My friend did not keep his self-made appointment with me at breakfast,
nor did I see him for two days, when we met in the street.
“I have gone over to the enemy,” said he; “I have taken an engagement
with Bettmeyer: six thousand florins and all expenses,--silver florins,
_mon cher_; and if you're wise,” added he in a whisper, “you 'll follow
my lead. Shall I say a word for you?”
I thanked him coldly, and declined the offer.
“All right; stick to gratitude, and you'll see where it will land you,”
said he, gayly. “I've sent you half a dozen letters to friends of mine
up yonder;” and he pointed towards the North. “You 'll find Hunyadi an
excellent fellow, and the Countess charming; don't make love to her,
though, for Tassilo is a regular Othello. As for the Erdödis, I only
wish I was going there, instead of you;--such pheasants, such women,
such Tokay, their own vintage! Once you 're down in Transylvania, write
me word whom you 'd like to know. They 're all dear friends of mine. By
the way, don't make any blunder about that Hunyadi contract The people
here will want you to break it,--don't, on any account. It's the finest
bargain ever was made; splendid timber, magnificent bark, and the
cuttings alone worth all the money.”
He rattled out this with his own headlong speed, and was gone before I
well knew I had seen him.
That evening I was ordered to Herr Oppovich's house to receive my last
instructions. The old man was asleep on a sofa, as I entered, and Sara
seated at a table by the fire, deeply engaged in accounts.
“Sit down, Herr Owen,”--she had ceased to call me Von Owen,--“and I will
speak to you in a minute.”
I was not impatient at the delay, for I had time to gaze at her silken
hair, and her faultless profile, and the beautiful outline of her
figure, as, leaning her head on her hand, she bent over the table.
“I cannot make this come right,--are you clever at figures?” asked she.
“I cannot say it is my gift, but I will do my best to aid you.” And now
we were seated side by side, poring over the same page; and as she had
placed one taper finger next the column of figures, I did so likewise,
thinking far less of the arithmetic than of the chance of touching her
hand with mine.
“These figures are somewhat confusing,” she said. “Let us begin at the
top,--fourteen hundred and six hundred, make two thousand, and twelve
hundred, three thousand two hundred,--now is this a seven or a three?”
“I'd say a three.”
“I 've called it a seven, because M. Marsac usually writes his sevens in
this way.”
“These are De Marsac's, then?” asked I.
“And why 'De,' may I ask?” said she, quickly; “why not Marsac, as I
called him?”
“I took his name as he gave it me.”
“You know him, then? Oh, I had forgotten,--he called on you the night he
came. Have you seen him since?”
“Only passingly, in the street”
“Had he time to tell you that he has been dismissed?”
“Yes; he said he was now in Mr. Bettmeyer's office.”
“Shall I tell you why?” She stopped, and her cheek became crimson, while
her eyes sparkled with an angry fire that actually startled me. “But let
us finish this. Where were we?” She now leaned her head down upon her
hands, and seemed overcome by her emotion. When she looked up again, her
face was perfectly pale, and her eyes sad and weariful. “I am afraid we
shall wake him,” said she, looking towards her father; “come into this
room here. So this man has been talking of us?” cried she, as soon as we
had passed into the adjoining room. “Has he told you how he has requited
all my father's kindness? how he has repaid his trustfulness and faith
in him? Speak freely if you wish me to regard you as a friend.”
“I would that you might, Fräulein. There is no name I would do so much
to win.”
“But you are a gentleman, and with noble blood. Could you stoop to be
the friend of--” Here she hesitated, and, after an effort, added, “A
Jew?”
“Try me, prove me,” said I, stooping till my lips touched her hand.
She did not withdraw her hand, but left it in mine, as I pressed it
again and again to my lips.
“He told you, then,” said she, in a half-whisper, “that our house was
on the brink of ruin; that in a few weeks, or even less, my father would
not face the exchange,--did he not say this?”
“I will tell you all,” said I, “for I know you will forgive me when I
repeat what will offend you to hear, but what is safer you should hear.”
And, in the fewest words I could, I related what Marsac had told me
of the house and its difficulties. When I came to that part which
represented Oppovich as the mere agent of the great Parisian
banker,--whose name I was not quite sure of,--I faltered and hesitated.
“Go on,” said she, gently. “He told you that Baron Nathanheimer was
about to withdraw his protection from us?”
I slightly bent my head in affirmation.
“But did he say why?”
“Something there was of rash enterprise, of speculation
unauthorized--of--”
“Of an old man with failing faculties,” said she, in the same low tone;
“and of a young girl, little versed in business, but self-confident and
presumptuous enough to think herself equal to supply his place. I have
no doubt he was very frank on this head. He wrote to Baron Elias, who
sent me his letter,--the letter he wrote of us while eating our bread.
It was not handsome of him,--was it, sir?”
I can give no idea, not the faintest, of the way she said these few
words, nor of the ineffable scorn of her look, while her voice remained
calm and gentle as ever.
“No; it was not handsome.”
She nodded to me to proceed, and I continued,--
“I have told you nearly everything; for of himself and his
boastfulness--”
“Oh! do not tell me of that I am in no laughing mood, and I would not
like to hear of it What did he say of the Hunyadi affair?”
“Nothing, or next to nothing. He offered me letters of introduction to
Count Hunyadi; but beyond that there was no mention of him.”
She arose as I said this, and walked slowly up and down the room. I saw
she was deep in thought, and was careful not to disturb or distract
her. At last she opened a writing-desk, and took out a roll of papers
fastened by a tape.
“These,” said she, “you will take with you, and carefully read over.
They are the records of a transaction that is now involving us in great
trouble, and which may prove more than trouble. M. Marsac has been
induced--how, we shall not stop to inquire--to contract for the purchase
of an extensive wood belonging to Graf Hunyadi; the price, half a
million of francs. We delayed to ratify an agreement of such moment,
until more fully assured of the value of the timber; and while we
deliberated on the choice of the person to send down to Hungary, we have
received from our correspondent at Vienna certain bills for acceptance
in payment of this purchase. You follow me, don't you?”
“Yes. As I understand it, the bargain was assumed to be ratified?”
“Just so.”
She paused; and, after a slight struggle with herself, went on,--
“The contract, legally drawn up and complete in every way, _was_ signed;
not, however, by my father, but by my brother. You have heard, perhaps,
that I have a brother. Bad companionship and a yielding disposition
have led him into evil, and for some years we have not seen him. Much
misfortune has befallen him; but none greater, perhaps, than his meeting
with Marsac; for, though Adolf has done many things, he would not have
gone thus far without the promptings of this bad man.”
“Was it his own name he wrote?” asked I.
“No; it was my father's,” and she faltered at the word; and as she spoke
it, her head fell heavily forward, and she covered her face with her
hands.
She rallied, however, quickly, and went on. “We now know that the timber
is not worth one-fourth of this large sum. Baron Elias himself has seen
it, and declares that we have been duped or--worse. He insists that
we rescind the contract, or accept all its consequences. The one
is hopeless,--the other ruin. Meanwhile, the Baron suspends farther
relations with us, and heavy acceptances of ours will soon press for
payment. I must not go into this,” said she, hurriedly. “You are very
young to charge with such a mission; but I have great faith in your
loyalty. You will not wrong our trust?”
“That I will not.”
“You will go to Graf Hunyadi, and speak with him. If he be--as many
of his countrymen are--a man of high and generous feeling, he will not
bring ruin upon us, when our only alternative would be to denounce our
own. You are very young; but you have habits of the world and society.
Nay,--I am not seeking to learn a secret; but you know enough to make
you companionable and acceptable, where any others in our employ would
be inadmissible. At all events, you will soon see the sort of man we
have to deal with, and you will report to me at once.”
“I am not to tell him how this signature has been obtained?” asked I,
awaiting the reply.
“That would be to denounce the contract at once,” cried she, as though
this thought had for the first time struck her. “You know the penalty
of a forgery here. It is the galleys for life. He must be saved at
all events. Don't you see,” cried she, eagerly, “I can give you no
instructions. I have none to give. When I say I trust you,--I have told
you all.”
“Has Herr Ignaz not said how he would wish me to act?”
“My father knows nothing of it all! Nothing. You have seen him, and you
know how little he is able now to cope with a difficulty. The very sense
that his faculties are not what they were overcomes him, even to tears.”
Up to this she had spoken with a calm firmness that had lent a touch of
almost sternness to her manner, but at the mention of her poor father's
condition, her courage gave way, and she turned away and hid her face,
but her convulsed shoulders showed how her emotion was overcoming her.
I went towards her, and took her hand in both my own. She left it to me
while I kissed it again and again.
“Oh, Sara,” I whispered rather than spoke, “if you knew how devoted I am
to you, if you knew how willingly I would give my very life for you, you
would not think yourself friendless at this hour. Your trust in me has
made me forget how lonely I am, and how humble,--to forget all that
separates us, even to telling that I love you. Give me one word--only
one--of hope; or if not that, let your dear hand but close on mine, and
I am yours forever.”
She never spoke, however, and her cold fingers returned no pressure to
mine.
“I love you; I love you!” I muttered, as I covered her hand with kisses.
“There! Do you not hear?” cried she, suddenly. “My father is calling
me.”
“Sara, Sara! Where is Sara?” cried the old man, in a weak, reedy voice.
“I am coming, dear father,” said she. “Good-bye, Digby; remember that I
trust you!”
[Illustration: 612]
She waved me a farewell, and, with a faint, sad smile, she moved away.
As she reached the door, however, she turned, and, with a look of kindly
meaning, said, “Trust you in all things.”
I sprang forward to clasp her to my heart; but the door closed on her,
and I was alone.