"19, WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET,"NEW YORK CITY,"U.S.A.
"To Sydney Kyser, Esq.
"MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,
"You will be surprised to hear from me again after so long a lapse, but many things—ill-health among them—have prevented my travelling to England, although I have promised myself the trip many times in the past few years. And now I feel that I shall never take it, and that the doctor here, who gives me two weeks to live, speaks the truth. Well, I've had a good innings, and, as they say over here, 'there's no kick coming.' I leave only one regret, and it is with regard to this that I venture to write to you. If you would do a dying man a kindness, and at the same time right a wrong, the chance is now yours. My state of health will not allow of my writing my request in full—and I ask you to promise nothing until you know all. This you can do by calling upon Mr. Abraham Nixon,5A,St. Mary Axe, in the City of London.
"This gentleman will tell you a story so remarkable that it may seem to you incredible.
"But it is true every word of it. You will then act as you see fit. But I conjure you, by our past friendship, to do as Mr. Nixon asks.
"Yourbona fidewill consist of the crest torn from the head of this notepaper, which please send in to Mr. Nixon with these words written on it in red ink—
'MR. SYDNEYreGALVA'
"If you follow these instructions to the letter, Mr. Nixon will at once put you in complete possession of all the facts of the case.
"With my last breath I shall pray for you and the success of the mission.
"Yours,"HUBERT BAXENDALE.
"P.S.—You will see that Mr. Nixon will know you as Mr. Sydney. Not knowing whether you would like to undertake what I ask in your own name, I thought it wiser that in this matter you should be known simply as 'Mr. Sydney.'
"H. B."
Edward read the letter through many times before he finally folded it and replaced it in its envelope. Then he sat for a long time thinking on what he had read. There was no way of corresponding with Mr. Kyser for a month, and by that time the wrong that the letter spoke of might be past the righting.
Would it not be better if he were to act, as it were, for Mr. Kyser, and, under the name of Sydney, gather what information he could from Mr. Nixon? He would then be able to judge more clearly what it were best to do.
Of course, in his own mind, Edward knew well that to act as he suggested to himself was taking a most unwarrantable liberty with another's affairs; but he was hardly himself. The excitement of the last few days had had anything but a salutary effect upon his moral balance; he had been living in a hot-bed of lies, and his discriminating powers of right and wrong had deteriorated sadly.
Who could say but that in this letter was a way out of the hideous mess he had made of things up at Adderbury Cottage? There was nothing against his going to St. Mary Axe. The letter plainly showed that Mr. Kyser and Mr. Nixon were unacquainted. There would be nothing to tell him from the real Mr. Sydney. It would at least fill in the time during which he must remain away from the cottage.
Edward Povey called the waiter and borrowed a time-table. He consulted this, then made his way to the writing-room, where he found a bottle of red ink. From the head of Mr. Baxendale's letter he tore the crest and heading, and across it he wrote the words mentioned in the letter. This he folded and placed in his pocket-book.
At half-past three the same afternoon Mr. Edward Povey,alias, for the moment, Mr. Sydney, pushed open the swing doors of Mr. Abraham Nixon's office in St. Mary Axe—and came to grips with Romance.
As Edward was, after sending in his slip of paper, ushered into the private office, a tall, gaunt man of unmistakable solicitor type rose from his desk and crossed over to him with extended hand. Edward put his out also and winced somewhat as it was tightly engulfed by the bony fingers of the solicitor.
"Mr. Sydney, I understand."
Edward Povey bowed, he had no great liking for telling lies and he preferred to act them where possible.
Mr. Abraham Nixon handed a chair to his visitor, and, reseating himself at his desk, picked up a telephone receiver and inquired for Mr. Crooks, asking that gentleman to kindly be sure that they were not disturbed for at least one hour.
At this Edward grew cold with apprehension. It seemed to him that there was something of an ordeal in front of him. Mr. Nixon's first words, however, somewhat reassured him.
"I understand from Mr. Baxendale that you are entirely ignorant of the subject referred to in his letter, Mr. Sydney."
"Entirely, Mr. Nixon, and it is perhaps better to say at once that, however much I desire to help my old friend and to fall in with his wishes, I cannot hold myself liable in any way—cannot commit myself."
Mr. Nixon held up a thin hand.
"A very sensible remark, Mr. Sydney, and one that I should have made myself had I been placed as you are. You are not in any way bound by what I am telling you except in the event of your refusal; in which case I shall enjoin you to secrecy. Pray excuse me a moment."
Selecting a flat key from a ring he took from his pocket, Mr. Nixon left the room, returning in a few minutes with a small deed-box on which was painted in white letters—
GALVA—BAXENDALE
This, Mr. Nixon placed upon a small side table, and selecting a flat key from the bunch on his ring inserted it in the lock.
"It is a curious story that I have to tell you, Mr. Sydney," he began as he pushed open the creaking lid. "I suppose I'm the only person to whom Mr. Baxendale told it. A very reserved and secretive man, Mr. Sydney."
"Very," answered Edward Povey, much relieved to hear it. Then he kept silent as he watched the solicitor remove from the box a few small articles, each carefully sealed up and docketed in a neat handwriting, the purport of which Edward could not make out at the distance. These articles arranged in a row upon his desk, Mr. Nixon leant back in his chair, and, placing the tips of his thin fingers together, began his tale.
"Perhaps you will remember, Mr. Sydney, the era of bloodshed and murder which attacked the little island kingdom of San Pietro some years back, I think in the autumn of '93. It was, in its way, as virulent as the Paris revolution, but San Pietro is a small kingdom, and although quite independent was not able to withstand the pressure of her more powerful neighbours. Spain, being the nearest, has always had a word to say in the San Pietro politics. The result was that the crisis was as short-lived as it was terrible. The reigning family had been put to death at the outburst of the revolution. The king, rather a pleasure-loving sort of person, had enjoyed some popularity among his subjects, but his marriage with an actress whom he had met in Vienna inflamed the ladies of the court, and, through them, their husbands.
"Most of these were officers standing high at court or in the army, and considering their wives insulted by the presence of an actress upon the throne, planned the assassination under the cloak of politics. The result was the terrible doings at the Palace at Corbo on that night in October.
"Baxendale, then a middle-aged man, traveling on business in Spain at the time, took ship across to San Pietro, intending to send first-hand news to a paper he was interested in in New York. Once arrived, however, he found more difficulty in returning. The Dictator whom the people had set up was very rigid in the matter of censorship, and not only could poor Baxendale get no news through, but he himself was politely but firmly told he could not leave the island.
"One afternoon about three or four days after the massacre he was taking a walk through the Sebastin Park, which I understand is on the edge of the capital, and merges from cultivation to the wild track of forest land which lies to the north. Baxendale had walked further than he had intended and was surprised to find of a sudden that the sun was sinking. As he turned to retrace his steps a curious sound came to his ears, that was for all the world like the cry of a child, The forest at this place was very dense, the branches of the tall pines interlacing overhead, whilst the undergrowth was thick enough to hide objects at a few yards.
"Baxendale parted the bushes and forced a way through them in the direction from which the cries seemed to come. The wailing had stopped, and he was telling himself that it was some forest beast he had heard when it was again taken up, and now he made out the low crooning of one who hushes and soothes a baby. At this he moved faster, and in a few moments came upon a tumble-down hut such as is used by the charcoal-burners of the woods.
"He had not been heard, for the crooning still continued and was evidently having the desired effect, as the child's cries had ceased. His light tap at the crazy-hinged door was answered only by the sudden cessation of the voice, and a dead silence. Then he cautiously pushed open the door.
"It was a poor enough place—indeed, little more than a ruin, and, in the dim light, Baxendale told me he could not at first make out any definite object. As his eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, however, he made out the figure of a woman. She was standing facing him; he could not see her face clearly, but her whole attitude was one of defiance, and she seemed to be standing at bay, guarding something behind her. Baxendale could make out a bench on which were rolled a few clothes.
"Just then a ray of the setting sun pierced the branches and illuminated the interior of the hut. On the heap of clothes was a little baby girl about two years of age. The red rays played round the curly head, and Baxendale was smitten to the heart as he looked from the sleeping babe to the woman, who, seeing in Baxendale a friend, had sunk down on the earth floor and was silently weeping."
Mr. Nixon paused, and cleared his throat. He looked at his listener for signs of attention. The latter, who had almost forgotten the part he was playing, in his interest in the tale that was being told to him, nodded his head and asked if Mr. Nixon objected to tobacco. The two men smoked for a few moments in silence, then the solicitor resumed the tale.
"Beyond this I know very little and that little I will tell quickly. Baxendale came into this office in the spring of '98 and told me all this. The little child on wakening had held up her arms to him and smiled. The good fellow could not withstand the mute appeal, and resolved then and there that she should be his charge. Afterwards, when he had got them safely across to England, the woman who was the child's nurse told him the history. She had been afraid to do so earlier for fear it would have altered Baxendale's intentions, and she was too anxious to set her back to San Pietro to risk that.
"The baby girl was the Princess Miranda, only child of the ill-fated king and queen of San Pietro. On the fatal night, the nurse told Baxendale, she had been in the night nursery with the princess and her own niece, little Miranda's foster-sister, a child only a few months older than the princess. She told him of how she had seen the flare of torches and heard the clamour, and how the distracted queen had rushed in shrieking for her baby, and had caught up what she thought was her little one, and with it under her robe had fled to what she fondly considered was a place of safety.
"As events proved, there was no place of safety for that unhappy woman that night, and when the next day the bodies were laid to rest in the royal vault, a little dead child was buried with the queen, but it was not the Princess Miranda, although the monument that was raised by the tardy conscience of the San Pietro people is engraved with her name.
"Since the revolution, the political state of San Pietro has been somewhat uncertain. The people are simple and loyal folk at heart, and it was not long before they discovered the real reason of the uprising. Then they cried loudly for a king again, and Spain, who had only been waiting for this, put Prince Enrico upon the throne. You will have heard of this man, whose follies and deviltries are the talk of Europe. San Pietro tolerates him, for his court is brilliant, and has brought much money to the place; in fact, the whole island, and more especially the capital, is now one of the pleasure centres of Europe. This has had a most beneficent effect upon the fortunes of the island, but there are still some of the more sedate families who deplore the loss of dignity of their beloved land.
"The rightful heir is of course Miranda, the little princess with whom the poor nurse sought refuge in the forest.
"She is now living in England, the nurse is still with her, and Miranda has no idea of her high birth. Baxendale never confided to me what his projects were."
The solicitor leant over and picked up a letter which had been in the deed-box and handed it over to Edward, who took it and sat with it unopened in his hand waiting for Mr. Nixon to speak.
"You will read that when you leave here, Mr. Sydney, carefully, and I shall expect to hear from you in the course of a few days. There is the matter of money to be considered. My client has made adequate provision"—Edward pricked up his ears at this—"for what he terms 'the mission.'"
"In two days I will call on you again, Mr. Nixon. Good-afternoon."
Povey stood in Leadenhall Street at the entrance to St. Mary Axe and tried to think things over. It seemed to him as though he had just emerged from the gloom of romantic forests and the splendour of courts, and the foggy atmosphere and hoard of hurrying clerks appeared to him to be unreal. Then he pulled himself together and strolled quietly westward.
Along Leadenhall Street and through the market he walked deep in thought, making his way from force of habit in the direction of London Bridge. It was not until the spars and masts of the shipping came in sight that he remembered his changed conditions, when he hailed a passing taxi and was driven to Euston.
He had not long to wait for a train to Bushey, and no sooner had it left the platform than he had the letter out of his pocket and was breaking the seal. It was written on the paper of the Waldorf Hotel, New York, and was dated at the beginning of the year.
"MY DEAR SYDNEY,
"I am addressing you in this letter, as I hope and devoutly trust that yours will be the hands into which it will fall. My own health has been so bad of late and has shown such unmistakable signs of breaking up that I fear I must give up all hope of ever carrying out, personally, my desires. Next to myself, I would wish you to do so; failing you, Mr. Nixon has his instructions what to do. But you won't fail me.
"This gentleman will have told you the outlines of the history of the Princess Miranda. It has always been my desire that on her eighteenth birthday she should be told the story of her high origin. As this date approaches—the15th of November—I feel that the seven or eight months between us will see my finish, so while there is yet time I write to you, my old friend, to act for me in this matter.
"The Princess, I have named her Galva, after a carn in the vicinity of her house, is at present living with her nurse at Tremoor, a few miles from Penzance.
"Mr. Nixon will give you, on your expressing your willingness to undertake the mission, two or three objects which will prove beyond doubt the claim of the dear girl to the throne of San Pietro. You will go to her and tell her everything; I would not feel I had done my duty were I to keep her in ignorance, although it might be kinder to do so.
"If, after hearing you out, she elects to remain in her quiet peaceful life, she shall do so. If, on the other hand, she decides on following up her high destiny you will take her with her nurse to Corbo, travelling as independent English tourists, and seek out Señor Luazo, or his heir, at66,Calle Mendaro, and hand him a letter which Mr. Nixon will give you. After that I can safely leave you in his keeping.
"My fortune, I have divided equally between the man who undertakes this mission and Galva herself, with the exception of an annuity to Señora Paluda, the nurse who has done so much and been so much to little Galva.
"I can easily throw my mind back to that day in the forest, and the smiling babe holding up her little arms is a picture that will always be with me even at the end. Tell Galva that I will die thinking of her and of all she has been to a lonely old bachelor.
"When the end comes, too, I will think of you and of what you are doing for me, and will bless you for it.
"And now, my old friend, good-bye.
"Yours ever,HUBERT BAXENDALE."
Edward Povey folded up the letter carefully and placed it in his pocket. Then, leaning his head in his hand, gazed out at the flying landscape and tried to think things out. It took him some little time to appreciate who he really was.
He had felt, ever since Mr. Nixon had mentioned the financial aspect of the undertaking, that he would be more than foolish to let slip such a providential way out of his sea of difficulties. The moral side to the question he was able to smooth over to his satisfaction. He knew Mr. Kyser, and Mr. Kyser's ways, and told himself that that gentleman would not welcome, at his time of life, an adventure such as the one that the solicitor had put before him that afternoon. Again, he told himself that it was not possible for him to communicate with Mr. Kyser until the eighteenth birthday of the princess had passed. He said it would be wrong and unkind to let the poor lonely girl think that she was forgotten.
Further self-discussion on the matter was taken out of his hands by a watching Fate who suggested something refreshing as he breasted the first part of the straggling hill that led from the railway station up to Bushey Heath. He paused at the Merry Month of May, then decided to push on to a little hostelry that he had noticed on the way down that morning.
He entered the door of the White Hart and turned to the right through the tiny bar into the smoke-room. Two tweed-clad artists from the near-by studios lounged in more or less elegant poses at the red-clothed table, they looked up and nodded as Edward entered, then returned to the perusal of the evening papers which had evidently just arrived.
The host of the inn came from the bar and attended to the new-comer's wants, and Edward took from his pocket anEvening Newsthat he had bought in town. He read it listlessly for some minutes, then the two bored-looking youths looked up suddenly as the man gave a gasp. They stared at him so curiously that he felt an explanation was necessary.
"Went the wrong way—gentlemen," he said, pointing to his glass of beer—"windpipe, I think."
The elder of the two youths grunted and leaning back lit a cigarette. He watched Edward, at first carelessly, but as he saw the man take out a penknife and cut from the paper a paragraph, he grew more interested. In a few moments Edward gulped down his beer, and, without a word, made his way outside.
"Bertie," it was the elder artist who was speaking, "that chap saw something in the paper that upset him a little—is that theNewsyou're reading?"
"Yes—why?"
"Look at page five, will you, the third paragraph from the bottom on column two. Read it out loud if you don't mind."
The paper rustled as the other young man turned to the desired portion, then in a blasé voice read:—
"MYSTERIOUS DEATH IN PARIS.
"A gentleman who arrived at the Hôtel Meurice from London two days ago has met with a fate such as is becoming more and more frequent in the streets of Paris. A gendarme passing down the Rue des Batignolles last evening about ten o'clock, came upon the body of the unfortunate man huddled into an angle of a doorway. Assistance was forthcoming, but was too late to be of any service to the victim, who had suffered terrible injuries to the head, and to which he succumbed within an hour after his admission to the hospital. The outrage points undoubtedly to being the work of the dreaded Apaches. The deceased gentleman, who was about fifty years of age, had registered under the name of Sydney Kyser, but it has been impossible to trace among his belongings any clue to his home address. The French police, however, are in communication with Scotland Yard, and are in the mean time actively engaged in searching for the perpetrators of the outrage."
"Bet you that chap knew this Kyser, or whoever it is——" a yawn—"none of our business, what! See you in Peter's studio, there's a game of bridge on, I think. Ta-ta."
Meanwhile Edward Povey was walking up Clay Hill in a ferment of thought. It seemed ten years rather than one week since he had been on his stool in the dingy Eastcheap counting-house. He had hoped for a little excitement to enter into his life, and he was getting excitement to the full. He had not looked upon the borrowing of Adderbury Cottage as a crime; the advent of Uncle Jasper and Aunt Eliza was nothing more than a farce—but now tragedy was playing a hand in the game in the shape of a Parisian murder.
He stopped suddenly as a thought struck him. It could not be long before Mr. Kyser's business friends heard of his death, when visits would be paid to his houses, to Grosvenor Square and to Adderbury Cottage. It was easy enough quietly to leave the place himself and to take Charlotte; with Uncle and Aunt it was different. Various schemes entered into his head for effecting their departure, schemes that made poor Edward think that given opportunities he would have made a first-class criminal.
The ruse upon which he finally decided was an inspiration. He laughed to himself as the absurd simplicity of it all came home to him.
He retraced his steps to the village, this time choosing the Red Lion, and engaged a fly to carry him down into Watford, where he entered the same hotel that he had patronized in the morning. He made straight for the writing-room where he remembered having seen some headed note-paper. Then he wrote himself a letter, signing himself Henry Birkett, Public Analyst for the County of Herts. In the letter he said that the sample of water submitted to him from Adderbury Cottage was of a very dangerous description. He said that any one living in the afore-mentioned Adderbury Cottage was running a grave risk. The place, he added, must be in a deplorable sanitary condition, and that steps must be taken at once to overhaul the drainage.
With this missive in his pocket, Edward Povey reached Adderbury Cottage about eight o'clock.
The party were just sitting down to dinner, and were, with the exception of Charlotte, in a genial mood. Mrs. Povey, poor woman, showed plainly the anxiety and strain of the time she had been through, but Uncle Jasper was in fine form. He had already started operations on the garden, and was full of projects for the morrow. Edward smiled grimly as he listened to his talk of roses and cucumbers.
When dinner was over, the two men sat smoking and talking of various things, still mostly gardens. Aunt Eliza had gone to her re-arranged bedroom, whilst Charlotte could be heard in the kitchen, to which place the poor woman had flown many times in the course of the day as to a harbour of refuge.
Purposely allowing his pipe to go out, Edward took from his pocket the letter he had written to himself, and tearing off the blank sheet made a spool with which he relit his pipe. Then leaving the rest of the letter on the table, he made some excuse and went from the room. He left the door ajar, and watched the reflection of his uncle in the mirror of the sideboard. In less than three minutes he found that his faith in the inquisitiveness of his uncle had not been misplaced.
Edward Povey tiptoed to the kitchen, and, hastily warning his wife, awaited developments. They were not long in coming.
A chair was thrust hastily back and agitated steps left the dining-room and creaked upstairs. Voices in discussion were heard above. Then Uncle Jasper came down. He was boiling over with wrath as he entered the kitchen, and to Edward, who knew the circumstances, the old man's efforts to disguise his feelings were not without their humour. The old man felt at that moment that he would have given half his fortune to tell the pair before him what he thought of them. But for once in his life Jasper Jarman had met his match. To admit that he had read another man's letter was not to be thought of. Equally impossible was it for his wife and himself to remain another night in the pestilential atmosphere of Adderbury Cottage. He made a gurgling noise in his throat, then:
"I'm sorry, Edward, but I had forgotten this is the 3rd. I have to be in Kidderminster by twelve o'clock to-morrow—I—I—it means thousands to me."
He glared at them in impotent rage for a moment, then went on.
"You must get us a cab, Edward—now. There's only one way, and that is to drive into Watford and stay there and catch the early train to Birmingham in the morning."
"But surely, uncle——" Charlotte began.
"The only way, Charlotte, my dear, I assure you. Edward, there is a cab to be had, I suppose?" The old fellow was clenching and unclenching his hands, his eyes were round with anger.
"If you must, uncle, you must. I know what business is. Charlotte, give me my boots, I'll get a conveyance here in half-an-hour."
Charlotte never could tell how she got through that dreadful half-hour. Uncle Jasper, muffled in his coat, was treading the gravel of the path furiously. Aunt Eliza, her lips a thin thread, was seated on her box in the porch. From time to time they addressed a few words to their hostess, the very forced civility of which was obvious from the way they were jerked out. Then, at last, a rattling old landau appeared, and the last scene of Uncle Jasper's visit to Adderbury Cottage was reached.
As the vehicle rattled away Edward heard the explosion of his uncle's wrath and the restraininghsshof Aunt Eliza.
At seven the next morning Edward Povey borrowed a farm cart from an adjacent cottager and sent on their things to Harrow Station. It being a fine morning, they elected to walk.
At ten-thirty the representatives of the late Mr. Sydney Kyser paid a visit to Adderbury Cottage and made an inventory of the contents of that desirable residence.
There was a quietude about the little front dining-room in Belitha Villas that was very soothing to the somewhat strained nervous systems of Mr. and Mrs. Povey. Each in their accustomed positions and chairs they gazed into the small fire that was burning brightly in the grate. Upon the table were the remains of lunch. Charlotte's expression was one of repose, but her husband's brows were contracted as he puffed at his pipe, which was not to be wondered at considering he was turning over in his mind how he was to acquaint Mrs. Povey with his intended departure.
"I am expecting, Charlotte," he began at last, his eyes fixed meditatively upon a hissing jet of gas that was escaping from the coal, "to be leaving the country shortly on business."
Mrs. Povey, who during the last three days had ceased to show or even feel surprise at anything her husband said, merely remarked, "Oh!" dully.
"Yes, my dear, and I want you to shut up the house—I have my reasons—and take rooms at Abbot's Hotel during my absence."
At this the lady became rather sarcastic.
"Or the Ritz, Edward, it seems to me that——"
Mr. Povey held up a silencing hand.
"I don't want to hear what it seems to you, my dear, I want you to go up to Abbot's and take a suite this afternoon. I intend to allow you—er—five pounds a week, Charlotte; I think that should be sufficient."
The surprise that the good lady would not allow herself to show had at least the effect of keeping her silent. Her husband rose and went out into the hall, returning immediately with his hat in his hand.
"I am going out, my dear, and will call back in an hour with a cab. You needn't unpack the things, we'll take them with us."
For fully ten minutes after Edward's departure Charlotte sat in thought before the fire, and then rose to take a look round the house before leaving it. It was strange for this woman to be thus doing the bidding of a man for whom she had hitherto had such scant respect. The change that opportunity had worked in her husband would not have been welcome to her but for the promise of better times that his words and actions suggested. She could not but look forward to the suite at Abbot's, the hotel in Bloomsbury at which they had dined two or three times during their married life.
As she walked slowly from room to room she found herself picturing the glories that were to be hers, the lofty dining-room with its pillars of marble and the windows with the long red curtains. Then her thoughts ran to the five weekly pounds that were to be hers also, and she wondered if Edward meant her to pay for the suite out of them.
She dressed herself in the best that her wardrobe afforded and gathered together a few personal belongings into a small hand-bag, which, together with the trunk and portmanteau they had that morning brought from Bushey, she placed in the hall to await her husband's return. It was four o'clock when Edward softly closed the front door of No. 8, Belitha Villas, and with Charlotte and the luggage clattered away in the decrepit old four-wheeler which he had fetched from the rank.
As they turned the corner, Edward, who had been idly gazing from the window, drew back sharply into the shadows of the vehicle. He signalled the driver to stop, and getting out, walked carefully back to the corner, where, with his eyes, he followed the movements of two men who were looking up at the numbers of the houses. They paused at No. 8, and pushing open the gate marched up to the door. Edward saw one of them knock, then he hurried back to the cab.
"Just in time—I thought so," he muttered.
He then told the cabman to drive to King's Cross station. Arriving there he dismissed him, and taking another cab deposited his silent but wondering wife at the door of Abbot's Hotel.
Then, after booking the suite of rooms, he left her, and entering a passing taxi was driven to St. Mary Axe.
*****
A few days following the hurried and undignified evacuation of No. 8, Belitha Villas, a smart and exceedingly well-groomed little man was contentedly sitting in a front private room of the Union Hotel at Penzance.
The intervening days had been very busy ones indeed for Mr. Edward Povey, and ever since the Cornish Riviera train had set him down on the shores of Mount's Bay he had considered that a complete rest was due to him. Besides, he told himself that it wanted two days yet till the 15th of November, and until that date he had no need to pay his visit to the heiress to the throne of San Pietro.
He had seen her once driving a smart little governess cart through the quaint and steep streets of the Cornish town, and he had found out her identity from the unsolicited testimony of the aged waiter who had noticed him looking at her.
"There she goes, bless her, the best little woman and the best heart in the Duchy," he had said, crossing the room to the window and letting his eyes follow the dainty little lady as she leant out of her trap to give an order to the grocer who had left his shop and stood rubbing his hands together on the curb. Edward had asked who she was.
"That's Miss Baxendale, sir, her who lives out to Tremoor Churchtown; not a man in West Cornwall who doesn't worship the ground she drives over—no, nor a woman either, which is saying a goodish deal. When my wife was down with sciatic, sir, she didn't want for naught, she——"
But Edward was not listening, he was gazing spell-bound at the object of the old man's talk. And a picture she made well worth the regard.
Miss Baxendale had now descended from the "jingle" and was standing chatting to the grocer in his doorway. Edward Povey looked in admiration at the trim little figure clad in its well-made white mackintosh that reached almost to the heels of the tiny brown walking boots. Her face was turned three-quarters towards him, and for the first time he began to doubt his wisdom in entering upon the adventure.
Curiously enough the personality of the Princess had not entered into his calculations, he had looked upon her merely as a unit in the scheme as a whole, a spoke in the wheel of the undertaking.
Now he asked himself what he was to do with this perfect creature, a very queen among girls, a being whose every look and gesture spoke of the highest breeding and culture, a girl in whose presence he could not but feel awkward and ill at ease. He had half an idea then and there of abandoning the whole affair, and going back to London, but second thoughts brought back memories of two deserted houses and pointed out to him that he had gone too far to retreat. It was a momentary return of the Edward Povey of a few weeks ago, of the personality he had striven to put behind him.
He alone of all people knew the history of this lovely girl, and in his possession were the papers and trinkets given him in his final interview with Mr. Nixon, all the evidence which proved the high descent of the Princess. In his hands alone was her future. He remembered, too, the generous balance now standing to the credit of himself, Mr. Sydney, in the Royal Bank of Spain. To this, as he was pleased to read Mr. Baxendale's letter, he felt himself quite entitled, as the one who had undertaken the mission. Before leaving London he had burnt his boats beyond redemption, and to give in now would not only mean a return to the old hated life, but he feared he had laid himself open to criminal proceedings.
Charlotte he had provided for and had left that estimable lady in a state of delighted bewilderment at Abbot's Hotel, and the thought of returning to her, for both their sakes, was distasteful to him in the extreme.
After all, why should he not go on with the matter to which he had put his hand? Although a clerk, Edward Povey was one of those quiet-mannered men who can pass muster anywhere and in any society can hold their own by reason of their ability to efface themselves when necessary. He had been well educated and was possessed of a soft and careful diction. Also he was endowed with the most valuable knack of adapting himself to circumstances.
As he turned from the window he caught the reflection of himself in the large gilt-framed mirror that hung over the mantelpiece, and although he had seen the same reflection but a few minutes previously it now took on a new significance. If anything had been needed to endorse his decision to go on with what he had begun he found it in the picture, for he was confronted with a vastly different aspect of himself to that he had been used to as shown by the little cracked looking-glass in the counting-house of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company in Eastcheap.
He saw a trim, dapper little person, looking not a day older than thirty-eight, with a keen, clean-shaven face that bordered on intellectuality. The gold-rimmed spectacles which framed his mild blue eyes together with his thinning hair gave him even a scholarly aspect. Edward had made good use of his newly acquired cheque-book, and he noted with satisfaction that the dark grey suit he had bought in Jermyn Street fitted him to a nicety. His linen was spotless, and a small black pearl showed with a dull richness in his dark blue tie. A thin gold chain across his waistcoat and a signet ring with a deep claret-coloured stone gave a touch of well-being to his appearance. His glance left the mirror and travelled down to his well-cut trousers, thence to his brown brogued shoes. Yes, he was eminently presentable, and as he turned again to his easy chair and his paper, he laughed at the recent doubts that had assailed him and which now were falling from him like water from the proverbial duck.
It was a local journal of little interest and he read on for some moments listlessly, then with a smothered cry of astonishment he turned the paper more to the light and his listlessness gave place to concentration. There under the heading of London Topics was something which set the blood racing through his veins.
THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH IN PARISREMARKABLE SEQUEL TO THE MURDER OF MR. KYSERTHE MYSTERY OF THE BUSHEY COTTAGE
(Special to the "Evening Post")
"It will be remembered that thePostwas the first to report, a few days ago, the mysterious death in Paris of Mr. Sydney Kyser, a partner in the great firm of Spanish Bankers and Merchants of Eastcheap. Our reporter in an interview with Mr. Schultz has discovered that there seems to be far more beneath the mystery than was at first supposed.
"It appears that the deceased gentleman's departure from London was unknown to any one, not excepting Mr. Schultz himself, and as a meeting between the partners, to go through the scrip of certain Spanish bonds in the possession of the firm, had been fixed for the following day, Mr. Schultz was naturally astonished at the non-appearance of his partner. This astonishment gave place to consternation when it was discovered that the safe containing the bonds, of which only himself and Mr. Kyser knew the lock combination, had been rifled.
"Enquiries at Mr. Kyser's house in Grosvenor Square elicited the fact that the housekeeper in charge was also unaware of her master's absence from England, taking for granted that he was at his cottage at Bushey Heath, a little property at which Mr. Kyser was fond of spending a few days from time to time.
"Mr. Schultz thereupon dispatched two of his trusted clerks to make enquiries. Their report is disquieting in the extreme. Adderbury Cottage had certainly been in occupation since Mr. Kyser's death. This fact was evident from a fire still burning in the grate in the dining-room and from the remains of breakfast upon the table. The only people near were the representatives of Mr. Kyser's solicitors, who had evidently read in thePostof their client's death. These gentlemen, together with Mr. Schultz's two clerks, made a thorough search of the cottage. On all hands was evidence that the occupants, whoever they were, had made a very hasty departure.
"A clue, however, was obtained by one of the solicitor's men who made a tour of the near-by cab yards. He elicited the fact that a vehicle had been hastily ordered from one of them on the previous evening, and that the cabman had driven an elderly lady and gentleman to Bushey station. His fares seemed to him to be in a very disturbed state of mind, the gentleman especially so. The cabman thought that they were man and wife because he swore so.
"This couple leaving so hurriedly on the evening on which Mr. Kyser's death was reported in thePostis, to say the least of it, suspicious, and they have been traced to some extent. They took first-class tickets for Euston, travelling by the 9.49 train. In London all trace was lost of them, but a porter states that they were seen again early the next morning entering the 7.10 for Birmingham. Here the scent is lost for the present, though from the minute descriptions furnished by the different railway officials and the cabman of Bushey, the suspected man bears a great resemblance to a well-known manufacturer in the Midlands. It seems, however, absurd to identify this prosperous and much-respected man with Mr. Kyser and his affairs.
"Another matter which causes some speculation is the fact that the caretaker of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company's offices asserts that he saw his master in company with a clerk who had that day been dismissed, enter a grill-room in Gracechurch Street. The two representatives of the firm after leaving Bushey called at this clerk's address in Clapham, only to find that this house, too, had evidently been hastily vacated in much the same manner as Adderbury Cottage.
"There, for the present, the mystery rests. The police, who have been communicated with, are, in the mean time, doing their utmost to trace the elderly gentleman and lady who took the train to Birmingham."
Mr. Povey put down the paper and whistled softly to himself. Then as he thought of poor Uncle Jasper and Aunt Eliza, the mirthful side of the affair took him and he laughed for ten minutes.
He rang the bell and told the waiter that he thought he would take a Scotch whisky and a small Apollinaris.
The morning of November the fifteenth dawned full of promise. For three days previously the toe of Cornwall had been victimized by sea-mists, accompanied by a lashing rain from the south-west, and the time had hung heavily upon the hands of Mr. Povey. He appreciated now to the full how he had cut himself adrift from his whole past, and the knowledge that even his address was known to no living soul gave him a curious and chilling sense of isolation.
He took moody walks about the straggling town or along the deserted promenade to the fishy but artistic Newlyn, where he would stroll aimlessly through the steep and narrow streets or stand and gaze out over the froth-capped waves of the bay to where St. Michael's Mount rose a gaunt, grey silhouette in the prevailing gloom. The evenings he spent in the cosy little bar at the back of the hotel.
The papers, which he devoured greedily, were silent on the Kyser mystery, and Edward could only speculate on the way things were going, and he smiled as he wondered if they had arrested Uncle Jasper yet.
He had written a long and comprehensive letter to the Princess, acquainting her with all the facts of her birth and the tragedy which had followed it, and of his mission. It had seemed to him a far easier course than telling her all the details personally. He referred her to her nurse for all particulars, and he told her that it was in deference to Mr. Baxendale's wish that he was deferring the pleasure of calling upon her until the actual day of her birthday.
Edward admitted to himself that there was a suggestion of nervousness in his manner as he made a more than usually studied toilet. He took simplicity and dignity as the keynotes of his attire, choosing a black cravat and blacksuèdegloves as a mark of respect for the tragedy in the case. This he looked upon as an inspiration and one calculated to make a good impression upon the Princess. His brown shoes, too, he discarded for a serviceable pair of black walking boots, it being his intention to walk the three or four miles to Tremoor. He stopped at a florist's and purchased a little bouquet of white roses.
The promise of the early morning had been duly fulfilled, and the sun shone a glorious augury on the undertaking, as at ten-thirty he left the hotel.
The road he took was one to the north-west, and, after leaving the town behind, it led him into a treeless, desolated district of wild moors and granite-strewn carns. Villages of a few houses, scattered here and there, showed white-washed walls and grey lichen-patched roofs against the golden glory of the bracken. Across the moor broken stone hedges straggled out at odd angles, and buildings falling into decay, roofless and with floorings of rank vegetation, spoke of the time when this district was populated by men engaged in wresting the wealth of tin from its fastnesses in Mother Earth. A cluster of dead mine buildings showed gauntly upon the horizon, their tall chimneys and ruined engine-houses crumbling into decay—a very Pompeii of Industry. From the high ground the sea could be seen on two sides—facing him to the north the Atlantic, whilst to the south the waters of Mount's Bay reflected the blue of the cloudless sky.
Tremoor Churchtown lay in a valley between two rugged carns, a valley which, if followed, would lead to some rocky cove whose silver-sanded beach gave upon the broad Atlantic. As Edward topped the rise and stood looking down upon the peaceful hamlet with its square church tower, he asked himself whether Baxendale had been wise to wish to destroy the bliss of the Princess's ignorance—whether it had not been better that she should know nothing of the stress of power, but that she should spend her life doing good to those in the little village at his feet.
Then Edward Povey shook himself, and with a firm tread picked his way between the gorse bushes and the ivy-covered boulders down to a trim little house that stood at the edge of the cluster of white-washed cottages that comprised the village of Tremoor.
As he paused at the little green gate let in the rough stone wall, the door opened and the Princess came smilingly down the path to meet him. She walked with the springy step of youth and health, and held out her hand with an engaging frankness.
A little below the medium height, the Princess made up in dignity what she lacked in inches. Never had Edward seen such a perfectly proportioned little figure, nor such a graceful carriage. She was dressed in a tailor-made gown of dark blue cloth, and in her chestnut hair she had threaded a black ribbon.
Her face was rather round than oval and the chin was dimpled. The mouth, too, when she smiled caused other dimples to leap into play, and one could easily imagine that she very oftendidsmile. The eyes, large and dark, laughed and danced beneath a pair of perfectly drawn brows, fairly thick and arching, and tapering down to a point that looked like a single hair at their ends. Her cheeks, tanned a delicious brown by the Cornish sun, were a little flushed with excitement.
"Mr. Sydney, is it not?"
Edward bowed and raised his hat.
"And you are the Princess Miranda," he said.
The girl put a finger to her smiling lips.
"Not that here, Mr. Sydney—here, in Tremoor, I am Miss Galva Baxendale—my friends would not know me by any name but that."
She turned as she spoke and preceded him up the little path, bordered by clumps of hydrangea, veronica and fuchsia, to the house. The garden on either side of the shingle path, a curious mixture of vegetables and flowers, glowed with all the tints of autumn.
At the door of the house a lady was awaiting them, a white-haired woman of some fifty years of age, tall, and with the most piercing black eyes Edward had ever seen. She received him graciously, and led the way into a room to the right of the little passage. It was an apartment larger than one would have looked for in a house of the size, and was low-ceilinged and lighted by two diamond-paned windows which looked over the moor.
The walls, papered a dull grey-green, were wainscoted to the height of an elbow with dark oak, and were hung with etchings and engravings, mostly of local scenery, in narrow black frames. The table laid for luncheon was tastefully decorated with little silver pots containing slender ferns, and in the centre a tall glass held a sheaf of late campions.
Edward felt at ease immediately with his two hostesses, and he appreciated to the full the well-served meal. The subject of the "mission" of Mr. Sydney was not touched upon until coffee had been brought, then—
"And what is it you are going to do with me, Mr. Sydney?" the girl laughed across the table.
"I—I hardly know, Miss Baxendale; the matter rests more with you, I think, than with me. I'm merely here if I'm wanted, as it were." He turned to the elder lady. "There is, I suppose, no two questions on the matter—I mean on the matter of our journey?"
For a moment there was silence between the three. When Miranda spoke, a suggestion of sadness had come into her voice. She rose and put her arms round her foster-mother's neck.
"Youwant to go to San Pietro, Anna," she said, "for all these years you have been away from your native land. There must be many things that you pine for over there, many friends you will want to see."
Anna Paluda raised her fine eyes to the girl's face.
"Yes, Galva, my dear, there are many things I want to see."
She spoke sadly, and Edward turned in his chair and gazed out over the wild waste of heath aglow with its tints of cinnamon and mauve. A kestrel wheeled slowly across his vision uttering its dismal cry.
His thoughts were of the sad-voiced, white-haired lady—and again a unit in the adventure took individuality.
For the first time he thought of what the enterprise meant for Anna Paluda. Away in the vaulted splendour of the cathedral at Corbo, her baby had been sleeping unavenged for fifteen years, sleeping on a royal breast in a tomb emblazoned with the arms of the Estratos. What had been the anguish of this mother's heart, who, for the sake of her secret, had been forced to nurse her grief alone? What a cruel scourging of the old wound the return would mean to her.
When Edward turned again, Galva had resumed her seat. He drew up to the table and took from his pocket the things that Mr. Nixon had given him, a few articles of jewellery, and a letter. The girl opened the letter. It was addressed to
SEÑOR LUAZO,Calle Mendaro, 66,Corbo,
and set out at full length the history of Mr. Baxendale's find in the wood. Not an item of evidence had been overlooked that could prove the truth of Miranda's parentage. The jewellery comprised two or three rings and a brooch, engraved with the royal arms. These Anna had snatched up in their hurried flight from the palace.
The princess read to the end, but there was nothing that she had not already learnt from her foster-mother. On the arrival of Edward's letter, two days previous, Anna had told her charge the whole history. To her mind, the evidence was not as complete as she might have wished. She tried to look at it with the eyes of strangers, to whom the story of the substitution of the children might suggest a plot.
They discussed the matter in all its bearings. The love of adventure and the call of romance appealed strongly to the eighteen-year-old girl, and made the suggested journey a very desirable thing. They would go to Señor Luazo in the Calle Mendaro, and place the whole facts of the affair before him. There could be no harm in that. They would travel under the names of Mr. Sydney and Miss Baxendale, his ward, and, with the money at their disposal, could stay in Corbo and see how the land lay. There would be nothing in their appearance or manner to single them out from the other families who wintered in the little white villas that bordered the beautiful bay of Lucana, which was fast rivalling Monte Carlo as a pleasure resort. The names Galva and Baxendale would suggest nothing. The girl had dropped her real name of Miranda for so long; she could do so for a few months more.
The cottage in Cornwall need not be given up; some woman in the village could easily be found to look after it during their absence. In the mean time, Mr. Sydney (as Edward must now be called) must bring his traps from Penzance and stay with them at Morna Cottage.
*****
It was late afternoon, and the two women were taking a last walk on the carn above the house in which they had lived so long. The scene around them was magnificent in the extreme. Away to the west sea and sky were stained with the afterglow of the setting sun. Around them the desolate moors stretched out in gentle undulations, shadowy and mysterious. In the clear twilight the lights of the coast shone out; below them, the four flashes of Pendeen, and, further up the shore, Godrevy and Trevose flickered uncertainly to the distant sight. In a little while it would be dark enough to make out the light on the Scilly Islands, blinking like a great red eye over the Atlantic.
The village in the valley was fast merging into the dusk; here and there a yellow light twinkled from a window. Miranda grew sad as she looked.
"It is all so beautiful, Anna, and I have been so happy here. I fear sometimes at the journey we are taking—perhaps we will never see all this again, and I love every stone of Tremoor."
Anna Paluda placed her arm tenderly round the young shoulders.
"There are fine sights, too, in San Pietro, Miranda—ourland. I can remember now the colours that the Yeldo hills take in the evening; the sea, too, is beautiful in the bay, and we also have the storms that you love to watch so much.
"Besides," she went on, "you may return, but I—never. I, too, had a 'mission'; it is nearly over now, and I must stay with my child. No—don't pity me, Miranda; the time of tears is long past, but the grief is here still. But we won't talk of my mission. This is not the time for troubling your royal little head over the long-ago affairs of an old woman."
With arms linked affectionately they walked down to the house.