BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.

“Cobbler” Horn’s first thought was that the strain of eccentricity in his humble little friend had developed into actual insanity. But, on further consideration, he was disposed to take another view. He felt bound to admit that, though there had been a strangeness in the behaviour of the little man throughout his visit, it had not afforded any actual ground for the suspicion of insanity, until he had so suddenly rushed away home. It was, therefore, possible that there might prove to be some important meaning in what he had said. At first “Cobbler” Horn had gathered nothing intelligible from the impassioned apostrophe of his excited little friend; but, by degrees, there dawned upon him some faint gleam of what its meaning might be. “The sec’tary!” That was the quaint term by which Tommy was wont to designate Miss Owen. But their conversation had been drifting in the direction of his little lost Marian. Why, then, should Miss Owen have been in Tommy’s mind? Ah, he saw how it was! His humble friend had perceived that Miss Owen was a dear, good girl; and he had noticed her evident attachment to him—“Cobbler” Horn, and his fondness for her, and no doubt the little man had meant to suggest that she should take the place of the lost child. It was characteristic of his humble friend that he should seek, by such a hint, to point out a course which, no doubt, seemed to him, likely to afford satisfaction to all concerned; and “Cobbler” Horn could not help admiring the delicacy with which it had been done.

“The Golden Shoemaker” was quite persuaded that he had hit upon the right interpretation of the little huckster’s words; and he was not altogether displeased with the suggestion he supposed them to convey. Of course Marian would ultimately come back; and no one else could be permitted permanently to occupy her place. But there was no reason why he should not let his young secretary take, for the time being, as far as possible, the place which would have been filled by his lost child. In fact, Miss Owen was almost like a daughter to him already; and he was learning to love her as such. Well, he would adopt the suggestion of his little friend. His secretary should fill, for the time, the vacant place in his life. Yet he would never leave off loving his precious Marian; and her own share of love, which could never be given to another, must be reserved for her against her return, when he would have two daughters instead of one.

Thus mused “the Golden Shoemaker,” until, suddenly recollecting himself, he started up. He had promised to visit one of his former neighbours, who was sick, and it was already past the time at which the visit should have been made. He hastily threw off his leathern apron, and put on his coat and hat. At the same moment, he observed that heavy rain was beating against the window. It was now early summer; and, misled by the fair face of the sky, he had left home without an umbrella. What was he to do? He passed into the kitchen, and opening the front door, stood looking out upon the splashing rain. Behind him, in the room, sat, at her sewing, the good woman whom he had placed in charge of the house. She was small, and plump, and shining, the very picture of content. Her manner was respectful, and, as a rule, she did not address “Cobbler” Horn until he had spoken to her. To-day, however, she was the first to speak.

“Surely, sir, you won’t go out in such a rain!”

As she spoke, the shower seemed suddenly to gather force, and the rain to descend in greater volume than ever.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bunn,” replied “Cobbler” Horn, looking round. “I think I will wait for a moment or two; but I have no time to spare, and must go soon, in any case.”

The rain had turned the street into a river, upon the surface of which the plumply-falling drops were producing multitudes of those peculiar gleaming white splashes which are known to childhood as “sixpences and half-crowns.” All at once the downpour diminished. The sky became lighter, and the sun showed a cleared face through the thinning clouds.

“I think I may venture now,” said “Cobbler” Horn.

“Better wait a little longer, sir; it ’ull come on again,” said Mrs. Bunn, with the air of a person to whom the foibles of the weather were fully known. But “Cobbler” Horn was already in the street, and had not heard her words. It was some distance to the house of his sick friend, and he walked along at a rapid pace. But before he had proceeded far, the prophecy of Mrs. Bunn was fulfilled. In a moment, the sky grew black again; and, after a preliminary dash of heavy drops, the rain came down in greater abundance than before. It almost seemed as though a water-spout had burst. In two minutes, “the Golden Shoemaker” was wet to the skin. He might have returned to the house, from which he was distant no more than a few hundred yards; but he thought that, as he was already wet through, he might as well go on. Besides, “Cobbler” Horn’s promise was sacred, and it had been given to his sick friend. So he plunged on through the flooded and splashing streets.

When he reached his destination, he was glad that he had not turned back. His poor friend was much worse, and it was evident that he had not many 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. The feeble utterances of the dying man, which became less frequent as the hours crept away, left no doubt as to the reality of his faith in God, and, about midnight, he passed peacefully away.

“Cobbler” Horn lingered a few moments’ longer, and set out for home. The rain had long ceased, and the sky was without a cloud. The semi-tropical shower had been followed by a rapid cooling of the atmosphere, and he shivered in his still damp clothes, as he hurried along.

He found Miss Jemima and the young secretary anxiously awaiting his return. They knew of his intention of visiting his sick friend, and were not much surprised that he was so late. But his sister was greatly concerned to find that he had remained so long with his clothes damp. He went at once to bed, and Miss Jemima insisted upon bringing to him there a steaming basin of gruel. He took a few spoonfuls, and then lay wearily back upon the bed. Miss Jemima shook up his pillows, arranged the bed-clothes, and reluctantly left him for the night.

In the morning it was evident that “the Golden Shoemaker” was ill. The wetting he had received, followed by the effect of the chill night air, had found out an unsuspected weakness in his constitution, and symptoms of acute bronchitis had set in. The doctor was hastily summoned, and, after the manner of his kind, gravely shook his head, by way of intimating that the case was much more serious than he was prepared verbally to admit. The condition of the patient, indeed, was such as to justify the most alarming interpretation of the doctor’s manner and words.

Now followed a time of painful suspense. In spite of all that money could do, “Cobbler” Horn grew worse daily. The visits of the doctor, though repeated twice, and even three times a day, produced but little appreciable result. Could it be that this man, into whose possession such vast wealth had so recently come, was so early to be called to relinquish it again? Was it possible that all this money was so soon to drop from the hands which had seemed more fit to hold it than almost any other hands to which had ever been entrusted the disposal of money?

Miss Jemima did not ask herself such questions as these. She moved about the house, trying, in her grim way, to crush down within her heart the anguished thought that her beloved and worshipped brother lay at the point of death.

And Miss Owen—with what emotions did she contemplate the possibility of that dread event the actual occurrence of which became more probable every day? She went about her duties like one in a dream. What would it mean to her if he were to die? She would lose a great benefactor, and a dear friend; and that would be grief enough. But was there not something more that she would lose—something which had seemed almost within her grasp, which it had hitherto been the hope, and yet the fear, of her life that she might find, but which, of late, she had desired to find with an ardent and unhalting hope? It was with a sick heart that the young secretary discharged, from day to day, her now familiar duties. She was now so well acquainted with the mind of her employer, that she could deal with the correspondence almost as well without, as with, his help. But she missed him every moment, and the thought that he might never again take his place over against her at the office table filled her with bitter grief.

There were others who were anxious on account of the peril which threatened the life of “the Golden Shoemaker.”

Mr. Durnford was weighted with grave concern. He called every day to see his friend; and each time he left the sick-chamber, he was uncertain whether his predominant feeling was that of sorrow for the illness and danger of so good a man, or rejoicing that, in his pain and peril, “Cobbler” Horn was so patient and resigned.

In the breasts of many who were accustomed to receive benefits at the hands of “the Golden Shoemaker,” there was great distress. Every day, and almost every hour, there were callers, chiefly of the humbler classes, with anxious enquiries on their lips. Not the least solicitous of these were “the Little Twin Brethren.” Tommy Dudgeon almost continually haunted the house where his honoured friend lay in such dire straits. The anxiety of the little man was intensified by a burning desire to know whether his desperate appeal on the subject of the “sec’tary” had produced its designed effect on the mind of “Cobbler” Horn.

Public sympathy with “Cobbler” Horn and his anxious friends ran deep; and every one who could claim, in any degree, the privilege of a friend, made frequent enquiry as to the sufferer’s state. But neither public sympathy nor private grief were of much avail; and it seemed, for a time, as though the earthly course of “the Golden Shoemaker” was almost run. There came a day when the doctors confessed that they could do no more. A few hours must decide the question of life or death. Dreadful was the suspense in the stricken house, and great the sorrow in many hearts outside. Mr. Durnford, who had been summoned early in the morning, remained to await the issue of the day. Little Tommy Dudgeon, who had been informed that the crisis was near, came, and lingered about the house, on one pretence or another, unable to tear himself away.

But how was it with “the Golden Shoemaker” himself? From the first, he had been calm and patient; and, even now, when he was confronted with the grim visage of death, he did not flinch. 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. Pondering them as he lay in bed, he had become less sure that his humble little friend had intended simply to suggest the admirable fitness of the young secretary to take the place of his lost child. Surely, he had thought, the impassioned exclamation of the eccentric little man must have borne some deeper significance than that! And then he had become utterly bewildered as to what meaning the singular words of Tommy Dudgeon had been intended to convey. And then there came a glimmering—nothing more—of the idea his faithful friend had wished to impart. But, just when he might have penetrated the mystery, if he could have thought it out a little more, he became too ill to think at all.

After this his mind wandered slightly, and once or twice a strange fancy beset him that his little Marian was in the room, and that she was putting her soft hands on his forehead; but, in a moment, the fancy was gone, and he was aware that the young secretary was laying her cool gentle palm upon his burning brow.

It had been a wonderful comfort to the girl that she had been permitted to take a spell of nursing now and then.