The morning after this brief intimation I attached myself to that
department of the house whose business was to receive and reply to
telegraphic messages. I took that group of countries whose languages I
knew, and addressed myself to my task in right earnest. An occupation
whose chief feature is emergency will always possess a certain interest,
but beyond this there was not anything attractive in my present pursuit.
A peremptory message to sell this or buy that, to push on vigorously
with a certain enterprise or to suspend all action in another, would
perhaps form the staple of a day's work. When disasters occurred, too,
it was their monetary feature alone was recorded. The fire that consumed
a warehouse was told with reference to the amount insured; the shipwreck
was related by incidents that bore on the lost cargo, and the damage
incurred. Still it was less monotonous than the work of the office,
and I had a certain pride in converting the messages--sometimes
partly, sometimes totally unintelligible--into language that could be
understood, that imparted a fair share of ambition to my labor.
My duty was to present myself, with my book in which I had entered the
despatches, each evening, at supper-time, at Herr Ignaz's house. He
would be at table with his daughter when I arrived, and the interview
would pass somewhat in this wise: Herr Oppovich would take the book from
my hands without a word or even a look at me, and the Fraulein, with a
gentle bend of the head, but without the faintest show of more intimate
greeting, would acknowledge mc. She would continue to eat as I stood
there, as unmindful of me as though I were a servant. Having scanned the
book over, he would hand it across to his daughter, and then would ensue
a few words in whisper, after which the Fräulein would write opposite
each message some word of reply or of comment such as, “Already provided
for,” “Further details wanted,” “Too late,” or such like, but never
more than a few words, and these she would write freely, and only
consulting herself. The old man--whose memory failed him more and more
every day, and whose general debility grew rapidly--did no more than
glance at the answers and nod an acceptance of them. In giving the book
back to me, she rarely looked up, but if she did so, and if her eyes
met mine, their expression was cold and almost defiant; and thus, with a
slight bend of the head, I would be dismissed.
Nor was this reception the less chilling that, before I had well closed
the door, they would be in full conversation again, showing that my
presence it was which had inspired the constraint and reserve. These,
it might be thought, were not very proud nor blissful moments to me, and
yet they formed the happiest incident of my day, and I actually longed
for the hour, as might a lover to meet his mistress. To gaze at will
upon her pale and beautiful face, to watch the sunlight as it played
upon her golden hair, which she wore--in some fashion, perhaps, peculiar
to her race--in heavy masses of curls, that fell over her back and
shoulders; her hand, too, a model of symmetry, and with the fingers
rose-tipped, like the goddesses of Homer, affected me as a spell; and
I have stood there unconsciously staring at it till warned by a second
admonition to retire.
[Illustration: 009]
Perhaps the solitude in which I lived helped to make me dwell more
thoughtfully on this daily-recurring interview; for I went nowhere, I
associated with no one, I dined alone, and my one brisk walk for health
and exercise I took by myself. When evening came, and the other clerks
frequented the theatre, I went home to read, or as often to sit and
think.
“Sara tells me,” said the old man one day, when some rare chance had
brought him to my office,--“Sara tells me that you are suffering from
over-confinement. She thinks you look pale and worn, and that this
constant work is telling on you.”
“Far from it, sir. I am both well and happy; and if I needed to be made
happier, this thoughtful kindness would make me so.”
“Yes; she is very kind, and very thoughtful too; but, as well as these,
she is despotic,” said he, with a faint laugh; “and so she has decided
that you are to exchange with M. Marsac, who will be here by Saturday,
and who will put you up to all the details of his walk. He buys our
timber for us in Hungary and Transylvania; and he, too, will enjoy a
little rest from constant travel.”
“I don't speak Hungarian, sir,” began I, eager to offer an opposition to
the plan.
“Sara says you are a quick learner, and will soon acquire it,--at least,
enough for traffic.”
“It is a business, too, that I suspect requires much insight into the
people and their ways.”
“You can't learn them younger, lad; and as all those we deal with are
old clients of the house, you will not be much exposed to rogueries.”
“But if I make mistakes, sir? If I involve you in difficulty and in
loss?”
“You 'll repay it by zeal, lad, and by devotion, as we have seen you do
here.”
He waved his hand in adieu, and left me to my own thoughts. Very sad
thoughts they were, as they told me of separation from her that gave the
whole charm to my life. Sara's manner to me had been so markedly cold
and distant for some time past, so unlike what it had been at first,
that I could not help feeling that, by ordering me away, some evidence
of displeasure was to be detected. The old man I at once exculpated, for
every day showed him less and less alive to the business of “the House;”
though, from habit, he persisted in coming down every morning to the
office, and believed himself the guide and director of all that went on
there.
I puzzled myself long to think what I could have done to forfeit her
favor. I had never in the slightest degree passed that boundary of
deference that I was told she liked to exact from all in the service
of the house. I had neglected no duty, nor, having no intimates or
associates, had I given opportunity to report of me that I had said this
or that of my employers. I scrutinized every act of my daily life, and
suggested every possible and impossible cause for this coldness; but
without approaching a reason at all probable. While I thus doubted and
disputed with myself, the evening despatches arrived, and among them
a letter addressed to myself. It bore the post-mark of the town alone,
with this superscription, “Digby Owen, Esq., at Messrs. Oppovich's,
Fiume.” I tore it open and read,--
“The address you wish for is, 'Lady Norcott, Sunday's Well, Cork,
Ireland.'”
The writing looked an English hand, and the language was English. There
was no date, nor any signature. Could it have been, then, that I had
folded and sealed and sent on my letter--that letter I believed I had
never written--without knowing it, and that the lawyer had sent me this
reply, which, though long delayed, might have been postponed till he
had obtained the tidings it conveyed? At all events, I had got my
dear mother's address,--at least I hoped so. This point I resolved to
ascertain at once, and sat down to write to her. It was a very flurried
note I composed, though I did my very best to be collected. I told her
how and where I was, and by what accident of fortune I had come here;
that I had reasonable hopes of advancement, and even now had a salary
which was larger than I needed. I was afraid to say much of what I
wished to tell her, till I was sure my letter would reach her; and I
entreated her to write to me by return of post, were it but a line. I
need not say how many loves I sent her, nor what longings to be again
beside her, to hold her hand, and hear her voice, and call her by that
dearest of all the names affection cherishes. “I am going from this in
a few days into Hungary,” added I; “but address me here, and it shall be
sent after me.
When I had finished my letter, I again turned my thoughts to this
strange communication, so abrupt and so short. How came it to Fiume,
too? Was it enclosed in some other letter, and to whom? If posted in
Fiume, why not written there? Ay; but by whom? Who could know that I had
wished for my mother's address? It was a secret buried in my own heart.
I suddenly determined I would ask the Fraulein Sara to aid me in
unravelling this mystery, which, of course, I could do without
disclosing the contents of the note. I hurried off to the house, and
asked if she would permit me to speak to her.
“Yes. The Fräulein was going out; but if my business was brief, she
would see me.”
She was in bonnet and shawl as I entered, and stood with one hand on a
table, looking very calm but somewhat haughty.
“I beg your pardon, M. Owen,” said she, “if I say that I can only give
you a few minutes, and will not ask you even to sit down. If it be a
matter of the office--”
“No, Mademoiselle; it is not a matter of the office---”
“Then, if it relate to your change of occupation--”
“No, Mademoiselle, not even to that. It is a purely personal question. I
have got a letter, with a Fiume postmark on it, but without the writer's
name; and I am curious to know if you could aid me to discover him.
Would you look at the hand and see if it be known to you?”
“Pray excuse me, M. Owen. I am the stupidest of all people in reading
riddles or solving difficulties. All the help I can give you is to say
how I treat anonymous letters myself. If they be simply insults, I burn
them. If they relate what appear to be matters of fact, I wait and watch
for them.”
Offended by the whole tone of her manner, I bowed, and moved towards the
door.
“Have you seen M. Marsac? I hear he has arrived.”
“No, Mademoiselle; not yet.”
“When you have conferred and consulted with him, your instructions are
all prepared; and I suppose you are ready to start?”
“I shall be, Mademoiselle, when called upon.”
“I will say good-bye, then,” said she, advancing one step towards me,
evidently intending to offer me her hand; but I replied by a low, very
low bow, and retired.
I thought I should choke as I went down the stairs. My throat seemed to
swell, and then to close up; and when I gained the shelter of the thick
trees, I threw myself down on my face in the grass, and sobbed as if
my heart was breaking. How I vowed and swore that I would tear every
recollection of her from my mind, and never think more of her, and how
her image ever came back clearer and brighter and more beautiful before
me after each oath!