Читать книгу The Golden Shoemaker or 'Cobbler' Horn - J. W. Keyworth - Страница 4

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BEREAVED!

In a small house, in a back street, in the large manufacturing town of Cottonborough, the young wife of “Cobbler” Horn lay dying. It was the dusk of a wild evening in early winter; and the cruel cough, which could be heard every now and then, in the lulls of the wind, from the room upstairs, gave deepening emphasis to the sad fact that the youthful wife and mother—for such also she was—had fallen a victim to that fell disease which sweeps away so much of the fair young life of our land.

“Cobbler” Horn himself was engaged just now in the duties of his calling, in the little workshop behind the kitchen. The house was very small. The kitchen and workshop were the only rooms downstairs, and above them were three small chambers. The one in which the dying woman lay was over the workshop, and the sound of her coughing came down with sharp distinctness through the boarded floor, which was the only ceiling of the lower room.

“Cobbler” Horn knew that the death of his wife was probably a question of a few hours at most. But he had promised that the boots on which he was at work should be finished that night; and he had conscientiously withdrawn from his wife’s bedside that he might keep his word.

“Cobbler” Horn was a man of thirty or so. He was tall, and had somewhat rugged features and clear steadfast eyes. He had crisp black hair, and a shaven face. His complexion was dark, and his bare arms were almost as brown as his leathern apron. His firmly set lips and corrugated brow, as he bent now over his work, declared him to possess unusual power of will. Indeed a strength of purpose such as belongs to few was required to hold him to his present task. Meanwhile his chief misgiving was lest the noise he was compelled to make should distress his dying wife; and it was touching to see how he strove to modify, to the utmost degree which was consistent with efficient workmanship, the tapping of the hammer on the soles of the boots in hand.

Sorrowing without bitterness, “Cobbler” Horn had no rebellious thoughts. He did not think himself ill-used, or ask petulantly what he had done that such trouble should come to him. His case was very sad. Five years ago he had married a beautiful young Christian girl. Twelve months later she had borne their little dark-eyed daughter Marian. Two years thereafter a baby boy had come and gone in a day; and, from that time, the mother had drooped and faded, day by day, until, at length, the end was close at hand. But “Cobbler” Horn was a Christian, and did not repine.

His task was finished at last, and, with a sigh of relief, he rose to his feet. In that moment, he became aware of a tiny figure, standing in the open doorway of the kitchen. It was that of a little four-year-old girl, clad in a ruby-coloured dress, which matched to perfection her dark skin and black hair. Her crimson cheeks were dashed with tears, and she looked like a damask rose just sprinkled by a shower of rain. The light in her dark eyes, which glistened with intense excitement beneath her jet-black hair, indicated that her tears were those of indignation rather than grief. How long she had been standing there he could not tell; but, as soon as she saw that her father had finished his work, little Marian—for she it was—darted forward, and throwing her arms around his neck, with a sob, let her small dusky head fall upon the polished breast-piece of his leathern apron.

“What’s amiss with daddy’s poppet?” asked the father tenderly, as he clasped the quivering little form more closely to his breast.

The only answer was a convulsive movement of the little body within his arms.

“Come, darling, tell daddy.” Strange strugglings continued within the strong, encircling arms. This little girl of four had as strong a will as her father; and she was conquering her turbulent emotions, that she might be able to answer his questions. In a moment she broke away from his clasp, and, dashing the tears from her eyes with her little brown hands, stood before him with glowing face and quivering lip.

“Me ’ant to see mammy!” she cried—the child was unusually slow of speech for her age. “Dey ’on’t ’et Ma-an do upstairs.”

“Cobbler” Horn took the child upon his knee, and gently stroked the small dusky head.

“Mammy is very ill, Marian,” he said gently.

“Me ’ant to see mammy,” was the emphatic response.

“By and bye, darling,” replied the father huskily.

“What ’oo going to c’y for, daddy?” demanded the child, looking up hastily into her father’s face. “Poor daddy!” she continued, stroking his cheek with her small brown hand, “Isn’t ’oo very well?”

“I’m not going to cry, darling,” said the father, bowing his head over his child, and taking into his strong hand the little fingers which still rested against his face. “You don’t understand, my poor child!”

There followed a brief pause.

“P’ease, daddy,” pleaded Marian presently, “Ma-an must see mammy. Dere’s such pitty fings in se shops, and me ’ants to do with mammy to see dem—in morning.”

The shops were already displaying their Christmas decorations.

Marian’s father gave a great gasp.

“Marian shall see mammy now,” he said solemnly, as he rose from his stool still holding the child to his breast.

“I’se so glad!” and she gave a little jump in his arms. “Good daddy!”

“But father’s little poppet must be quiet, and not talk, or cry.”

“No,” said Marian with childhood’s readiness to make a required promise.

The child had not seen her mother since the previous day, and the altered face upon the pillow was so strange to her, that she half turned away, as though to hide her face upon her father’s shoulder.

The gleaming eyes of the dying mother were turned wistfully towards her child.

“See, poppet; look at mammy!” urged the father, turning the little face towards the bed.

“Mother’s darling!”

There was less change in the mother’s voice than in her face; and the next moment the little dark head lay on the pillow, and the tiny, nut-brown hand was stroking the hollow cheek of the dying woman.

“ ’oo is my mammy, isn’t ’oo?”

“Yes, darling; kiss mammy good-bye,” was the heart-breaking answer.

“Me tiss ’oo,” said the child, suiting the action to the word; “but not dood-bye. Me see ’oo aden. Mammy, se shops is so bootiful! Will ’oo take Ma-an to see dem? ’nother day, yes ’nother day.”

“Daddy will take Marian to see the shops,” said the dying mother, in labouring tones. “Mammy going to Jesus. Jesus will take care of mother’s little lamb.”

The mother’s lips were pressed in a last lingering kiss upon the face of her child, and then Marian was carried downstairs.

When the child was gone, “Cobbler” Horn sat down by the bedside, and took and held the wasted hand of his wife. It was evident that the end was coming fast; and urgent indeed must be the summons which would draw him now from the side of his dying wife. Hour after hour he sat waiting for the great change. As the night crept on, he watched the deepening shadow on the beloved face, and marked the gathering signs which heralded the brief triumph of the king of terrors. There was but little talk. It could not be otherwise; for, every moment, utterance became more difficult to the dying wife. A simple, and affectionate question and answer passed now and then between the two. At infrequent intervals expressions of spiritual confidence were uttered by the dying wife; and these were varied with a few calmly-spoken directions about the child. From the husband came, now and then, words of tender encouragement, mingled with morsels of consolation from the good old Book, with, ever and anon, a whispered prayer.

The night had almost passed when the end came. The light of the grey December dawn was struggling feebly through the lattice, when the young wife and mother, whose days had been so few, died, with a smile upon her face; and “Cobbler” Horn passed out of the room and down the stairs, a wifeless husband and the father of a motherless bairn.