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 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 hoarding 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 passions 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 passed 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 space 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 emancipation for you--emancipation 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 pass
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."