“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 mylight; 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.
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 theeyes 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 wouldnot 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 totalk 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? Poorlittle 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 haveheard 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.”
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 splendidfloating hotelin 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 theirwealthy 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 thevoyage. 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 thantheir 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 denunciationwhich 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 ofself-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, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.” “Ah!” he would exclaim, “I didn’t want to be rich. At the very most Agur’s prayer would have been mine: ‘Give me neither poverty nor riches.’ But it’s quite true that riches bring ‘temptations’ and are a ‘snare,’ whether people ‘will’ be rich or become rich against their will; and I must be on the watch. And then there’s that about ‘the love of money’ being ‘the root of all evil!’” As he spoke, he drew a handful of coins from his pocket, and eyed them askance. “Queer things to love!” he mused. And then, as he thought of his balance at the bank, his large rent-roll, and his many profitable investments, his face grew very grave. “Ah,” he sighed, letting copper, silver, and gold, slide jingling back into his pocket, “I think I have an idea how some people get to love their money. Lord saveme.”
He was very fond of the book of Proverbs. Its short, sententious sentences were altogether to his mind. “There is that scattereth,” he read, “and yet increaseth; and there is that withholdeth more than is meet, but it tendeth to poverty.” “I scatter,” he said; “but I don’t want to increase. Lord, spare methe consequences of my scattering! ‘Withholdeth more than is meet’! Lord, by Thy grace, that will not I! I have no objection to poverty; but I would not have it come in that way!”
“There is that maketh himself rich,” he read again, “Yet hath nothing; there is that maketh himself poor, yet hath great riches.” “Ah,” he sighed, “to possess such riches, I would gladly make myself poor!” But there was one text in the book of Proverbs which “Cobbler” Horn could never read without a smile. “The poor,” it ran “is hated even of his own neighbour; but the rich hath many friends.” He thought of his daily shoals of letters, of the numerous visiting cards which had been left at the door of his new abode, and of the obsequious attentions he had begun to receive from the office-bearers and leading members of his church; and he called to mind the eagerness of his fellow-voyagers to make his acquaintance. “Ah” he mused shrewdly, “friends, like most good things, are chiefly to be had when you don’t need them!”
In these sacred studies, the days passed swiftly for “the Golden Shoemaker.” Very different were the methods by which the majority of his fellow-passengers endeavoured to beguile the time. Amongst the least objectionable of these were concerts, theatricals, billiards, and all kinds of games. Much time was spent by the ladies in idle chat, to which the gentlemen added the seductions of cigar and pipe. There were not a few of the passengers, moreover, who resorted to the vicious excitement of betting;and “Cobbler” Horn marked with amazement and horror the eagerness with which they staked their money on a variety of unutterably trivial questions. The disposition of really large sums of money was made to depend, on whether a certain cloud would obscure the sun or not; whether a large bird, seen as they neared the land, would sweep by on one side of the ship or the other; whether the pilot would prove to be tall or short; and upon a multitude of other matters so utterly unimportant, that “the Golden Shoemaker” began to think he was voyaging with a company of escaped lunatics.
To one gentleman, who proposed to take a bet with him as to the nationality of the next vessel they might happen to meet, he gave a characteristic reply.
“Thank you,” he said gravely, “I am not anxious on that subject; and, if I were, I should wait for the appearance of the vessel itself. Besides, I cannot think it right to risk my money in the way you propose. I dare not throw away upon a mere frivolity what God has given me to use for the good of my fellows. And then, if we were to bet, as you suggest, the one who happened to win would be receiving what he had no moral right to possess. I don’t——”
Thus far the would-be better had listened patiently. But it was a bet he wanted, and not a sermon.
“I beg your pardon,” he therefore said, at this point, “I see I have made a mistake;” and with a polite bow, he moved hastily away.
One fine evening, towards the end of the voyage, as “Cobbler” Horn was taking the air on deck, hewas accosted by the attendant who had arranged the transfer of his berth from first to second-class.
“The gentleman, sir,” he said, touching his cap, “who took your cabin——he——”
“Yes,” interrupted “Cobbler” Horn; “how is he? Better, I hope.”
“Much better, sir; and he thought, perhaps you would see him.”
“Do you know what he wants?” asked “Cobbler” Horn, in a hesitating tone.
“Well, sir,” replied the man, “he didn’t exactly say; but I rather suspect it’s a little matter of thanks. And, begging your pardon, sir, it’s very natural.”
“Cobbler” Horn was not offended at the man’s freedom of address, as another in his place might have been.
“If that is all, then,” he said, “I think he must excuse me. I deserve no thanks. I consulted my own inclination, as much as his comfort. I am glad he is better. Tell him he is heartily welcome, and ask him if there is anything more I can do.”
The next morning, as “Cobbler” Horn stood talking, for a minute or so, to the captain, the obsequious attendant once more appeared. Touching his cap with double emphasis, in honour of the captain, he handed a letter to “Cobbler” Horn.
“From the gentleman in your cabin, sir. No answer, sir——I was told to say,” and, once more touching his cap, the polite functionary marched sedately away.