The Golden Shoemaker Part 34

TOMMY DUDGEON UNDERTAKES A DELICATE ENTERPRISE.

The time which had elapsed since the first visit of Miss Owen to the house of "the little Twin Brethren" had const.i.tuted, for Tommy Dudgeon, a period of mental unrest. If he had been perturbed before, he was twice as uneasy now. He had made the joyous discovery which he had been expecting to make almost ever since he had seen the young secretary walking in her emphatic way along the street. But, joyous as the discovery was, the making of it had actually increased the perturbation of his mind. His trouble was that he could not tell how he would ever be able to make his discovery known.

He did not doubt that, to his dear friend, "Cobbler" Horn, and to the young secretary, the communication of it would impart great joy. But he was restrained by a fear, which would arise, notwithstanding his feeling of certainty, lest he should prove to be mistaken after all; and his fear was reinforced by an inward persuasion which he had that he was the most awkward person in the world by whom so delicate a communication could be made.

Yet he told himself he was quite sure that the young secretary was no other than little Marian come back. His doubts had vanished when he had seen her sitting in the old arm-chair, just as when she was a child; and every time he had seen her since that day his a.s.surance had been made more sure. But, as long as he was compelled to keep his discovery to himself, it was almost the same as though he had not made it at all.

Tommy almost wished that some one else had made the great discovery, as well as himself. His thoughts had turned to his brother John; and he had resolved to put him to the test, which he had subsequently done with considerable tact. On the evening of the day following that of the first visit of Miss Owen to their house, the brothers had been sitting by the fire before going to bed.

"John," Tommy had said, seizing his opportunity, "you saw the young lady who was here the other day?"

"Yes."

"She's the secretary, you know."

"Yes," said John again, yawning; for he was sleepy.

"Well, what did you think of her?"

John started, and regarded his brother with a stare of astonishment. It was the first time Tommy had ever asked his opinion on such a subject. Was he thinking of getting married, or what? John Dudgeon had a certain broad sense of humour which enabled him to perceive such ludicrous elements of a situation as showed themselves on the surface.

"Ah!" he exclaimed slyly; "are you there?"

Tommy put out his hands in some confusion.

"No, no," he said, "not what you think! But did you notice anything particular about the young lady?"

"Well no," replied John, "except that I thought she was a very nice young person. But, Tommy, isn't she rather too young? If you really are thinking of getting married, wouldn't it be better to choose some one a little nearer your own age?"

John would not be dissuaded from the idea that his brother was intent on matrimonial thoughts. Tommy waved his hand, in a deprecatory way, and rising from his chair, said "good night," and betook himself to bed.

It was plain that he was quite alone in his discovery. What was he to do?

To speak to Miss Owen on the subject was out of the question. The only alternative was to communicate the good news to "Cobbler" Horn himself.

But there seemed to be stupendous difficulties involved in such a course.

He was aware that there was nothing his friend would more rejoice to know than that which he had to tell. From various hints thrown out by "Cobbler"

Horn, Tommy knew that he regarded Miss Owen with much of the fondness of a father; and it was not likely that the joy of finding his lost child would be diminished in the least by the fact that she had presented herself in the person of his secretary. But this consideration did not relieve the perplexity with which the little huckster contemplated the necessity of making known his secret to "Cobbler" Horn. For, to say nothing of the initial obstacle of his own timidity, he feared it would be almost impossible to convince his friend that his strange surmise was correct. If "Cobbler" Horn had not discovered for himself the ident.i.ty of his secretary with his long-lost child, was it likely that he would accept that astounding fact on the testimony of any other person?

It is needless to say that Tommy Dudgeon made his perplexity a matter of prayer. He prayed and pondered, night and day; and, at length a thought came to him which seemed to point out the way of which he was in search.

Might he not give "Cobbler" Horn some covert hint which would put him on the track of making the great discovery for himself? Surely some such thing, though difficult, might be done! He must indeed be cautious, and not by any means reveal his design. The suggestion must seem to be incidental and unpremeditated. There must be no actual mention of little Marian, and no apparently intentional indication of Miss Owen. Something must be said which might induce "Cobbler" Horn to a.s.sociate the idea of his little lost Marian with that of his young secretary--to place them side by side before his mind. And it must all arise in the course of conversation, the order of which--he Tommy Dudgeon, must deliberately plan. The audacity of the thought made his hair stand up.

It was a delicate undertaking indeed! The little man felt like a surgeon about to perform a critical operation upon his dearest friend. He was preparing to open an old wound in the heart of his beloved benefactor.

True, he hoped so to deal with it that it should never bleed again. But what if he failed? That would be dreadful! Yet the attempt must be made.

So he set himself to his task. His opportunity came on the afternoon of the day following that of the opening of the "Home." Watching from the corner of his window, as he was wont, about three o'clock, Tommy saw "the Golden Shoemaker" come along the street, and enter his old house. Then the little man turned away from the window, and became very nervous. For quite two minutes he stood back against the shelves, trying to compose himself.

When he had succeeded, in some degree, in steadying his quivering nerves, he reached from under the counter a brown-paper parcel containing a pair of boots, which had, for some days, been lying in readiness for the occasion which had now arrived, and, calling John to mind the shop, slipped swiftly into the street. A minute later he was standing in the doorway of "Cobbler" Horn's workshop. "The little Twin Brethren" had, at first, been disposed to refrain from availing themselves of the gratuitous labours of their friend; but, perceiving that it would afford him pleasure, they had yielded with an easy grace, and now Tommy was glad to have so good an excuse for a visit to "the Golden Shoemaker," as was supplied by the boots in the parcel under his arm.

"Cobbler" Horn perceived the nervousness of his visitor, and thinking it strange that the bringing of a pair of boots to be mended should have occasioned his humble little friend so much trepidation, he did his best, by adopting a specially sociable tone, to put him at his ease.

"Ah, Tommy, what have we there?" he asked. "More work for the 'Cobbler,'

eh?"

"Just an old pair of boots which want mending, Mr. Horn," said Tommy, in uncertain tones, as he unwrapped the boots and held them out with a shaking hand--"that is, if you are not too busy."

"Not by any means," said "Cobbler" Horn, with a smile. "Put them down."

Tommy obeyed.

There stood against the wall, a much-worn wooden chair from which the back had been sawn off close.

"I'll sit down, if you don't mind," gasped Tommy, depositing himself upon this superannuated seat.

"By all means," said "Cobbler" Horn cordially; "make yourself quite at home."

"Thank you," said Tommy, drawing from his pocket a red and yellow handkerchief, with which he vigorously mopped his brow.

"Cobbler" Horn waited calmly for his perturbed visitor to become composed; and Tommy sat for some minutes, staring helplessly at "Cobbler" Horn, and still rubbing his forehead. What had become of the astute plan of operations which the little man had laid down?

"You have surely something on your mind, friend?" said "Cobbler" Horn, in an enquiring tone.

"Yes, I have," said Tommy, somewhat relieved; "it's been there for some time."

"Well, what is it? Can I help you in any way?"

"Oh, no; I don't want help."

His utterly incapacitated demeanour belied him; but he was speaking of financial help.

"I've been thinking of the past, Mr. Horn," he managed to say, making a faint effort to direct the conversation according to his original design.

"Ah!" sighed "Cobbler" Horn. "Of the past!" With the word, his thoughts darted back to that period of his own past towards which they so often sadly turned.

"I somehow can't help it," continued Tommy, gathering courage. "There seems to be something that keeps bringing it up."

"Cobbler" Horn fixed his keen eyes on the agitated face of his visitor. He knew what it was in the past to which Tommy referred, and appreciated his delicacy of expression.

"Yes, Tommy," he said, "and I, too, often think of the past. But is there anything special that brings it to your mind just now?"

Upon this, all Tommy Dudgeon's clever plans vanished into air. His scheme for leading the conversation up to the desired point utterly broke down.

He cast himself on the mercy of his friend.

"Oh," he cried, in thrilling tones, "can't you see it? Can't you feel it--every day? The sec'tary! The sec'tary! If it is so plain to me, how can you be so blind?"

Then he darted from the room, and betook himself home with all speed.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.