The Golden Shoemaker Part 2

The twins were so small as to seem insignificant; but their meek amiability was an efficient set off against their physical deficiencies.

If there was any measure of self-a.s.sertiveness between them, it belonged chiefly to Tommy. Though both the little men were kind to Marian, Tommy was her especial friend; and it was he who had watched her as she ran away. The twins were both bachelors; though John had kept company for several years with a young woman of exemplary patience. Tommy, who was a sincere Christian, was a member of the church to which "Cobbler" Horn belonged. John occasionally attended the services at the same place, but could not be persuaded to join the church.

The close resemblance between the brothers was the cause of many ludicrous mistakes. In their boyhood, they had frequently been blamed for each other's faults and misdeeds; and it was characteristic of Tommy that he had quietly suffered more than one caning which his brother ought to have received. But, when it had been proposed to administer to him a dose of medicine which had been prescribed for John, he had quietly protested and explained the mistake.

When the twins grew up, similar blunders continued to occur; and the little men had frequent opportunities of unlawfully profiting by the errors in which their close resemblance to each other often involved their friends. But, to the credit of these worthy little men be it said, they conscientiously declined to avail themselves of the opportunities of illegitimate benefit thus thrown in their way.

It was a curious sight to see these two queer little men standing, sitting, or walking, side by side. The minister of their chapel would often speak of the first occasion on which he had seen John Dudgeon. It was one Sunday evening, shortly after he had a.s.sumed the pastorate of the church. The service had just commenced, and the eye of the minister happened to rest, for a moment, on the humble figure of Tommy Dudgeon, who was, as usual, in his place. The minister had already made the acquaintance of Tommy, but of the existence of John he was not yet aware.

What, then, was his astonishment, the next moment, to see another Tommy Dudgeon, as it seemed, come in and take his place beside the one already in the pew! For a breathing s.p.a.ce the new pastor imagined himself the victim of an optical illusion; and then he rubbed his eyes, and concluded that Tommy Dudgeon had a twin brother, and that this was he.

It was not surprising that these two peculiar little men should have excited the amus.e.m.e.nt of those to whom they were known. Their amazing and almost indistinguishable resemblance to each other, and the consequent unconscious mutual mimicry of tone and gesture which prevailed between them, while they were a source of frequent perplexity, were also irresistibly provocative of mirth. What wonder that those who saw the little hucksters for the first time should have felt strongly inclined to regard them in a comic light; or that the mere mention of their names should have unfailingly brought a smile to the faces of those to whom their peculiarities were known!

The boys of the Grammar School, which was situated in a neighbouring street, had, from time immemorial, furnished Tommy and John Dudgeon with an epithet accommodated from cla.s.sic lore, and dubbed them, "the _little_ Twin Brethren."

CHAPTER VI.

THE FATHER'S QUEST.

When Aunt Jemima came home, she was surprised, in no small degree, at the absence of Marian. With gathering indignation she called up the stairs, then searched the house, and finally presented herself before her brother, who was quite alone in his workshop, and sat calmly working on his stool.

"Then she is not here?"

"Who? Marian?" responded "Cobbler" Horn in no accent of concern, looking up for a moment from his work. "No, I thought she was with you."

"No; I left her in the room for a moment, and now she is nowhere to be found."

There seemed to "Cobbler" Horn no reason for alarm, and, as his sister returned to the kitchen, he quietly went on with his work. But Aunt Jemima's mind was ill at ease. Once more she searched the house, and called and called again. There was no response, and the silence which followed was profound and ominous. Swiftly she pa.s.sed, with growing alarm, through her brother's workshop, and out into the yard. A glance around, and then a closer search; but still no sign of the missing child.

The perturbed woman re-entered her brother's presence, and stood before him, erect and rigid, and with outstretched hands.

"The child's gone!" was her gloomy exclamation.

"Gone!" echoed "Cobbler" Horn blankly, looking up. "Where?"

"I don't know; but she's gone quite away, and may never come back."

Then "Cobbler" Horn perceived that his sister was alarmed; and, notwithstanding the occasion, he was comforted by the unwonted tenderness she had expressed. As for Marian, he knew her for a born rambler; and it was not the first time she had strayed from home.

"Perhaps," he said placidly, "she has gone to the little shop over the way."

Then he resumed his work, as though he had simply told his sister where she would be likely to find her spectacles.

Aunt Jemima took the hint, as a drowning person catches at a straw. She made her way to the front-door, and having opened it, was on the point of crossing the street, when Tommy Dudgeon emerged from the shop, and came over towards where she stood.

"Good morning, ma-am," he said, halting at a respectful distance. "You are looking for little miss?"

"Well," snapped Aunt Jemima, "and if I am, what then? Do you know where she is?"

"No, ma-am; but I saw her go away."

Miss Jemima seized the arm of the little man with an iron grip.

"Man! you saw her go away, and you let her go?"

With difficulty Tommy freed his arm.

"Well, ma-am, perhaps I ought----"

"Of course you ought," rapped out the lady, sharply. "You must be a gabey."

"No doubt, ma-am. But little miss will come back. She knows her way about.

She will be home to dinner."

Having spoken, Tommy was turning to recross the street.

"Stop, man!"

Tommy stopped and faced around once more.

"Which way did she go?"

"That way, ma-am," replied Tommy, pointing along the street, to Aunt Jemima's left-hand, and his own right.

The troubled lady instantly marched, in the direction indicated, to the end of the street; but, finding that five ways branched off therefrom, she returned baffled to her brother's house, and sought his presence once more.

"Thomas," she cried, almost fiercely, "the child has certainly run away!"

Still "Cobbler" Horn was not alarmed.

"Well," he said calmly, "never mind, Jemima. She has a habit of going off by herself. She knows her way about, and will not stray far. She will be back by dinner-time, no doubt."

Though by no means satisfied, Miss Jemima was fain to accept this view of the case for the time. With a troubled mind, she resumed her suspended domestic duties. Unlikely as it might seem, she could not banish the dread that Marian had actually run away; and, as the morning pa.s.sed, the fear grew stronger and stronger in the troubled lady's breast that she would see her little niece no more. Accordingly when dinner-time arrived, Aunt Jemima was not surprised that Marian did not appear. The dinner consisted of Irish stew--Marian's favourite dish. On the stroke of twelve it was smoking on the table. For the twentieth time the perturbed lady went to the door, and gazed wistfully up and down the street. Then, with a sigh, she re-entered the house, and called her brother to dinner.

"Cobbler" Horn, feeling sure that Marian would soon return, had dismissed the fact of her disappearance from his mind; and when, on coming in to dinner, he found that she was still absent, he was taken by surprise.

In reply to his inquiry, Aunt Jemima jerked out the opinion that the child would not come back at all.

"Why shouldn't she?" he asked. "I've known her stay away longer than this, and there's no occasion for alarm."

So saying, he addressed himself to his dinner with his usual gusto; but Miss Jemima had no appet.i.te, and the show of eating that she made was but a poor pretence.

"Don't be so much alarmed, Jemima," said her brother, making progress with his dinner. "I've no doubt the child is amongst her friends. By and bye I'll go out and hunt her up."

He still had no fear that his little daughter would not soon return. He accordingly finished his dinner with his usual deliberation; and it was not until he had completed one or two urgent pieces of work, that he, at last, put on his hat and coat, and taking his stout blackthorn stick, set out in search of his missing child.

All the weary afternoon, he went from house to house, amongst friends and friendly neighbours; but no one had seen Marian, or knew anything as to her whereabouts. Every now and then he returned home, to see if the child had come back. But each time he found only Aunt Jemima, sitting before the fire like an image of grim despair. She would look up with fierce eagerness, on his entrance, and drop her gaze again with a gasp when she saw that he was alone.