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 the eyes 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 would not 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 to talk 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?
Poor little 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 have
heard 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."