The Golden Shoemaker Part 39

CHAPTER XLI.

NO ROOM FOR DOUBT!

At the appointed time, Mr. and Mrs. Burton arrived. Being, as yet, ignorant of the purpose for which their presence was desired, they were full of conjectures. Miss Jemima received them in the dining-room, downstairs. The first question they asked related to "Cobbler" Horn's health. "Was he worse?"

"No," said Miss Jemima; "he is much better. But he wishes to consult you about a matter of great importance."

Then, upon their protesting that they were in no immediate need of refreshment, Miss Jemima conducted her visitors upstairs to her brother's room.

Though "Cobbler" Horn had not been to sleep since the morning, he was greatly refreshed by the quiet hours he had pa.s.sed. He turned to greet Mr. and Mrs. Burton, as they came in.

"This is very good of you," he said, putting out his hand.

Miss Jemima placed chairs for the visitors, and they took their seats near the bed.

"I think I must sit up," said "Cobbler" Horn.

Miss Jemima helped him to raise himself upon his pillows, and then sat down on a chair at the opposite side of the bed.

"There now," said "the Golden Shoemaker," "we shall do finely. But, Jemima, how about our friend, Tommy?"

"He'll be here directly" was the concise reply.

Mr. and Mrs. Burton waited patiently for "Cobbler" Horn to speak. Mrs.

Burton was a shrewd-looking, motherly body; and her husband had the appearance of a capable and kindly man. They were both conscious of some curiosity, and even anxiety, with regard to what "Cobbler" Horn might be about to say. The peculiarity of the situation was that he should have sent for them both. Perhaps each had some vague prevision of the communication he was about to make.

"Now, dear friends," he said, at last, "no doubt you will be wondering why I have sent for you in such a hurry."

Both Mr. Burton and his wife protested that they were always at the service of Mr. Horn, and expressed the a.s.surance that he would not have sent for them without good cause.

"Thank you," he said. "I think you will admit that, in this instance, the cause is as good as can be."

Looking upon the kindly faces of these good Christian people, "Cobbler"

Horn wondered how they would receive the news he would probably have to impart. He must proceed cautiously. At the same time, he was thankful that his little lost child--if, indeed, it were so--had been committed by the great Father to such kindly hands.

"You will not mind, dear friends," he resumed, "if I ask you one or two questions about the circ.u.mstances under which my--Miss Owen came into your charge when a child?"

"By no means, sir!" The startling nature of the question caused no hesitation in the reply. Indeed, though startled, these good people were not so very much surprised. They had not, perhaps, been actually expecting that this would prove to be the subject on which they had been summoned to confer. But, ever since their adopted daughter had entered the household of this man, whose own little daughter had been lost, just about the time that she must have left her home, both Mr. and Mrs. Burton had secretly thought that perhaps, as the result, she would find her own parent, and they would lose their child. Perhaps it was on account of the vagueness of this thought, or because of the painful antic.i.p.ations to which it gave rise, or for both these reasons, that the good couple had made no mention to each other of its presence in their respective minds. They glanced at one another now; and, by some subtle influence, each became aware that the other's mind had been occupied by this disturbing thought.

"You will believe," said "Cobbler" Horn, "that I have good reasons for the questions I am going to ask?"

"We are sure of that, sir," responded Mr. Burton.

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Burton.

"Well, can you tell me in what year, and at what time of the year, you found the child?"

"It was on the 2nd of June, 18--" said Mrs. Burton, promptly.

"Cobbler" Horn and Miss Jemima exchanged glances. It was the very year in which, on that bright May morning, little Marian had vanished, like a flash of departing suns.h.i.+ne, from their lives.

"About what age would you suppose the child to have been at the time?"

"She told us her age," said Mr. Burton.

"Yes," pursued his wife, "she was a very indistinct talker, and her age was almost the only thing we could actually make out. She said she was five; and that was about what she looked."

"Do you think, now," continued "Cobbler" Horn, with another glance at his sister, "that you could give us anything like a description of the child?"

"My wife can do that very well," said Mr. Burton. "She has often told Miss Owen what she looked like when we found her crying in the road."

"Yes," said Mrs. Burton, "I remember exactly what she was like. She had black hair--as she has now, and her eyes were very dark; her skin was even browner than it is now, being so dirty; and she had very rosy cheeks. It was evident that some of her clothes had been stolen. Indeed they were almost all gone, and she had scarcely anything on but an old, and very dirty shawl, which was wrapped round her body so tightly that it must have hurt her very much. She had lost one of her shoes, and her foot was bound up with a filthy piece of rag. She had both her socks on, but they were in dreadful holes. She was wearing a torn sun-bonnet, which was covered with mud; and--let me see--one of its strings was missing. And, yes, her one shoe was cut about over the top, as if it had been done on purpose with a knife. She had evidently been in very bad hands, poor little mite!" and the honest, kindly face was darkened with a frown, as Mrs. Burton clenched her plump fist in her lap.

Miss Jemima had been listening with intense interest, from her position on the other side of the bed; and now interposed with a question, in her own quick way.

"What was the pattern of the sun-bonnet? Was it a small, pink sprig, on a white ground?"

"Why, you must have seen it, ma'am!" was Mrs. Burton's startled reply.

"That was the very thing!"

"Perhaps I have," responded Miss Jemima, "and perhaps I haven't."

Mrs. Burton hardly knew what to say.

"Well," she resumed, at last, "Miss Owen has kept the sun-bonnet, and the one shoe, and two or three other little things; and I'm sure she will be glad to let you see them. But, may I ask, Miss Horn, what----"

But "Cobbler" Horn interrupted her.

"I think, Jemima, we had now better tell our kind friends why we are asking these questions."

"Yes," said Miss Jemima; "I should have told them at first."

"Well," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, turning to Mr. and Mrs. Burton, and speaking with an emotion which he could no longer conceal, "we have reason to believe that your adopted daughter--don't let me shock you--is our little lost Marian, of whom you have several times heard me speak; and we are anxious to make sure if this is really the case."

In the nature of things, Mr. and Mrs. Burton were not so much surprised as they would have been if the course of events had not, in some measure, prepared them for the announcement which "Cobbler" Horn had now made. Yet they experienced a slight shock; for even an expected crisis cannot be fully realized till it actually arrives.

For a moment, there was silence in the room. Then Mrs. Burton was the first to speak.

"Excuse us, dear sir," she said calmly, "if we are somewhat startled at what you have said. And yet we are not altogether surprised. You will not think that strange?"

"No, ma'am," said "Cobbler" Horn, in a musing tone, "not altogether strange, perhaps. But, shall I explain a little further? It was only last evening that I was led to entertain the thought that Miss Owen might actually prove to be my lost child. She was telling me, as she had done several times before, all about how you found her, and of your goodness to her; and she spoke last night, for the first time, of the one shoe she was wearing when you found her in the road. Now you may judge how I was startled, on hearing this, when I tell you that, just after Marian was lost, we picked up one of her shoes in a field, over which she must have wandered away. So, this morning, without telling her my reason, I asked her to let me see the little shoe she had worn so long ago. She at once fetched it; and here it is, and with it the one we found in the field."

So saying, he drew, from underneath the bed-clothes, the two little shoes; and placed them side by side upon the counterpane.

Mr. and Mrs. Burton rose and approached the bed.