“COBBLER” HORN’S CRITICS.

The months passed. Christmas came, and was left behind, and now spring had fairly set in.

“The Golden Shoemaker” had become a person of great consideration to the dignitaries of his church. It is true there were those amongst its wealthy members by whom he was unsparingly criticised behind his back. But this did not deter them from paying him all manner of court to his face. He was startled at the importance which he had suddenly acquired. His acquaintance was sought on every side; and he found himself the subject of a variety of polite attentions to which he had been an entire stranger until now. Men of wealth and position who, though they were his fellow-members in the church, had never yet shaken him by the hand, suddenly discovered that he was their dear friend.

There was one rich man whose pew in the church was next to that of “Cobbler” Horn. Though this man had sat side by side with his poor brother for many years, in the house of God, he had seemed unaware of his existence. But no sooner did “Cobbler” Horn become “the Golden Shoemaker” than the attitude of his wealthy neighbour underwent a change. The first sign of recognition he bestowed upon his recently-enriched fellow-worshipper was a polite bow as they were leaving the church; next he ventured to show “Cobbler” Horn the hymn, when the latter happened to come late one day; and, at length, on a certain Sunday morning, as they were going out, he stepped into the aisle, and proffered his hand to “the Golden Shoemaker,” for a friendly shake. “Cobbler” Horn started, and drew back. It was not in his nature to be malicious; and to decline the offered civility was the furthest thing from his thoughts. He was simply lost in amazement. The gentleman who was offering to shake hands with him was one of the most important men in Cottonborough. But his great astonishment arose from the fact that this mighty personage, after sitting within reach of him in the house of God for so many years, without bestowing upon him the slightest sign of recognition, should suddenly desire to shake him by the hand! The man noticed his hesitation, and was turning away with offended dignity. But “Cobbler” Horn quickly recovered himself, and, taking the hand which had been offered to him, gave it a heartier shake than it had, perhaps, ever received before.

“It was not that, Mr. Varley,” he said, “I’m glad enough to shake hands with you, as I should have been long ago. But it did seem such a queer thing that we should have been sitting side by side here all these years, and you should never have thought of shaking hands with me before. I suppose the reason why you do it now is that the Lord has seen fit to make me a rich man. Now I really don’t think I’m any more fit to be shaken hands with on that account. Personally, I’m very much the same as I’ve been any time these twenty years past; and it does seem to me a bit strange that you and others should appear to think otherwise.”

“Cobbler” Horn spoke in a pleasant tone, and there was a twinkle of amusement in his eye. But Mr. Varley was not amused. Regarding “Cobbler” Horn with an expression of countenance which was very much like a scowl, he turned upon his heel and withdrew; and, during the week, he arranged for a sitting in another part of the church.

Mr. Varley was not the only rich and influential member of the church who had recently discovered in “Cobbler” Horn a suitable object of friendly regard. But the most cordial and obsequious of his wealthy fellow-members were ready enough to criticise him behind his back.

With the advice and help of the minister, he had begun to “make the millions fly,” in good earnest; and his phenomenal liberality—prodigality, it was called by some—could not, in the nature of things, escape notice. It soon became, in fact, the talk of the town and of the country round. But it was by the members of his church that “Cobbler” Horn’s lavish benefactions were most eagerly discussed. Various opinions were expressed, by his fellow-Christians, of “the Golden Shoemaker,” and of the guineas with which he was so free. Some few saw the real man in their suddenly-enriched friend, and rejoiced. Others shook their heads, and said the “Shoemaker” would not be “Golden” long at that rate; and some scornfully curled their lips, and declared the man to be a fool. But the most bitter of “Cobbler” Horn’s critics were certain of his wealthy brethren who seemed to regard his abundant liberality as a personal affront.

There were many wealthy members in Mr. Durnford’s church. The minister sometimes thought, in his inmost soul, that his church would have been but little poorer, in any sense of the word, for the loss of some of the rich men whose names were on its roll. With all their wealth, many of them were not “rich towards God.” But Mr. Durnford was circumspect. It was his endeavour, without failing in his duty, either to his Divine Master, or to these gilded sheep of his, to make what use of them he might in connection with his sacred work.

There was little, it is true, to be got out of these wealthy men but their money, and they could not be persuaded to part with much of that; but the minister did not give them much rest.

One pleasant spring evening, Mr. Durnford set out on one of what he called his “financial tours” amongst this section of his members. The first house to which he went—and, as it proved, the last—was that of a very rich brewer, who was one of the main pillars of the Church. There were other members of Mr. Durnford’s flock who were of the same trade. This was not gratifying to Mr. Durnford; but what could he do? The brewers were blameless in their personal behaviour, regular in their attendance in the sanctuary, and exact in their fulfilment of the conditions of church membership; and he could not unchurch them merely because they were brewers. If he began there, it would be difficult to tell where he ought to stop. Nor did he scorn their gifts of money to the cause of God. He was pleased that they were willing to devote some portion of their gains to so good a purpose; his regret was that the portion was so small.

Mr. Durnford did not hesitate to tell his rich members what he conceived to be the just claims of the cause of God upon their wealth; and, on the evening of which we speak, he called first, for this purpose, on the aforesaid brewer, Mr. Caske. This gentleman lived in a large, square, old-fashioned, comfortable house, surrounded with its own grounds, which were extensive and well laid out. The entire premises were encompassed with a high brick wall, which might well have been supposed to hide a workhouse or a prison, instead of the paradise it actually concealed. Perhaps Mr. Caske had selected this secluded abode from an instinctive disinclination to obtrude the abundance and comfort which he had derived from the manufacture and sale of beer; perhaps he had bought this particular house simply because it was in itself such a dwelling as he desired. At any rate, there he was, with his abundance and luxury, within his encircling wall; and one was tempted to wonder whether there was as much mystery in connection with the article of his manufacture, as seemed to be associated with his place of abode.

The minister let himself in at a small door in the boundary wall, and made his way, through the grounds, to the front-door of the house.

“Mr. Caske has company to-night, sir,” said the maid who opened the door.

“Any one I know, Mary?”

“Yes, sir; Mr. Botterill and Mr. Kershaw.”

“Oh, well, I want to see them too. Where are they?”

“In the smoke-room, sir.”

“Well, show me in. It will be all right.”

As Mr. Durnford was a frequent and privileged visitor, the girl promptly complied with his request.

The smoke-room was a good-sized, comfortable apartment, furnished with every convenience that smokers are supposed to require. It looked out, by two long windows, on a wide sweep of lawn which stretched away from the end of the house. In this room, in chairs of various luxurious styles, sat Mr. Caske and his two friends. Each of the three men was smoking a churchwarden pipe; and at the elbow of each stood a little three-legged, japanned smoker’s table, on which was a stand of matches, an ash-tray, and a glass of whisky.

The three smokers slowly turned their heads, as the minister entered the room, and, on recognising him, they all rose to their feet.

“Good evening, sir,” said Mr. Caske, advancing, with his pipe in his left hand, and his right hand stretched out; “you have surprised us at our devotions again.”

“Which you are performing,” rejoined the minister, “with an earnestness worthy of a nobler object of worship.”

Mr. Caske laughed huskily; and the minister turned to greet Messrs. Botterill and Kershaw, who were waiting, pipes in hand, to resume their seats.

Mr. Botterill was a wine and spirit merchant, and Mr. Kershaw was a draper in a large way.

When they had all taken their seats, a few moments of silence ensued. This was occasioned by the necessity which arose for the three smokers vigorously to puff their pipes, which had burnt low; and perhaps there was some little reluctance, on the part of Mr. Caske and his friends, to resume the conversation which had been in progress previous to the entrance of Mr. Durnford. When the pipes had been blown up, and were once more in full blast, there was no longer any excuse for silence. Mr. Caske, being the host, was then the first to speak. He had known his minister too well to invite him to partake of the refreshment with which he was regaling his friends.

He was a small, rotund man, with shining, rosy cheeks, and a husky voice.

“All well with you, Mr. Durnford?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Caske; but I am afraid I intrude?”

He was conscious of some constraint on the part of the company.

“I fear,” he resumed, “that I have interrupted some important business?” and he looked around with an air of enquiry.

Mr. Caske airily waved his long pipe.

“Oh no, sir,” he said, lightly, “nothing of consequence”—here he glanced at his friends—“we were, ah—talking about our friend, ah—‘the Golden Shoemaker.’”

Mr. Caske was secretly anxious to elicit the minister’s opinion of “Cobbler” Horn.

“Ah,” exclaimed Mr. Durnford, with an intonation in which sarcasm might not have been difficult to detect, “and what about ‘the Golden Shoemaker’?”

Mr. Caske looked at Mr. Botterill and Mr. Kershaw; and Mr. Kershaw and Mr. Botterill looked first at each other, and then at Mr. Caske.

“Well,” replied Mr. Caske, at length, “he’s being more talked about than ever.”

“Well, now,” asked the minister, “as to what in particular?”

“Chiefly as to the way he’s squandering his money.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware Mr. Horn had become a spendthrift! You must have been misinformed, Mr. 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.

“He’s simply tossing his money from him, sir,” he reiterated, “as if it were just a heap of leaves.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Botterill, “and it doesn’t seem right.”

Mr. Botterill was a tall man, with glossy black hair and whiskers, and an inflamed face. He seemed never to be quite at ease in his mind, which, perhaps, was not matter for surprise.

Mr. Kershaw next felt that it was his turn to speak.

“Ah,” he said, “this kind of thing makes a false impression, you know!”

Though a man of moderate bodily dimensions, Mr. Kershaw had a largeness of manner which seemed to magnify him far beyond his real proportions. He spread himself abroad, and made the most of himself. He had actually a large head, which was bald on the top, with dark bushy hair round about. His face, which was deeply pitted with small-pox, was adorned with mutton-chop whiskers, from between which a very prominent nose and chin thrust themselves forth.

“Yes,” broke in Mr. Caske, “people will be apt to think that everybody who has a little bit of money ought to do as he does. But, if that were the case, where should I be, for instance?” and Mr. Caske swelled himself out more than ever.

Mr. Durnford had hitherto listened in silence. Though inclined to speak in very strong terms, he had restrained himself with a powerful effort. He knew that if he allowed these men to proceed, they would soon fill their cup.

“Well, gentlemen,” he now remarked quietly, “there is force in what you say.”

Mr. Caske and his two friends regarded their minister with a somewhat doubtful look. Mr. Caske seemed to think that Mr. Durnford’s remark made it necessary for him to justify the attitude he had assumed with regard to “Cobbler” Horn.

“Perhaps, sir,” he said, “you don’t know in what a reckless fashion our friend is disposing of his money?”

“Well, Mr. Caske, let us hear,” said the minister, settling himself to listen.

“Well, sir, you know about his having given up a great part of his fortune to some girl in America, because she was the sweetheart of a cousin of his who died.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Durnford, quietly, “I’ve heard of that.”

“Well, there was a mad trick, to begin with,” resumed Mr. Caske, in a severe tone. “And then there’s that big house in the village which, it’s said, all belongs to him. He’s fitting it up to be a sort of home for street arabs and gipsy children; and it’s costing him thousands of pounds that he’ll never see again!”

“Yes, I know about that too.”

“Then, you will, of course, be aware, sir, that he gives more to our church funds than any half-dozen of us put together.”

“Yes,” broke in Mr. Kershaw, with his obtrusive nose. “He thinks to shame the rest of us, no doubt. And they say now that he’s going to employ two town missionaries and a Bible-woman out of his own pocket. Is it true, think you, sir?”

“It is not unlikely,” was the quiet reply.

There was a note of warning in both Mr. Durnford’s words and tone; but the admonitory sign passed unobserved.

“Well, then,” resumed Mr. Caske, “think of the money he gave away during the winter. He seemed to want to do everything himself. There was hardly anything left for any one else to do.”

Mr. Durnford smiled inwardly at the idea of Mr. Caske making a grievance of the fact that there had been left to him no occasion for benevolence.

“It was nothing but blankets, and coals, and money,” continued Mr. Caske. “And then the families he has picked out of the slums and sent across the sea! And it’s said he’ll pay anybody’s debts, and gives to any beggar, and will lend anybody as much money as they like to ask.”

At this point Mr. Botterill once more put in his word.

“I heard, only the other day, that Mr. Horn had announced his intention of presenting the town with a Free Library and a Public Park.”

“It’s like his impudence!” exclaimed Mr. Kershaw.

“After that I can believe anything,” cried Mr. Caske. “The man ought to be stopped. It’s very much to be regretted that he ever came into the money. And what a fool he is from his own standpoint! When he has got rid of all his money, it will be doubly hard for him to go back to poverty again.”

Mr. Caske was speaking somewhat at random.

“Don’t you think, sir,” he concluded, with a facetious air, “that Providence sometimes makes a mistake in these matters?”

The question was addressed to the minister.

“No, never!” exclaimed Mr. Durnford, with an emphasis which caused Mr. Caske to start so violently, that the stem of his pipe, which he had just replaced in his mouth, clattered against his teeth. “No, never! And least of all in the case of friend Horn.”

The three critics of “the Golden Shoemaker” stared at the minister in amazement. They had been led to think Mr. Durnford was substantially in agreement with their views.

“No, gentlemen,” he resumed, “my opinion is quite the reverse of yours. I believe this almost unlimited wealth has been given to our friend, because he is eminently fitted to be the steward of his Lord’s goods.”

This declaration was followed by an awkward pause, which Mr. Caske was the first to break.

“Perhaps you think, sir,” he said, in an injured tone, “that this upstart fellow is an example to us?”

“Mr. Caske,” responded the minister, “you have interpreted my words to a nicety.”

The three critics shuffled uneasily in their chairs.

“Yes,” continued Mr. Durnford, “an example and a reproach! Mr. Horn has the true idea of the responsibilities of a Christian man of wealth; you have missed it. He is resolved to use his money for God, to whom it belongs; you spend yours on yourselves—except in as far as you hoard it up you know not for whom or what. He is never satisfied that he is giving enough away; you grumble and groan over every paltry sovereign with which you are induced to part. He will be able to give a good account of his stewardship when the Lord comes; there will be an awkward reckoning for you in that day.”

The three friends had ceased to smoke, and were listening to Mr. Durnford’s deliverance open-mouthed. They respected their minister, and valued his esteem. They were rather conscience-stricken, than offended now.

“But, surely, sir,” said Mr. Kershaw, presently, finding breath first of the three, “you wouldn’t have us fling away our money, as he does?”

“I shouldn’t be in haste to forbid you, Mr. Kershaw, if you seemed inclined to take that course,” said the minister, with a smile. “But, if you come within measurable distance of the example of our friend, you will do very well.”

“But,” pleaded Mr. Botterill, “ought we not to consider our wives and families?”

“You do, Mr. Botterill, you do,” was the somewhat sharp reply. “But there still remains ample scope for the claims of God.”

Upon this, there ensued a pause, which was at length broken by Mr. Caske, who, whatever might be his shortcomings, was not an ill-natured man. “Well, sir,” he remarked, good-humouredly, “you’ve hit us hard.”

“I am glad you are sensible of the fact,” was the pleasant reply.

“No doubt you are!” rejoined Mr. Caske, in a somewhat jaunty tone. “And I suppose you intend now to give us an opportunity of following your advice?”

“Why, yes,” said Mr. Durnford, with a smile, “I really came to ask you for the payment of certain subscriptions now due. It is time I was making up some of the quarterly payments. But, perhaps, after what has been said, you would like to take a day or two——?”

“No, for my part,” interposed Mr. Caske, “I don’t want any time. I’ll double my subscriptions at once.”

“Same here,” said Mr. Kershaw, concisely.

“Thank you, gentlemen!” said Mr. Durnford, briskly, entering the amounts in his note book. “Now, Mr. Botterill.”

“Well,” was the reluctant response, “I suppose I shall have to follow suit.”

Mr. Durnford smiled.

“Thank you, gentlemen, all,” he said. “Keep that up, and it will afford you more pleasure than you think.”

When, shortly afterwards, the minister took his departure, the three friends resumed their smoking; but they did not return to their criticism of “the Golden Shoemaker.”