The Golden Shoemaker / or 'Cobbler' Horn

by J. W. Keyworth

CHAPTER XXXIII.

TOMMY DUDGEON ON THE WATCH.

It will be remembered that, after bursting into the back-room with the declaration, “She’s come back!” Tommy Dudgeon had suddenly pulled himself up and substituted the commonplace statement that he had “seen the sec’tary.” In fact, though, on marking the manner in which Miss Owen had stepped out of the house and walked along the street, he had, for an instant, imagined that little Marian had actually returned, the calmer moments which followed had shown him what seemed the folly of such a supposition. What real resemblance could there be between a child of five and a young woman of eighteen? He had, indeed, seemed to see, this afternoon, the very same determined look, and the pretty purposeful step, with which the little maid whom he had loved had passed out of his sight so long ago. But he now assured himself that “it was only the sec’tary after all.”

The child, for whom he had not ceased to mourn, would certainly come back, but not like that. It was inevitable that unimaginative Tommy Dudgeon should at first dismiss the possibility that little wild-flower Marian should have returned in the person of the lady-secretary. But, none the less, the sight of the secretary had brought back to him the vision of little Marian as he had seen her last; and thenceforth he was supplied with matter for much perplexing thought.

Fortunately the occupants of the room into which he had burst with his hasty exclamation, who consisted of his brother and his brother’s wife alone, had but indistinctly caught his words. Consequently no one was any the wiser, and he was able to assure himself that his first impression with regard to the “sec’tary” was still the secret of his own breast.

It was a secret, however, which gave him no little trouble. The vanishing of the child had occasioned him bitter grief. He had not only mourned in respectful sympathy with the stricken father, but he had also sorrowed on his own account. He had very tenderly loved little Marian Horn. She had come to him like a fairy, scattering clouds of care, and diffusing joy; and, since her departure, it had seemed as though the sunshine had ceased to visit the narrow street upon which he looked out through the window, and from the doorway, of his little shop.

And Tommy’s regret for the loss of the child was rendered keener by a haunting consciousness that a measure of responsibility for it belonged to himself. Might he not have prevented her departure? He could not, indeed, have been supposed to know that she was running away. But he did not allow himself to plead any excuse on that account. He ought to have known, was his continual reflection, that she would come to harm—going away by herself like that; and, at least, he might have questioned her as to where she was going. Through all the years, he had not ceased to afflict himself with such thoughts as these. Once he actually mentioned his self-accusing thoughts to “Cobbler” Horn. It was on one of the rare occasions when the afflicted father had spontaneously spoken of his lost child to his humble friend. He gazed blankly at the little huckster, for a moment, as though he had not understood. Then, perceiving his drift, he gently answered, “My dear friend, you could not help it. Please do not speak of it again.”

Tommy had always yearned for the recovery of the child; and, the wish being father to the thought, he fully shared with “Cobbler” Horn himself the expectation that she would eventually return. This expectation kept him on the alert; and there is little cause to wonder that even so slight a sign as the poise of the secretary’s head, or the manner in which she walked, should have induced him to think, for some passing moments, that his long-cherished desire had been fulfilled at last.

And now, although he had dismissed that belief, it had left him more vigilant than ever. It may be questioned, indeed, whether he had actually dismissed it, or whether, having been dismissed, it had really gone away. There are visitors who will take no hint to depart. It would seem that here was such a visitor. The discarded impression that little Marian had come back in the person of “Cobbler” Horn’s secretary refused to be banished from Tommy Dudgeon’s mind. Henceforth he would have no peace until he had set the fateful question at rest once for all.

To this end he watched for the young secretary day by day. A hundred times a day he went to the shop-door, to gaze along the street; and at frequent intervals he craned his neck to get a better view through the window. He would leave the most profitable customer, at the sound of a footstep without, or at the shutting of a neighbouring door. He gave himself to deep ponderings, in the midst of which he became oblivious of all around. His anxiety told upon his appetite, and affected his health. His friends became alarmed; but, when they questioned him, he only shook his head. His very character seemed to be changed. Hitherto he had been the most transparent of men; now he moved about with the air of a conspirator, and bore himself like one on whose heart some mysterious secret weighed.