J. W. Keyworth

“ No less eagerly than “Cobbler” Horn scanned the countenance of his young secretary, did her eyes, that morning, seek his face. She too had passed a broken night. But it had not seemed wearisome or long. Happy thoughts had rendered sleep an impertinence at first; and, when healthy youthful nature had, at length, asserted itself, the young girl had slept only in pleasant snatches, waking every now and then from some delicious dream, to assure herself that the sweetest dream could not be half so delightful as the glad reality which had come into her life. ”

“ Caske,” and Mr. Durnford looked the brewer intently in the face.
“Ah,” said Mr. Caske, somewhat uneasily, “you don’t take me, sir. It’s not that he spends his money. It’s the rate at which he gives it away. He’s simply flinging it from him right and left!”
As he spoke, Mr. Caske swelled with righteous indignation. Money, in his eyes, was a sacred thing—to be guarded with care, and parted with reluctantly. No working man could have been more careful with regard to the disposal of each individual shilling of his weekly wages, than was Mr. Caske in the handling of his considerable wealth. ”

“ Durnford laughed.
“How if I were to commiserate you, then?” he said.
“No, sir,” said “Cobbler” Horn gravely, “not that either. It’s the Lord’s will after all; and it’s a great joy to me to be able to do so much that I have long wished to do. It’s the responsibility that I feel.”
“Very good,” replied the minister; “such joy is the purest pleasure wealth can give. But the responsibility of such a position as yours, is, no doubt, as you say, very great.”
[Pg 79] “Yes, sir; I feel that I hold all this wealth in trust from God; and I want to be a faithful steward. ”

“ The expedient is one, indeed, which seldom effects its purpose, and is usually productive of a plentiful crop of troubles. But Marian had no fear. She was full of one thought. She could not any longer endure Aunt Jemima; and she must make it impossible for Aunt Jemima to scold, or smack, or restrain her any more. She must escape, without delay, from the sound of Aunt Jemima’s harsh voice, and place herself beyond the reach of Aunt Jemima’s rough hand. True, there was her father. ”

“ Daniel Froud hesitated for some minutes, but at last said, “Well, I’ll take your offer, Mr. Horn; but it’s a dreadful sacrifice.”
A few minutes sufficed to complete the agreement; and then, in taking his departure, “Cobbler” Horn administered a word of admonition to his grasping landlord.
“Don’t you know, friend,” he said, “that it is a grievous sin to try to sell anything for more than it is worth? And how contemptible it is to be so greedy of money! It does not seem to me that money is to be so eagerly desired, and especially if it does one no more good than yours seems to be doing you. ”

“ In the matter of the secretaryship Marian was firmness itself. “Cobbler” Horn wished her to give it up; and Miss Jemima was shocked at the idea that she should propose to retain it for a single day. But she dismissed their remonstrances with a fine scorn. What did they take her for? Was she any less fit for the post of secretary than she had been before? Her duties had been a pleasure from the first; they would afford her greater delight than ever now. And why should they bring in a stranger to pry into their affairs? They might give her more salary, if they liked—and here she laughed merrily ”

“ He did this partly because he loved his work and was loath to give it up, partly because he had so much work on hand, and partly that he might think and pray, which he could always do best on his cobbler’s stool. He found it difficult to realize what had taken place; but when, at last, he fairly grasped the fact that he was now a rich man, mingled feelings of joy and dread filled his breast. There was little taint of selfishness in “Cobbler” Horn’s joy. It was no gratification to him to be relieved of the necessity to work. ”

“ But Aunt Jemima’s love was wont to show itself in unlovely ways. The fact of meaning well, though often a good enough excuse for faulty doing, is not a satisfactory substitute for the doing of that which is well. Your toleration of the rough handling inflicted by the awkwardness of inconsiderate love does not counteract its disastrous effects on the susceptible spirit and the tender heart, especially if they be those of a child. It is, therefore, not strange that, though “Cobbler” Horn loved his sister, he wished she had stayed away. ”

“ To negotiate a contribution from him for some worthy object was a means of grace;—so hearty and joyous was his response to the appeal, and so thankful did he seem for the opportunity it had brought.
Never, perhaps, were the functions of a Christian man of wealth more clearly comprehended, or the possibilities of blessedness involved in the possession of riches more fully realized, than by “Cobbler” Horn. He often told himself that, by making others happy with his money, he secured the highest benefit it was able to impart. ”

“ 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.” ”

“ Horn, I believe you are the first man, since the foundation of the world, who has been troubled because his money didn’t go fast enough!”
“Well, sir, that is the case.”
His unwieldy wealth weighed too heavily upon his heart and conscience to permit of his adopting the half-humorous view of the situation which Mr. Durnford seemed to take.
“But surely, Mr. Horn,” urged the minister, becoming serious, “there are plenty of ways for your money. To get money is often difficult; it should be easy enough to get rid of it.” ”

“ Horn, “that a Christian man is placed in circumstances of such difficulty as mine.”
The minister laughed heartily and long.
“I really mean it, sir,” persisted “Cobbler” Horn, with a deprecatory smile. “When I think of all that my having this money involves, I almost wish the Lord had been pleased to leave me in my contented poverty.”
“My dear friend,” said the minister, “that will not do at all. Depend upon it, the joy of using your wealth for the Lord, and for His ‘little ones,’ will far more than make up for the vanished delights of your departed poverty.” ”

“ Horn, whose heart, secretly, was almost bursting with delight, “may you not be mistaken, after all?”
“I am not mistaken,” replied Tommy firmly.
“But it’s such a long while ago,” suggested “Cobbler” Horn; “and—and she will be very much altered by this time. You can’t be sure that a young woman is the same person as a little girl you haven’t seen for more than a dozen years.”
Herein, perhaps, “Cobbler” Horn’s own chief difficulty lay. “How,” he asked, “can I think of Marian as being other than a little girl?” Tommy Dudgeon did not seem to be troubled in that way at all. ”

“ In a village almost English in its rural loveliness [Pg 173] “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. ”

“ The tones and gestures which had so often startled her by their familiarity; the vague feeling that, at some time, she must have known this young girl before; the growing resemblance—evident to Miss Jemima’s eyes, at least—of the young secretary to “Cobbler” Horn—these things, which, with many kindred signs, Miss Jemima had hidden in her heart, had their explanation in the discovery which had just been made.
Miss Owen yielded the key of the safe without question. Though she appeared to take no notice of Miss Jemima’s doings, she knew, as by instinct, what Miss Jemima was taking out of the safe ”

“ It is not to be expected of you—unless she comes back again. If she does not, I shall never forgive myself.”
“Jemima,” said “Cobbler” Horn, rising from his seat, and placing his hand lightly on her shoulder, “You are too severe with yourself. That the child is lost is evident enough; but surely she may be found! I will go to the police authorities: they will help us.” ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Horn!” exclaimed the minister; “you have spoken like a Christian.”
“Thank you, sir. But there’s another thing; it seems so dreadful that one man should have so much money. Do you know, sir, I’m almost a millionaire?”
He made this announcement in very much the same tone in which he would have informed the minister that he was stricken with some dire disease.
“Is your trouble so great as that?” asked Mr. Durnford, in mock dismay.
“Yes, sir; and it’s a very serious matter indeed. It doesn’t seem right for me to be so rich, while so many have too little, and not a few nothing at all.” ”

“ Bounder, the coachman. As a coachman, Bounder was faultless. His native genius had been developed and matured by a long course of first-class experience. In matters of etiquette, within his province, Bounder was precise. Right behaviour between master and coachman was, in his opinion, “the whole duty of man.” He held in equal contempt a presuming coachman and a master who did not keep his place.
Bounder soon discovered that, in “Cobbler” Horn, he had a master of whom it was impossible to approve. Bounder “see’d from the fust as Mr. Horn warn’t no gentleman.” ”

“ Horn gently stroked the dark head, which still nestled against his breast.
“We at least, little one,” he said, “can say that ‘all things work together for good.’ But now, there are other things that we must talk about. You have come back, Marian, to a very different home from the one you left. Your father was a poor man when you went away; he is a rich one now. Are you glad?”
“Oh yes, daddy,” she answered, simply, “for your sake, and because I think my daddy is just the best man in the world to have charge of money. ”

“ His poor friend was much worse, and it was evident that he had not many [Pg 279] 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. ”

“ She cannot tolerate wickedness, folly, or weakness of any kind. So far well. The lack of her character is the tenderness which is woman’s crowning grace. When she is kind it is in such a way that one would almost prefer for her to be unkind.
Such is Aunt Jemima, as we see her sitting in front of her brother’s fire, and as we know her to be. Need we wonder that, “Cobbler” Horn’s heart misgave him as to the probable fate of his little Marian in such rough, though righteous, hands?
When “Cobbler” Horn at length came downstairs, his sister was still sitting before the fire. ”

“ Burton unclasped the young arms from her neck, and, sitting hand in hand with her adopted daughter, she told her all the wondrous tale.
“So you see, my child,” she concluded, “your name is not Owen after all; it is not even Mary Ann.”
“No,” said the girl, with a bewitching touch of scorn. “Mary Ann Owen, forsooth! I always had my doubts. Horn is not much better in itself. But it is my father’s name; and Marian is all that could be desired. And so I really am that little Marian of whom I have heard so many charming things! How sweet! But, mother, you must be the very same to me as ever ”

“ But, Tommy, isn’t she rather too young? If you really are thinking of getting married, wouldn’t it be better to choose some one a little nearer your own age?”
John would not be dissuaded from the idea that his brother was intent on matrimonial thoughts. Tommy waved his hand, in a deprecatory way, and rising from his chair, said “good night,” and betook himself to bed.
It was plain that he was quite alone in his discovery. What was he to do? To speak to Miss Owen on the subject was out of the question. The only alternative was to communicate the good news to “Cobbler” Horn himself. ”