COUSIN JACK.
As "Cobbler" Horn was leaving the vessel at New York, he witnessed the
meeting of Thaddeus P. Waldron and his wife. Mrs. Waldron had come on
board the steamer. She was a wholesome, glowing little woman, encumbered
with no inconvenient quantity of reserve. She flung her arms impulsively
around her husband's neck, and kissed him with a smack like the report of
a pistol.
"Why, Thad," she cried, "do tell! You've completely taken me in! I
expected a scarecrow. What for did you frighten me with that letter I
got last week? It might have been my death!"
Then, with a little trill of a laugh, the happy woman hugged once more
the equally delighted "Thad," and gave him another resounding kiss.
By this time the attention of those who were passing to and fro around
them began to be attracted; and, amongst the rest, "Cobbler" Horn, who
was held for a few moments in the crowd, was watching them with deep
interest.
"Hold hard, little woman," exclaimed Thaddeus, "or I guess I sha'n't have
breath left to tell you my news! And," he added, "it's better even than
you think."
"Oh, Thad, do tell!" she cried, still regarding her husband with admiring
eyes.
"Well, my health has been fixed up by the sea air, and the comfort and
attention I've had during the voyage, which is all through the goodness
of one man. I calculate that man 'ull have to show up before we leave
this vessel. He wasn't out of sight five minutes ago."
As he spoke, he looked round, and saw the figure of "Cobbler" Horn, who,
evidently in dread of a demonstration on the part of his grateful friend,
was modestly moving away amongst the crowd. One stride of Thaddeus P.
Waldron's long legs, and he had his benefactor by the arm.
"Here, stranger--no, darn it all, you aren't a stranger, no how you fix
it--this way sir, if _you_ please."
"Now, little woman," he exclaimed, triumphantly dragging his reluctant
captive towards his wife, "this is the man you have to thank--this man
and God! He gave up----"
"Oh," interrupted "Cobbler" Horn, "you mustn't allow him to thank me for
that, ma-am. I did it quite as much for my own sake."
"Hear him!" exclaimed Thaddeus, with incredulous admiration. "Anyhow he
made me think, little wife, that there was some genuine religion in the
world after all. And that helped me to get better too. And the long and
short of it is, I've been made a new man of, inside and out; and we're
going to have some real good times! And now, old girl, you've just got
to give the man whose done it all a hug and a buss, and then we'll come
along."
"Cobbler" Horn started back in dismay. But Mrs. Thaddeus was thoroughly of
her husband's mind. What he had been, as she knew from his letters, and
what she found him now, passed through her mind in a flash. She was modest
enough, but not squeamish; and the honest face of "Cobbler" Horn was one
which no woman, under the circumstances, need have hesitated to kiss. So,
in a moment, to the amusement of the crowd, to the huge delight of the
grateful Thaddeus, and to the confusion of "the Golden Shoemaker" himself,
the thing was done.
The next minute, the happy and grateful couple were gone, and "Cobbler"
Horn had scarcely time to recover his composure before he found himself
greeted by the agent of Messrs. Tongs and Ball, who, having been furnished
by those gentlemen with a particular description of the personal
appearance of their eccentric client, had experienced but little
difficulty in singling him out. From this gentleman "Cobbler" Horn learnt
that his ill-fated cousin had been removed from the wretched lodgings
where he was found to the best private hospital in New York, where he was
receiving every possible care. The agent had also engaged apartments for
"Cobbler" Horn himself in a first-class hotel in the neighbourhood of the
hospital. It was a great relief to "Cobbler" Horn that his conductor had
undertaken the care of his luggage, and the management of everything
connected with his debarkation. He was realizing more and more the immense
advantages conferred by wealth. On being shown into the splendid
apartments which had been engaged for him in the hotel, he shrank back as
he had done from the first-class accommodation assigned to him on board
the steam-boat. But this time he was obliged to submit. Wealth has its
penalties, as well as its advantages.
It was early in the forenoon when the vessel arrived; and, when "the
Golden Shoemaker" was duly installed in his luxurious quarters at the
hotel, the agent left him, having first promised to come back at three
o'clock, and conduct him to the bedside of his cousin.
At the appointed time the agent returned.
"Cobbler" Horn was eager to be going, and they at once set out. A few
minutes brought them to the hospital where his cousin lay. They were
immediately shown in, and "Cobbler" Horn found himself entering a bright
and airy chamber, where he presently stood beside his cousin's bed.
The sick man had been apprised of the approaching visit of his generous
relative from over the water, and he regarded "Cobbler" Horn now with a
kind of dull wonder in his hollow eyes. At the same time he held out a
hand which was wasted almost to transparency. "Cobbler" Horn took the
thin fingers in his strong grasp; and, as he looked, with a great pity, on
the sunken cheeks, the protruding mouth, the dark gleaming eyes, and the
contracted forehead with its setting of black damp hair, he thought that,
if ever he had seen the stamp of death upon a human face, he saw it now.
"Well, cousin Jack," he said sadly, "it grieves me that our first meeting
should be like this."
Cousin Jack, struggling with strong emotion, regarded his visitor with a
fixed look. His mouth worked convulsively, and it was some moments before
he could speak. At length he found utterance, in hollow tones, and with
laboured breath.
"Have you--come all this way--across the water--on purpose to see me?"
"Yes," replied "Cobbler" Horn, simply, "of course I have. I wanted you to
know that you are to have your honest share of our poor uncle's money. And
because I was determined to make sure that everything was done for you
that could be done, and because I wished to do some little for you myself,
I did not send, but came."
"Uncle's money! Ah, yes, they told me about it. Well, you might have kept
it all; and it's very good of you--very. But money won't be much use to me
very long. It's your coming that I take so kindly. You see, I hadn't a
friend; and it seemed so dreadful to die like that. Oh, it was good of you
to come!"
In his wonder at the loving solicitude which had brought his cousin across
the water to his dying bed, he almost seemed to undervalue the act of
rare unselfishness by which so much money had been relinquished which
might have been kept without fear of reproach. "Cobbler" Horn was not hurt
by the seeming insensibility of his poor cousin to the great sacrifice he
had made on his behalf. He did not desire, nor did he think that he
deserved, any credit for what he had done. He had simply done his duty, as
a matter of course. But he was much gratified that his poor cousin was so
grateful for his coming. He sat down, with shining eyes, by the bedside,
and took the wasted hand in his once more.
"Cousin," he asked, "have they cared for you in every way?"
"Yes, cousin, they have done what they could, thanks to your goodness!"
"Not at all. Your own money will pay the bill, you know."
For a moment cousin Jack was perplexed. His own money? He had not a cent.
in the world! He had actually forgotten that his cousin had made him rich.
"My own money?"
"Yes; the third part of what uncle left you know."
A slight flush mantled the hollow cheeks.
"Oh yes; what a dunce I am! I'm afraid I'm very ungrateful. But you see I
seem to have done with such things. And yet the money is going to be of
some use to me after all."
"Yes, that it is! It shall bring you comfort, ease, and, if possible,
health and life."
The sick man shook his head.
"No," he said, wistfully; "a little of the first two, perhaps, but none of
the last. I know I can't live many weeks; and it's no use deceiving myself
with false hopes."
As "Cobbler" Horn looked at his cousin, he knew that he was not mistaken
in his forecast.
"Cobbler" Horn did not remain long with his sick cousin at this time.
"There is one thing I should like," he said gravely, as he rose from his
seat.
"There is not much that I can deny you," replied Jack; "what is it?"
He spoke without much show of interest.
"I should like to pray with you before I go."
Cousin Jack started, and again his pale face flushed.
"Certainly," he said, "if you wish it; but it will be of no use. Nothing
is of any use now."
"The Golden Shoemaker" knelt down beside the bed, and prayed for his dying
cousin, in his own simple, fervent way. Then, with a promise to come again
on the following day, he passed out of the room.
The prayer had been brief, and poor Jack had listened to it with heedless
resignation; but it had struck a chord in his bruised heart which
continued to vibrate long after his visitor was gone.
The next day "Cobbler" Horn found his cousin in a more serious mood. The
poor young man told him something of his sad history; and "Cobbler" Horn
spoke many earnest and faithful words. It became increasingly evident to
"Cobbler" Horn, day by day, that life was ebbing fast within his cousin's
shattered frame; and he grew ever more anxious to bring the poor young
fellow to the Saviour. But somehow the work seemed to drag. Jack would
express a desire for salvation; and yet, somehow he seemed to be holding
back. The hindrance was revealed, one day, by a stray question asked by
"Cobbler" Horn.
"How about your will, Jack?"
Jack stared blankly.
"My will? Why should I make a will?"
"Because you have some money to leave."
"Ah! Whose will it be, if I die without a will?"
"Mine, I suppose," said "Cobbler" Horn reluctantly, after a moment's
thought.
"Well, then, let it be; nothing could be better."
"But is there no one to whom you would like to leave your money?"
Jack looked fixedly at the already beloved face of his cousin. Then his
own face worked convulsively, and he covered it with his wasted fingers.
"Yes, yes," he said, in tones of distress; "there is some one. That
is---- You are sure the money is really my own?"
He seemed all eagerness now to possess his share of the money.
"To be sure it is," responded "Cobbler" Horn. "That is quite settled."
"Well, then, there is a poor girl who would have given her life for mine;
but I have behaved to her like a brute. She shall have every penny of
it."
"Cobbler" Horn listened with intense interest, and at once gave expression
to a burning apprehension which had instantly pierced his mind.
"Behaved like a brute!" he exclaimed. "Not in the worst way of all, I
hope, Jack?"
"No, no, not that!" cried Jack, in horror.
"Thank God! But now, do you know where this poor girl is to be found?"
"I think so. Her name is Bertha Norman, and her parents live in a village
only a few miles from here. When I gave her up, I believe she left her
situation, here in the city, and went home with a broken heart."
"Well, Jack, your decision will meet with the approval of God. But, in
the meantime, we must try to find this poor girl."
"If you only would!"
"Of course. But, with regard to the other matter--you would like to have
the thing done at once?"
"The thing?"
"The will."
"Oh yes; it would be better so."
"Then we'll arrange, if possible, for this afternoon. Perhaps you know a
lawyer?"
"No. Amongst all my follies, I have kept out of the hands of the lawyers.
But there is the gentleman who rescued me from that den, where I should
have been dead by now. Perhaps he would do?"
"Ah, the agent of my lawyers in London! Well, I'll see him at once."
So the thing was done. That afternoon the lawyer came to receive
instructions, and the next morning the will was presented and duly signed.
When the lawyer was gone, Jack turned feebly to "Cobbler" Horn.
"There's just one thing more," he said. "I must see her, and tell her
about it myself."
"Would she come" asked "Cobbler" Horn. "And do you think it would be
well?"
"'Come'? She would come, if I were dying at North Pole. And there will be
no peace for me, till I have heard from her own lips that she has forgiven
me."
"Ah!" ejaculated "Cobbler" Horn. "Do you say so?"
"Yes, cousin; I feel that it's no use to ask pardon of God, till Bertha
has forgiven me. You know what I mean."
"Yes," said "Cobbler" Horn gently; "I know what you mean, and I'll do what
I can."
"Thank you!" said Jack, fervently. "But it mustn't be by letter. You must
go and see her yourself, if you will; and I don't think you will refuse."
"Cobbler" Horn shrank, at first, from so delicate and difficult a mission,
for which he pronounced himself utterly unfit. But the pathetic appeal of
the dark, hollow eyes, which gleamed upon him from the pillow, ultimately
prevailed.
"Tell her," said Jack, as "Cobbler" Horn wished him good night, "that I
dare not ask pardon of God, till I have her forgiveness from her own
lips."
In a village almost English in its rural loveliness "Cobbler" Horn found
himself, the next morning, face to face, in the little front-room of a
humble cottage, with a pale, sorrowful maiden, on whose
pensively-beautiful face hope and fear mingled their lights and shadows
while he delivered his tender message.
"Would she go with him?"
"Go?" she exclaimed, with trembling eagerness, "of course I will! But how
good it is of you, sir--a stranger, to come like this!"
So Bertha Norman came back with "Cobbler" Horn to the private hospital in
New York. He put her into her cousin's room, closed the door, and then
quietly came downstairs. Bertha did not notice that her conductor had
withdrawn. She flew to the bedside. The dying man put out a trembling
hand.
"Forgive----" he began in broken tones.
But she stifled his words with gentle kisses, and, sitting down by the
bed, clasped his poor thin hand.
"Ask God to forgive you, dear Jack. I've never stopped loving you a bit!"
"Yes, I will ask God that," he said. "I can now. But I want to tell you
something first, Bertha. I am a rich man."
Then he told her the wonderful story.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "that was your friend who brought me here. I felt
that he was good."
"He is," said Jack. "And now Bertha, it's all yours. I've made my will,
and the money is to come to you when I'm gone. You know I'm going,
Bertha?"
She tightened the grasp of her hand on his with a convulsive movement,
but did not speak.
"It 'ull be your very own, Bertha," he said.
"Yes, thank you, dear Jack. But forgive me, if I don't think much about
that just now."
Then there was a brief silence, which was presently broken by Jack.
"You won't leave me, yet, Bertha? You'll stay with me a little while?"
"Jack I shall never leave you any more!" and there was a world of love
in her gentle eyes.
"Thank God!" murmured the dying man. "Till----till----you mean?"
"Yes; but, Jack, you must come back to God!"
"Yes, I will. But call cousin Thomas in."
She found "the Golden Shoemaker" in a small sitting-room downstairs; and,
having brought him up to the sick-chamber, stood before him in the middle
of the room, and, taking his big hand, gently lifted it, with both her
tiny white ones, to her lips.
"In the presence of my dear Jack," she said, "I thank you. But, dear
friend, I think you should take the money back when he is gone."
"My dear young lady," protested "Cobbler" Horn, with uplifted hand, "how
can I take it, seeing it is not mine? But," he added softly, "we will not
speak of it now."
True to her promise, Bertha did not leave her beloved Jack until the end;
and the regular attendants, supplied by the house, so far from regarding
her presence as an intrusion, were easily induced to look upon her as one
of themselves. "Cobbler" Horn was rarely absent during the day-time; and,
in the brief remaining space of poor Jack's chequered life, his gentle
lover, and his high-souled cousin, had the great joy of leading him to
entertain a genuine trust in the Saviour. The end came so suddenly, that
they had no time for parting words; but they had good hope, as they
reverently closed his eyes. When all was over, and he had been laid to
rest in the cemetery, "Cobbler" Horn took Bertha back to her village home,
and then set his face once more towards England, bearing in his heart a
chastened memory, and the image of a sweet, pensive face.