the crisp morning filled my lungs with enthusiasm for the shipments soon to arrive.
Four days passed. I received a letter from The Royal Banking Co. of Southampton; opening it I was surprised to find that my request of a loan had been reassessed and denied, due to 'past discrepancies of account'. I was incensed, and sent a messenger to the Royal’s Grantaburgh Office, insisting an audience.
I arrived at eleven O'clock sharp that very morning, and found that Mr. Lacey was indisposed. Mr. Sobel, however, was available to receive me.
His office was more a museum to his former career than a mirror of his current employment. Muskets lined the wall besides maps of the Americas. He noted my wandering eye and seemed satisfied by my curiosity. Oscar was a lean man of some sixty years, with a cruel face and pinched lips. His hair was silver, and he held himself with the air of an aristocrat.
“Now, Mr. Hobble.” He paused and slowed the descent into his chair. “Hobble... That's an uncommon name for a man of your standing. It sounds... eastern,” by which he meant: your name is of low-born ancestry, originating from the slum-district.
It was an infuriating remark, though I had long known that Mr. Sobel bore no goodwill toward me. He is the son of the factory reformer and businessman who owns the Abingtowne Cotton Mill, it must have been no less distressing than the coming of Revelation when he discovered a commoner like me living in a country retreat of his village.
I cleared my throat and made no comment, much to his consternation. He wished apparently to draw me into some uncomely verbal conflict.
“Mr. Sobel,” I began directly, “I wish to know the nature of this correspondence, for much am I aggrieved by it's contents.” I cast the missive upon the desk, it spun and came to a rest at his elbow, though he refused to look at it. Instead he held me in his pugnacious gaze.
“There is nothing amiss here. As my overseer's have noted, your accounts with us have shown discrepancy in former years and we are not obliging to your request of a loan.”
“This is cruelly absurd! I demand to know the 'discrepancy' of which you speak.”
His gaze faltered for a moment, as though some respected family member had informed him that he had been born female, he leant toward me and slowly pushed the letter across the table as though it were contaminated.
“Let me inform you,” he said through grit teeth, “that no man comes forth into my office and demands of me. Especially one of your lineage.”
I felt his words as a curt slap in the face. Saying nothing more, I stood, retrieved my correspondence with his overseer's, and made my way from The Royal.
Once in the factory, I immediately wrote to The Royal Banking Co. of Southampton, informing them in no uncertain language of my grievance, Mr. Sobel's words towards me, including his ill-veiled insinuations. I informed them also that I would be withdrawing my accounts and reinstating them elsewhere. I was deeply affronted, and could sit for not matter of time without the need to pace my office like sentry on guard commission.
My fury coursed through me for days, and as soon as I had time I withdrew my finances to Casterbrigg Depository Financial Institution, and requested to meet with the manager, Johnathan McCourt. He was an amiable man in his mid fifties who had an ampler stomach than I and a rosy cheek to boot. His bulbous nose was a spiders-scrawl of broken blood vessels and it glowed under the paleness of his grey hair.
He welcomed me into his office and we made pleasant conversation. I was immediately fond of this fellow, and it seemed he too of I, for he nudged me as we watched the city from his window and wondered if I would perchance partake in a glass of scotch.
I laughed and accepted, and we continued our business erratically through broken conversations about politics and world affairs. He had a draught personality, as though he were always at odds with himself though happy for it also.
Towards the end of the meeting, he poured himself a fourth glass of scotch and lowered his voice as though taking me into his confidence.
“Mr. Hobble, my dear boy, I have to ask you a question... and I would be most grateful if you should not be vexed. It has come to our attention that your reasons for discontinuing business with The Royal was over some ambiguous affair regarding your finances? I would be ever so appreciative if you could elaborate?”
“Mr. McCourt, I must contest that this information was only privy to myself and a select few from The Royal and it's main office in Southampton. Beside that, it was not three days ago that I first found out this equivocal news myself, and still know not it's meaning. Pray, tell me how you know of this?”
Mr. McCourt looked guilty, as though he were breaking a confidence in saying the words. Though he must have seen the innocence and rage swirling in my air, for me sighed and finished his glass.
“I must be honest with you, dear fellow, for I have learnt this last hour that you are a gentle man befitting the name. It would do no good to my heart to hold such words from you, though I pray that the matter rests here and that you do not take action to remedy it.
“Word spreads quickly in this city, of that I'm sure you are aware, and when a capacious merchant such as yourself withdraws his monies from one of the largest banking companies in the city, people start to wonder why. I found myself harbouring an unhealthy amount of curiosity also, for I wondered if you were privy to information regarding the situation of the bank, and was questioning myself as to whether The Royal was in financial difficulty.
And the answers to my questions returned to me via the mouth of my ambitious clerk, and he in turn learned that which he spoke from the very lips of...”
“Oscar Sobel.” I said in conclusion, and he nodded unhappily.
“I learned of your dealing with that dismal gentleman, and discovered you had sent a message to his overseer's in Southampton. I know not if you are aware, sir, but it appears that they have stricken him from his office and demoted him to a lower station. This agitated him much, and I fear this be the reasoning behind his cruel public language of you and slurs of your creditworthiness. I hope you'll forgive my inquisitiveness. I was most interested in the situation, and when I heard you wished to bring your business here, I...”
“Mr. McCourt, I am not offended by your actions. It was only sensible of you to be concerned. It is with Mr. Sobel with whom I take umbrage.”
Mr. McCourt looked uncomfortable from that moment on, and offered me another glass to forget the matter, though my emotions were now at fever pitch.
On my return home I wrote a letter to Mr. Sobel, insisting that he immediately apologise for the aspersions he had cast regarding myself and my finances. The letter was brimming with emotion, and by the end of it I took it in my hand and burnt it, hoping that the smokes would carry away with them my intense unhappiness. I was most want of an apology, my honour had been compromised by his spiteful tongue, but for the moment I would wait until my mind offered more equilibria and could attempt a calmer prose.
Several days later, on yet another mist laden morning, I was on my way to the village station to board an engine for the city. I had conquered my fury concerning events of late, and was preoccupied with the imminent arrival of the cargo ships loaded with satins, silks, Javian twills velvets, Arabian wools, Mongolian furs, and treated leathers from the East Indies. I was very much excited, and expectant of the ensuing riches that would follow.
Unbeknownst to I, however, Oscar Sobel had written to a fellow some days previously and, amidst other correspondence, told how he planned to affront me in the street. In full view of the public, he intended to do me harm and bring shame upon me.
He was waiting in the thoroughfare bookshop when he spied me coming, and waited until I had past until he made haste from the shop and pushed me from behind and knocked my hat to the floor with his cane.
He thrust his stick at me with vehemence, saying, “Take that, sir! By God, you shall know more of this yet!” and with that he turned tail and walked away.
“You are a coward, sir!” I shouted at him as people w
atched in surprise, “a poor, ridiculous coward.” Doors all down the street began to open, the occupants all curious as to the cause of the shouting. Oscar looked over his shoulder at me, and I suppose he thought to return and finish the job, but he decided against it for a reason I should never learn.
I picked my hat from the floor and dusted it off. A woman came and asked if I was well, and I brushed her away also. Within seconds, the animosity I felt for that fellow had returned ten-fold. I turned my back on the train station and made my way back home.
My anger was not unblemished by other thoughts. I was fearful of what had happened, for Oscar had insulted my honour twice in public, and I had no other alternative, as a gentleman, to request an apology or be obliged to meet him with pistols.
This was an outcome which greatly concerned me, for I had never held a pistol in my hand, let alone fired one with intent to kill, and Mr. Sobel was a military lieutenant who had shot to kill untold times.
With a heavy sense of grief I returned home. The maidservant was surprised to see me reappear so early, and I snapped at her to “ask not questions but fetch that Hemmel boy who calls himself a messenger”, before shutting myself in my office and writing Mr. Sobel.
Abingtowne, 26th September 1789
Sir,
It is with a grave heart that I write this missive, being