If the days hung heavily upon the heart of the captive in the castle on the Alcador road, they hung no less heavily upon the man who waited in Venta Villa.
The culpability of one's actions is too often determined by the worldly success, or otherwise, which attends them, and Edward Povey was experiencing some very bitter moments. Had Galva been firmly and happily seated in the great throne-room up there in the Palace, he would have carried his head high and have looked upon himself as a hero, and his usurpation of the character of Sydney Kyser as a meritorious act.
But under the existing circumstances he cursed himself for a meddlesome idiot, or worse, and prayed that he might suddenly awake to find himself dozing over the corner desk in the dingy Eastcheap counting-house or in his shabby arm-chair in the front room at Belitha Villas.
Hitherto he had accepted his present luxurious surroundings as due to him for the trouble he was taking; now each item of them became a stab. The well-cooked dinners which he took miserably with Anna Paluda seemed like to choke him, and the dainty hangings of his little bedroom, overlooking the bay, became a physical torture to him. The letter sent him by Jasper Jarman also rankled deeply. He wished he had kept the letter now, that he might read it again and again as a penance.
By a stroke of ill-fortune Señor Luazo was confined to his room with an attack of gout, and the fashionable physician who attended that estimable gentleman had made it clear to Edward that his patient was not to be disturbed. Any help or even advice from that quarter was out of the question.
But Mr. Povey had not been content to rest in idleness; as far as it was possible he had acted. Disguised, he had ingratiated himself with the landlord of The Three Lilies, and had spent hours together behind the little curtain of the window of the room vacated by Uncle Jasper, which overlooked the house and gardens of Gabriel Dasso. He had, however, gained little by this, save one important point, the certainty that Lieutenant Mozara was, without doubt, malingering in the matter of his injuries.
The gallant officer, thinking himself secure behind the high walls of Dasso's garden, had relaxed his precautions. Twice the watchful eye at the window opposite had seen the crutch discarded and the black silk sling hanging empty.
Beyond the comfort derived from this confirmation of the suspicions which Anna Paluda had planted in his mind, Edward could make no use of the information gained. Any day now he might receive an answer to the letter he had sent to M. Brea in Paris, and until that came he was loath to act. He felt that, with the help of the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, he would be more than a match for the conspirators. At the same time, for Galva's sake, he determined that should no word reach him within the next three days he would put the matter before the British Consul.
He had met the monocled nonentity who represented the interests of Great Britain in the island kingdom. Señor Luazo had introduced them in the café attached to the Casino, and Edward had not been impressed. The Consul did not appear to him to be the man to lean on in any great emergency. Commerce between the idle inhabitants of San Pietro and English ports was confined to the few boxes of dried fruits of two Jewish firms in the business quarter of Corbo, and the Government post in the service of His Britannic Majesty on the little island was not one sought after by ambitious men. No, on second thoughts, Edward did not feel inclined to disturb the alcohol-engendered ease of the Honourable Bertie Traverson unless it became absolutely necessary.
The evening following the day on which Teresa learnt the identity of Galva Baxendale, Edward was sitting in the little library at Venta Villa, reading for the hundredth time a telegram which he had that morning received. A knock at the door caused him to crumple this up guiltily in his hands as the servant entered. A man was at the door asking for Mr. Sydney—rather a curious person, the servant volunteered, respectfully. Edward, eager for anything to relieve the period of waiting, went out into the hall. A rough individual was there, standing on the mat, his clothes dripping and making little rain-pools on the tiled floor.
As he saw Edward he bowed a black shaggy head, and from the sodden recesses of his heavy coat produced a dirty envelope which he held out. Edward could see it was addressed to Mr. Sydney, at the Venta Villa, Corbo. The light in the hall was not good, and Povey stepped back into the library to open and read the letter. A moment later he was again out in the hall, calling to the servant to bring wine for the messenger. To his surprise the man had disappeared, the little pools of water alone remaining to show where he had stood. Edward flung open the door. The wind swept the rain in his face in clouds, and that, together with the darkness, made the man's retreat secure. Having rid himself of the letter entrusted to him, the carrier of the Alcador road considered he had done all that could be expected of him. Remembering the air of mystery with which Teresa had given him the envelope, he wished to be done with the affair. Curiosity was not one of his failings, and the suspiciously generous payment the old woman had made him was burning in his pockets with a flame that called for the extinguishing wine of a little inn he knew, nestling beneath the shadow of the cathedral.
Edward Povey cleared the flight of richly carpeted stairs in three bounds and burst frantically into the little drawing-room. The black-gowned figure in the arm-chair, drawn up to the fire, rose at his entrance and stood facing him inquiringly; one arm resting on the chair-back, with the other she pressed a lace handkerchief to her lips. The room was lighted by a single cluster of electric bulbs only, but Edward could see that Anna Paluda's face was chalky-grey, and that the large eyes looked tired with tears.
"She's found, Anna. Galva's safe."
The woman thanked God and reached out a trembling hand for the letter. Edward switched on the other lights, and together they devoured Galva's message. As they finished reading it the second time the chimes of the cathedral clock reached them.
"Twelve o'clock, Anna. Nothing can be done to-night. And the rain—listen to it."
Anna sat silent for a moment gazing out through the blurred panes at the inky blackness beyond. The rain lashed the windows like a shower of sand, and the waves breaking on the shore below voiced a distant monotony. Edward was right, nothing could be done at once, except to go to bed and get what rest one might against the morrow.
Left alone, Povey took out the telegram he had been reading and had hastily thrust into his jacket pocket on the entrance of the servant. He smoothed it out on a little table. It was from the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, and as Edward read it again he told himself that he was nearing the end of his tribulations.
He had been rather averse to showing the cable to Anna. She knew nothing of the affection, if it can be called only that, which existed between Galva and the duke, or if she had noticed it in Paris it had long ago left her memory. Edward doubted whether she would think it wise, this calling in of a stranger to their affairs.
The message was quite brief, and stated simply that the sender had reached Spain and was leaving by the boat which was due to arrive at Port Corbo at nine that evening. Edward had waited anxiously in the rain until the harbour master had told him that the heavy weather had delayed the sturdy little vessel, which acted as passenger, cargo and mail steamer between the island and the mainland. The man had said that she had not yet passed the Point at the arm of the bay where the alternate red and white flashes of the distant lighthouse showed dimly through the driving rain. Edward had learnt that she could not berth before two in the morning, and he had returned to the Villa for refreshment and dry clothes.
At one o'clock he quietly ascertained that Anna had retired for the night, then, putting on a long mackintosh, crept from the house and started on the mile or more walk to the dock side. The rain had now nearly ceased, and the esplanade lay a glistening line of wet asphalt in front of him, in which the arc lamps threw a clean reflection. The wind still blew in fitful gusts, scattering the raindrops from the leaves of the trees that bordered the pavement.
The promenade was deserted, save for a few waiting motor-cars and carriages outside the Casino. From time to time a whistle would call one of these up to the entrance, and Edward would catch a glimpse of black-coated men holding umbrellas over the dainty figures of lightly cloaked women who, with skirts well bunched up over slender ankles and high-heeled shoes, made a dash for the carriage door.
And here and there were shuffling figures edging along in the shadows. These were the denizens of the hinterland of Corbo, night-birds who crept out to the fashionable haunts in the dark hours, bent on plunder, or perhaps the honest earning of a little of the money which was being so freely spent there.
Past the Opera House and the gardens the way became darker. The arc lamps became further apart, and the few cafés that were still open showed sleepy waiters standing moodily behind the great plate-glass windows, waiting for the stragglers to depart.
As Edward walked on he thought of the coming interview, debating within himself whether or no he should acquaint the new arrival with the true state of affairs. He felt that the secret was not altogether his own, and now that he had heard from Galva that she was safe and in no immediate danger, he said that there was no need to act hurriedly. He rather wished, in fact, that he had not been so hasty in writing. The duke would be useful certainly, but he complicated matters.
As he neared the dock the way became increasingly difficult. The Powers that Be in the Island of San Pietro made up for their lavish pandering to their rich visitors by altogether neglecting those portions of the town that lay remote from the Casino. Short, narrow streets, the houses of which seemed tumbling in on one in the darkness, straggled down to the waterside. In places, the particular road which Edward had taken was so steep that rough slabs of granite had been crudely laid down in a series of steps, broad and shallow, down which he stumbled dangerously.
The houses, for the most part, were in darkness, save where here and there an open door silhouetted the shrouded figure of a woman who would whisper to him as he hurried past. A party of Swedish sailors were quarrelling under the hanging oil-lamp of an inn, the doors of which were being hastily shut and bolted. Edward passed unnoticed, and in a moment emerged on the broad cobbled wharf.
Here, doubtless with a view of favourably impressing arriving visitors, the Powers that Be proved more prodigal with illumination, and a row of arc lamps showed the misty forms of a few tramp steamers huddled up to the dock edge. A little knot of seamen and luggage touts stood looking out towards the open sea. From one of the boats a wheezy concertina was accompanying a rich tenor voice singing an old English ballad.
His friend, the harbour master, was not to be seen, but Edward learnt from one of the seamen that the Spanish boat was expected to be alongside in the course of half an hour. He could hear the syren booming dismally.
Edward Povey buried his chin more deeply between the storm-collars of his mackintosh and waited, pacing up and down in the raw, damp mist.
Galva had written—
".... so, as I hardly expect you will be able to get a reply through to me, I had better make my own arrangements. At ten o'clock each night I will be in readiness and Teresa will be on hand to open the door to you on your giving the signal, Anna and I, in dear old Cornwall, used, when we became separated in any way, to call to each other by imitating the cry of the kestrel. I will wait for that signal here. You must remember that I have promised old Teresa that her husband will come to no harm ... I am well and in no danger, and having allayed your anxiety and eased my mind, I can wait quite happily till you come...."
The captive had set forth at length the manner of her capture and the position of Casa Luzo. She had briefly touched upon the friendship for her shown by Teresa and how the old woman had discovered her secret. She impressed upon Edward to lay his plans well and not to spoil matters by undue haste.
"Casa Luzo," murmured the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, "it lies nine or ten miles out on the Alcad..."
"You know the Alcador road, duke?"
The boyish face flushed a little and his grace bent over Galva's letter.
"A little," he said. "An idle man of the world like myself knows most of the pleasure spots on this old earth of ours—I had my car over here last year and I did a lot of work on these inland roads."
They were sitting on the balcony outside the drawing-room windows of Venta Villa. The duke had, immediately upon his arrival in the early hours of the morning, hurried Edward away from the lighted dock-side up to the house, keeping ever on the darker side of the way. Edward had noticed with no little alarm, how, under some pretext or other, he had contrived to keep his features hidden when any one approached. He would stop and light his cigarette, or stoop and occupy himself with his bootlace. Edward, whom recent affairs had made observant, did not feel at all comfortable.
It was plain to him that his grace was anxious that he should not be observed, and he felt uneasy to think that there could be any mystery about the young man on whom he was depending for so much help. He decided that, for the present, the least said was soonest mended, and he would not share the secret of Galva's birth with him until he could more clearly see his way.
But now, as he looked at the figure of the young man beside him on the balcony and noted the frank open countenance, the steady eye, he felt a pang of compunction at doubting him. And yet—why was it that the duke had taken up his position behind the thick fronds of the largest palm that adorned the little balcony? A coincidence perhaps, but——
The mistral-like storm of the night before had passed over, leaving Corbo radiant and clean in the bright sunlight. The sea was calming and there was no wind. The sun had been strong, and now in the early afternoon there was not a spot of moisture left on the promenade.
"There will be a moon to-night, Mr. Sydney."
"Good—and you really think it better not to risk the road?"
The duke drew a large scale map of Corbo and its surroundings towards him.
"It's unnecessary. The Sebastin Park, so Señora Paluda says, merges into the forest, and once there the way seems clear. The distance appears to be less that way, and I do not think we can go wrong. We will leave ourselves plenty of time."
A meal was taken at three o'clock and immediately afterwards the men set out, each armed with a revolver. They did not consider it needful to take other help with them—secrecy was half the battle. Edward felt his misgivings returning to him in full force as he noticed that, in spite of the warm sun, the duke twisted a thick muffler round his neck, burying his chin and mouth in the folds.
The Sebastin Park, given to the people of San Pietro by their late ill-fated king, was a magnificent stretch of vivid lawns and trim gravel paths. The semi-tropical vegetation was trained and cultivated to show to the best advantage and everywhere little statues and fountains gleamed white in the sun. There were, also, on the outer edges of the park, walks more secluded and screened by shrubberies of rhododendrons.
Edward frowned as he noticed that his companion chose these outer pathways in preference to the broad walks, where nursemaids and their little charges swarmed and idle promenaders walked slowly up and down. With chin buried in his muffler, the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer walked quickly, his eyes nervously looking from side to side.
And then they were in the forest. The cultivation was left behind and there was only a little zigzag path winding between the trunks of the great pines. Through them to the left a glimpse of the grey walls of the Palace grounds showed sombre against the sky. Edward pointed this out to the duke and spoke of the dying king. He detected a shadow pass over the boyish face, and the duke's next remark was on an entirely different subject. A suspicion of the truth was born in Edward's mind at that moment.
But the brisk action and the clean scents of the woodland drove all thoughts save those of Galva from his mind and filled him with the spirit of romance and the joy of living. Uncle Jasper's letter was forgotten and Edward became again, in his own eyes, the knight-errant and hero.
They reached the precincts of the Casa Luzo from the back and long before they had expected. Edward's watch told them that it was eight o'clock, and the men had to wait with what patience they could the passing of the next two hours. They took their places upon a fallen tree trunk in a clearing, and lit cigarettes and looked at the moon rising over the Yeldo hills and at the black and green mystery of the forest around them. The silence was intense and neither of the waiting men seemed anxious to break the magic of it.
And then as it grew chilly they reconnoitred, taking stock of their position. They made a wide detour of the house, penetrating deeply into the wood. They saw not a soul, but once the eerie glow of a charcoal-burner splashed redly between the trees.
At five minutes to the hour they stood just within the belt of trees facing the house. Edward's first attempt at the kestrel's note was not a success. The weird sound echoed dismally through the night, awaking the bird life to protesting cries. He cleared his throat and tried again,—then, as the surrounding birds quieted down into a peevish chatter, a window on the first floor showed a faint light.
As they watched, grotesque shadows flitted over the ceiling and walls within the room as the occupant carried the candle to the window. For a moment Galva's slender form showed silhouetted against the glow,—then darkness. The men crept quietly up to the building.
As they mounted the steps they saw the massive door before them slowly open a few inches. Edward put out his hand and gently pushed it, and they were inside the hall.
It was in darkness, save for the dull glow that came from a horn lantern that stood on the stone floor. By its fitful light they could make out the shadowy form of an old woman who stood regarding them from the foot of the staircase. The rays, coming from below her, touched her figure here and there into yellow lights, and threw gigantic and misshapen shadows on the walls behind her.
Teresa was trembling. She held one finger to her lips as though enjoining silence, and a hand, outstretched, indicated the door of the dining-room. From the stairs above came the sound of hard breathing. As the men looked at the old woman, she disappeared, melting into the gloom of the staircase.
The duke made a sign to Edward to stay silent where he was, and with his revolver held in readiness, advanced to the door of the room.
It was open a little way only, and but a part of the room was visible. The long table was littered with the remains of a meal, and the cloth at one end had been crumpled and pushed back to clear a space for two men who sat there at cards.
One of them, whose figure showed out darkly against the light of the candelabra, was a personage of massive build, and the duke, taking stock of the bullet-shaped head and thick neck, told himself that here was a customer that would need some handling. The other, his opponent at the game, he saw at a glance was of little account. Old Pieto had been winning, and a crafty smile of gratified greed flickered over his face as he shuffled the dirty cards.
The watcher by the door noted with some satisfaction that both men applied themselves assiduously to the flagons of wine beside them, in fact, they were neither of them quite sober. As the man whose back was towards him put down his cards he shivered and half turned in his chair with a muttered imprecation upon old women who left doors open.
The duke slipped back into the shadows and raised his weapon and waited. But nothing happened; the man was perhaps too lazy to rise, and was waiting for the return of Teresa.
Edward listened to his companion's whispered instructions carefully. The little old man was to be held at the point of the revolver whilst the duke grappled with the other and stronger man, whose back being turned offered himself as an easy prey.
With a muttered "now," they flung open the door, and with a bound the duke was upon the man at the table, his arm locked around his neck in a vice-like grip. Gradually he bore him backwards, tilting the chair up on its back legs. The ruffian's face was purple, and he made a gurgling noise in his throat. Then the oak of the chair legs cracked, cracked again, and splintered, and the men were on the floor together.
A nimble twist, remarkable in so big a man, and learnt, perhaps, in the bull-ring, put the man on his feet again, and he snatched at a knife on the table. When he turned, the duke was also up, and leaning panting against the wall. The revolver had been knocked from his hand in the struggle, and had fallen neither man knew where.
Keeping his eyes fixed upon his opponent and crouching low, the man with the knife reached out his left hand and took hold of the tablecloth; then, with a swift movement, he dragged it to him, waving it until it was wound round his left forearm. The crockery and glass fell crashing to the floor, and the duke noticed a wine bottle rolling away to the wainscoting, leaving a red trail like blood over the scattered playing cards. But his eyes were quickly back again upon the man, who with his tablecloth-shielded arm was creeping cat-like up to him.
The duke counted himself lost, as, unarmed as he was, he awaited the inevitable spring. He gave one glance at Edward, who was standing over the old manservant, the revolver held waveringly within an inch of the evil face. Povey had not dared take his eyes from his captive; he heard the shuffling of stealthy feet as the men circled round each other, heard one of them kick a dish that was hampering him, sending it crashing against the wall. Then there was the sharp crack of a firearm, and he could stand the suspense no longer.
He turned and saw thin wreaths of smoke floating across the room, and, on the floor, the man whom the duke had attacked half lay, half sat, clutching spasmodically at his knee and swearing horribly. At the door stood Galva. She was very white, and the hand that held the still smoking little pistol was trembling. Edward heard a small pitiful voice. Galva was saying, "In the leg—only—in the leg——"
Then she threw the weapon from her and went over to Edward, and put her arms round his neck.
"Oh, guardy—I've shot a man! Say he's not dead—it was only in the leg—say——" And the girl fell to weeping on his shoulder.
The duke was now standing over Pieto, and was tying the old man's hands with a cord. Teresa bent over the ruffian on the floor, cutting away the breeches from the wound in his leg.
Edward, looking over Galva's shoulder, took in the details of the scene. There was a small pool of blood on the oak boards, and an orange from the table had rolled into it and was dabbled in red.
He saw the duke approach the wounded man, and at his step Teresa looked up. Into her face came a dawning bewilderment, and she gave a little cry.
"Prince Ar——," she whispered. Then the duke had his hand over her mouth. But Edward had heard, and the duke's actions since his arrival in San Pietro were made clear to him.
"This complicates matters considerably," he said below his breath, and went on paternally patting Galva's shoulder.
"I think we understood each other in Paris, didn't we, Armand?"
"Yes, dearest, but a definite answer to a definite question is satisfactory; now that you have given me the sweet 'yes,' I will speak to your guardian."
"To-night—speak to him to-night, dear. I know he will be pleased, and," shyly, "if he isn't, I am really afraid that it will make no difference to the 'yes'—or to me."
Galva drew herself away from her lover's embrace.
"He will have something to tell you—about me," she went on rather solemnly; "there he is. Good-night, dearest; I am tired and I want to be alone with my happiness—for Iamhappy to-night, Armand—very happy."
The lips of the lovers met in the shadow of the portico, and when Edward came through the hall he found the duke alone. The two men linked arms and fell to pacing up and down the gravelled space in front of the house. It was not yet eleven and quietude had once more settled down over the Casa Luzo. As they walked, Edward was relating to the duke how he had seen the two prisoners safely disposed of in one of the roomy cellars that ran out under the back courtyard, and had learnt from old Teresa, much to his satisfaction, that it was not likely that Dasso would put in an appearance for some days.
He and Mozara had paid two visits to Casa Luzo since the coming of Galva, but on the last of these the old woman had overheard that, thinking their prisoner perfectly hidden, and the news of her death accepted, Dasso would remain near the Palace waiting for the death of the king. As Edward mentioned the dying monarch he glanced slyly up at the duke's face, paused a moment, then:
"They are saying that your poor uncle can't last long."
At this his companion wheeled round on him.
"So you know my secret?"
"I am not blind, your Highness; you are Armand Enrico Marie, Prince of Alcador, heir-apparent to the throne of San Pietro."
"——which is the only one of the eleven titles I possess of which I am not proud. It is no honour to claim kinship with King Enrico. But I am glad you know, it saves explanations—I have asked Galva to be my wife."
Edward looked up quickly, then let his gaze rest on the tree tops of the forest.
"Ye gods," he murmured, then felt that the duke was regarding him curiously.
"You are pleased, Mr. Sydney? Galva does not know that it is a throne I am offering her. I will make her a queen, she—what are you looking at, Mr. Sydney?"
Edward drew his eyes back from their contemplation of the tree tops.
"I was thinking," he said slowly.
The duke waited.
"——Yes, I was thinking," went on Edward, "whether what you have told me—oh, damn it all, you've got to know. Come inside, I think I remember seeing a bottle of wine in there, and I have a story to tell—no, not a word until we have found the bottle and you have heard the story." And the duke, mystified into silence, followed him into the house.
The dining-room still showed some signs of the late struggle, but thedébrishad been in part cleared away, and old Teresa was rubbing vigorously at the blood stain on the oaken floor. She rose from her knees as the men entered, and taking her bucket, slipped from the room. As the door closed behind her the duke broke the silence.
"I really cannot understand the way you have taken my news, Mr. Sydney," he began, a little haughtily, and Edward held up his hand.
"Of course you can't, I can't get the hang of it myself all at once. Sit there, will you? This Chianti is excellent"; then, when the men were seated facing each other across the wood fire—
"You will remember hearing about the tragedy at the Palace at Corbo fifteen years back. I expect you have heard the details over and over again. When the dynasty of the Estratos was all but wiped out——"
"All but, Mr. Sydney?"
"That is what I said, prince. The popular belief was that the entire tree of that illustrious house was cut off root and branch, and that all its members perished on that evil night, but it was not so. The Princess Miranda escaped the fate of her parents."
"But the child—a baby—was killed with the queen."
"A child was, but it was not hers. You were speaking to the mother of the dead child only a few hours ago. It is Anna Paluda's little one that lies buried in Corbo Cathedral."
Edward paused impressively, but the duke did not speak. He sat with his dark eyes fixed on the face of the man who was telling the tale.
"That poor woman was foster-mother to the little princess, and the two children were in the night nursery at the time of the tragedy. Queen Elene took up the wrong baby, that's all. It's one of those simple mistakes which mean so much. Anna has sunk her revenge for all these years for the sake of the little girl who was almost as much to her as her own, but her revenge is not dead; some one will pay the price when the princess's affairs are settled."
"And the Princess Miranda, what—what became of her?"
Edward threw a keen look at his listener.
"Anna escaped during the excitement, taking the child with her. A few days later, an American gentleman came across them, living in the deserted hut of some charcoal-burner in the woods. This kind-hearted Yankee, touched by the child's helplessness and the romance of the case, adopted her, smuggled her out of the country, and brought her up to the life of an English lady. Circumstances prevented his taking her back to the States with him, and she and Anna have spent a peaceful life on the Cornish moors until the girl's eighteenth birthday, a few months——"
There came the sound of light singing from the room above them, and with a meaning smile, Edward pointed to the ceiling.
"Her Highness the Princess Miranda seems happy to-night, eh, duke?"
As he spoke Edward leant over with a look of concern, and touched the other on the knee, for the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer was sitting silent, and had buried his head in his hands. "What's all this?" he asked, and noted the anguish that lived in the duke's eyes as he raised his head to answer him.
"It means the loss of everything to me—everything, Mr. Sydney. Throne, position—and a love that is more than my life to me."
"Now, look here, duke: of course the throne is Galva's, there's no getting away from that, but if she loves you and you love her—well—it seems to me that things are fitting in rather neatly."
"Oh, you don't understand. What will the people here say? How will they speak of a man who, having lost a throne, climbs back to it on the shoulders of a woman? The honour of our family is not to be judged by the standard of the devil who is dying back there in Corbo."
The duke had risen as he spoke, but Edward pressed him gently back into his chair.
"I am a plain man, duke, and have lived a plain life—how plain it has been you would never guess. One of these days I will tell you all about the hand I have played in this affair, but not now.
"But in my plain life I have learnt two or three plain facts, and one is that we must take what the good gods give us; they don't, as a rule, hold out their gifts twice. As for this fetish you call honour, what honour is there in spoiling your own life and Galva's too? You say the people will think badly of you. Let them. They will be in the minority, a few kill-joys—remember that all the world loves a lover.
"Yours is a love story that will ring through Europe. Your engagement before either of you knew the high destiny of the other has the true spice of romance, the heart-throb which always fetches the public favour. The Press will fight your battle."
Edward sat down feeling rather surprised at his own eloquence, and drank off a goblet of Chianti. Then he lit a cigar and was silent.
A moment, and the duke turned to him with a sad little smile.
"You put it very nicely, Mr. Sydney. I'll talk to Galva about it in the morning. After all, there are other things to worry about just now. I think a little action is what I want. You say that Dasso will not be here for a few days?"
Edward nodded.
"He lays great stress on being first in the field when Enrico dies. I don't expect he is ever far from his house for two minutes together. By the way, you know the Palace well, I suppose?"
"Only fairly. I have not been on speaking terms with my uncle for years, except on state occasions when it is policy for me to show up; it's only then that I come to Corbo at all. As a youth I lived in the Palace; my father died when I was eleven. I knew every inch of the building then. It's a rambling old place. Why do you ask?"
"Because I have a plan to suggest. We cannot risk more than one night here, and Galva will be glad to change her surroundings. Among the palace attendants there must be one who can be bribed to smuggle us into the building. It can only be a matter of hours before Enrico dies. Then"—and Edward rubbed his hands together with a crafty smile—"Dasso will find us there to greet him. Won't he be pleased?
"I suggest that we give the wounded ruffian in the cellar money and food. He'll be about again in a day or two. Then Pieto and Teresa, who hate Dasso like poison, will go to their master and tell of the fight and the rescue. They will also say that they overheard us planning to leave the country, that we were heartily sick of San Pietro and all its works. They will, of course, not mention your identity. Anna will join us at the Palace, and my villa will be shut up. This is if you can manage to bribe some attendant whom you know."
The prince thought a moment.
"I fancy it can be managed. I know a way into the grounds. I used it often when I wanted to break bounds. There was Pia, one of the under-gardeners, who was well disposed to me. He ought to be useful if he is still there, as I remember Dasso thrashing him once for spraying him accidentally with a hose. Your Corbian does not forget a thrashing in a hurry. Yes, Pia is our man, I think."
"Very well, then; we will leave here to-morrow afternoon and reach the walls of the grounds by the time it is dark. Then I will slip across Sebastin Park and fetch Anna. After that we will enter by your secret way, and, please Heaven, find your gardener.—We are on the laps of the gods. Now we'll take a watch, two hours each, and don't forget to pray for your uncle—that he may be spared another day."
"Amen to that," said the duke.
"The Princess Miranda begs to inform Enrico Armand, Prince of Alcador, Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, Baron Diaz, Count of the Holy Roman Empire, etc., etc., that she cannot accept the return of anything which she has graciously bestowed upon him—even her freedom."
And saying this, Galva jumped lightly up from the moss-covered boulder upon which she had been sitting, and, smiling mockingly, bowed low before the young man who stood leaning moodily against the straight bole of a pine-tree.
"But, Galva, my honour——"
"Honour, indeed! And does my happiness count for nothing? Doesmyhonour not weigh with you? Is it honourable to ask a young girl to show you the treasure-house of her heart and then turn away? Perhaps the wares don't suit. Perhaps——"
"Galva!"
"No, you must hear me out. Oh, I wish that we were just poor ordinary people, so that we could live only for each other, perhaps away in my lovely Cornwall. But, dear, we aren't just poor ordinary people, and we must go where we are called."
The girl turned and pointed to where the dull crimson of the setting sun shone in the windows of the royal residence.
"There, Armand, is my future home, perched up there above the people whom God has given me to rule. It is for you to make it, for me, a Purgatory or a Paradise—a prison or a home."
She held out her little white hands pathetically and stood there among the trees, her queenly head thrown slightly back, her lips just parted, and with the love-light smiling from under the blue of her lids. And the duke looked at her for a moment—then, with a glad little cry, took her into his arms and kissed her on the lips.
"And now," said the princess as they walked up to a fallen tree trunk which lay half embedded in the undergrowth, "we will sit here and wait for Mr. Sydney—and we won't talk any more nonsense, will we?"
The little party had left Casa Luzo after lunch. Teresa had been instructed to delay the telling of the rescue to Dasso for as long as possible. The wounded man had gratefully accepted the handsome monetary present offered him (especially as Dasso had already paid for his services in advance), and was now making preparations to get back to his native town and the delights of bull-ring society.
The walk through the woods had been a pleasant one to Galva in her new-found happiness and freedom, and her lover had not been able to find the heart to speak the words which he knew would give her pain; in fact, Edward had been gone an hour, leaving them to await his return at the forest edge, before he had summoned up courage to the task. And then had come the battle, and it had lasted exactly ten minutes, and the spoils had been all to Galva. His mind once made up, the duke gave himself with a little sigh to his happiness.
The night came down upon the forest, and still they sat, their fingers entwined, on the fallen tree. The flush had faded from the palace windows, leaving them grey and forbidding, and with sun-down a chill wind had come in from the sea. Behind the lovers the pine trunks showed dimly like vast columns in some ghostly cathedral, and there was no sound save the gentle song of the wind in the branches.
Armand drew the rug they had brought with them closer over both their shoulders, shielding the little head that nestled so confidingly on his breast. When Edward returned with Anna Paluda, the Princess Galva awoke.
The duke rose and stretched his cramped limbs. Edward reached for his hand and shook it.
"Congratulations!" he murmured.
The particular genius who designed the grounds of the Palace at Corbo was a nephew of the Estratos—a youth of an artistic but somewhat weak intellect and bizarre tastes.
This was in the latter part of the seventeenth century, a period when a wave of decadence had swept over the Court, a time of powder and patches and red-heeled shoes—of mincing courtiers and doubtful gallantries.
Large, level lawns, and flower-bordered walks lay immediately beneath the terrace which ran the length of the building at the back, and beyond and at the sides, the royal horticulturist, with an eye, doubtless, to the doings of the times, had devised cunning shrubberies and fascinating little arbours, the narrow paths twisting here and winding there, a very maze of foliage, paths which had doubtless hampered the movements of many an outraged husband.
Here and there a weather-beaten, moss-patched statue or terminal peeped above the greenery, a nymph with broken features, or a faun, the leer still lingering on his discoloured face. One could imagine him again pricking his goat ears to catch an echo of the sounds he had listened to in those quiet retreats in the days that were gone—the whispered vows, the crunch of high-heeled shoes on the gravel—the oaths and the clash of rapiers.
But Edward's party had more important affairs to hold their attention than the imagining of long-dead romances. They had found without difficulty the entrance into the grounds, and now were making a cautious way over the weed-grown paths.
They had not drawn nearer to the Palace, but had threaded their way through the outer portions of the shrubberies, keeping near to the boundary wall, and coming, after some ten minutes' walk, upon the cottage of the friendly gardener.
The duke stopped as the patch of yellow light from its windows came into view, then quietly led his companions to a stone bench that lay almost hidden in rhododendrons. Here, after seeing the two ladies made comfortable, he left them. The moon had risen and the tangled foliage of the garden was all grey-green and shadow, through which the broken statuary rose, here and there, like pale ghosts of an evil past, looking down on the intruders within their domain of memories.
Armand was away some time, and when he returned he had with him a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing the livery of the keepers of the royal gardens. He stood awkwardly before them, changing from one foot to the other and twisting his green cap nervously in his huge fingers. The duke laid a hand affectionately on the big shoulder.
"These ladies, Pia, and this gentleman, are those of whom we have been speaking." Then turning to Edward, he went on, "I have told this good fellow everything, and although he seems dazed at the whole affair, he is with us heart and soul, as I knew he would be. He has no love for Dasso—and he knows of others who will help us."
At the mention of Dasso's name, the man had looked up, a mask of malignant hate, and the duke, noting it, had given a little smile of satisfaction.
The cottage to which the party was conducted was a roomy building, but of a single storey. Pia's wife at once took charge of Anna and Galva, who were both now showing some signs of weariness. The good woman, noticing this, parted a curtain at the further end of the room, and taking a lamp from a bracket, led the ladies to her bedchamber. The men, left alone, were not slow to take the opportunity of discussing ways and means.
Their plan of action was a simple one. They were to lie hidden where they were until the king was in extremis. Pia, whose daughter was employed as a still-room maid at the Palace, would give them information as to the progress of the royal patient. In the mean time Pia would see that the little staircase which Anna Paluda had used to such good purpose fifteen years before, was free of access, and that the door which gave on to the grounds, and which had fallen into disuse, was cleared of the tangled creepers which he said now all but covered it.
At the first alarm that Enrico's death was imminent, they would make all speed to this door, and hurry up to the room at the top of the stair, the little chamber behind the corridor wall, where ten or twelve people could wait in moderate comfort. Here they would be perfectly secure, and even in the event of the report of the king's condition proving false, they could but retire. At the sound of the first gun announcing the death they would proceed to the king's ante-chamber, there to wait the advent of Dasso. At the least they would be twenty minutes before him.
The ladies did not re-appear but sent their "good-nights" to the men by the old dame, and the duke and Edward were conducted by their host to a barn which lay some ten yards to the rear of the cottage.
Here Pia left them with a stable lantern, telling them that there was no need for them to keep watch. One or other of his sons would be about all night on guard, and nothing could happen without them being made aware of it.
Nothing loath, after their long walk, the two men took off their outer garments, and rolling themselves in the horse blankets provided by Pia, threw themselves upon the pile of yellow straw which littered one end of the barn, and in a few moments they had fallen asleep.
It was bright day when they awoke to find that Pia had entered the barn, bringing with him a jug of steaming coffee and some toasted rolls, to which comforting fare the men devoted themselves whilst they were making their toilet. This completed as well as the lack of razors and other necessaries permitted, they followed their host across the cobbled yard to the great kitchen and living-room of the cottage.
This was a cheerful apartment, whose lime-washed walls, pierced here and there by little red-curtained windows, reflected the glow of the blazing pine logs in the open fire-place. The ceiling was high and pointed, being the entire height of the house, and from the black rafters hung bulky hams and bunches of sweet-smelling herbs. At one end a flight of rough oak steps led up to a little railed gallery that projected out over the fire-place, making a cosy settle, which on winter evenings would accommodate the whole family. In this little gallery were two or three rush-seated chairs, and in a niche in the wall a rather crudely coloured figure of the Virgin.
The morning sunlight shone through the tiny leaded panes of the windows, and glinted on the glass and earthenware laid out on the bare table, spotless as any tablecloth, and made play among the pewter and brass on the great dresser. The cleanliness and order of Dame Pia's room made one imagine oneself in the kitchen of some strict housewife on the Zuyder Zee.
Anna and Galva, refreshed by their night's rest, were in the highest of spirits, which Edward's suggestion that they should not go outside the house hardly lessened. It was so cosy in this sweet-smelling kitchen, and for the moment memories of Cornwall came back to them. They occupied their time well, insisting on giving a helping hand at the housework, much to the embarrassment of the good mistress of the house; and Galva could hardly repress a smile at the expression and the low bow of reverence with which the old woman handed each utensil she had washed to her to wipe.
But the work of one cottage in the hands of three capable women is soon done, and time began to hang heavily on Galva's hands, until, noticing Dame Pia preparing a stew, nothing would satisfy her but that she should try her hand, with what materials were available, at a Cornish pasty. With sleeves rolled up above her dimpled elbows the princess set about her task, the housewife standing dutifully by, her apron twisted between nervous fingers. It was a good pasty, and no doubt the disinclination of the Pia family to eat heartily of it is explained by a little glass case on the dresser which to this day is shown to all visitors, and which shelters the remains of the queen's culinary effort.
Pia went about his work as usual, and Edward mooned rather unhappily about the big room. To the duke this enforced imprisonment was no hardship, and he would sit in the little window-seat watching Galva as she flitted gracefully here and there in the performance of her tasks. No news came to them from the Palace, and as it grew dusk and the lights of Corbo shone in the sky, Edward could stand the inactivity no longer, but disguising his appearance as well as might be, made his way through the Sebastin Park down to the town, choosing the streets that lay near the cathedral in his search for information.
There was, however, nothing to be learnt from the loungers who were taking their coffee and cognac at the little tables of the cafés, and Edward was soon anxious to get back to the cosy comfort of the gardener's cottage. As the chimes in the belfry above him told the hour of nine he rose from the corner of the obscure brasserie where he had been taking his refreshment, and went out into the Cathedral Square.
The air was chilly, and buttoning his coat closely round him he strode out briskly in the direction of the park. He had left the town and entered the Sebastin Gates when he was aware of something unusual in the air. From the direction of the boulevards came the subdued murmur of voices, that intense mumble that speaks of popular excitement. Above the confused sound Edward could make out the shouts of boys crying their papers, and he remembered that it was at nine o'clock that theImparcialmade its appearance.
For a moment he stood in indecision. To return to the town meant the loss of half an hour—and surely that rustle of excitement denoted that King Enrico was dead or dying. What a fool he had been to leave the cottage. He might have thought that the absence of news during the day was but the lull before the end, and now here he was out of the game, the success of which he had been playing so hard for.
Pressing his hat firmly on his head, he set off running across the park. After all, he might have been mistaken in imagining that the death had occurred. Surely he would have heard the gun. He knew that the custom was to—
Boom—m—m——
The sound echoed and reverberated over the woods and the open spaces round him. Edward slackened his pace, and swore softly to himself. He had come through the secret entrance to the grounds, and now paused a moment and took his bearings.
Then, mending his pace, he ran on, avoiding the cottage, and making direct for the door at the foot of the staircase.