“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.'”