A PARTING GIFT FOR "THE LITTLE TWIN BRETHREN."
The honest joy of "the little twin brethren" at the sudden enrichment
of their friend, "Cobbler" Horn, was dashed with a deep regret. It was
excellent that he had been made a wealthy man. As Tommy Dudgeon expressed
it, "Providence had not made a mistake this time, anyhow." But, in common
with the rest of "Cobbler" Horn's neighbours, the two worthy little men
bitterly deplored the inevitable departure of their friend from their
midst. It was "not to be supposed," said Tommy again--it was always Tommy
who said things; to John had been assigned the honour of perpetuating the
family name--it was "not to be supposed that a millionaire would live in
a small house, in a narrow street, remain at the cobbler's bench, or
continue to associate with poor folks like themselves." The little
hucksters considered it a matter of course that "Cobbler" Horn would
shortly remove to another and very different abode, and they mourned
over the prospect with sincere and bitter grief.
The little men had good reason for their sorrow, for to none of all his
poor neighbours had "Cobbler" Horn been a better friend. And their regret
in view of his approaching removal was fully reciprocated by "Cobbler"
Horn himself. Of all the friends, in the network of streets surrounding
his humble abode, whom he had fastened to his heart with the golden hooks
of love, there were none whom he held more closely there than the two
little tradesmen across the way. His intercourse with them had been one of
the chief refreshments of his life; and he knew that he would sadly miss
his humble little friends.
And now the time had come for the removal, and the evening previous to the
departure from the old home, "the Golden Shoemaker" paid his last visit,
in the capacity of neighbour, to the worthy little twins. He had long
known that they had a constant struggle to make their way. He had often
assisted them as far as his own hitherto humble means would allow; and
now, he had resolved that before leaving the neighbourhood, he would make
them such a present as would lift them, once for all, out of the quagmire
of adversity in which they had floundered so long.
At six o'clock, on that autumn evening, it being already dusk, "Cobbler"
Horn opened his front door, and stood for a moment on the step. Miss
Jemima and the young secretary were both out of the way. If Miss Jemima
had known where her brother was going and for what purpose, she would have
held up her hands in horror and dismay, and might even, had she been
present, have tried to detain him in the house by main force.
"Cobbler" Horn lingered a moment on the door-step, with the instinctive
hesitation of one who is about to perform an act of unaccustomed
magnitude; but his soul revelled in the thought of what he was going
to do. He was about to exercise the gracious privilege of the wealthy
Christian man; and, as he handled a bundle of crisp bank-notes which he
held in the side pocket of his coat, his fingers positively tingled with
rapture.
The street was very quiet. A milk girl was going from door to door, and
the lamplighter was vanishing in the distance. Yet "Cobbler" Horn flitted
furtively across the way, as though he were afraid of being seen; and,
having glided with the stealth of a burglar through the doorway of the
little shop, found himself face to face with Tommy Dudgeon. The smile of
commercial satisfaction, which had been summoned to the face of the little
man by the consciousness that some one was coming into the shop, resolved
itself into an air of respectful yet genial greeting when he recognised
"Cobbler" Horn.
"Ah, good evening, Mr. Horn! You said you would pay us a farewell visit,
and we were expecting you. Come in, sir."
"Cobbler" Horn followed his humble conductor into the small but cosy
living-room behind, which the large number of its occupants caused to
appear even smaller than it was. John Dudgeon was there, and Mrs. John,
and several offshoots of the Dudgeon tree. Mrs. Dudgeon was ironing at a
table beneath the one small window, in the fading light. She was a staid
and dapper matron, with here and there the faintest line of care upon her
comely face. A couple of the children were rolling upon the hearthrug in
the ruddy glow of the fire, and two or three others were doing their
home-lessons by the aid of the same unsteady gleam. The father, swept to
one side by the surges of his superabundant family, sat on a chair at the
extreme corner of the hearthrug, with both the twins upon his knees.
"Cobbler" Horn was greeted with the cordiality due to an old family
friend. Even the children clustered around him and clung to his arms and
legs. Mrs. John, as she was invariably called--possibly on the assumption
that Tommy Dudgeon also would, in due time, take a wife, cleared the
children away from the side of the hearth opposite to her husband, and
placed a chair for the ever-welcome guest. Tommy Dudgeon, who had slipped
into the shop to adjust the door-bell, so that he might have timely notice
of the entrance of a customer, soon returned, and placing a chair for
himself between his brother and "Cobbler" Horn, sat down with his feet
amongst the children, and his gaze fixed on the fire.
For a time there was no sound in the room but the click of Mrs. John's
iron, as it travelled swiftly to and fro. Even the children were
preternaturally quiet. At length Tommy spoke, in sepulchral tones, with
his eyes still on the fire.
"Only to think that it's the last time!"
"What's the last time, friend?" asked "Cobbler" Horn, with a start.
"Why this--that we shall see you sitting there so sociable like, Mr.
Horn."
"Indeed, I hope not," was the hearty response. "You're not going to get
rid of me so easily as that, old friend."
"Why," exclaimed Tommy, "I thought you were going to remove; and I'm sure
no one could find fault with it."
"Yes: but you surely don't suppose I'm going to turn my back on my old
neighbours altogether?"
"What you say is very kind," replied Tommy; "but, Mr. Horn, we can't
expect to see you very often after this."
"Well, friend, perhaps oftener than you think." Then he told them that he
had bought the house in which he had lived amongst them, and meant to keep
it up, and come there almost every day to mend boots and shoes, without
charge for his poor customers.
"Well, to be sure!" exclaimed Tommy Dudgeon, while John chuckled
exultantly to the twins, and Mrs. John moved her iron more vigorously to
and fro, and hastily raised her hand to brush away a grateful and admiring
tear.
Meanwhile "Cobbler" Horn was considering how he might most delicately
disclose the special purpose of his visit.
"But after all," he said at length, "this is a farewell visit. I'm going
away, and, after to-morrow, I shall not be your neighbour any more."
For some moments his hand had been once more in his pocket, fingering the
bank-notes. He now drew them forth very much in the way in which a man
entrapped into a den of robbers might draw a pocket-pistol, and smoothed
them out upon his knee.
"I thought, old friend," he said, turning to Tommy Dudgeon, "that perhaps
you might be willing to accept a trifling memento of our long
acquaintance. And, indeed, you mustn't say no."
John Dudgeon was too deeply engaged with the twins to note what was said;
Tommy but dimly perceived the drift of his friend; but upon Mrs. John the
full truth flashed with the clearness of noon.
The next moment the notes were being transferred to the hands of the
astonished Tommy. John was still absorbed with his couple of babies. Mrs.
John was ironing more furiously than ever. Tommy felt, with his finger and
thumb, that there were many of the notes; and he perceived that he and his
were being made the recipients of an act of stupendous generosity. Tears
trickled down his cheeks; his throat and tongue were parched. He tried to
thrust the bank-notes back into the hand of his friend.
"Mr. Horn, you must not beggar yourself on our account."
"Cobbler" laughed. In truth, he was much relieved. It seemed that his
humble friend objected to his gift only because he thought it was too
large.
"'Beggar' myself, Tommy?" he cried. "I should have to be a very reckless
spendthrift indeed to do that. You forget how dreadfully rich I am. Why
these paltry notes are a mere nothing to such a wealth-encumbered
unfortunate as I. But I thought the money would be a help to you. And you
must take it, Tommy, you must indeed. The Lord told me to give it to you;
and what shall I say to Him, if I allow you to refuse His gift?"
And so the generous will of "the Golden Shoemaker" prevailed; and if he
could have heard and seen all that took place by that humble fireside,
after he was gone, he would have been assured that at least one small
portion of his uncle's wealth had been well-bestowed.