“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. Itwould 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 wordman, and not on the wordyoung.
“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 evensober-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 theminister 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.
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 thepicture! 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 hadcome 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 liberalresponse, 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 yourwomanof 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. Ifhis 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.
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 huckstersconsidered 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 Jemimaand 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 conductorinto 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 swiftlyto 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 howhe 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.
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 thatday. 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 hissurvey 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 domesticswere 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.”
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. “Itis 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 youto 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 theminister, 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!
“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 voicesfrom 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. Graycandidly. “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. Butthat 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.”
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 blunterperception 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 workwith 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 placeinto 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.