CHAPTER LI
THE PERSISTENCE OF FELIX
Of all unhappy men he is assuredly the most unhappy who, ambitious,patient, and doggedly persevering, has chosen the moment to make hissupreme venture and having made it has reaped failure instead ofsuccess. The gambler while he lives may play again; the miser, robbed,embark once more upon his furtive task of hoarding money; even therejected lover need not despair of some day, somewhere findinghappiness, since no one heart has a monopoly of love. But to him whoaspires to shape the destiny of nations, to control the varyinginterests of great powers and play upon the emotions of whole peoples,there is never vouchsafed more than one opportunity. And failure thendoes more than bring upon the schemer the execration of the world hewould have controlled: it clears eyes into which he had thrown dust,awakens passions he had lulled to sleep, provokes hostility where he hadmade false peace, and renders for ever impossible the recombination ofconditions under which alone he could, if at all, succeed. For such anone life has lost all its savour. Existence may perhaps be permitted tohim, but no more. He stakes his all upon one single venture, and, win orlose, he has no second throw. Failure is absolute, and spells despair.
In such unhappy state was Mr. Sabin. More than ten days had passed sincethe tragedy in Boston Harbour, and now he sat alone in a private room ina small but exclusive hotel in New York. He had affected no smallchange in his appearance by shaving off his imperial and moustache, buta far more serviceable disguise was provided for him by the extremepallor of his face and the listlessness of his every movement. He hadmade the supreme effort of his life and had failed; and failure had sochanged his whole demeanour that had any of his recent companions on the_Calipha_ been unexpectedly confronted with him it is doubtful if theywould have recognised him.
For a brief space he had enjoyed some of the old zest of life inscheming for the freedom of his would-be murderer, in outwitting thepolice and press-men, and in achieving his own escape; but with all thissecured, and in the safe seclusion of his room, he had leisure to lookwithin himself and found himself the most miserable of men, utterlylonely, 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 anunsympathetic land. He had dreamed of restoring dynasties andreadjusting the balance of power; he was an alien refugee in a republicwhere visionaries are not wanted and where opulence gives control.America held nothing for him; Europe had no place; there was not acapital in the whole continent where he could show himself and live. Andhis mind dwelt upon the contrast between what might have been and whatwas, he tasted for the first time the full bitterness of isolation anddespair. To his present plight any alternative would be preferable--evendeath. He took the little revolver which lay near him on the table andthoughtfully turned it over and over in his hand. It was as it were akey with which he could unlock the portal to another world, whereweariness was unknown, and where every desire was satisfied, or unfelt:and even if there were no other existence beyond this, extinction wasnot an idea that repelled him now. It would be an "accident"; so easyto 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 softknock at the door nor the servant murmuring the name of a visitor; butbecoming conscious of the presence of some one in the room, he looked upsuddenly to see a lady by his side.
"Is there not some mistake?" he said, rising to his feet. "I do notthink 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 sitdown and tell me how you found me out and why."
She sank into the chair he brought for her and looked at himthoughtfully.
"It does not matter how I found you, since I did. Why I came is easilyexplained. 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 conspiracyseems to have been successful. It is generally believed that you aredead, and Mr. Watson has been pardoned and reinstated in all that oncewas his. And now he has sent me this cablegram asking me to join him inGermany 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 eyesbelying the grave courtesy of his voice. "It is the conventional happyend to a charming romance."
"Are you never serious?" she protested.
"Indeed, yes," he answered. "Forgive me for seeming to be flippantabout so serious a matter as a proposal of marriage. I presume you willaccept it."
"Am I to do so?" she asked gravely. "It was to ask your advice that Icame here to-day."
"I have no hesitation in giving it," he declared. "Accept the proposalat once. It means emancipation for you--emancipation from a career ofespionage which has nothing to recommend it. There cannot be twoopinions on such a point: give up this unwholesome business and makethis 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 thewords to the heart of the speaker, could not misunderstand her, and hespoke with a gentle earnestness very moving.
"Believe me, my dear lady, when I say that to every one once at least inhis life there comes a chance of happiness, although every one is notwise enough to take it. I had my chance, and I threw it away: there hasnever 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 haveplayed for high stakes and have had my share of winning; I have beeninvolved in great affairs, I have played my part in the making ofhistory. And I speak from experience; security lies in middle ways, andhappiness belongs to the simple life. To what has my interest in thingsof high import brought me? I am an exile from my country, doomed to passthe small remainder of my days among a people whom I know not and withwhom I have nothing in common.
"I have a heart and now I am paying the penalty for having treated badlythe one woman who had power to touch it; so bitter a penalty that Iwould I could save you from the experiencing the like. You come to mefor advice; then be advised by me. Leave meddling with affairs that aretoo high for you. Walk in those middle ways where safety is, and leadthe simple life where alone happiness is. And let me part from youknowing that to one human being at least I have helped to give whatalone 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; butit was not long before fresh interruption came. A servant brought acablegram.
"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, andpresently went into his dressing-room to change for dinner. As he cameinto the hall another servant brought him another cablegram. He openedit and read--
"Deliver my letter at once.--FELIX."
He tore the paper carefully into little pieces, and went into thedining-room for dinner. He dined leisurely and well, and lingered overhis coffee, lost in meditation. He was still sitting so when a thirdservant 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 shallleave by the night train."
CHAPTER LII
MRS. JAMES B. PETERSON, OF LENOX.
Mr. Sabin found himself late on the afternoon of the following day aloneon the platform
of a little wooden station, watching the train which haddropped him there a few minutes ago snorting away round a distant curve.Outside, the servant whom he had hired that morning in New York was busyendeavouring to arrange for a conveyance of some sort in which theymight complete their journey. Mr. Sabin himself was well content toremain where he was. The primitiveness of the place itself and themagnificence of his surroundings had made a distinct and favourableimpression upon him. Facing him was a chain of lofty hills whosefoliage, luxuriant and brilliantly tinted, seemed almost like a longwave of rich deep colour, the country close at hand was black with pinetrees, through which indeed a winding way for the railroad seemed tohave been hewn. It was only a little clearing which had been made forthe depot; a few yards down, the line seemed to vanish into a tunnel ofblack foliage, from amongst which the red barked tree trunks stood outwith the regularity of a regiment of soldiers. The clear air wasfragrant with a peculiar and aromatic perfume, so sweet and wholesomethat Mr. Sabin held the cigarette which he had lighted at arm's length,that he might inhale this, the most fascinating odour in the world. Hewas at all times sensitive to the influence of scenery and naturalperfumes, and the possibility of spending the rest of his days in thiscountry had never seemed so little obnoxious as during those fewmoments. Then his eyes suddenly fell upon a large white house,magnificent, but evidently newly finished, gleaming forth from anopening in the woods, and his brows contracted. His former moodinessreturned.
"It is not the country," he muttered to himself, "it is the people."
His servant came back presently, with explanations for his prolongedabsence.
"I am sorry, sir," he said, "but I made a mistake in taking thetickets."
Mr. Sabin merely nodded. A little time ago a mistake on the part of aservant was a thing which he would not have tolerated. But those weredays which seemed to him to lie very far back in the past.
"You ought to have alighted at the last station, sir," the mancontinued. "Stockbridge is eleven miles from here."
"What are we going to do?" Mr. Sabin asked.
"We must drive, sir. I have hired a conveyance, but the luggage willhave to come later in the day by the cars. There will only be room foryour dressing-bag in the buggy."
Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.
"The drive will be pleasant," he said, "especially if it is through suchcountry as this. I am not sure that I regret your mistake, Harrison. Youwill remain and bring the baggage on, I suppose?"
"It will be best, sir," the man agreed. "There is a train in about anhour."
They walked out on to the road where a one-horse buggy was waiting. Thedriver took no more notice of them than to terminate, in a leisurelyway, his conversation with a railway porter, and unhitch the horse.
Mr. Sabin took the seat by his side, and they drove off.
It was a very beautiful road, and Mr. Sabin was quite content to leanback in his not uncomfortable seat and admire the scenery. For the mostpart it was of a luxuriant and broken character. There were very fewsigns of agriculture, save in the immediate vicinity of the largenewly-built houses which they passed every now and then. At times theyskirted the side of a mountain, and far below them in the valley theriver Leine wound its way along like a broad silver band. Here and therethe road passed through a thick forest of closely-growing pines, and Mr.Sabin, holding his cigarette away from him, leaned back and took longdraughts of the rosinous, piney odour. It was soon after emerging fromthe last of these that they suddenly came upon a house which moved Mr.Sabin almost to enthusiasm. It lay not far back from the road, a verylong two-storied white building, free from the over-ornamentation whichdisfigured most of the surrounding mansions. White pillars in front,after the colonial fashion, supported a long sloping veranda roof, andthe smooth trimly-kept lawns stretched almost to the terrace whichbordered the piazza. There were sun blinds of striped holland to thesouthern windows, and about the whole place there was an air of simpleand elegant refinement, which Mr. Sabin found curiously attractive. Hebroke for the first time the silence which had reigned between him andthe driver.
"Do you know," he inquired, "whose house that is?"
The man flipped his horse's ears with the whip.
"I guess so," he answered. "That is the old Peterson House. Mrs. JamesB. Peterson lives there now."
Mr. Sabin felt in his breast pocket, and extracted therefrom a letter.It was a coincidence undoubtedly, but the fact was indisputable. Theaddress scrawled thereon in Felix's sprawling hand was:--
"MRS. JAMES B. PETERSON, "Lenox.
"By favour of Mr. Sabin."
"I will make a call there," Mr. Sabin said to the man. "Drive me up tothe house."
The man pulled up his horse.
"What, do you know her?" he asked.
Mr. Sabin affected to be deeply interested in a distant point of thelandscape. The man muttered something to himself and turned up thedrive.
"You have met her abroad, maybe?" he suggested.
Mr. Sabin took absolutely no notice of the question. The man'simpertinence was too small a thing to annoy him, but it prevented hisasking several questions which he would like to have had answered. Theman muttered something about a civil answer to a civil question notbeing much to expect, and pulled up his horse in front of the greatentrance porch.
Mr. Sabin, calmly ignoring him, descended and stepped through the wideopen door into a beautiful square hall in the centre of which was abilliard table. A servant attired in unmistakably English livery,stepped forward to meet him.
"Is Mrs. Peterson at home?" Mr. Sabin inquired.
"We expect her in a very few minutes," the man answered. "She is outriding at present. May I inquire if you are Mr. Sabin, sir?"
Mr. Sabin admitted the fact with some surprise.
The man received the intimation with respect.
"Will you kindly walk this way, your Grace," he said.
Mr. Sabin followed him into a large and delightfully furnished library.Then he looked keenly at the servant.
"You know me," he remarked.
"Monsieur Le Duc Souspennier," the man answered with a bow. "I am anEnglishman, but I was in the service of the Marquis de la Merle in Parisfor ten years."
"Your face," Mr. Sabin said, "was familiar to me. You look like a man tobe trusted. Will you be so good as to remember that the Duc isunfortunately dead, and I am Mr. Sabin."
"Most certainly, sir," the man answered. "Is there anything which I canbring you?"
"Nothing, thank you," Mr. Sabin answered.
The man withdrew with a low bow, and Mr. Sabin stood for a few minutesturning over magazines and journals which covered a large round table,and represented the ephemeral literature of nearly every country inEurope.
"Mrs. Peterson," he remarked to himself, "must be a woman of Catholictastes. Here is the _Le Petit Journal_ inside the pages of the English_Contemporary Review_."
He was turning the magazines over with interest, when he chanced toglance through the great south window a few feet away from him.Something he saw barely a hundred yards from the little iron fence whichbordered the lawns, attracted his attention. He rubbed his eyes andlooked at it again. He was puzzled, and was on the point of ringing thebell when the man who had admitted him entered, bearing a tray withliqueurs and cigarettes. Mr. Sabin beckoned him over to the window.
"What is that little flag?" he asked.
"It is connected, I believe, in some way," the man answered, "with agame of which Mrs. Peterson is very fond. I believe that it indicatesthe locality of a small hole."
"Golf?" Mr. Sabin exclaimed.
"That is the name of the game, sir," the man answered. "I had forgottenit for the moment."
Mr. Sabin tried the window.
"I want to get out," he said.
The man opened it.
"If you are going down there, sir," he said, "I will send James Green tomeet you. Mrs. Peterson is so fond of the game that she keeps aScotchman here t
o look after the links and instruct her."
"This," Mr. Sabin murmured, "is the most extraordinary thing in theworld."
"If you would like to see your room, sir, before you go out," the mansuggested, "it is quite ready. If you will give me your keys I will haveyour clothes laid out."
Mr. Sabin turned about in amazement.
"What do you mean?" he exclaimed. "I have not come here to stay."
"I understood so, sir," the man answered. "Your room has been ready forthree weeks."
Mr. Sabin was bewildered. Then he remembered the stories which he hadheard of American hospitality, and concluded that this must be aninstance of it.
"I had not the slightest intention of stopping here," he said to theman.
"Mrs. Peterson expected you to do so, sir, and we have sent yourconveyance away. If it is inconvenient for you to remain now, it will beeasy to send you anywhere you desire later."
"For the immediate present," Mr. Sabin said, "Mrs. Peterson not havingarrived, I want to see that golf course."
"If you will permit me, sir," the man said, "I will show you the way."
They followed a winding footpath which brought them suddenly out onthe border of a magnificent stretch of park-like country. Mr. Sabin,whose enthusiasms were rare, failed wholly to restrain a littleexclamation of admiration. A few yards away was one of the largest andmost magnificently kept putting-greens that he had ever seen in hislife. By his side was a raised teeing-ground, well and solidly built.Far away down in the valley he could see the flag of the first holejust on the other side of a broad stream.
"The gentleman's a golf-player, maybe?" remarked a voice by his side, infamiliar dialect. Mr. Sabin turned around to find himself confronted bya long, thin Scotchman, who had strolled out of a little shed close athand.
"I am very fond of the game," Mr. Sabin admitted. "You appear to me tohave a magnificent course here."
"It's none so bad," Mr. James Green admitted. "Maybe the gentleman wouldlike a round."
"There is nothing in this wide world," Mr. Sabin answered truthfully,"that I should like so well. But I have no clubs or any shoes."
"Come this way, sir, come this way," was the prompt reply. "There'sclubs here of all sorts such as none but Jimmy Green can make, ay, andshoes too. Mr. Wilson, will you be sending me two boys down from thehouse?"
In less than ten minutes Mr. Sabin was standing upon the first tee, afreshly lit cigarette in his mouth, and a new gleam of enthusiasm in hiseyes. He modestly declined the honour, and Mr. Green forthwith drove aball which he watched approvingly.
"That's no such a bad ball," he remarked.
Mr. Sabin watched the construction of his tee, and swung his clublightly. "Just a little sliced, wasn't it?" he said. "That will do,thanks." He addressed his ball with a confidence which savoured almostof carelessness, swung easily back and drove a clean, hard hit ball fullseventy yards further than the professional. The man for a moment wasspeechless with surprise, and he gave a little gasp.
"Aye, mon," he exclaimed. "That was a fine drive. Might you be having ahandicap, sir?"
"I am scratch at three clubs," Mr. Sabin answered quietly, "and plusfour at one."
A gleam of delight mingled with respect at his opponent, shone in theScotchman's face.
"Aye, but we will be having a fine game," he exclaimed. "Though I'mthinking you will down me. But it is grand good playing with a monagain."
* * * * *
The match was now at the fifteenth hole. Mr. Sabin, with a long anddeadly putt--became four up and three to play. As the ball trickled intothe hole the Scotchman drew a long breath.
"It's a fine match," he said, "and I'm properly downed. What's more,you're holding the record of the links up to this present. Fifteen holesfor sixty-four is verra good--verra good indeed. There's no man inAmerica to-day to beat it."
And then Mr. Sabin, who was on the point of making a genial reply, felta sudden and very rare emotion stir his heart and blood, for almost inhis ears there had sounded a very sweet and familiar voice, perhaps thevoice above all others which he had least expected to hear again in thisworld.
"You have not then forgotten your golf, Mr. Sabin? What do you think ofmy little course?"
He turned slowly round and faced her. She was standing on the risingground just above the putting-green, the skirt of her riding habitgathered up in her hand, her lithe, supple figure unchanged by time, theold bewitching smile still playing about her lips. She was still themost beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Mr. Sabin, with his cap in his hand, moved slowly to her side, andbowed low over the hand which she extended to him.
"This is a happiness," he murmured, "for which I had never dared tohope. Are you, too, an alien?"
She shook her head.
"This," she said, "is the land of my adoption. Perhaps you did not knowthat I am Mrs. Peterson?"
"I did not know it," he answered, gravely, "for I never heard of yourmarriage."
They turned together toward the house. Mr. Sabin was amazed to find thatthe possibilities of emotion were still so great with him.
"I married," she said softly, "an American, six years ago. He was theson of the minister at Vienna. I have lived here mostly ever since."
"Do you know who it was that sent me to you?"
She assented quietly.
"It was Felix."
They drew nearer the house. Mr. Sabin looked around him. "It is verybeautiful here," he said.
"It is very beautiful indeed," she said, "but it is very lonely."
"Your husband?" he inquired.
"He has been dead four years."
Mr. Sabin felt a ridiculous return of that emotion which had agitatedhim so much on her first appearance. He only steadied his voice with aneffort.
"We are both aliens," he said quietly. "Perhaps you have heard thatall things have gone ill with me. I am an exile and a failure. I havecome here to end my days."
She flashed a sudden brilliant smile upon him. How little she hadchanged.
"Did you say here?" she murmured softly.
He looked at her incredulously. Her eyes were bent upon the ground.There was something in her face which made Mr. Sabin forget the greatfailure of his life, his broken dreams, his everlasting exile. Hewhispered her name, and his voice trembled with a passion which for oncewas his master.
"Lucile," he cried. "It is true that you--forgive me?"
And she gave him her hand. "It is true," she whispered.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words andintent.
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