BOUNDER GIVES WARNING.

There was another personage to whom the unconventional ways of “the Golden Shoemaker” gave great offence; and that was Mr. 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.” It was always the way with “them as was made rich all of a suddint like.” And Bounder puffed out his red cheeks till they looked like two toy balloons. It was “bad enough to be kept waiting outside the station, while your master stood talking to a little feller as looked as like a rag and bone man as anythink; but when you was required to stop the kerridge and pick up every tramp as you overtook on the road, it was coming it a little too strong.” This last was a slight exaggeration on the part of Bounder. The exact truth was that, on one occasion, his master had stopped the carriage for the purpose of giving a lift to a respectable, though not well-to-do, pedestrian, and in another instance, a working-class woman and her tired little one had been invited to take their seats on Bounder’s sacred cushions, Bounder’s master himself alighting to lift the bedusted child to her place.

But this was not the worst. The woman who lived in the little cottage past which Marian had trotted so eagerly, on the morning of her disappearance so long ago, had a daughter who was a cripple from disease of the spine. She was the only daughter, and, being well up in her teens, would have been a great help to her mother if she had been well. “Cobbler” Horn was deeply moved by the pale cheeks and frail bent form of the invalid girl. He induced his sister to call at the cottage, and they took the poor suffering creature under their care. It was not unnatural that the young secretary should also be enlisted in this kindly service. First she was sent to the cottage with delicacies to tempt the appetite of the sick girl; and then she began to go there of her own accord. During one of her visits, the mother happened to say:

“You see, miss, what she wants is fresh air. But how’s she to get it? She can’t walk only a few yards at a time; and even a mild winter’s not the time for sitting out.”

The woman spoke without any special design; but her words suggested to the mind of Miss Owen a happy thought. The young secretary was so firmly established, by this time, in the regard of her employer that she was able to approach him with the least degree of reserve. So she spoke out her thought to him with the frankness of a favourite daughter. An actual daughter would have thrown her arms around his neck, and emphasized her suggestion with a kiss. Miss Owen did not do this; but the tone of respectful yet affectionate confidence in which she spoke served her purpose just as well.

“Mr. Horn”—they were in the midst of their daily grapple with the correspondence—“the doctor says poor Susie Martin ought to have a great deal of fresh air. Don’t you think a carriage drive now and then would be a good thing?”

Her knowledge of “Cobbler” Horn assured her that her suggestion would be adopted. Otherwise she would have hesitated to throw it out.

“Cobbler” Horn laid down the pen with which he had been making some jottings for the guidance of his secretary, and regarded her steadfastly for a moment or two. Then his face lighted up with a sudden glow.

“To be sure! Why didn’t I think of that? My dear young lady, you are my good angel!”

That evening Miss Owen was desired to take a message to the cottage; and the next day Bounder was confounded by being ordered to convey Miss Owen and the invalid girl for a country drive, in the pony carriage. Bounder stared, became apoplectic in appearance, and stutteringly asked to have the order repeated. His master complied with his request; and Bounder turned away, with haughty mien, to do as he was bid. He was consumed with fierce mortification. He would bear it this time, but not again. He was like the proverbial camel, which succumbs beneath the last straw. Very soon the point would be reached at which long-suffering endurance must give way.

It was a deep grievance with Bounder that he was seldom ordered to drive to big houses. He was required to turn the heads of his horses into many strange ways. He was almost daily ordered to drive down streets where he was ashamed to be seen, and to stop at doors at which he felt it to be an indignity to be compelled to pull up his prancing steeds. Bounder hailed with relief the occasions on which he was required to take Miss Jemima out. Then he was sure of not receiving an order to obey which would be beneath the dignity of a coachman who, until now, had known no service but of the highest class. Such occasions supplied salve to his wounded spirit. But his wound was reopened every day by some fresh insult at the hands of his master. He had submitted to the odious necessity of driving out in his carriage the crippled girl, and that not only once or twice. But the tide of rebellion was rising higher and higher in his breast, and gathering strength from day to day; and, at length, Bounder resolved to give his master “warning,” and remove himself from so uncongenial a sphere. He did not quite like to make his master’s kindness to the poor invalid girl his ostensible reason for desiring a change; and, while he was looking around for a plausible pretext, the course of events supplied him with exactly such an occasion as he sought.

Bounder had not as yet become aware of the daily visits of his master to his old workshop. He had been kept in ignorance of the matter merely because there was no special reason why he should be informed. One afternoon, on leaving home, “Cobbler” Horn had left word with Miss Jemima for the coachman to come to the old house, with the dog-cart, at three o’clock. Bounder received the order with a feeling of apathetic wonder as to what new freak he was expected to countenance and aid. At the entrance of the street in which the old house stood, he involuntarily pulled up his horse. Then, with an air of ineffable disdain, he drove slowly on, and proceeded to the number at which he had been directed to call.

Summoning a passing boy, he ordered him to knock at the door. The boy contemplated disobedience; but a glance at Bounder’s whip induced him to change his mind, and he gave the door a sounding rap. The door speedily opened, and Bounder’s master appeared. But such was his disguise that Bounder was necessitated to rub his eyes. Divested of his coat, and enfolded in a leathern apron, “the Golden Shoemaker” stood in the doorway, with bare arms, holding out a pair of newly-mended hob-nailed boots.

“That’s right,” he said; “I’m glad you’re punctual. Will you kindly take these boots to No. 17, Drake Street, round the corner; and then come back here;” and, stepping out upon the pavement, he placed the boots on the vacant cushion of the dog-cart, close to Bounder’s magnificent person.

Bounder touched his hat as usual; but there was an evil fire in his heart, and, as he drove slowly away, a lava-tide of fierce thought coursed through his mind. That he, Bounder, “what had drove real gentlemen and ladies, such as a member of Parliament and a barrow-knight,” should have been ordered to drive home a pair of labourer’s boots! This was “the last straw,” indeed!

Arrived at No. 17, Drake Street, Bounder altogether declined to touch the offending boots. He simply indicated them with his whip to the woman who had come to the door in some surprise, and ignoring her expression of thanks, turned the head of his horse, and drove gloomily away.

That night, “Cobbler” Horn’s outraged coachman sought speech with his master.

“I wish to give you warning, sir,” he said, touching his hat, and speaking in tones of perfect respect.

Bounder’s master started. He had intended to make the best of his coachman.

“Why so, Bounder?” he asked. “Don’t I give you money enough, or what?”

“Oh,” replied Bounder, “the money’s all right; but, to make a clean breast of it, the service ain’t ezactly what I’ve been used to. I ain’t been accustomed to drive about in back streets, and stop at cottages and such; and to take up every tramp as you meets; and to carry labourer’s boots on the seat of the dog-cart.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Bounder,” said “Cobbler” Horn, with a broad smile, “that I’ve hurt your dignity.”

“Well, as to that, sir,” said the coachman, uneasily, “all as I wishes to say is that I’ve been used to a ’igh class service; and I took this place under a mis-happrehension.”

“Very well, Bounder,” rejoined “Cobbler” Horn, more gravely, “then we had better part. For I can’t promise you any different class of service, seeing it is my intention to use my carriages quite as much for the benefit of other people as for my own; and it is not at all likely that I shall drive about much amongst fashionable folks. When do you wish to go, Mr. Bounder?”

This was business-like indeed. Bounder was in no haste to reply.

“Because,” resumed his master, “I will release you next week, if you wish.”

“Well, sir,” replied Bounder slowly, “I shouldn’t wish to go under the month.”

“Very well. But, you must know, Bounder, that I have no fault to find with you. It’s you who have given me notice, you know.”

Bounder drew himself up to his full height. “Fault to find” with him! The mere suggestion was an insult. But Bounder put it into his pocket.

“If you are in want of a character, now,” resumed “Cobbler” Horn, “I shall——”

“Thank you, sir,” interposed Bounder with hauteur, “I am provided as to that. There’s more than one gentleman who will speak for me,” and Bounder faced about, and marched away with his nose turned towards the stars.