening in close consultation with his
agent. The state of the property was thoroughly discussed, and Mr. Gray
was invested with full power to renovate and renew. His employer enjoined
him to make complete work. He was to exceed, rather than stop short of,
what was necessary, and to do even more than the tenants asked.
"You will understand, Mr. Gray," said "Cobbler" Horn, "that I want all my
property in this village to be put into such thorough repair that, as far
as the comfort and convenience of my tenants are concerned, nothing shall
remain to be desired. So set to work with all your might; and we shall
not quarrel about the bill----if you only make it large enough."
Mr. Gray's big heart bounded within him, as he received this generous
commission.
"And don't forget your own house," added his employer. "I think you had
better build yourself a new one while you are about it; and let it be a
house fit to live in."
Mr. Gray warmly expressed his thanks, and they proceeded to the
consideration of the numberless matters which it was necessary to discuss.
In the morning, under the guidance of the agent, "Cobbler" Horn paid his
promised visit to the old Hall. It was a venerable Elizabethan mansion,
and, like everything else in the village that belonged to him, was sadly
out of repair. As he entered the ancient pile, and passed from room to
room, a purpose with regard to the old Hall which already vaguely occupied
his mind, took definite shape; and he seemed to hear, in the empty rooms,
the glad ring of children's laughter and the patter of children's feet. In
memory of his long-lost Marian, and for the glory of the Divine Friend of
children, the old Hall should be transformed into a Home for little ones
who were homeless and without a friend.
As they drove to the station, a little later, he announced his attention,
with regard to the Hall, to Mr. Gray.
"I shall leave the business in your hands, Mr. Gray. You must consult
those who understand such things, and visit similar institutions, and turn
the old place into the best 'Children's Home' that can be produced."
"Very well, sir; but the children?"
"That matter I will arrange myself."
The agent was getting used to surprises; but the next that came almost
took his breath away.
"I believe," said "Cobbler" Horn, at the end of a brief silence, "that
your salary, Mr. Gray, is £150 a year?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I wish to increase the amount. Pray consider that you will receive,
from this time, at the rate of £500 a year."
"Mr. Horn!" cried the startled agent, "such generosity!"
"Not at all; I mean you to earn it, you know. But let your horse move on,
or I shall miss my train. And, by the way, will you oblige me, Mr. Gray,
by procuring for yourself a horse and trap better calculated to serve the
interests of my property than this sorry turn-out. Get the best equipment
which can be obtained for money."
The agent, not knowing whether he was touched the more by the kindness
of the injunction, or by the delicacy with which it had been expressed,
murmured incoherent thanks, and promised speedy compliance with his
employer's commands.
CHAPTER XXII.
"THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER" INSTRUCTS HIS LAWYERS.
"Cobbler" Horn reached London early the same evening, and the following
morning, at the appointed hour, duly presented himself at the office of
Messrs. Tongs and Ball. He was received with enthusiasm by the men of
law. Long Mr. Ball was, as usual, the chief speaker; and round Mr. Tongs
yielded meek and monosyllabic assent to all his partner's words.
"And how are you by this time, my dear sir?" asked Mr. Ball, almost
affectionately, when they had taken their seats.
"Cobbler" Horn had a vague impression that the lawyer was asking his
question on behalf of his partner as well as of himself.
"Thank you, gentlemen," was his cordial reply. "I am thankful to say I
never was better in my life; and I hope I find you the same?"
"Thank you, my dear sir," answered Mr. Ball, "speaking for self and
partner, I think I may say that we are well."
"Yes," said Mr. Tongs.
"But," resumed Mr. Ball, turning to the table, "your time is precious,
Mr. Horn. Shall we proceed?"
"If you please, gentlemen."
"Very well," said the lawyer, taking up a bundle of papers; "these are the
letters relating to the case of your unfortunate cousin. Shall I give you
their contents in due order, Mr. Horn?"
"If you please," and "Cobbler" Horn composed himself to listen, with a
grave face.
The letters were from the agents of Messrs. Tongs and Ball in New York;
and the information they conveyed was to the effect that "Cobbler" Horn's
scapegrace cousin had been traced to a poor lodging-house in that city,
where he was slowly dying of consumption. He might last for months, but
it was possible he would not linger more than a few weeks.
"Cobbler" Horn listened to the reading of the letters with head down-bent.
When it was finished, he looked up.
"Thank you, gentlemen," he said; "have you done anything?"
Mr. Ball gazed at his client through his spectacles, over the top of the
last of the letters, which he still held open in his hand, and there was
gentle expostulation in his eye.
"Our instructions, Mr. Horn, were to find your cousin."
"I see," said "Cobbler" Horn, with a smile; "and you have done that. Well
now, gentlemen, will you be kind enough to do something more?"
"We will attend to your commands, Mr. Horn," was the deferential response.
"That is our business."
"Yes," was the emphatic assent of Mr. Tongs.
"The Golden Shoemaker" was becoming accustomed to the readiness of all
with whom he had to do to wait upon his will.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I wish everything to be done to relieve my
poor cousin's distress, and even, if possible, to save his life. Be good
enough to telegraph directions for him to be removed without delay to some
place where he will receive the best care that money can procure. If his
life cannot be saved, he may at least be kept alive till I can reach his
bedside."
"Your commands shall be obeyed, sir," said Mr. Ball; "but," he added with
much surprise, "is it necessary for you to go to New York yourself?"
"That you must leave to me, gentlemen," said "the Golden Shoemaker" in a
tone which put an end to debate.
"Now, gentlemen," he resumed, "kindly hand me those letters; and let me
know how soon, after to-morrow, I can set out."
"You don't mean to lose any time, sir," said Mr. Ball, handing the bundle
of letters to his client.
In a few moments, the lawyers were able to supply the information that
a berth could be secured in a first-class steamer which would leave
Liverpool for New York in two days' time; and it was arranged that a
passage should be booked.
"We await your further orders, Mr. Horn," said Mr. Ball, rubbing his hands
together, as he perceived that his client still retained his seat.
"I'm afraid I detain you, gentlemen."
"By no means, my dear sir," protested Mr. Ball.
"No," echoed Mr. Tongs.
"I am glad of that," said "Cobbler" Horn. "I should be sorry to waste your
valuable time."
More than once a clerk had come to the door to announce that so-and-so or
so-and-so, awaited the leisure of his employers; and, in every case, the
answer had been, "let them wait."
The time of Messrs. Tongs and Ball was indeed valuable, and no portion of
it was likely to prove more so than that bestowed on the affairs of
"Cobbler" Horn.
Both the lawyers smiled amiably.
"You could not waste our time, Mr. Horn," said Mr. Ball.
"No," echoed Mr. Tongs.
"That's very good of you, gentlemen. But at any rate I really have some
business of the gravest importance still to discuss with you."
"By all means, my dear sir," said Mr. Ball with gusto, settling himself
in an attitude of attention, while Mr. Tongs also prepared himself to
listen.
"I wish, gentlemen," announced "the Golden Shoemaker," "to make my will."
"To be sure," said Mr. Ball.
"You see," continued "Cobbler" Horn, "a journey to America is attended
with some risk."
"Precisely," assented Mr. Ball. "And a man of your wealth, Mr. Horn,
should not, in any case, postpone the making of his will. It was our
intention to speak to you about the matter to-day."
"To be sure," said "Cobbler" Horn. "Can it be done at once?"
"Certainly," responded the lawyer, drawing his chair to the table, and
preparing, pen in hand, to receive the instructions of his client.
"You have no children, I think, Mr. Horn?"
"Cobbler" Horn's cheeks blanched, and his lips quivered; but he instantly
regained his self-control.
"That is my difficulty," he said. "I had a child, but----"
"Ah!" interrupted Mr. Ball, "I understand. Very sad."
"No, sir," said "Cobbler" Horn sternly, "you do not understand. It is not
as you think. But can I make my will in favour of a person who may, or may
not, be alive?"
Mr. Ball was in no wise abashed.
"Do I take you, my dear sir? You----"
"The person," interposed "Cobbler" Horn, "to whom I wish to leave my
property is my little daughter, Marian, who wandered away twelve years
ago, and has never been heard of since. Can I do it, gentlemen?"
"I think you can, Mr. Horn," replied Mr. Ball. "In the absence of any
proof of death, your daughter may be considered to be still alive. What
do you say, Mr. Tongs?"
"Oh yes; to be sure; certainly," exclaimed Mr. Tongs, who seemed to have
been aroused from a reverie, and for whom it was enough that he was
required to confirm some dictum of his partner.
"Thank you, gentlemen. Then please to note that I wish my property to
pass, at my death, to my daughter, Marian Horn."
"Very good, sir," said Mr. Ball, making a note on a sheet of paper. "But,"
he added, with an enquiring glance towards his client, "in the event--that
is to say, supposing your daughter were not to reappear, Mr. Horn?"
"I am coming to that," was the calm reply. "If my daughter does not come
back before my death, I wish everything to go to my sister, Jemima Horn,
on the condition that she gives it up to my daughter when she does
return."
"Ah!" ejaculated Mr. Ball. "And may I ask, my dear sir?--If Miss Horn
should die, say shortly after your own decease, what then?"
"I have thought of that too. Would it be in order, to appoint a trustee,
to hold the property, in such a case, for my child?"
"Yes, quite in order. Have you the name ready, my dear sir?"
"I will give you that of Rev. George Durnford, of Cottonborough."
"And, for how long, Mr. Horn," asked Mr. Ball, when he had written down
Mr. Durnford's name and address, "must the property be thus held?"
"Till my daughter comes to claim it."
"But, but, my dear sir----"
"Very well," said "Cobbler" Horn, breaking in upon the lawyer's incipient
protest; "put it like this. Say that, in the event of my sister's death,
everything is to go into the hands of Mr. Durnford, to be held by him in
trust for my daughter, and to be dealt with according to his own
discretion."
"That is all on that subject, gentlemen," he added, in a tone of finality;
and, having summarily dismissed one matter of business, he as summarily
introduced another. "And now," he said, "having made provision for my
daughter in the event of my death, I wish also to provide for her in
case she should come back during my life. I desire the sum of £50,000
to be set aside and invested in such a manner, that my daughter may have
it--principal and interest--as her own private fortune during my life."
Mr. Ball regarded his singular client with a doubtful look.
"Is it necessary to do that, my dear sir? With your wealth, you will be
able, at any time, to do for your daughter what you please."
"Yes," said Mr. Tongs, who seemed to think it time to put in his word.
"Gentlemen," said "Cobbler" Horn. "You must let me have my own way. It is
my intention to turn my money to the best account, according to my light;
and I wish to have the £50,000 secured to my child, lest, when she comes
back, there should be nothing left for her."
"Well, Mr. Horn, of course your wishes shall be obeyed," said Mr. Ball,
with a sigh; "but it is not an arrangement which I should advise."
With this final protest the subject was dismissed; but, for many days, the
£50,000 to be invested for the missing daughter of his eccentric client
remained a burden on the mind of Mr. Ball.
"And now," said "the Golden Shoemaker," "there is just another thing
before I go. I have been to see my village. I found it, as you warned me,
in a sadly dilapidated condition; and I have desired Mr. Gray to make all
the necessary repairs. Will you, gentlemen, give him all the help you can,
and see that he doesn't want for money?"
"We shall be delighted, my dear sir, as a matter of course."
"Thank you: Mr. Gray will probably apply to you on various points; and I
wish you to know that he has my authority for all he does."
"Very good, sir," said Mr. Ball, in a respectful tone.
"Then, while I was at Daisy Lane, I paid a visit to the old Hall."
"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Ball, "a splendid family mansion, Mr. Horn?"
"Yes; I have desired Mr. Gray to have it renovated and furnished."
"As a residence for yourself, of course?"
"No; I have other designs."
Then, in the deeply-attentive ears of the two men of law, "the Golden
Shoemaker" recited his plans with regard to the old Hall.
It would be a mild statement to say that Messrs. Tongs and Ball were
taken by surprise; but their client afforded them slight opportunity
to interpose even a comment on his scheme.
"You must help Mr. Gray in this matter especially, gentlemen, if you
please. Do all you can for him. I want it to be the best 'Children's Home'
in the country. Don't spare expense. I wish everything to be provided that
is good for little children. My friend, Mr. Durnford will, perhaps, help
me to find a 'father and mother' for the 'Home;' you, gentlemen, shall
assist me in the engagement of skilful nurses and trustworthy servants. In
order that we may make the place as nearly perfect as possible, I have
requested Mr. Gray to visit similar institutions in various parts of the
country. He will look to you for advice; and I should be obliged,
gentlemen, if you would put him on the right track."
Then he paused, and looked at his lawyers with a glowing face.
"It's for the sake," he said, and there was a catch in his voice, "of my
little Marian, who went from me a wanderer upon the face of the earth."
Then, having arranged to call in the morning, for the purpose of signing
his will, previous to his departure from town, he took his leave.
CHAPTER XXIII.
MEMORIES.
The following morning "Cobbler" Horn called at the office of Messrs. Tongs
and Ball at the appointed time. The will was ready, and, having signed it,
he said "good day" to the lawyers, and took the next train to
Cottonborough, where he arrived early in the afternoon.
Subsequently, at the dinner-table, he answered freely the questions of
Miss Jemima concerning his doings during his absence. Nor did he feel the
presence of his young secretary to be, in any degree, a restraint. Already
she was as one of the family, and was almost as much in the confidence of
"the Golden Shoemaker" as was Miss Jemima herself. "Cobbler" Horn told of
the dilapidated condition in which he had found the village, and of the
instructions he had given to the agent. At the recital of the latter, Miss
Jemima held up her hands in dismay, while the eyes of the secretary
glistened with unconcealed delight. But the climax was reached when
"Cobbler" Horn spoke of his intentions with regard to the old Hall. Miss
Jemima uttered a positive shriek, and shook her head till her straight,
stiff side-curls quivered again.
"Thomas," she cried, "you must be mad! It will cost you thousands of
pounds!"
"Yes, Jemima," was the quiet reply; "and surely they could not be better
spent! And then there'll still be a few thousands left," he added with a
smile. "It's a way of spending the Lord's money of which I'm sure He will
approve. What do you say, Miss Owen?"
"I think it's just splendid of you, Mr. Horn!"
To do Miss Jemima justice, her annoyance arose quite as much from the
annihilation of her dearly cherished hopes of becoming the mistress of an
ideal country mansion, and filling the place of lady magnificent of her
brother's village, as from the thought of the gigantic extravagance which
his designs with regard to the old Hall would involve.
But the poor lady was to be yet further astonished.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you, Jemima," said her brother, after a brief pause,
and speaking with a whimsical air of apology, "that I am to start for
America to-morrow."
He spoke as though he were announcing a trip into the next county; and
Miss Jemima could scarcely have shown greater amazement, if he had
declared his intention of starting for the moon.
The good lady almost bounced from her seat.
"Thomas!"
She had not breath for more than that.
In truth the announcement "the Golden Shoemaker" had made was startling
enough. Even Miss Owen looked up in intense surprise; and the servant
girl, who was in the act of taking away the meat, was so startled that
she almost let it fall into her master's lap.
"Cobbler" Horn alone was unmoved.
"You see," he said calmly, "when I considered the sad plight of our poor
cousin, I thought it would be best for me to go and see to him myself.
There are the letters," he added, taking them from his pocket, and handing
them to his sister. "You will see, Jemima, that the poor fellow is in sore
straits--ill, and destitute in a low lodging-house in New York, Miss Owen!
He will be informed, by now, of his change of fortune, and everything
possible is to be done for him. But I feel that I can't leave him to
strangers. And then there may be a chance of leading him to the Saviour,
who can tell? Besides, Jemima, a journey to America is not so much of an
undertaking now-a-days, you know; and I sha'n't be many weeks away."
By this time, Miss Jemima had managed to recover her breath, and, in part,
her wits.
"But I can't get you ready by to-morrow, Thomas!"
"My dear Jemima, that doesn't matter at all: whether you can get me ready
or not, I must go. The lawyers will have taken my passage by this time."
"But--but you can never take care of yourself in America, Thomas. It's
such a large country, and so dreadful; and the Americans are such strange
people."
"Never mind, Jemima," was the pleasant reply, "Messrs. Tongs and Ball have
sent a cablegram to their agent in New York, instructing him to look after
me. And, besides, I've made my will."
"What?" shouted Miss Jemima, "made your will?"
To Miss Jemima it seemed a dreadful thing to make one's will. It was a
last desperate resort. It was in view of death that people made their
wills. It was evident her brother did not expect to get safely back.
"Yes," repeated "Cobbler" Horn, with a quiet smile, "I've made my will.
But, don't be alarmed, Jemima; I sha'n't die any the sooner for that. I
did it as a wise precaution, with the approval of the lawyers. Even if I
had not been going to America, I should have had to make my will sooner or
later. Cheer up, Jemima! Our Heavenly Father bears rule in America, and on
the sea, as well as here at home."
Miss Jemima had relapsed into silence. She was beginning to realize the
fact that her brother had made his will, which, after all, was not so very
strange a thing. But what was the nature of the will? She did not desire
to inherit her brother's property herself. She was rich enough already.
But she was apprehensive that he might have made some foolish disposition
of his money of which she would not be able to approve. To whom, or to
what she would have desired him to leave his wealth, she could not,
perhaps, have told; but she would not be easy till she knew the contents
of his will. And yet she could not question her brother on the subject in
the presence of his secretary. The girl might be very well, but must not
be allowed to know too much.
"If I don't come back, Jemima," said "Cobbler" Horn, as though he had read
his sister's thoughts, "you will know what my will contains soon enough.
If I do--of which I have little doubt--I will tell you all about it
myself."
After dinner, "Cobbler" Horn retired, with his secretary, to the office,
for the purpose of dealing with the letters which had accumulated during
his absence from home. As they proceeded with their work, Miss Owen
learnt that, while her employer was away in America, she was to have
discretionary powers with regard to the whole of the correspondence. With
all her self-confidence, the young secretary was rather staggered by this
announcement; but she could obtain no release from the firm decree.
"You see, I have perfect confidence in you, Miss Owen," explained
"Cobbler" Horn, simply; "and besides, you know very well that, in most
cases, you are better able to decide what to do than I am myself. But, if
there are any of the letters that you would rather not deal with till I
come back, just let them wait."
This matter had been arranged during the first half-hour, in the course of
a dropping conversation, carried on in the pauses of their work. They had
put in a few words here and there in the crannies and crevices of their
business so to speak. In the same manner, "Cobbler" Horn now proceeded to
tell his secretary of his interview with his lawyers, and of the making of
his will.
"The Golden Shoemaker" had already become wonderfully attached to his
young secretary. She had exercised no arts; she had practised no wiles.
She was a sincere, guileless, Christian girl. Shrewd enough she was,
indeed, but utterly incapable of scheming for any manner of selfish or
sordid end. With her divine endowment of good looks and her consecrated
good nature, she could not fail to captivate; and there is small room for
wonder that she had made large inroads upon "Cobbler" Horn's big heart.
The degree to which his engaging young secretary had won the confidence of
"Cobbler" Horn will appear from the fact that he was about to reveal to
her, this afternoon, those particulars with regard to his recently-made
will the communication of which to his sister he had avowedly postponed.
It was not his intention to treat Miss Jemima with disrespect. He felt
that he could freely talk to Miss Owen; with his sister it would be a
matter of greater delicacy to deal. He often fancied that his young
secretary was just such as his darling Marian would have been; and quite
naturally, and very simply, he told her about his will, and even spoke of
the money that was to be invested for his lost child. He was quite able
now to talk calmly of the great sorrow of his life. The gentle and
continued rubbing of the hand of time had allayed its sharper pang.
"What do you think of it all, Miss Owen?"
"I think, Mr. Horn," said the secretary, with the end of her penholder
between her ruby lips, and a wistful look in her dark eyes, "that your
daughter would be a very fortunate young lady, if she only knew it; and
that there are not many fathers like you."
"Then you think I have done well?"
"I think, sir, that you have done better than well."
After another spell of work, Miss Owen looked up again with an eager face.
"What was your little Marian like, Mr. Horn?" she asked, in a tender and
subdued tone.
"Well, she was----" But the ardent girl took him up before he could
proceed.
"Would she have grown to be anything like me? I suppose she would be about
my age."
She was leaning forward now, with her elbows on the table, and her hands
supporting her chin. Her richly-tinted cheeks glowed with interest; her
large, dark eyes shone like two bright stars. The question she had asked
could not be to her more than a subject of amiable curiosity; but no doubt
the enthusiastic nature of the girl fully accounted for the eagerness with
which she had spoken. Her sudden enquiry wafted "Cobbler" Horn back into
the past; and there rose before him the vision of a bonny little nut-brown
damsel of five summers, with eyes like sloes, and a mass of dusky hair.
For an instant he caught his breath. He was startled to see, in the face
of his young secretary what he would probably never have detected, if her
question had not pointed it out.
"Well, really, Miss Owen," he said, simply, "now you speak of it, you are
something like what my little Marian may have grown to be by this time."
"How delicious!" exclaimed Miss Owen.
"Cobbler" Horn was gazing intently at his young secretary. What vague
surmisings, like shadows on a window-blind--were flitting through his
brain? What dim rays of hope were struggling to penetrate the gloom?
Suddenly he started, and shook himself, with a sigh. Of course it could
only be a fancy. How strange the frequent inability to perceive the
significance of circumstances plainly suggestive of the fulfilment of some
long-cherished hope! The joy, deferred so long comes, at last, in an hour
when we are not aware, only to find us utterly oblivious that it is so
near!
"Well, Miss Owen," said "Cobbler" Horn, rising to his feet, "I must be
going to my cobbling. If you want me, you will know where to come."
"Yes, Mr. Horn."
She was aware of his custom of resorting now and then to his old workshop.
When he was gone, she paused for a moment, with her penholder once more
between her lips.
"How nice to think that I am like what that dear little Marian would have
been! I wonder whether we should have been friends, if she had lived?
Poor little thing, she's almost sure to be dead! Though, perhaps not--who
can tell? How queer that Mr. Horn should have lost a little girl, just as
I must have been lost, and about the same time too! As for my being like
her--perhaps, after all, that's only a fancy of his. Well, at any rate, I
must comfort and help him all I can. I can't step into his daughter's
place exactly; but God has put it into my power to be to him, in many
things, what little Marian would have been if he had not lost her; and
for Christ's sake----"
At this point, the young secretary's thoughts became too sacred for prying
eyes. Very soon she turned to her writing again. Half an hour later, the
afternoon post arrived, bringing, amongst other letters, one or two which
necessitated an immediate interview with "Cobbler" Horn. To trip up to her
bedroom and dress herself for going out was the work of a very few
moments; and in a short time she was entering the street where "Cobbler"
Horn and his sister had lived so long, and whence the hapless little
Marian had so heedlessly set out into the great world, on that bright
May morning so many years ago.
As Miss Owen entered the narrow street, she involuntarily raised her hand
to her forehead. The weird feeling of familiarity with the old house and
its vicinity, of which she had already been conscious more than once, had
crept over her again.
"How very strange!" she said to herself. "But there can't be anything in
it!"
As she approached the house, she became aware of the unconcealed scrutiny
of a little man who was standing in the doorway of a shop on the other
side of the street.
It was Tommy Dudgeon, who had just then come to the door to show a
customer out, a civility which he was wont to bestow, if possible, upon
every one who came to the shop. Lingering for a moment, in the hope of
descrying another customer, he saw Miss Owen coming down the street. Tommy
knew about "Cobbler" Horn's secretary; but he had not, as yet, had a fair
view of the young lady. He had not even thought much about her, and he did
not suspect that it was she who was now coming along the street, until she
passed into the old house. But, as he saw her now, with her black hair and
dark glowing face, walking along the pavement in her decided way, he felt,
as he afterwards said, "quite all-overish like." It was, at first, the
vaguest of impressions that he received. Then, as he gazed, he began to
think that he had seen that figure before--though he continued to assure
himself that he had not; and then, as Miss Owen drew nearer, he concluded
that there must be some one of whom she reminded him--some one whom he had
known long ago. Then, with a flash, came back to him the scene--never to
be forgotten--on that long-ago May morning; and Tommy Dudgeon heaved a
sigh, for he had obtained his clue.
"What a rude little man!" thought Miss Owen. "And yet he looks harmless
enough. Why he must be one of the little twin shopkeepers of whom I have
heard Mr. Horn speak. That will account for his interest in me."
The absorption of the young secretary in the duties of her office, during
her stay in the old house, no doubt fully accounted for the fact that she
had not become more familiar with the appearance of Tommy Dudgeon.
By this time Tommy had withdrawn into his shop. But he continued to watch.
Standing partly concealed behind some of the merchandise displayed in the
shop window, he saw Miss Owen enter "Cobbler" Horn's former abode, and
then waited for her once more to emerge.
In ten minutes the young secretary again appeared. Pausing on the
door-step, she looked this way and that, and then, with emphatic tread,
stepped out in the very track of the little twinkling feet which Tommy had
watched in their last departure on that ill-fated spring morning so long
ago. The little man craned his neck to see the better through the window,
and then, unable to restrain himself, he hurried to the doorway of the
shop once more, and, with enlightened eyes, watched the figure of the girl
till it passed out of sight. Then he turned, and rushed into the kitchen
behind the shop. His brother was trying to put one of the twins to sleep
by carrying it to and fro; his brother's wife was making bread. He raised
his hands.
"She's come back!" he cried. Then, recollecting himself, he said, more
quietly, "I mean I've seen the sec'tary."
CHAPTER XXIV.
ON THE OCEAN.
The evening of the next day saw "the Golden Shoemaker" steaming out of the
Mersey, on board the first-rate Atlantic liner on which his passage had
been taken by Messrs. Tongs and Ball. Miss Jemima had bidden her brother
a reluctant farewell. In her secret soul, she nursed a doubt, of which,
indeed, she was half-ashamed, as to the prospect of his safe return; and
she endeavoured to fortify her timorous heart by the utterance of sundry
sharp speeches concerning the folly of his enterprise.
The voyage across the great ocean, in the splendid _floating hotel_ in
which he had embarked was a new and delightful experience to "Cobbler"
Horn. But his peace of mind sustained brief disturbance on his being shown
to his quarters on board the vessel. His lawyers had, as a matter of
course, taken for their wealthy client a first-class passage. It had not
occurred to him to give them any instructions on the point, and they had
taken it for granted that they were doing what he would desire. Perhaps,
if they had asked him, he might, in his ignorance of such matters, have
said, "Oh yes, first-class, by all means." But when he saw the splendid
accommodation which his money had procured, he started back, and said to
the attendant:
"This is much too grand for me. Can't I make a change?"
The attendant stared in surprise.
"'Fraid not sir," he said, "every second-class berth is taken."
"I don't mind about the money," said "Cobbler" Horn hastily. "But I should
be more comfortable in a plainer cabin," and he looked around uneasily at
the luxurious and splendid appointments of the quarters which had been
assigned to him, as his home, for the next few days.
The attendant, regarding with a critical eye the modest attire and
unassuming demeanour of "Cobbler" Horn, inwardly agreed with what this
somewhat eccentric passenger had said.
"The only way, sir," said the man, at length, "is to get some one to
change with you."
"Ah, the very thing! How can it be managed?"
The attendant mused with hand on chin.
"Well, sir," he said, gliding into an interrogative tone, "if you really
mean it----?"
"Most certainly I do."
"Then I think I can arrange it for you, sir. There is one second-class
passenger who would probably jump at such a chance. He is an invalid; and
it would be a great comfort to him to get into such quarters as these.
I've heard a good bit about him since he came on board."
"Then he's our man," said "Cobbler" Horn; and then, he added hesitatingly,
"there'll be a sovereign for you, if you manage it at once. I'll wait here
till you let me know."
The attendant sped on his errand, and, before night, the desired exchange
had been duly made--"Cobbler" Horn was established in the comfortable and
congenial accommodation afforded by a second-class cabin, and the invalid
passenger was blessing his unknown benefactor, as he sank to rest amidst
the luxury of his new surroundings.
It was late autumn, and the sea, though not stormy, was sufficiently
restless to make the commencement of the passage unpleasant for all who
were not good sailors. "Cobbler" Horn was not one of these; and, when,
upon the second day out, he observed the deserted appearance of the decks
and saloons, and, on making enquiry of an official, learnt that most of
the passengers were sick, he realized with a healthy and grateful thrill
of pleasure, that he was blessed with immunity from the almost universal
tribulation which waylays the landsman who ventures on the treacherous
deep.
It will, therefore, be readily believed that "the Golden Shoemaker" keenly
enjoyed the whole of the voyage. He breathed the fresh, briny air with
much relish; the wonders of the sea furnished him with many instructive
and pious thoughts; and the ship itself supplied him with an inexhaustible
fund of interest. In particular, he paid frequent visits to the steerage,
where large numbers of emigrants were bestowed. He spent many hours
amongst these poor people; and, by entering into conversation with such of
them as were disposed to talk, he became acquainted with many cases of
necessity, which he was not slow to relieve. Nor did the gifts of money,
which he bestowed with his usual large generosity, constitute the only
form of help he gave. In a thousand nameless ways he ministered to the
wants and relieved the difficulties of his humble fellow-passengers, who
quickly came to look upon him as the good genius of the ship. As a matter
of course, the whisper soon went round, "Who is he?" And when, in some
inscrutable way, the truth leaked out, the poor people regarded him with a
kind of awe. Some, indeed, criticised, and said he did not look much like
a millionaire; but there were many in that motley crowd in whose hearts,
during those few brief days on the ocean, "Cobbler" Horn made for himself
a very sacred place.
In the course of a day or two, the decks and saloons began to assume a
more animated appearance. Hitherto "Cobbler" Horn had not greatly
attracted the attention of the passengers with whom he was more
immediately associated; but now that they were in a condition to think
of something other than their own concerns, their interest in him began
to awake. Who had not heard of "the Golden Shoemaker"--"The Millionaire
Cordwainer"--"The Lucky Son of Crispin"--as he had been variously
designated in the newspapers of the day? When it became known that so
great a celebrity was on board, there was a general desire to make his
acquaintance. Some vainly asked the captain to give them an introduction;
some boldly introduced themselves.
"Cobbler" Horn was courteous to all, in his homely way; but he showed no
anxiety to become further acquainted with these obtrusive persons. The
simplicity of his manners and the plainness of his dress caused much
surprise; and the public interest concerning him sensibly quickened when
whispers floated forth of the giving up of his berth to the invalid
passenger, and of his charitable doings amongst the poor emigrants.
During the voyage, "the Golden Shoemaker" spent much time in close and
prayerful study of his Bible, which had ever been, and still was, his
dearest, and well nigh his only, book. He was induced to do this not only
by his love of the Book itself, but also by a definite desire to absorb,
and transfuse into his own experience, all those teachings of the Word of
God which bore upon the new position in which he had been so strangely
placed.
First of all, he turned to certain notable passages of Scripture which
shot up before his memory like well-known beacon-lights along a rocky
coast. There glared upon him, first of all, the lurid denunciation which
opens the fifth chapter of the Epistle of James, commencing, "Go to now,
ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you!"
"God forbid," he cried, "that my 'gold and silver' should ever become
'cankered!' It would be a terrible thing for their 'rust' to 'witness
against me,' and eat my 'flesh as it were fire'; and it would be yet more
dreadful for the money which has such power for good to be itself given
up to canker and rust!" Then he would meditate on the uncompromising
declarations of Christ--"How hardly shall they that have riches enter into
the Kingdom of God!" "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a
needle, than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of God." He trembled
as he read; but, pondering, he took heart again. Though hard, it was not
impossible, for a man of wealth to enter into the Kingdom of God. "Camel!"
"Eye of a Needle!" He did not know exactly what this strange saying meant;
but he thought he had heard the minister say that it was intended to show
the great difficulty involved in the salvation of a rich man. Then he read
further, "How hard is it for them that trust in riches to enter into the
Kingdom of God," and that seemed to make the matter plain. "Ah," he
thought, "may I be saved from ever trusting in my riches!"
He plucked an ear of wholesome admonition from the parable of the Sower.
"The deceitfulness of riches!" he murmured. "How true!" And he subjected
himself to the most vigilant scrutiny, lest he should be beguiled by the
unlimited possibilities of self-indulgence which his wealth supplied. He
turned frequently to the emphatic declaration of Paul to Timothy. "They
that will be rich," it runs, "fall into temptation and a snare, and into
many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and
perdition. For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some
coveted after, t
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