"COBBLER" HORN'S VILLAGE.
It was the custom of "Cobbler" Horn to spend the first hour of every
morning, after breakfast, in the office, with his secretary. They would go
through the letters which required attention; and, after he had given Miss
Owen specific directions with regard to some of them, he would leave her
to use her own discretion with reference to the rest. Amongst the former,
there were frequently a few which he reserved for the judgment of Mr.
Durnford. It was the duty of the young secretary to scan the letters which
came by the later posts; but none of them were to be submitted to
"Cobbler" Horn until the next morning, unless they were of urgent
importance.
One morning, about a week after the removal to the new house, the office
door suddenly opened, and "Cobbler" Horn emerged into the hall in a state
of great excitement, holding an open letter in his hand.
"Jemima!" he shouted.
The only response was a sound of angry voices from the region of the
kitchen, amidst which he recognised his sister's familiar tones. Surely
Jemima was not having trouble with the servants! Approaching the kitchen
door, he pushed it slightly open, and peeped into the room. Miss Jemima
was emphatically laying down the law to the young and comely cook, who
stood back against the table, facing her mistress, with the rolling-pin in
her hand, and rebellion in every curve of her figure and in every feature
of her face.
"You are a saucy minx," Miss Jemima was saying, in her sharpest tones.
"'Minx' yourself," was the pert reply. "No mistress shan't interfere with
me and my work, as you've done this last week. If you was a real lady, you
wouldn't do it."
"You rude girl, I'll teach you to keep your place."
"Keep your own," rapped out the girl; "and it 'ull be the better for all
parties. As for me, I shan't keep this place, and I give you warning from
now, so there!"
At this moment, the girl caught sight of her master's face at the door,
and flinging herself around to the table, resumed her work. Miss Jemima,
in her great anger, advanced a pace or two, with uplifted hand, towards
the broad back of her rebellious cook: "Cobbler" Horn, observing the
position of affairs, spoke in emphatic tones.
"Jemima, I want you at once."
Miss Jemima started, and then, without a word, followed her brother to the
dining-room.
"Brother," she said, snatching, in her anger, the first word, "that girl
has insulted me grossly."
"Yes, Jemima, I heard; but try to forget it for a moment. I have great
news for you. This letter is about cousin Jack."
In a moment Miss Jemima had forgotten her insubordinate cook.
"So the poor creature is found!" she said when she had taken, and read,
the letter.
"Yes, and he proves to be in a condition which will render doubly welcome
the good news he will shortly receive."
"Then you persist in your intention to hand over to him a share of uncle's
money?"
"To be sure I do!"
"Well," retorted Miss Jemima, somewhat acrimoniously, "it's a pity. That
portion of the money will be dispersed in a worse manner even than it was
gathered."
"Don't say that, Jemima," said her brother gravely.
"Well," asked Miss Jemima, dispensing with further protest, "what are you
going to do?"
"The first thing is to see Messrs. Tongs and Ball. You see they ask me to
do so. I can't get away to-day. To-morrow I am to visit our village, you
know; and, as it is on the way to London, the best plan will be to go on
when I am so far."
So it was settled, and Miss Owen was instructed to write the lawyers,
saying that Mr. Horn would wait upon them on the morning of the third day
from that time.
The next morning, "Cobbler" Horn, having invested his young secretary with
full powers in regard to his correspondence, during his absence, set off
by an early train for Daisy Lane, en route for London. He had but a vague
idea as to the village of which he was the chief proprietor. He was aware,
however, that his property there, including the old hall itself, was, to
quote Mr. Ball, "somewhat out of repair"; and he rejoiced in the prospect
of the opportunity its dilapidation might present of turning to good
account some considerable portion of his immense wealth.
It was almost noon when the train stopped at the small station at which
he was to alight. He was the only passenger who left the train at that
station; and, almost before his feet had touched the platform, he was
greeted by a plain, middle-aged man, of medium height and broad of build,
whose hair was reddish-brown and his whiskers brownish-red, while his
tanned and glowing face bore ample evidence of an out-door life. He had
the appearance of a good-natured, intelligent, and trustworthy man. This
was John Gray, the agent of the property; and "Cobbler" Horn liked him
from the first.
"It's only a mile and a half to the village sir," said the man, as they
mounted the trap which was waiting outside the station; "and we shall soon
run along."
The trap was a nondescript and dilapidated vehicle, and the horse was by
no means a thoroughbred. But the whole turn-out was faultlessly clean.
"It's rather a crazy concern, sir," said Mr. Gray candidly. "But you
needn't be afraid. It will hold together for this time, I think."
"Cobbler" Horn smiled somewhat sadly, as he mounted to his seat. Here was
probably an instalment of much with which he was destined to meet that
day.
"Wake up, Jack!" said Mr. Gray, shaking the reins. The appearance of
the animal indicated that it was necessary for him to take his master's
injunction in a literal sense. He awoke with a start, and set off at a
walking pace, from which, by dint of much persuasion on the part of his
driver, he was induced to pass into a gentle trot.
"He never goes any faster than that," said the agent.
"Ah!" ejaculated "Cobbler" Horn. "But we must try to get you something
better to drive about in than this, Mr. Gray."
"Thank you, sir. It will be a good thing."
As they slowly progressed along the pleasant country road, the agent gave
his new employer sundry particulars concerning the property of which he
had become possessed.
"Nearly all the village belongs to you, sir. There's only the church and
vicarage, and one farm-house, with a couple of cottages attached, that are
not yours. But you'll find your property in an awful state. I've done what
I could to patch it up; but what can you do without money?"
"I hope, Mr. Gray," said the new proprietor, "that we shall soon rectify
all that."
"Of course you will, sir," said the candid agent. "It's very painful," he
added, "to hear the complaints the people make."
"No doubt. You must take me to see some of my tenants; but you must not
tell them who I am."
"There's a decent house!" he remarked presently, as they came in sight
of a comfortable-looking residence, which stood on their left, at the
entrance of the village.
"Ah, that's the vicarage," replied the agent, "and the church is a little
beyond, and along there, on the other side of the road, is the farm-house
which does not belong to you."
They were now entering the village, the long, straggling street of which
soon afforded "the Golden Shoemaker" evidence enough of his deceased
uncle's parsimonious ideas. Half-ruined cottages and tumbledown houses
were dispersed around; here and there along the main street, were two or
three melancholy shops; and in the centre of the village stood a
disreputable-looking public-house.
"I could wish," said "Cobbler" Horn, as they passed the last-mentioned
building, "that my village did not contain any place of that kind."
"There's no reason," responded the agent, with a quiet smile, "why you
should have a public-house in the place, if you don't want one."
"Couldn't we have a public-house without strong drink?"
"No doubt we could, sir; but it wouldn't pay."
"You mean as a matter of money, of course. But that is nothing to me, and
the scheme would pay in other respects. I leave it to you, Mr. Gray, to
get rid of the present occupant of the house as soon as it can be done
without injustice, and to convert the establishment into a public-house
without the drink--a place which will afford suitable accommodation for
travellers, and be a pleasant meeting place, of an evening, for the men
and boys of the village."
"Thank you, sir," said the agent, with huge delight. "Have I carte
blanche?"
"'Carte blanche'?" queried "Cobbler" Horn, with a puzzled air. "Let me
see; that's----what? Ah, I know--a free hand, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir," replied the agent gravely.
"Then that's just what I mean."
As they drove on, "Cobbler" Horn observed that most of the gardens
attached to the cottages were in good order, and that some of the people
had been at great pains to conceal the mouldering walls of their wretched
huts with roses, honeysuckle, and various climbing plants. Glowing with
honest shame, he became restlessly eager to wave his golden wand over this
desolate scene.
"This is my place, sir," said the agent, as they stopped at the gate of a
dingy, double-fronted house. "You'll have a bit of dinner with us in our
humble way?"
"Thank you," said "the Golden Shoemaker," "I shall be very glad."