Jamie had had no letter for many weeks. The clerks talked about it.
Day by day he would go through the pile of letters on his desk in
regular order, but with trembling fingers; day by day he would lay
them all aside, with notes for their answers. Then he would go for a
moment into the great dark vault of the bank, where the bonds and
stocks were kept, and come out rubbing his spectacles. The clerks
would have forged a letter for him had they deemed it possible. There
was talk even of sending a round-robin to Mrs. St. Clair.
It was a shorter walk from Salem Street than it had been from his
daughter's mansion, and poor Jamie had not so much time each day to
calculate the chances of a letter being there. Alas! a glance of the
eye sufficed. Her notes were always on squarish white note-paper
sealed in the middle (they still used no envelopes in those days), and
were easy to see behind the pile of business letters and telegrams.
And the five minutes of hope between breakfast and the bank were all
old Jamie had to carry him through the day, for her letters never
arrived in the afternoon.
But this foggy day Jamie came down conscious of a certain tremor of
anticipation. It has been said that he had no religion, but he had
ventured to pray the night before,--to pray that he might get a
letter. He was wondering if it were not wrong to invoke the Deity for
such selfish things. For the Deity (if there were one, indeed) seemed
very far off and awful to Jamie. That there was anything trivial or
foolish in the prayer did not occur to Jamie; it probably would have
occurred to Mercedes.
But he got to the office at the usual time. The clerks were not
looking at him (had he known it, a bad sign), and he cast his eye
hastily over the pile. Then his face grew fixed once more. No letter
from her was there, and he began to go through them all in routine
order, the telegrams first.
The next thing that happened, the nearest clerk heard a sound and
looked up, his finger on the column of figures and "carrying" 31 in
his head. Old Jamie spoke to him. "I--I--must go out for an hour or
two," he said. "I have a train to meet." His face was radiant, and all
the clerks were looking up by this time. No one spoke, and Jamie went
away.
"Did you see, he was positively blushing," said the teller.
There was a momentary cessation of all business at the bank. When old
Mr. Bowdoin came in, on his way down to the wharf, he was struck at
once with the atmosphere of the place.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "You look like you'd all had your
salaries raised."
"Old Jamie's got his foreign mail," said the cashier.
But Jamie went out into the street to think of it undisturbed. It was
a telegram:--
"Am coming on to-morrow. Meet me at five, Worcester depot. MERCEDES."
She did not say anything about St. Clair, and Jamie felt sure he was
not coming.
The fog had cleared away by this time, and he went mechanically down
to the old counting-room on the wharf. Harleston Bowdoin was there
alone, and Jamie found himself facing the young man before he realized
where his legs had carried him.
"What is it, Jamie?" said Harley.
"She's coming on to make me a visit," said Jamie simply.
"Mercedes--Mrs. St. Clair, I mean." Then he wandered out, passing Mr.
Bowdoin on the stairs. He did not tell him the news, and the old
gentleman nearly choked in his desire to speak of it. As he entered
the office, "Has he told you?" cried Harleston.
"Has he told _you_?" echoed the old gentleman. Harley told. Then Mr.
Bowdoin turned and bolted up the street after Jamie.
"Old fellow, why don't you have a vacation,--just a few days? The bank
can spare you, and you need rest." His hand was on the old clerk's
shoulder.
"Master Harley wull ha' told ye? But I'm na one to neglect me
affairs," said Jamie.
"Nonsense, nonsense. When is she coming?"
Jamie told him.
"Why don't you take the one-forty and meet her at Worcester? She may
have to go back to-morrow."
Jamie started. It was clear he had not thought of this. As they
entered the bank, Mr. Bowdoin cried out to Stanchion, the cashier, "I
want to borrow McMurtagh for the day, on business of my own."
"Certainly, sir," said Mr. Stanchion.
Jamie went.
* * * * *
There is no happiness so great as happiness to come, for then it has
not begun to go. If the streets of the celestial city are as bright to
Jamie as those of Boston were that day, he should have hope of heaven.
It was yet two hours before his train went, but he had no thought of
food. He passed a florist's; then turned and went in, blushing, to buy
a bunch of roses. He was not anxious for the time to come, such
pleasure lay in waiting. When at last the train started, the distance
to Worcester never seemed so short. He was to come back over it with
her!
In the car he got some water for his roses, but dared not smell of
them lest their fragrance should be diminished. After reaching
Worcester, he had half an hour to wait; then the New York train came
trundling in. As the cars rolled by he strained his old eyes to each
window; the day was hot, and at an opened one Jamie saw the face of
his Mercedes.