COMING INTO COLLISION WITH THE PROPRIETIES.

It is not surprising that, in his new station, “Cobbler” Horn should have committed an occasional breach of etiquette. It was unlikely that he would ever be guilty of real impropriety; but it was inevitable that he should, now and again, set at nought the so-called “proprieties” of fashionable life. In the genuine sense of the word, “Cobbler” Horn was a Christian gentleman; and he would have sustained the character in any position in which he might have been placed. But he had a feeling akin to contempt for the punctilious and conventional squeamishness of polite society.

It was, no doubt, largely for this reason that “society” did not receive “the Golden Shoemaker” within its sacred enclosure. Not that it rejected him. He had too much money for that; half his wealth would have procured him the entrÉe to the most select circles. But the attitude he assumed towards the fashionable world rendered impossible his admission to its charmed precincts. He made it evident that he would not, and could not, conform to its customs or observe its rules. The world, indeed, courted him, at first, and would gladly have taken him within its arms. Fashion set to work to woo him, as it would have wooed an ogre possessed of his glittering credentials. But he repelled its advances with an amused indifference verging on contempt.

“Cobbler” Horn foiled, by dint of sheer unresponsiveness, the first attempt to introduce itself to him made by the world. On his return from America, one of the first things which attracted his attention was a pile of visiting cards on a silver salver which stood on the hall table. Some of these bore the most distinguished names which Cottonborough or its vicinity could boast. There were municipal personages of the utmost dignity, and the representatives of county families of the first water. It had taken the world some little time to awake to a sense of its “duty” with regard to the “Cobbler” who had suddenly acceded to so high a position in the aristocracy of wealth. But when, at length, it realized that “the Golden Shoemaker” was indeed a fact, it set itself to bestow upon him as full and free a recognition as though the blood in his veins had been of the most immaculate blue.

It was during his absence in America that the great rush of the fashionable world to his door had actually set in. But Miss Jemima had not been taken unawares. She had supplied herself betimes with a manual of etiquette, which she had studied with the assiduity of a diligent school-girl. She had also, though not without trepidation, ordered a quantity of visiting cards, and had them inscribed respectively with her own and her brother’s names. And thus, when Society made its first advances, it did not find Miss Jemima unprepared.

When “Cobbler” Horn espied the visiting cards on his hall table, he said to his sister:

“What, more of these, Jemima?”

“Yes, Thomas,” she responded, with evident pride; “and some of them belong to the best people in the neighbourhood!”

“And have all these people been here?” he asked, taking up a bunch of the cards between his finger and thumb, and regarding them with a mingling of curiosity and amusement.

“Yes,” replied Miss Jemima, in exultant tones, “they have all been here; but a good many of them happened to come when I was out.”

“Cobbler” Horn sighed.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose this is another of ‘the penalties of wealth!’”

“Say rather privileges, Thomas,” Miss Jemima ventured delicately to suggest.

“No, Jemima. It may appear to you in that light; but I am not able to regard as a privilege the coming to us of all these grand people. How much better it would be, if they would leave us to live our life in our own way! Do you suppose they would ever have taken any notice of us at all, if it had not been for this money?”

Miss Jemima was unable to reply; for it was impossible to gainsay her brother’s words. And yet it was sweet to her soul to have all the best people in the neighbourhood calling and leaving their cards. For the present, she let the matter rest. But, a day or two afterwards, the course of events brought the question to the surface again. Miss Jemima was brushing her brother’s coat, in the dining-room, after dinner, previous to his setting out for his old workshop, when they saw a carriage drive up to the gate.

“Here are some more of your grand friends, Jemima,” said “Cobbler” Horn, with a sigh. “How ever am I to get out?”

Miss Jemima was peeping out from behind the window-curtain, with the eagerness of a girl.

“Why,” she exclaimed, as the occupants of the carriage began to alight, “it’s Mr. and Mrs. Brownlow, the retired b——.” “Brewer” she was going to say but checked herself. “Surely you will not think of going out now, Thomas?”

“Cobbler” Horn knew Mr. and Mrs. Brownlow very well by sight. He had known them before they rode in their carriage, and when they were much less splendid people than they had latterly become. He had never greatly desired their acquaintance when it was unattainable; and, now that it was being thrust upon him, he desired it even less than before. There was no reason why he should be intimate with this man. On what grounds had he called? “Cobbler” Horn could not refrain from regarding the visit as being an impertinence.

“My dear Jemima,” he said, “I must be going at once. These people cannot have any business with me; and I have a good deal of work to do. You have received the other people; and you can manage these. But, Jemima, do not encourage them to come again!”

So saying, he moved towards the door; but Miss Jemima placed an agitated hand upon his arm.

“Thomas,” she cried, “what shall I say to them?”

“Tell them I am obliged to go out. Do you think it would be right to keep my poor people waiting for their boots and shoes, while I spent the time in idle ceremony?”

Miss Jemima ceased to remonstrate, and her brother again moved towards the door. But, before he reached it, a servant appeared with the cards of Mr. and Mrs. Brownlow, who were by this time installed in the drawing-room. Miss Jemima took the cards, and “Cobbler” Horn made for the front-door.

“Not that way, Thomas!” she cried after him. “They’ll see you!”

“Cobbler” Horn looked around in surprise.

“Why not, my dear? They will thus perceive that I have really gone out.”

The next moment he was gone, and Miss Jemima was left to face the visitors with the best excuses she could frame.

The question of returning the numerous calls they had received occasioned much perplexity to Miss Jemima’s mind. Nothing would induce her brother to accompany her on any expedition of the kind. While, therefore, in some cases, she was able to go by herself, in others she was obliged to refrain from going altogether, and, as a matter of course, offence was given. The natural consequence was that the number of callers rapidly diminished, and “the Golden Shoemaker’s” reputation for eccentricity was thoroughly established.

“Cobbler” Horn very rarely consented to see any company who came merely to pay a call. But one afternoon, when his sister was out, he went into the drawing-room to excuse her absence, and, in fact, to dismiss the callers.

“My sister is not at home, ma’am,” he said, addressing the buxom and magnificent lady, who, with her two slender and humble-looking sons, had awaited his coming.

Having delivered his announcement, he stood at the open door, as though to show his visitors out. The lady, however, quite unabashed, retained her seat.

“May I venture to say,” she asked, “that, inasmuch as the absence of Miss Horn has procured us the pleasure of making the acquaintance of her brother, it is not entirely a matter of regret?”

“Cobbler” Horn bowed gravely.

“It is very good of you to say that, ma’am; but I’m afraid I must ask you to excuse me too. I’m very busy; and, besides, these ceremonies are not at all in my way.”

The lady, who bore a title, changed countenance, and rose to her feet. She was conscious that she had been dismissed.

“Certainly, sir,” she said, in accents of freezing politeness; “no doubt you have many concerns. We will retire at once.”

The lady’s sons also rose, moving as she moved, like the satellites of a planet.

“There is no need for you to go, ma’am,” “Cobbler” Horn hastened to say, quite unaware that he had committed a grave breach of etiquette. “If you will only excuse me, and stay here by yourselves, for a little while, no doubt my sister will soon be back; and I’m sure she will be glad to see you.”

“Thank you,” was the haughty response of the angered dame; “we have already remained too long. Be good enough, sir, to have us shown out.”

“Cobbler” Horn rang the bell; and, as the lady, followed by her sons, swept past him with a stately and disdainful bow, he felt that, in some way, he had grievously transgressed.

Miss Jemima, on her return, a few moments later, heard, with great consternation, what had taken place.

“I asked the good lady to wait till you came, Jemima; but she insisted on going away at once.”

“Oh, Thomas, what have you done!” cried Miss Jemima, in piteous tones.

“What could I do?” was the reply. “You see, I could not think of wasting my time; and I thought they would not mind staying by themselves, for a few minutes, till you came in.”

“Oh, dear,” cried Miss Jemima, “I’m afraid she’ll never come again!”

“Well, never mind, Jemima,” said her brother; “I don’t suppose it will matter very much.”

The foreboding of Miss Jemima was fulfilled; the outraged lady returned no more. And there were many others, who, when they found that the master of the house had little taste for fashionable company, discontinued their calls. Some few of her new-made acquaintances only Miss Jemima was able, by dint of her own careful and eager politeness, to retain.

There were also other points at which “Cobbler” Horn came into collision with the customs of society. He persisted in habitually going out with his hands ungloved. He possessed a hardy frame, and, even in winter, he had rarely worn either gloves or overcoat; and now, as ever, almost his only preparation for going out was to take his hat down from its peg, and put it on his head. Miss Jemima pathetically entreated that he would at least wear gloves. But he was obdurate. His hands, he said, were always warm enough when he was out of doors; and he would try to keep them clean.

Another of the whims of “Cobbler” Horn was his fondness for doing what his sister called “common” work. One morning, for example, on coming down to breakfast, the good lady, looking through the window, saw her brother, in his shirt sleeves, engaged in trimming the grass of the lawn. With a little scream, she ran out at the front-door, and caught him by the arm.

“Thomas! Thomas!” she cried, “if you don’t care about yourself, have a little thought for me!”

“What is it, Jemima?” he asked straightening himself. “Is breakfast ready? I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting. I’ll come at once.”

“No, no,” exclaimed Miss Jemima; “it’s not that! But for a man in your position to be working like a common gardener—it’s shameful! Pray come in at once, before you are seen by any one going by! Without your coat too, on a sharp winter’s morning like this!”

“My dear Jemima,” said “Cobbler” Horn, as he turned with her towards the house, “if I were a common gardener, there would be no disgrace, any more than in my present position. There’s no shame in a bit of honest work, anyhow, Jemima; and it’s a great treat to me.”

Miss Jemima’s chief concern was to get her unmanageable brother into the house as quickly as possible, and she paid little heed to what he said.