BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.
"Cobbler" Horn's first thought was that the strain of eccentricity in his
humble little friend had developed into actual insanity. But, on further
consideration, he was disposed to take another view. He felt bound to
admit that, though there had been a strangeness in the behaviour of the
little man throughout his visit, it had not afforded any actual ground for
the suspicion of insanity, until he had so suddenly rushed away home. It
was, therefore, possible that there might prove to be some important
meaning in what he had said. At first "Cobbler" Horn had gathered nothing
intelligible from the impassioned apostrophe of his excited little friend;
but, by degrees, there dawned upon him some faint gleam of what its
meaning might be. "The sec'tary!" That was the quaint term by which Tommy
was wont to designate Miss Owen. But their conversation had been drifting
in the direction of his little lost Marian. Why, then, should Miss Owen
have been in Tommy's mind? Ah, he saw how it was! His humble friend had
perceived that Miss Owen was a dear, good girl; and he had noticed her
evident attachment to him--"Cobbler" Horn, and his fondness for her, and
no doubt the little man had meant to suggest that she should take the
place of the lost child. It was characteristic of his humble friend that
he should seek, by such a hint, to point out a course which, no doubt,
seemed to him, likely to afford satisfaction to all concerned; and
"Cobbler" Horn could not help admiring the delicacy with which it had been
done.
"The Golden Shoemaker" was quite persuaded that he had hit upon the right
interpretation of the little huckster's words; and he was not altogether
displeased with the suggestion he supposed them to convey. Of course
Marian would ultimately come back; and no one else could be permitted
permanently to occupy her place. But there was no reason why he should not
let his young secretary take, for the time being, as far as possible, the
place which would have been filled by his lost child. In fact, Miss Owen
was almost like a daughter to him already; and he was learning to love her
as such. Well, he would adopt the suggestion of his little friend. His
secretary should fill, for the time, the vacant place in his life. Yet he
would never leave off loving his precious Marian; and her own share of
love, which could never be given to another, must be reserved for her
against her return, when he would have two daughters instead of one.
Thus mused "the Golden Shoemaker," until, suddenly recollecting himself,
he started up. He had promised to visit one of his former neighbours, who
was sick, and it was already past the time at which the visit should have
been made. He hastily threw off his leathern apron, and put on his coat
and hat. At the same moment, he observed that heavy rain was beating
against the window. It was now early summer; and, misled by the fair face
of the sky, he had left home without an umbrella. What was he to do? He
passed into the kitchen, and opening the front door, stood looking out
upon the splashing rain. Behind him, in the room, sat, at her sewing, the
good woman whom he had placed in charge of the house. She was small, and
plump, and shining, the very picture of content. Her manner was
respectful, and, as a rule, she did not address "Cobbler" Horn until he
had spoken to her. To-day, however, she was the first to speak.
"Surely, sir, you won't go out in such a rain!"
As she spoke, the shower seemed suddenly to gather force, and the rain to
descend in greater volume than ever.
"Thank you, Mrs. Bunn," replied "Cobbler" Horn, looking round. "I think I
will wait for a moment or two; but I have no time to spare, and must go
soon, in any case."
The rain had turned the street into a river, upon the surface of which the
plumply-falling drops were producing multitudes of those peculiar
gleaming white splashes which are known to childhood as "sixpences and
half-crowns." All at once the downpour diminished. The sky became lighter,
and the sun showed a cleared face through the thinning clouds.
"I think I may venture now," said "Cobbler" Horn.
"Better wait a little longer, sir; it 'ull come on again," said Mrs. Bunn,
with the air of a person to whom the foibles of the weather were fully
known. But "Cobbler" Horn was already in the street, and had not heard her
words. It was some distance to the house of his sick friend, and he walked
along at a rapid pace. But before he had proceeded far, the prophecy of
Mrs. Bunn was fulfilled. In a moment, the sky grew black again; and, after
a preliminary dash of heavy drops, the rain came down in greater abundance
than before. It almost seemed as though a water-spout had burst. In two
minutes, "the Golden Shoemaker" was wet to the skin. He might have
returned to the house, from which he was distant no more than a few
hundred yards; but he thought that, as he was already wet through, he
might as well go on. Besides, "Cobbler" Horn's promise was sacred, and it
had been given to his sick friend. So he plunged on through the flooded
and splashing streets.
When he reached his destination, he was glad that he had not turned back.
His poor friend was much worse, and it was evident that he had not many
hours to live. Forgetful of his own discomfort, and heedless of danger
from his wet clothes, "Cobbler" Horn took his place at the bedside, and
remained for many hours with the dying man. His friend was a Christian,
and did not fear to die. He had never been married, was almost without
relatives, and had scarcely a friend. As, hour after hour, he held the
hand of the dying man, "Cobbler" Horn whispered in his ear, from time to
time, a cheering word, or breathed a fervent prayer. The feeble utterances
of the dying man, which became less frequent as the hours crept away, left
no doubt as to the reality of his faith in God, and, about midnight, he
passed peacefully away.
"Cobbler" Horn lingered a few moments' longer, and set out for home. The
rain had long ceased, and the sky was without a cloud. The semi-tropical
shower had been followed by a rapid cooling of the atmosphere, and he
shivered in his still damp clothes, as he hurried along.
He found Miss Jemima and the young secretary anxiously awaiting his
return. They knew of his intention of visiting his sick friend, and were
not much surprised that he was so late. But his sister was greatly
concerned to find that he had remained so long with his clothes damp. He
went at once to bed, and Miss Jemima insisted upon bringing to him there
a steaming basin of gruel. He took a few spoonfuls, and then lay wearily
back upon the bed. Miss Jemima shook up his pillows, arranged the
bed-clothes, and reluctantly left him for the night.
In the morning it was evident that "the Golden Shoemaker" was ill. The
wetting he had received, followed by the effect of the chill night air,
had found out an unsuspected weakness in his constitution, and symptoms of
acute bronchitis had set in. The doctor was hastily summoned, and, after
the manner of his kind, gravely shook his head, by way of intimating that
the case was much more serious than he was prepared verbally to admit. The
condition of the patient, indeed, was such as to justify the most alarming
interpretation of the doctor's manner and words.
Now followed a time of painful suspense. In spite of all that money could
do, "Cobbler" Horn grew worse daily. The visits of the doctor, though
repeated twice, and even three times a day, produced but little
appreciable result. Could it be that this man, into whose possession such
vast wealth had so recently come, was so early to be called to relinquish
it again? Was it possible that all this money was so soon to drop from the
hands which had seemed more fit to hold it than almost any other hands to
which had ever been entrusted the disposal of money?
Miss Jemima did not ask herself such questions as these. She moved about
the house, trying, in her grim way, to crush down within her heart the
anguished thought that her beloved and worshipped brother lay at the point
of death.
And Miss Owen--with what emotions did she contemplate the possibility of
that dread event the actual occurrence of which became more probable
every day? She went about her duties like one in a dream. What would it
mean to her if he were to die? She would lose a great benefactor, and a
dear friend; and that would be grief enough. But was there not something
more that she would lose--something which had seemed almost within her
grasp, which it had hitherto been the hope, and yet the fear, of her life
that she might find, but which, of late, she had desired to find with an
ardent and unhalting hope? It was with a sick heart that the young
secretary discharged, from day to day, her now familiar duties. She was
now so well acquainted with the mind of her employer, that she could deal
with the correspondence almost as well without, as with, his help. But she
missed him every moment, and the thought that he might never again take
his place over against her at the office table filled her with bitter
grief.
There were others who were anxious on account of the peril which
threatened the life of "the Golden Shoemaker."
Mr. Durnford was weighted with grave concern. He called every day to see
his friend; and each time he left the sick-chamber, he was uncertain
whether his predominant feeling was that of sorrow for the illness and
danger of so good a man, or rejoicing that, in his pain and peril,
"Cobbler" Horn was so patient and resigned.
In the breasts of many who were accustomed to receive benefits at the
hands of "the Golden Shoemaker," there was great distress. Every day, and
almost every hour, there were callers, chiefly of the humbler classes,
with anxious enquiries on their lips. Not the least solicitous of these
were "the Little Twin Brethren." Tommy Dudgeon almost continually haunted
the house where his honoured friend lay in such dire straits. The anxiety
of the little man was intensified by a burning desire to know whether his
desperate appeal on the subject of the "sec'tary" had produced its
designed effect on the mind of "Cobbler" Horn.
Public sympathy with "Cobbler" Horn and his anxious friends ran deep; and
every one who could claim, in any degree, the privilege of a friend, made
frequent enquiry as to the sufferer's state. But neither public sympathy
nor private grief were of much avail; and it seemed, for a time, as though
the earthly course of "the Golden Shoemaker" was almost run. There came a
day when the doctors confessed that they could do no more. A few hours
must decide the question of life or death. Dreadful was the suspense in
the stricken house, and great the sorrow in many hearts outside. Mr.
Durnford, who had been summoned early in the morning, remained to await
the issue of the day. Little Tommy Dudgeon, who had been informed that the
crisis was near, came, and lingered about the house, on one pretence or
another, unable to tear himself away.
But how was it with "the Golden Shoemaker" himself? From the first, he had
been calm and patient; and, even now, when he was confronted with the
grim visage of death, he did not flinch. Long accustomed to leave the
issues of his life to God, willing to live yet prepared to die, he
realized his position without dismay. No doctor ever had a more tractable
patient than was "Cobbler" Horn; and he yielded himself to his nurses like
an infant of days. In the earlier stages of his illness, he had thought
much about the mysterious words and strange behaviour of his friend Tommy
Dudgeon, on the day on which he had been taken ill. Further consideration
had not absolutely confirmed "Cobbler" Horn's first impression as to the
meaning of the little huckster's words. Pondering them as he lay in bed,
he had become less sure that his humble little friend had intended simply
to suggest the admirable fitness of the young secretary to take the place
of his lost child. Surely, he had thought, the impassioned exclamation of
the eccentric little man must have borne some deeper significance than
that! And then he had become utterly bewildered as to what meaning the
singular words of Tommy Dudgeon had been intended to convey. And then
there came a glimmering--nothing more--of the idea his faithful friend had
wished to impart. But, just when he might have penetrated the mystery, if
he could have thought it out a little more, he became too ill to think at
all.
After this his mind wandered slightly, and once or twice a strange fancy
beset him that his little Marian was in the room, and that she was putting
her soft hands on his forehead; but, in a moment, the fancy was gone, and
he was aware that the young secretary was laying her cool gentle palm upon
his burning brow.
It had been a wonderful comfort to the girl that she had been permitted to
take a spell of nursing now and then.