HOME AGAIN.
It was with feelings of deep gratitude to God that "Cobbler" Horn set foot
once more upon his native land. After having been away no longer than four
weeks, he landed at Liverpool on a bright winter's morning, and, taking an
early train, reached Cottonborough about mid-day. He had telegraphed the
time of his arrival, and Bounder, the coachman, was at the station to
meet him with the dog-cart. He had sent his message for the purpose of
preparing his sister for his arrival; for he knew she preferred not to be
taken unawares by such events. If he had given the matter a thought, he
would have told them not to send to meet him at the station. He would
much rather have walked, than ridden, a distance so short. And then he
shrank, at all times, from the idea of making a public parade of his
newly-acquired state. And, if all the truth must be told, he was--not
awed, but mildly irritated, by the imposing presence, and reproachful
civility, of the ideal Bounder.
Here was Bounder now, with his dignified salute. "Cobbler" Horn yearned to
give the man a hearty shake of the hand, and ask him sociably how he had
been getting on. This was obviously out of the question; but, just then,
little Tommy Dudgeon happened to come up, on his way into the station.
Here was an opportunity not to be let slip, and "Cobbler" Horn seized with
avidity on his humble little friend, and gave him the hearty hand-shake
which he would fain have bestowed upon the high and mighty Bounder. It was
a means of grace to "the Golden Shoemaker" once more to clasp the hand of
a compatriot and a friend. He stood talking to Tommy for a few minutes,
while Bounder waited in his seat with an expression of very slightly
veiled scorn on his majestic face.
At length, quite oblivious of the contemptuous disapproval of his
coachman, and greatly refreshed in spirit, "Cobbler" Horn bade his little
friend "good day," and mounted to his seat.
They drove off in silence. "Cobbler" Horn scarcely knew whether his
exacting coachman would think it proper for his master to enter into
conversation with him; and the coachman, on his part, would not be guilty
of such a breach of decorum as to speak to his master when his master had
not first spoken to him.
Miss Jemima was standing in the doorway to receive her brother; and behind
her, with a radiant face, modestly waited the young secretary. Miss Jemima
presented her cheek, as though for the performance of a surgical
operation, and "Cobbler" Horn kissed it with a hearty smack. At the
same time he grasped her hand.
"Well, Jemima," he exclaimed, "I'm back again safe and sound, you see!"
"Yes," was the solemn response, "I'm thankful to see you, brother,--and
relieved."
"Cobbler" Horn laughed heartily, and kissed her on the other cheek.
"Thankful enough, Jemima, let us be. But 'relieved'! well, I had no fear.
You see, my dear sister, the whole round world lies in the hand of God.
And, then, I didn't understand the way the Lord has been dealing with me
of late to mean that he was going to allow me to be cut off quite so soon
as that."
This was said cheerily, and not at all in a preaching tone; and having
said it, "Cobbler" Horn turned, with genuine pleasure, to exchange a
genial greeting with his young secretary, who had remained sedately in
the background.
"Dinner is almost ready," said Miss Jemima, as they entered the house;
"so you must not spend long in your room."
"I promise you," said her brother, from the stairs, "that I shall be at
the table almost as soon as the dinner itself."
During dinner, "Cobbler" Horn talked much about his voyage to and fro, and
his impressions of America. He had sent, by letter, during his absence, a
regular report, from time to time, of the progress of the sorrowful
business which had taken him across the sea; and with regard to that
neither he nor his sister was now inclined to speak at large.
After dinner, "Cobbler" Horn, somewhat to his sister's mortification,
retired to the office, for the purpose of receiving, from his secretary, a
report of the correspondence which had passed through her hands during his
absence.
Let it not be supposed that Miss Jemima was capable of entertaining
suspicion with regard to her brother. She would frown upon his doings and
disapprove of his opinions, with complete unreserve; but she would not
admit concerning him a shadow of mistrust. When, therefore, it is recorded
that his frequent and close intercourse with his young secretary
occasioned his sister uneasiness of mind, it must not be supposed that any
evil imagining intruded upon her thoughts. Miss Jemima was simply fearful
lest this young girl should, perhaps inadvertently, steal into the place
in her brother's heart which belonged to her. As "Cobbler" Horn and his
secretary sat in counsel, from time to time, in their respective
arm-chairs, at the opposite ends of the office table, neither of them
had any suspicion of Miss Jemima's jealous fears.
Miss Owen had dealt diligently, and with much shrewdness, with the
ever-inflowing tide of letters. Her labour was much lightened now by
reason of "Cobbler" Horn's having provided her with the best type-writer
that could be obtained for money. With regard to some of the letters, she
had ventured to avail herself of the advice of the minister; and she had
also, with great tact, consulted Miss Jemima on points with reference to
which the opinion of that lady was likely to be sound and safe. The
consequence was that the letters which remained to be considered were
comparatively few.
First, Miss Owen gave her employer an account of the letters of which she
had disposed; then she unfolded such matters as were still the subjects of
correspondence; and lastly she laid before him the letters with which she
had not been able to deal.
The most important of all the letters were two long ones from Messrs.
Tongs and Ball and Mr. Gray, respectively, relating to the improvements
in progress at Daisy Lane in general, and in particular to the work of
altering and fitting up the old Hall for the great and gracious purpose
on which its owner had resolved. "The Golden Shoemaker" was gratified to
learn, from these letters, that the work of renovating his dilapidated
property had been so well begun, and that already, amongst his
long-suffering tenants, great satisfaction was beginning to prevail.
The remaining letters were passed under review, and then "Cobbler" Horn
lingered for a few moment's chat.
"I mean to take my sister and you to see the village and the Hall one day
soon, Miss Owen," he said.
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Horn!" enthusiastically exclaimed the young secretary.
"You would like to go?"
"I should love it dearly! I can't tell you, Mr. Horn, how much I am
interested in that kind and generous scheme of yours for the old Hall."
In her intercourse with her employer, "Cobbler" Horn's secretary was quite
free and unreserved, as indeed he wished her to be.
"It's to be a home for orphans, isn't it?" she asked.
"Not for orphans only," he replied, tenderly, as he thought of his own
lost little one. "It's for children who have no home, whether orphans or
not,--little waifs, you know, and strays--children who have no one to care
for them."
"I'm doing it," he added, simply, "for the sake of my little Marian."
"Oh, how good of you! And, do you know, Mr. Horn, its being for waifs and
strays makes me like it all the more; because I was a waif and stray once
myself."
She was leaning forward, with her elbows on the table, and her pretty
but decided chin resting on her doubled hands. As she spoke, her somewhat
startling announcement presented itself to her in a serio-comic light,
and a whimsical twinkle came into her eyes. The same impression was
shared by "Cobbler" Horn; and, regarding his young secretary, with her
neatly-clothed person, her well-arranged hair, and her capable-looking
face, he found it difficult to regard as anything but a joke the
announcement that she had once been, as she expressed it, "a waif and
stray."
"You!" he exclaimed, with an indulgent smile.
"Yes, Mr. Horn, I was indeed a little outcast girl. Did not Mr. Durnford
tell you that the dear friends who have brought me up are not my actual
parents?"
"Yes," replied "Cobbler" Horn, slowly, "he certainly did. But I did not
suspect----"
"Of course not!" laughed the young girl. "You would never dream of
insulting me by supposing that I had once been a little tramp!"
"No, of course not," agreed "Cobbler" Horn, with a perplexed smile.
"It's true, nevertheless," affirmed Miss Owen. "Mr. and Mrs. Burton have
been like parents to me almost ever since I can remember, and I always
call them 'father' and 'mother'; but they are no more relations to me than
are you and Miss Horn. They found me in the road, a poor little ragged
mite; and they took me home, and I've been just like their own ever since.
I remember something of it, in a vague sort of way."
"Cobbler" Horn was regarding his secretary with a bewildered gaze.
"You may well be astonished, Mr. Horn. But, do you know, sometimes I
almost feel glad that I don't know my real father and mother. They must
have been dreadful people. But, whatever they were, they could never have
been better to me than Mr. and Mrs. Burton have been. They have treated me
exactly as if I had been their own child."
Many confused thoughts were working in the brain of "Cobbler" Horn.
"But," said Miss Owen, resuming her work, "I must tell you about it
another time."
"Yes, you shall," said "Cobbler" Horn, rousing himself. "I shall want to
hear it all."
So saying, he left the room, and betook himself to his old workshop for an
hour or two on his beloved cobbler's bench. He had placed the old house
under the care of a widow, whom he permitted to live there rent free, and
to have the use of the furniture which remained in the house, and to whom,
in addition, he paid a small weekly fee.
As he walked along the street, he could not fail to think of what his
secretary had just said with reference to her early life. His thoughts
were full of pathetic interest. Then she too had been a little homeless
one! The fact endeared to him, more than ever, the bright young girl who
had come like a stream of sunshine into his life. For to "Cobbler" Horn
his young secretary was indeed becoming very dear. It could not be
otherwise. She was just filling his life with the gentle and considerate
helpfulness which he had often thought would have been afforded to him by
his little Marian. And now, it seemed to draw this young girl closer to
him still, when he learnt that she had once been homeless and friendless,
as he had too much reason to fear that his own little one had become. He
had a feeling also that the coincidence therein involved was strange.