Miss Jemima's respect for the proprieties, rendered her reluctant to absent herself much from the room where her brother and his engaging young secretary sat together at their interesting work; and she manifested, from time to time, a lively interest in the progress of their task.

CHAPTER XVII.

A PARTING GIFT FOR "THE LITTLE TWIN BRETHREN."

The honest joy of "the little twin brethren" at the sudden enrichment of their friend, "Cobbler" Horn, was dashed with a deep regret. It was excellent that he had been made a wealthy man. As Tommy Dudgeon expressed it, "Providence had not made a mistake this time, anyhow." But, in common with the rest of "Cobbler" Horn's neighbours, the two worthy little men bitterly deplored the inevitable departure of their friend from their midst. It was "not to be supposed," said Tommy again--it was always Tommy who said things; to John had been a.s.signed the honour of perpetuating the family name--it was "not to be supposed that a millionaire would live in a small house, in a narrow street, remain at the cobbler's bench, or continue to a.s.sociate with poor folks like themselves." The little hucksters considered it a matter of course that "Cobbler" Horn would shortly remove to another and very different abode, and they mourned over the prospect with sincere and bitter grief.

The little men had good reason for their sorrow, for to none of all his poor neighbours had "Cobbler" Horn been a better friend. And their regret in view of his approaching removal was fully reciprocated by "Cobbler"

Horn himself. Of all the friends, in the network of streets surrounding his humble abode, whom he had fastened to his heart with the golden hooks of love, there were none whom he held more closely there than the two little tradesmen across the way. His intercourse with them had been one of the chief refreshments of his life; and he knew that he would sadly miss his humble little friends.

And now the time had come for the removal, and the evening previous to the departure from the old home, "the Golden Shoemaker" paid his last visit, in the capacity of neighbour, to the worthy little twins. He had long known that they had a constant struggle to make their way. He had often a.s.sisted them as far as his own hitherto humble means would allow; and now, he had resolved that before leaving the neighbourhood, he would make them such a present as would lift them, once for all, out of the quagmire of adversity in which they had floundered so long.

At six o'clock, on that autumn evening, it being already dusk, "Cobbler"

Horn opened his front door, and stood for a moment on the step. Miss Jemima and the young secretary were both out of the way. If Miss Jemima had known where her brother was going and for what purpose, she would have held up her hands in horror and dismay, and might even, had she been present, have tried to detain him in the house by main force.

"Cobbler" Horn lingered a moment on the door-step, with the instinctive hesitation of one who is about to perform an act of unaccustomed magnitude; but his soul revelled in the thought of what he was going to do. He was about to exercise the gracious privilege of the wealthy Christian man; and, as he handled a bundle of crisp bank-notes which he held in the side pocket of his coat, his fingers positively tingled with rapture.

The street was very quiet. A milk girl was going from door to door, and the lamplighter was vanishing in the distance. Yet "Cobbler" Horn flitted furtively across the way, as though he were afraid of being seen; and, having glided with the stealth of a burglar through the doorway of the little shop, found himself face to face with Tommy Dudgeon. The smile of commercial satisfaction, which had been summoned to the face of the little man by the consciousness that some one was coming into the shop, resolved itself into an air of respectful yet genial greeting when he recognised "Cobbler" Horn.

"Ah, good evening, Mr. Horn! You said you would pay us a farewell visit, and we were expecting you. Come in, sir."

"Cobbler" Horn followed his humble conductor into the small but cosy living-room behind, which the large number of its occupants caused to appear even smaller than it was. John Dudgeon was there, and Mrs. John, and several offshoots of the Dudgeon tree. Mrs. Dudgeon was ironing at a table beneath the one small window, in the fading light. She was a staid and dapper matron, with here and there the faintest line of care upon her comely face. A couple of the children were rolling upon the hearthrug in the ruddy glow of the fire, and two or three others were doing their home-lessons by the aid of the same unsteady gleam. The father, swept to one side by the surges of his superabundant family, sat on a chair at the extreme corner of the hearthrug, with both the twins upon his knees.

"Cobbler" Horn was greeted with the cordiality due to an old family friend. Even the children cl.u.s.tered around him and clung to his arms and legs. Mrs. John, as she was invariably called--possibly on the a.s.sumption that Tommy Dudgeon also would, in due time, take a wife, cleared the children away from the side of the hearth opposite to her husband, and placed a chair for the ever-welcome guest. Tommy Dudgeon, who had slipped into the shop to adjust the door-bell, so that he might have timely notice of the entrance of a customer, soon returned, and placing a chair for himself between his brother and "Cobbler" Horn, sat down with his feet amongst the children, and his gaze fixed on the fire.

For a time there was no sound in the room but the click of Mrs. John's iron, as it travelled swiftly to and fro. Even the children were preternaturally quiet. At length Tommy spoke, in sepulchral tones, with his eyes still on the fire.

"Only to think that it's the last time!"

"What's the last time, friend?" asked "Cobbler" Horn, with a start.

"Why this--that we shall see you sitting there so sociable like, Mr.

Horn."

"Indeed, I hope not," was the hearty response. "You're not going to get rid of me so easily as that, old friend."

"Why," exclaimed Tommy, "I thought you were going to remove; and I'm sure no one could find fault with it."

"Yes: but you surely don't suppose I'm going to turn my back on my old neighbours altogether?"

"What you say is very kind," replied Tommy; "but, Mr. Horn, we can't expect to see you very often after this."

"Well, friend, perhaps oftener than you think." Then he told them that he had bought the house in which he had lived amongst them, and meant to keep it up, and come there almost every day to mend boots and shoes, without charge for his poor customers.

"Well, to be sure!" exclaimed Tommy Dudgeon, while John chuckled exultantly to the twins, and Mrs. John moved her iron more vigorously to and fro, and hastily raised her hand to brush away a grateful and admiring tear.

Meanwhile "Cobbler" Horn was considering how he might most delicately disclose the special purpose of his visit.

"But after all," he said at length, "this is a farewell visit. I'm going away, and, after to-morrow, I shall not be your neighbour any more."

For some moments his hand had been once more in his pocket, fingering the bank-notes. He now drew them forth very much in the way in which a man entrapped into a den of robbers might draw a pocket-pistol, and smoothed them out upon his knee.

"I thought, old friend," he said, turning to Tommy Dudgeon, "that perhaps you might be willing to accept a trifling memento of our long acquaintance. And, indeed, you mustn't say no."

John Dudgeon was too deeply engaged with the twins to note what was said; Tommy but dimly perceived the drift of his friend; but upon Mrs. John the full truth flashed with the clearness of noon.

The next moment the notes were being transferred to the hands of the astonished Tommy. John was still absorbed with his couple of babies. Mrs.

John was ironing more furiously than ever. Tommy felt, with his finger and thumb, that there were many of the notes; and he perceived that he and his were being made the recipients of an act of stupendous generosity. Tears trickled down his cheeks; his throat and tongue were parched. He tried to thrust the bank-notes back into the hand of his friend.

"Mr. Horn, you must not beggar yourself on our account."

"Cobbler" laughed. In truth, he was much relieved. It seemed that his humble friend objected to his gift only because he thought it was too large.

"'Beggar' myself, Tommy?" he cried. "I should have to be a very reckless spendthrift indeed to do that. You forget how dreadfully rich I am. Why these paltry notes are a mere nothing to such a wealth-enc.u.mbered unfortunate as I. But I thought the money would be a help to you. And you must take it, Tommy, you must indeed. The Lord told me to give it to you; and what shall I say to Him, if I allow you to refuse His gift?"

And so the generous will of "the Golden Shoemaker" prevailed; and if he could have heard and seen all that took place by that humble fireside, after he was gone, he would have been a.s.sured that at least one small portion of his uncle's wealth had been well-bestowed.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE NEW HOUSE.

"Cobbler" Horn's new house, which was situated, as we have seen, on one of the chief roads leading out of the town, marked almost the verge, in that direction, of the straggling fringe of urban outskirts. Beyond it there was only the small cottage in which had lived, and still resided, the woman who had seen Marian as she trotted so eagerly away into the great pitiless world. "Cobbler" Horn had not deliberately set himself to seek a house upon this road. But, when he found there a residence to let which seemed to be almost exactly the kind of dwelling he required, the fact that it was situated in a locality so tenderly a.s.sociated with the memory of his lost child, in no degree diminished his desire to make it his abode.

"It was here that she went by," he said softly to himself, at the close of their visit of inspection, as he stood with Miss Jemima at the gate; "and it was yonder that she was last seen."

What were Miss Jemima's thoughts, as she followed, with her eyes, the direction of her brother's gaze, may not be known; for an unwonted silence had fallen on her usually ready tongue.

It was a good house, with a pleasant lawn in front, and a yard, containing coach-house and stables, behind. The house itself was well-built, commodious, and fitted with all the conveniences of the day. As most of the furniture was new, the removal of the family was not a very elaborate process. In this, as in all other things, "Cobbler" Horn found that his money secured him the minimum of trouble. He had simply given a few orders--which his sister, it is true, had supplemented with a great many more--; and, when the day of removal came, they found themselves duly installed in a house furnished with a completeness which left nothing to be desired.

On their arrival, they were received in the hall by three smiling maids, a coachman, and a boy in b.u.t.tons. "The Golden Shoemaker" almost staggered, as the members of his domestic staff paid due homage to their master. He half-turned to his sister, and saw that, she, unlike himself, was not taken by surprise. Then he hastily returned the respectful salutations of the beaming group, and pa.s.sed into the house.

It was afternoon when the removal took place, and the remainder of the day was spent in inspecting the premises, and settling down. With the aid of his indefatigable secretary, "Cobbler" Horn had disposed of his morning's letters before leaving the old house, and, as it happened, the later mails were small that day. Miss Jemima stepped into her new position as mistress of a large establishment with ease and grace; and, a.s.sisted by the young secretary, who was fast gaining the goodwill of her employer's sister, was already giving to the house, by means of a few slight touches here and there, that indescribable air of homeliness which money cannot buy, and no skill of builder or upholsterer can impart.

To "Cobbler" Horn himself that evening was a restless time. He felt himself to be strangely out of place; and he was almost afraid to tread upon the thick soft carpets, or to sit upon the luxurious chairs. And yet he smiled to himself, as he contrasted his own uneasiness with the complacency with which his sister was fitting herself into her place in their new sphere.

Under the guidance of the coachman, "Cobbler" Horn inspected the horses and carriages. The coachman, who was the most highly-finished specimen of his kind who could be obtained for money, treated his new master with an oppressive air of respect. "Cobbler" Horn would have preferred a more familiar bearing on the part of his gorgeously-attired servant; but Bounder was obdurate, for he knew his place. His only recognition of the somewhat unusual sociability of his master, was to touch his hat with a more impressive action, and to impart a still deeper note of respect to the tones of his voice. His bearing implied a solemn rebuke. It was as though he said, "If you, sir, don't know your place, I know mine."

"The Golden Shoemaker," having completed his survey of his new abode and its surroundings, realized more fuller than hitherto the change his circ.u.mstances had undergone. The old life was now indeed past, and he was fairly launched upon the new. Well, by the help of G.o.d, he had tried to do his duty in the humble sphere of poverty; and he would attempt the same in the infinitely more difficult position in which he was now placed.

Entering the house by the back way, he paused and lingered regretfully for a moment at the kitchen door. One of the maids perceived his hesitation, and wondered if master was of the interfering kind. He dispelled her alarm by pa.s.sing slowly on.