CHAPTER XLIX

MR. SABIN IS SENTIMENTAL

Mr. Sabin found it a harder matter than he had anticipated 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 passion. “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 assure you that the sooner you break away from all association 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 sex 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.