Mr. Sabin thought of those things which had pa.s.sed, and he thought of what was to come, and a moment of bitterness crept into his life which he knew must leave its mark for ever. His head drooped into his hands and remained buried there. Thus he stood until the first ray of sunlight travelling across the water fell upon him, and he knew that morning had come. He crossed the deck, and entering his cabin closed the door.
CHAPTER XLIX.
MR. SABIN IS SENTIMENTAL.
Mr. Sabin found it a harder matter than he had antic.i.p.ated to induce the captain to consent to the scheme he had formulated. Nevertheless, he succeeded in the end, and by lunch time the following day the whole affair was settled. There was a certain amount of risk in the affair, but, on the other hand, if successfully carried out, it set free once and for ever the two men mainly concerned in it. Mr. Sabin, who was in rather a curious mood, came out of the captain"s room a little after one o"clock feeling altogether indisposed for conversation of any sort, ordered his luncheon from the deck steward, and moved his chair apart from the others into a sunny, secluded corner of the boat.
It was here that Mrs. Watson found him an hour later. He heard the rustle of silken draperies across the deck, a faint but familiar perfume suddenly floated into the salt, sunlit air. He looked around to find her bending over him, a miracle of white--cool, dainty, and elegant.
"And why this seclusion, Sir Misanthrope?"
He laughed and dragged her chair alongside of his.
"Come and sit down," he said. "I want to talk to you. I want," he added, lowering his voice, "to thank you for your warning."
They were close together now and alone, cut off from the other chairs by one of the lifeboats. She looked up at him from amongst the cushions with which her chair was hung.
"You understood," she murmured.
"Perfectly."
"You are safe now," she said. "From him at any rate. You have won him over."
"I have found a way of safety," Mr. Sabin said, "for both of us."
She leaned her head upon her delicate white fingers, and looked at him curiously.
"Your plans," she said, "are admirable; but what of me?"
Mr. Sabin regarded her with some faint indication of surprise. He was not sure what she meant. Did she expect a reward for her warning, he wondered. Her words would seem to indicate something of the sort, and yet he was not sure.
"I am afraid," he said kindly, "we have not considered you very much yet. You will go on to Boston, of course. Then I suppose you will return to Germany."
"Never," she exclaimed, with suppressed pa.s.sion. "I have broken my vows. I shall never set foot in Germany again. I broke them for your sake."
Mr. Sabin looked at her thoughtfully.
"I am glad to hear you say that," he declared. "Believe me, my dear young lady, I have seen a great deal of such matters, and I can a.s.sure you that the sooner you break away from all a.s.sociation with this man Watson and his employers the better."
"It is all over," she murmured. "I am a free woman."
Mr. Sabin was delighted to hear it. Yet he felt that there was a certain awkwardness between them. He was this woman"s debtor, and he had made no effort to discharge his debt. What did she expect from him? He looked at her through half-closed eyes, and wondered.
"If I can be of any use to you," he suggested softly, "in any fresh start you may make in life, you have only to command me."
She kept her face averted from him. There was land in sight, and she seemed much interested in it.
"What are you going to do in America?"
Mr. Sabin looked out across the sea, and he repeated her question to himself. What was he going to do in this great, strange land, whose ways were not his ways, and whose sympathies lay so far apart from his?
"I cannot tell," he murmured. "I have come here for safety. I have no country nor any friends. This is the land of my exile."
A soft, white hand touched his for a moment. He looked into her face, and saw there an emotion which surprised him.
"It is my exile too," she said. "I shall never dare to return. I have no wish to return."
"But your friends?" Mr. Sabin commenced. "Your family?"
"I have no family."
Mr. Sabin was thoughtful for several moments, then he took out his case and lit a cigarette. He watched the blue smoke floating away over the ship"s side, and looked no more at the woman at his elbow.
"If you decide," he said quietly, "to settle in America, you must not allow yourself to forget that I am very much your debtor. I----"
"Your friendship," she interrupted, "I shall be very glad to have. We may perhaps help one another to feel less lonely."
Mr. Sabin gently shook his head.
"I had a friend of your s.e.x once," he said. "I shall--forgive me--never have another."
"Is she dead?"
"If she is dead, it is I who have killed her. I sacrificed her to my ambition. We parted, and for months--for years--I scarcely thought of her, and now the day of retribution has come. I think of her, but it is in vain. Great barriers have rolled between us since those days, but she was my first friend, and she will be my only one."
There was a long silence. Mr. Sabin"s eyes were fixed steadily seawards. A flood of recollections had suddenly taken possession of him. When at last he looked round, the chair by his side was vacant.
CHAPTER L.
A HARBOUR TRAGEDY.
The voyage of the Calipha came to its usual termination about ten o"clock on the following morning, when she pa.s.sed Boston lights and steamed slowly down the smooth waters of the harbour. The seven pa.s.sengers were all upon deck in wonderfully transformed guise. Already the steamer chairs were being tied up and piled away; the stewards, officiously anxious to render some last service, were hovering around. Mrs. Watson, in a plain tailor gown and quiet felt hat, was sitting heavily veiled apart and alone. There were no signs of either Mr. Watson or Mr. Sabin. The captain was on the bridge talking to the pilot. Scarcely a hundred yards away lay the Kaiser Wilhelm, white and stately, with her bra.s.s work shining like gold in the sunlight, and her decks as white as snow.
The Calipha was almost at a standstill, awaiting the doctor"s brig, which was coming up to her on the port side. Every one was leaning over the railing watching her. Mr. Watson and Mr. Sabin, who had just come up the gangway together, turned away towards the deserted side of the boat, engaged apparently in serious conversation. Suddenly every one on deck started. A revolver shot, followed by two heavy splashes in the water, rang out clear and crisp above the clanking of chains and slighter noises. There was a moment"s startled silence--every one looked at one another--then a rush for the starboard side of the steamer. Above the little torrent of minor exclamations, the captain"s voice sang out like thunder.
"Lower the number one boat. Quartermaster, man a crew."
The seven pa.s.sengers, two stewards, and a stray seaman arrived on the starboard side of the gangway at about the same moment. There was at first very little to be seen. A faint cloud of blue smoke was curling upwards, and there was a strong odour of gunpowder in the air. On the deck were lying a small, recently-discharged revolver and a man"s white linen cap, which, from its somewhat peculiar shape, every one recognised at once as belonging to Mr. Sabin. At first sight, there was absolutely nothing else to be seen. Then, suddenly, some one pointed to a man"s head about fifty yards away in the water. Every one crowded to the side to look at it. It was hard at that distance to distinguish the features, but a little murmur arose, doubtful at first, but gaining confidence. It was the head of Mr. Watson. The murmur rather grew than increased when it was seen that he was swimming, not towards the steamer, but away from it, and that he was alone. Where was Mr. Sabin?
A slight cry from behind diverted attention for a moment from the bobbing head. Mrs. Watson, who had heard the murmurs, was lying in a dead faint across a chair. One of the women moved to her side. The others resumed their watch upon events.
A boat was already lowered. Acting upon instructions from the captain, the crew combined a search for the missing man with a leisurely pursuit of the fugitive one. The first lieutenant stood up in the gunwale with a hook in his hand, looking from right to left, and the men pulled with slow, even strokes. But nowhere was there any sign of Mr. Sabin.
The man who was swimming was now almost out of sight, and the first lieutenant, who was in command of the little search party, reluctantly gave orders for the quickening of his men"s stroke. But almost as the men bent to their work, a curious thing happened. The fugitive, who had been swimming at a great pace, suddenly threw up his arms and disappeared.
"He"s done, by Jove!" exclaimed the lieutenant. "Row hard, you chaps. We must catch him when he rises."
But to all appearance, Mr. J. B. Watson, of New York, never rose again. The boat was rowed time after time around the spot where he had sunk, but not a trace was to be found of him. The only vessel anywhere near was the Kaiser Wilhelm. They rowed slowly up and hailed her.
An officer came to the railing and answered their inquiries in execrable English. No, they had not seen any one in the water. They had not picked any one up. Yes, if Herr Lieutenant pleased, he could come on board, but to make a search--no, without authority. No, it was impossible that any one could have been taken on board without his knowledge. He pointed down the steep sides of the steamship and shrugged his shoulders. It was indeed an impossible feat. The lieutenant of the Calipha saluted and gave the order to his men to backwater. Once more they went over the ground carefully. There was no sign of either of the men. After about three-quarters of an hour"s absence, they reluctantly gave up the search and returned to the Calipha.
The first lieutenant was compelled to report both men drowned. The captain was in earnest conversation with an official in plain dark livery. The boat of the harbour police was already waiting below. The whole particulars of the affair were scanty enough. Mr. Sabin and Mr. Watson were seen to emerge from the gangway together, engaged in animated conversation. They had at first turned to the left, but seeing the main body of the pa.s.sengers a.s.sembled there, had stepped back again and emerged on the starboard side which was quite deserted. After then, no one except the captain had even a momentary glimpse of them, and his was so brief that it could scarcely be called more than an impression. He had been attracted by a slight cry, he believed from Mr. Sabin, and had seen both men struggling together in the act of disappearing in the water. He had seen none of the details of the fight; he could not even say whether Mr. Sabin or Mr. Watson had been the aggressor, although on that subject there was only one opinion. Mrs. Watson was absolutely overcome, and unable to answer any questions, but as regards the final quarrel and struggle between the two men, it was impossible for her to have seen anything of it, as she was sitting in a steamer chair on the opposite side of the boat. There was at present absolutely no further light to be thrown upon the affair. The sergeant of police signalled for his boat and went off to make his report. The Calipha at half-speed steamed slowly for the dock.
Arrived there her pa.s.sengers, crew and officers became the natural and recognised prey of the American press-man. The captain sternly refused to answer a single question, and in peremptory fashion ordered every stranger off his ship. But nevertheless his edict was avoided in the confusion of landing, and the Customs House effectually barred flight on the part of their victims. Somehow or other, no one exactly knew how or from what source they came, strange rumours began to float about. Who was Mr. J. B. Watson of New York, yacht owner and millionaire? No one had ever heard of him, and he did not answer in the least to the description of any known Watson. The closely veiled features of his widow were eagerly scanned--one by one the newspaper men confessed themselves baffled. No one had ever seen her before. One man, the most daring of them, ventured upon a timid question as she stepped down the gangway. She pa.s.sed him by with a swift look of contempt. None of the others ventured anything of the sort--but, nevertheless, they watched her, and they made note of two things. The first was that there was no one to meet her--the second that instead of driving to a railway depot, or wiring to any friends, she went straight to an hotel and engaged a room for the night.
The press-men took counsel together, and agreed that it was very odd. They thought it odder still when one of their number, calling at the hotel later in the day, was informed that Mrs. Watson, after engaging a room for the week, had suddenly changed her mind, and had left Boston without giving any one any idea as to her destination. They took counsel together, and they found fresh food for sensation in her flight. She was the only person who could throw any light upon the relations between the two men, and she had thought fit to virtually efface herself. They made the most of her disappearance in the thick black head-lines which headed every column in the Boston evening papers.
CHAPTER LI.
THE PERSISTENCE OF FELIX.
Of all unhappy men he is a.s.suredly the most unhappy who, ambitious, patient, and doggedly persevering, has chosen the moment to make his supreme venture and having made it has reaped failure instead of success. The gambler while he lives may play again; the miser, robbed, embark once more upon his furtive task of h.o.a.rding money; even the rejected lover need not despair of some day, somewhere finding happiness, since no one heart has a monopoly of love. But to him who aspires to shape the destiny of nations, to control the varying interests of great powers and play upon the emotions of whole peoples, there is never vouchsafed more than one opportunity. And failure then does more than bring upon the schemer the execration of the world he would have controlled: it clears eyes into which he had thrown dust, awakens pa.s.sions he had lulled to sleep, provokes hostility where he had made false peace, and renders for ever impossible the recombination of conditions under which alone he could, if at all, succeed. For such an one life has lost all its savour. Existence may perhaps be permitted to him, but no more. He stakes his all upon one single venture, and, win or lose, he has no second throw. Failure is absolute, and spells despair.
In such unhappy state was Mr. Sabin. More than ten days had pa.s.sed since the tragedy in Boston Harbour, and now he sat alone in a private room in a small but exclusive hotel in New York. He had affected no small change in his appearance by shaving off his imperial and moustache, but a far more serviceable disguise was provided for him by the extreme pallor of his face and the listlessness of his every movement. He had made the supreme effort of his life and had failed; and failure had so changed his whole demeanour that had any of his recent companions on the Calipha been unexpectedly confronted with him it is doubtful if they would have recognised him.
For a brief s.p.a.ce he had enjoyed some of the old zest of life in scheming for the freedom of his would-be murderer, in outwitting the police and press-men, and in achieving his own escape; but with all this secured, and in the safe seclusion of his room, he had leisure to look within himself and found himself the most miserable of men, utterly lonely, with failure to look back upon and nothing for which to hope.
He had dreamed of being a minister to France; he was an exile in an unsympathetic land. He had dreamed of restoring dynasties and readjusting the balance of power; he was an alien refugee in a republic where visionaries are not wanted and where opulence gives control. America held nothing for him; Europe had no place; there was not a capital in the whole continent where he could show himself and live. And his mind dwelt upon the contrast between what might have been and what was, he tasted for the first time the full bitterness of isolation and despair. To his present plight any alternative would be preferable--even death. He took the little revolver which lay near him on the table and thoughtfully turned it over and over in his hand. It was as it were a key with which he could unlock the portal to another world, where weariness was unknown, and where every desire was satisfied, or unfelt: and even if there were no other existence beyond this, extinction was not an idea that repelled him now. It would be an "accident"; so easy to come by; so little painful to endure. Should he? Should he not? Should he?
He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he did not hear the soft knock at the door nor the servant murmuring the name of a visitor; but becoming conscious of the presence of some one in the room, he looked up suddenly to see a lady by his side.
"Is there not some mistake?" he said, rising to his feet. "I do not think I have the pleasure----"
She laughed and raised her veil.
"Does it make so much difference?" she asked lightly. "Yet, really, Mr. Sabin, you are more changed than I."
"I must apologize," he said; "golden hair is--most becoming. But sit down and tell me how you found me out and why."
She sank into the chair he brought for her and looked at him thoughtfully.
"It does not matter how I found you, since I did. Why I came is easily explained. I have had a cablegram from Mr. Watson."
"Good news, I hope," he said politely.
"I suppose it is," she answered indifferently. "At least your conspiracy seems to have been successful. It is generally believed that you are dead, and Mr. Watson has been pardoned and reinstated in all that once was his. And now he has sent me this cablegram asking me to join him in Germany and marry him."
Dejected as Mr. Sabin was he had not yet lost all his sense of humour. He found the idea excessively amusing.
"Let me be the first to congratulate you," he said, his twinkling eyes belying the grave courtesy of his voice. "It is the conventional happy end to a charming romance."
"Are you never serious?" she protested.
"Indeed, yes," he answered. "Forgive me for seeming to be flippant about so serious a matter as a proposal of marriage. I presume you will accept it."
"Am I to do so?" she asked gravely. "It was to ask your advice that I came here to-day."
"I have no hesitation in giving it," he declared. "Accept the proposal at once. It means emanc.i.p.ation for you--emanc.i.p.ation from a career of espionage which has nothing to recommend it. There cannot be two opinions on such a point: give up this unwholesome business and make this man, and yourself too, happy. You will never regret it."
"I wish I could be as sure of that," she said wistfully.
Mr. Sabin, with his training and natural power of seeing through the words to the heart of the speaker, could not misunderstand her, and he spoke with a gentle earnestness very moving.
"Believe me, my dear lady, when I say that to every one once at least in his life there comes a chance of happiness, although every one is not wise enough to take it. I had my chance, and I threw it away: there has never been an hour in my life since then that I have not regretted it. Let me help you to be wiser than I was. I am an old man now; I have played for high stakes and have had my share of winning; I have been involved in great affairs, I have played my part in the making of history. And I speak from experience; security lies in middle ways, and happiness belongs to the simple life. To what has my interest in things of high import brought me? I am an exile from my country, doomed to pa.s.s the small remainder of my days among a people whom I know not and with whom I have nothing in common.
"I have a heart and now I am paying the penalty for having treated badly the one woman who had power to touch it; so bitter a penalty that I would I could save you from the experiencing the like. You come to me for advice; then be advised by me. Leave meddling with affairs that are too high for you. Walk in those middle ways where safety is, and lead the simple life where alone happiness is. And let me part from you knowing that to one human being at least I have helped to give what alone is worth the having. Need I say any more?"
She took his hands and pressed them.
"Goodbye," she said. "I shall start for Germany to-morrow."
So Mr. Sabin was left free to return to his former melancholy mood; but it was not long before fresh interruption came. A servant brought a cablegram.
"Be sure you deliver my letter to Lenox," it ran, and the signature was "Felix."
He rolled the paper into a little ball and threw it on one side, and presently went into his dressing-room to change for dinner. As he came into the hall another servant brought him another cablegram. He opened it and read-- "Deliver my letter at once.--FELIX."
He tore the paper carefully into little pieces, and went into the dining-room for dinner. He dined leisurely and well, and lingered over his coffee, lost in meditation. He was still sitting so when a third servant brought him yet another cablegram-- "Remember your promise.--FELIX."
Then Mr. Sabin rose.
"Will you please see that my bag is packed," he said to the waiting man, "and let my account be prepared and brought to me upstairs. I shall leave by the night train."