“Yes, I will. But call cousin Thomas in.”
She found “the Golden Shoemaker” in a small sitting-room downstairs; and, having brought him up to the sick-chamber, stood before him in the middle of the room, and, taking his big hand, gently lifted it, with both her tiny white ones, to her lips.
“In the presence of my dear Jack,” she said, “I thank you. But, dear friend, I think you should take the money back when he is gone.”
“My dear young lady,” protested “Cobbler” Horn, with uplifted hand, “how can I take it, seeing it is not mine? But,” he added softly, “we will not speak of it now.”
True to her promise, Bertha did not leave her beloved Jack until the end; and the regular attendants, supplied by the house, so far from regarding her presence as an intrusion, were easily induced to look upon her as one of themselves. “Cobbler” Horn was rarely absent during the day-time; and, in the brief remaining space of poor Jack’s chequered life, his gentle lover, and his high-souled cousin, had the great joy of leading him to entertain a genuine trust in the Saviour. The end came so suddenly, that they had no time for parting words; but they had good hope, as they reverently closed his eyes. When all was over, and he had been laid to rest in the cemetery, “Cobbler” Horn took Bertha back to her village home, and then set his face once more towards England, bearing in his heart a chastened memory, and the image of a sweet, pensive face.
CHAPTER XXVI.
HOME AGAIN.
It was with feelings of deep gratitude to God that “Cobbler” Horn set foot once more upon his native land. After having been away no longer than four weeks, he landed at Liverpool on a bright winter’s morning, and, taking an early train, reached Cottonborough about mid-day. He had telegraphed the time of his arrival, and Bounder, the coachman, was at the station to meet him with the dog-cart. He had sent his message for the purpose of preparing his sister for his arrival; for he knew she preferred not to be taken unawares by such events. If he had given the matter a thought, he would have told them not to send to meet him at the station. He would much rather have walked, than ridden, a distance so short. And then he shrank, at all times, from the idea of making a public parade of his newly-acquired state. And, if all the truth must be told, he was—not awed, but mildly irritated, by the imposing presence, and reproachful civility, of the ideal Bounder.
Here was Bounder now, with his dignified salute. “Cobbler” Horn yearned to give the man a hearty shake of the hand, and ask him sociably how he had been getting on. This was obviously out of the question; but, just then, little Tommy Dudgeon happened to come up, on his way into the station. Here was an opportunity not to be let slip, and “Cobbler” Horn seized with avidity on his humble little friend, and gave him the hearty hand-shake which he would fain have bestowed upon the high and mighty Bounder. It was a means of grace to “the Golden Shoemaker” once more to clasp the hand of a compatriot and a friend. He stood talking to Tommy for a few minutes, while Bounder waited in his seat with an expression of very slightly veiled scorn on his majestic face.