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THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER:
or, "Cobbler" Horn.
by
J.W. KEYWORTH,
Author of "_Mother Freeman_,"
"_The Churchwarden's Daughter_," _&c._, _&c._
[Illustration: "'Come here, missy!'"--_Page 38._]
London:
J. Williams Butcher,
2 & 3, Ludgate Circus Buildings, Farringdon Street, E.C.
Contents.
Chapter Page
I. BEREAVED! 1
II. AUNT JEMIMA 8
III. HOW MISS JEMIMA MANAGED HER BROTHER'S HOUSE 13
IV. "ME LUN AWAY" 19
V. "THE LITTLE TWIN BRETHREN" 22
VI. THE FATHER'S QUEST 25
VII. WHAT HAD BECOME OF THE CHILD? 36
VIII. THE SHOEMAKER BECOMES "GOLDEN" 41
IX. A STRANGE CLIENT FOR MESSRS. TONGS AND BALL 47
X. MISS JEMIMA IS VERY MUCH ASTONISHED 52
XI. "COBBLER" HORN ANSWERS HIS LETTERS, AND RECEIVES
THE CONGRATULATIONS OF HIS FRIENDS 58
XII. "COBBLER" HORN PAYS A VISIT TO HIS LANDLORD 65
XIII. FREE COBBLERY 72
XIV. "THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER" WAITS UPON HIS MINISTER 76
XV. "COBBLER" HORN ENGAGES A SECRETARY 85
XVI. THE ATTACK ON THE CORRESPONDENCE 91
XVII. A PARTING GIFT FOR "THE LITTLE TWIN BRETHREN" 98
XVIII. THE NEW HOUSE 105
XIX. A TALK WITH THE MINISTER ABOUT MONEY 110
XX. "COBBLER" HORN'S VILLAGE 116
XXI. IN NEED OF REPAIRS 123
XXII. "THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER" INSTRUCTS HIS LAWYERS 129
XXIII. MEMORIES 138
XXIV. ON THE OCEAN 149
XXV. COUSIN JACK 163
XXVI. HOME AGAIN 176
XXVII. COMING INTO COLLISION WITH THE PROPRIETIES 184
XXVIII. BOUNDER GIVES WARNING 193
XXIX. VAGUE SURMISINGS 201
XXX. A NOVEL DIFFICULTY FOR A MAN OF WEALTH 207
XXXI. "COBBLER" HORN'S CRITICS 217
XXXII. "IN LABOURS MORE ABUNDANT" 232
XXXIII. TOMMY DUDGEON ON THE WATCH 239
XXXIV. A "FATHER" AND "MOTHER" FOR THE "HOME" 249
XXXV. THE OPENING OF THE "HOME" 255
XXXVI. TOMMY DUDGEON UNDERTAKES A DELICATE
ENTERPRISE 267
XXXVII. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH 275
XXXVIII. A LITTLE SHOE 285
XXXIX. A JOYOUS DISCOVERY 293
XL. TOMMY DUDGEON'S CONTRIBUTION 305
XLI. NO ROOM FOR DOUBT! 313
XLII. FATHER AND DAUGHTER 326
XLIII. THE TRAMP'S CONFESSION 339
THE GOLDEN SHOEMAKER.
CHAPTER I.
BEREAVED!
In a small house, in a back street, in the large manufacturing town of
Cottonborough, the young wife of "Cobbler" Horn lay dying. It was the
dusk of a wild evening in early winter; and the cruel cough, which could
be heard every now and then, in the lulls of the wind, from the room
upstairs, gave deepening emphasis to the sad fact that the youthful wife
and mother--for such also she was--had fallen a victim to that fell
disease which sweeps away so much of the fair young life of our land.
"Cobbler" Horn himself was engaged just now in the duties of his calling,
in the little workshop behind the kitchen. The house was very small. The
kitchen and workshop were the only rooms downstairs, and above them were
three small chambers. The one in which the dying woman lay was over the
workshop, and the sound of her coughing came down with sharp distinctness
through the boarded floor, which was the only ceiling of the lower room.
"Cobbler" Horn knew that the death of his wife was probably a question of
a few hours at most. But he had promised that the boots on which he was at
work should be finished that night; and he had conscientiously withdrawn
from his wife's bedside that he might keep his word.
"Cobbler" Horn was a man of thirty or so. He was tall, and had somewhat
rugged features and clear steadfast eyes. He had crisp black hair, and a
shaven face. His complexion was dark, and his bare arms were almost as
brown as his leathern apron. His firmly set lips and corrugated brow, as
he bent now over his work, declared him to possess unusual power of will.
Indeed a strength of purpose such as belongs to few was required to hold
him to his present task. Meanwhile his chief misgiving was lest the noise
he was compelled to make should distress his dying wife; and it was
touching to see how he strove to modify, to the utmost degree which was
consistent with efficient workmanship, the tapping of the hammer on the
soles of the boots in hand.
Sorrowing without bitterness, "Cobbler" Horn had no rebellious thoughts.
He did not think himself ill-used, or ask petulantly what he had done that
such trouble should come to him. His case was very sad. Five years ago he
had married a beautiful young Christian girl. Twelve months later she had
borne their little dark-eyed daughter Marian. Two years thereafter a baby
boy had come and gone in a day; and, from that time, the mother had
drooped and faded, day by day, until, at length, the end was close at
hand. But "Cobbler" Horn was a Christian, and did not repine.
His task was finished at last, and, with a sigh of relief, he rose to his
feet. In that moment, he became aware of a tiny figure, standing in the
open doorway of the kitchen. It was that of a little four-year-old girl,
clad in a ruby-coloured dress, which matched to perfection her dark skin
and black hair. Her crimson cheeks were dashed with tears, and she looked
like a damask rose just sprinkled by a shower of rain. The light in her
dark eyes, which glistened with intense excitement beneath her jet-black
hair, indicated that her tears were those of indignation rather than
grief. How long she had been standing there he could not tell; but, as
soon as she saw that her father had finished his work, little Marian--for
she it was--darted forward, and throwing her arms around his neck, with a
sob, let her small dusky head fall upon the polished breast-piece of his
leathern apron.
"What's amiss with daddy's poppet?" asked the father tenderly, as he
clasped the quivering little form more closely to his breast.
The only answer was a convulsive movement of the little body within his
arms.
"Come, darling, tell daddy." Strange strugglings continued within the
strong, encircling arms. This little girl of four had as strong a will as
her father; and she was conquering her turbulent emotions, that she might
be able to answer his questions. In a moment she broke away from his
clasp, and, dashing the tears from her eyes with her little brown hands,
stood before him with glowing face and quivering lip.
"Me 'ant to see mammy!" she cried--the child was unusually slow of speech
for her age. "Dey 'on't 'et Ma-an do upstairs."
"Cobbler" Horn took the child upon his knee, and gently stroked the small
dusky head.
"Mammy is very ill, Marian," he said gently.
"Me 'ant to see mammy," was the emphatic response.
"By and bye, darling," replied the father huskily.
"What 'oo going to c'y for, daddy?" demanded the child, looking up hastily
into her father's face. "Poor daddy!" she continued, stroking his cheek
with her small brown hand, "Isn't 'oo very well?"
"I'm not going to cry, darling," said the father, bowing his head over his
child, and taking into his strong hand the little fingers which still
rested against his face. "You don't understand, my poor child!"
There followed a brief pause.
"P'ease, daddy," pleaded Marian presently, "Ma-an _must_ see mammy. Dere's
such pitty fings in se shops, and me 'ants to do with mammy to see dem--in
morning."
The shops were already displaying their Christmas decorations.
Marian's father gave a great gasp.
"Marian shall see mammy now," he said solemnly, as he rose from his stool
still holding the child to his breast.
"I'se so glad!" and she gave a little jump in his arms. "Good daddy!"
"But father's little poppet must be quiet, and not talk, or cry."
"No," said Marian with childhood's readiness to make a required promise.
The child had not seen her mother since the previous day, and the altered
face upon the pillow was so strange to her, that she half turned away, as
though to hide her face upon her father's shoulder.
The gleaming eyes of the dying mother were turned wistfully towards her
child.
"See, poppet; look at mammy!" urged the father, turning the little face
towards the bed.
"Mother's darling!"
There was less change in the mother's voice than in her face; and the next
moment the little dark head lay on the pillow, and the tiny, nut-brown
hand was stroking the hollow cheek of the dying woman.
"'oo is my mammy, isn't 'oo?"
"Yes, darling; kiss mammy good-bye," was the heart-breaking answer.
"Me tiss 'oo," said the child, suiting the action to the word; "but not
dood-bye. Me see 'oo aden. Mammy, se shops is so bootiful! Will 'oo take
Ma-an to see dem? 'nother day, yes 'nother day."
"Daddy will take Marian to see the shops," said the dying mother, in
labouring tones. "Mammy going to Jesus. Jesus will take care of mother's
little lamb."
The mother's lips were pressed in a last lingering kiss upon the face of
her child, and then Marian was carried downstairs.
When the child was gone, "Cobbler" Horn sat down by the bedside, and took
and held the wasted hand of his wife. It was evident that the end was
coming fast; and urgent indeed must be the summons which would draw him
now from the side of his dying wife. Hour after hour he sat waiting for
the great change. As the night crept on, he watched the deepening shadow
on the beloved face, and marked the gathering signs which heralded the
brief triumph of the king of terrors. There was but little talk. It could
not be otherwise; for, every moment, utterance became more difficult to
the dying wife. A simple, and affectionate question and answer passed now
and then between the two. At infrequent intervals expressions of spiritual
confidence were uttered by the dying wife; and these were varied with a
few calmly-spoken directions about the child. From the husband came, now
and then, words of tender encouragement, mingled with morsels of
consolation from the good old Book, with, ever and anon, a whispered
prayer.
The night had almost passed when the end came. The light of the grey
December dawn was struggling feebly through the lattice, when the young
wife and mother, whose days had been so few, died, with a smile upon her
face; and "Cobbler" Horn passed out of the room and down the stairs, a
wifeless husband and the father of a motherless bairn.