Felix, after an uneventful voyage, landed duly at Liverpool. To his
amazement the first person he saw upon the quay was Mr. Sabin, leaning
upon his stick and smoking a cigarette.
“Come, come, Felix!” he exclaimed. “Don’t look at me as though I were a
ghost. You have very little confidence in me, after all, I see.”
“But--how did you get here?”
“The Campania, of course. I had plenty of time. It was easy enough for
those fellows to arrest me, but they never had a chance of holding me.”
“But how did you get away in time?”
Mr. Sabin sighed.
“It was very simple,” he said. “One day, while one of those wonderful
spies was sleeping on my doormat I slipped away and went over to
Washington, saw the English Ambassador, convinced him of my bonafides,
told him very nearly the whole truth. He promised if I wired him that I
was arrested to take my case up at once. You sent the despatch, and he
kept his word. I breakfasted on Saturday morning at the Waldorf, and
though a great dray was driven into my carriage on the way to the boat,
I escaped, as I always do--and here I am.”
“Unhurt!” Felix remarked with a smile, “as usual!”
Mr. Sabin nodded.
“The driver of my carriage was killed, and Duson had his arm broken,”
he said. “I stepped out of the debris without a scratch. Come into the
Customs House now and get your baggage through. I have taken a coupe on
the special train and ordered lunch.”
Before long they were on the way to London. Mr. Sabin, whilst luncheon
was being served, talked only of the lightest matters. But afterwards,
when coffee was served and he had lit a cigarette, he leaned over
towards Felix.
“Felix,” he said, “your sister is dear to you?”
“She is the only creature on earth,” Felix said, “whom I care for. She
is very dear to me, indeed.”
“Am I right,” Mr. Sabin asked, “in assuming that the old enmity between
us is dead, that the last few years has wiped away the old soreness.
“Yes,” Felix answered. “I know that she was happy with you. That is
enough for me.”
“You and I,” Mr. Sabin continued, “must work out her salvation. Do not
be afraid that I am going to ask you impossibilities. I know that our
ways must lie apart. You can go to her at once. It may be many, many
months before I can catch even a glimpse of her. Never mind. Let me
feel that she has you within the circle, and I without, with our lives
devoted to her.”
“You may rely upon that,” Felix answered. “Wherever she is I am going. I
shall be there. I will watch over her.”
Mr. Sabin sighed.
“The more difficult task is mine,” he said, “but I have no fear of
failure. I shall find her surrounded by spies, by those who are now my
enemies. Still, they will find it hard to shake me off. It may be that
they took her from me only out of revenge. If that be so my task will be
easier. If there are other dangers which she is called upon to face, it
is still possible that they might accept my service instead.”
“You would give it?” Felix exclaimed.
“To the last drop of blood in my body,” Mr. Sabin answered. “Save for my
love for her I am a dead man upon the earth. I have no longer politics
or ambition. So the past can easily be expunged. Those who must be her
guiding influence shall be mine.”
“You will win her back,” Felix said. “I am sure of it.”
“I am willing to pay any price on earth,” Mr. Sabin answered. “If they
can forget the past I can. I want you to remember this. I want her to
know it. I want them to know it. That is all, Felix.”
Mr. Sabin leaned back in his seat. He had left this country last a
stricken and defeated man, left it with the echoes of his ruined schemes
crashing in his ears. He came back to it a man with one purpose only,
and that such a purpose as never before had guided him--the love of a
woman. Was it a sign of age, he wondered, this return to the humanities?
His life had been full of great schemes, he had wielded often a gigantic
influence, more than once he had made history. And now the love of these
things had gone from him. Their fascination was powerless to quicken by
a single beat his steady pulse. Monarchy or republic--what did he care?
It was Lucille he wanted, the woman who had shown him how sweet even
defeat might be, who had made these three years of his life so happy
that they seemed to have passed in one delightful dream. Were they dead,
annihilated, these old ambitions, the old love of great doings, or did
they only slumber? He moved in his seat uneasily.
At Euston the two men separated with a silent handshake. Mr. Sabin
drove to one of the largest and newest of the modern hotels de luxe. He
entered his name as Mr. Sabin--the old exile’s hatred of using his title
in a foreign country had become a confirmed habit with him--and mingled
freely with the crowds who thronged into the restaurant at night. There
were many faces which he remembered, there were a few who remembered
him. He neither courted nor shunned observation. He sat at dinner-time
at a retired table, and found himself watching the people with a stir
of pleasure. Afterwards he went round to a famous club, of which he had
once been made a life member, but towards midnight he was wearied of the
dull decorum of his surroundings, and returning to the hotel, sought
the restaurant once more. The stream of people coming in to supper was
greater even than at dinner-time. He found a small table, and ordered
some oysters. The sight of this bevy of pleasure-seekers, all apparently
with multitudes of friends, might have engendered a sense of loneliness
in a man of different disposition. To Mr. Sabin his isolation was a
luxury. He had an uninterrupted opportunity of pursuing his favourite
study.
There entered a party towards midnight, to meet whom the head-waiter
himself came hurrying from the further end of the room, and whose
arrival created a little buzz of interest. The woman who formed the
central figure of the little group had for two years known no rival
either at Court or in Society. She was the most beautiful woman in
England, beautiful too with all the subtle grace of her royal descent.
There were women upon the stage whose faces might have borne comparison
with hers, but there was not one who in a room would not have sunk
into insignificance by her side. Her movements, her carriage were
incomparable--the inherited gifts of a race of women born in palaces.
Mr. Sabin, who neither shunned nor courted observation, watched her with
a grim smile which was not devoid of bitterness. Suddenly she saw him.
With a little cry of wonder she came towards him with outstretched
hands.
“It is marvelous,” she exclaimed. “You? Really you?”
He bowed low over her hands.
“It is I, dear Helene,” he answered. “A moment ago I was dreaming. I
thought that I was back once more at Versailles, and in the presence of
my Queen.”
She laughed softly.
“There may be no Versailles,” she murmured, “but you will be a courtier
to the end of your days.”
“At least,” he said, “believe me that my congratulations come from my
heart. Your happiness is written in your face, and your husband must be
the proudest man in England.”
He was standing now by her side, and he held out his hand to Mr. Sabin.
“I hope, sir,” he said pleasantly, “that you bear me no ill-will.”
“It would be madness,” Mr. Sabin answered. “To be the most beautiful
peeress in England is perhaps for Helene a happier fate than to be the
first queen of a new dynasty.”
“And you, uncle?” Helene said. “You are back from your exile then. How
often I have felt disposed to smile when I thought of you, of all men,
in America.”
“I went into exile,” Mr. Sabin answered, “and I found paradise. The
three years which have passed since I saw you last have been the
happiest of my life.”
“Lucille!” Helene exclaimed.
“Is my wife,” Mr. Sabin answered.
“Delightful!” Helene murmured. “She is with you then, I hope. Indeed, I
felt sure that I saw her the other night at the opera.”
“At the opera!” Mr. Sabin for a moment was silent. He would have been
ashamed to confess that his heart was beating strongly, that a crowd
of eager questions trembled upon his lips. He recovered himself after a
moment.
“Lucille is not with me for the moment,” he said in measured tones. “I
am detaining you from your guests, Helene. If you will permit me I will
call upon you.”
“Won’t you join us?” Lord Camperdown asked courteously. “We are only
a small party--the Portuguese Ambassador and his wife, the Duke of
Medchester, and Stanley Phillipson.”
Mr. Sabin rose at once.
“I shall be delighted,” he said.
Lord Camperdown hesitated for a moment.
“I present Monsieur le Due de Souspennier, I presume?” he remarked,
smiling.
Mr. Sabin bowed.
“I am Mr. Sabin,” he said, “at the hotels and places where one travels.
To my friends I have no longer an incognito. It is not necessary.”
It was a brilliant little supper party, and Mr. Sabin contributed at
least his share to the general entertainment. Before they dispersed he
had to bring out his tablets to make notes of his engagements. He stood
on the top of the steps above the palm-court to wish them good-bye,
leaning on his stick. Helene turned back and waved her hand.
“He is unchanged,” she murmured, “yet I fear that there must be
trouble.”
“Why? He seemed cheerful enough,” her husband remarked.
She dropped her voice a little.
“Lucille is in London. She is staying at Dorset House.”