CHAPTER VII
TREMOOR
The morning of November the fifteenth dawned full of promise. Forthree days previously the toe of Cornwall had been victimized bysea-mists, accompanied by a lashing rain from the south-west, and thetime had hung heavily upon the hands of Mr. Povey. He appreciated nowto the full how he had cut himself adrift from his whole past, and theknowledge that even his address was known to no living soul gave him acurious and chilling sense of isolation.
He took moody walks about the straggling town or along the desertedpromenade to the fishy but artistic Newlyn, where he would strollaimlessly through the steep and narrow streets or stand and gaze outover the froth-capped waves of the bay to where St. Michael's Mountrose a gaunt, grey silhouette in the prevailing gloom. The evenings hespent in the cosy little bar at the back of the hotel.
The papers, which he devoured greedily, were silent on the Kysermystery, 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 whichhad followed it, and of his mission. It had seemed to him a far easiercourse than telling her all the details personally. He referred her toher nurse for all particulars, and he told her that it was in deferenceto Mr. Baxendale's wish that he was deferring the pleasure of callingupon her until the actual day of her birthday.
Edward admitted to himself that there was a suggestion of nervousnessin his manner as he made a more than usually studied toilet. He tooksimplicity and dignity as the keynotes of his attire, choosing a blackcravat and black _suede_ gloves as a mark of respect for the tragedy inthe case. This he looked upon as an inspiration and one calculated tomake a good impression upon the Princess. His brown shoes, too, hediscarded for a serviceable pair of black walking boots, it being hisintention to walk the three or four miles to Tremoor. He stopped at aflorist's and purchased a little bouquet of white roses.
The promise of the early morning had been duly fulfilled, and the sunshone a glorious augury on the undertaking, as at ten-thirty he leftthe hotel.
The road he took was one to the north-west, and, after leaving the townbehind, it led him into a treeless, desolated district of wild moorsand granite-strewn carns. Villages of a few houses, scattered here andthere, showed white-washed walls and grey lichen-patched roofs againstthe golden glory of the bracken. Across the moor broken stone hedgesstraggled out at odd angles, and buildings falling into decay, rooflessand with floorings of rank vegetation, spoke of the time when thisdistrict was populated by men engaged in wresting the wealth of tinfrom its fastnesses in Mother Earth. A cluster of dead mine buildingsshowed gauntly upon the horizon, their tall chimneys and ruinedengine-houses crumbling into decay--a very Pompeii of Industry. Fromthe high ground the sea could be seen on two sides--facing him to thenorth the Atlantic, whilst to the south the waters of Mount's Bayreflected the blue of the cloudless sky.
Tremoor Churchtown lay in a valley between two rugged carns, a valleywhich, if followed, would lead to some rocky cove whose silver-sandedbeach gave upon the broad Atlantic. As Edward topped the rise andstood looking down upon the peaceful hamlet with its square churchtower, he asked himself whether Baxendale had been wise to wish todestroy the bliss of the Princess's ignorance--whether it had not beenbetter that she should know nothing of the stress of power, but thatshe should spend her life doing good to those in the little village athis feet.
Then Edward Povey shook himself, and with a firm tread picked his waybetween the gorse bushes and the ivy-covered boulders down to a trimlittle house that stood at the edge of the cluster of white-washedcottages that comprised the village of Tremoor.
As he paused at the little green gate let in the rough stone wall, thedoor 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 herhand with an engaging frankness.
A little below the medium height, the Princess made up in dignity whatshe lacked in inches. Never had Edward seen such a perfectlyproportioned little figure, nor such a graceful carriage. She wasdressed in a tailor-made gown of dark blue cloth, and in her chestnuthair she had threaded a black ribbon.
Her face was rather round than oval and the chin was dimpled. Themouth, too, when she smiled caused other dimples to leap into play, andone could easily imagine that she very often _did_ smile. The eyes,large and dark, laughed and danced beneath a pair of perfectly drawnbrows, fairly thick and arching, and tapering down to a point thatlooked like a single hair at their ends. Her cheeks, tanned adelicious brown by the Cornish sun, were a little flushed withexcitement.
"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 GalvaBaxendale--my friends would not know me by any name but that."
She turned as she spoke and preceded him up the little path, borderedby clumps of hydrangea, veronica and fuchsia, to the house. The gardenon either side of the shingle path, a curious mixture of vegetables andflowers, glowed with all the tints of autumn.
At the door of the house a lady was awaiting them, a white-haired womanof some fifty years of age, tall, and with the most piercing black eyesEdward had ever seen. She received him graciously, and led the wayinto a room to the right of the little passage. It was an apartmentlarger than one would have looked for in a house of the size, and waslow-ceilinged and lighted by two diamond-paned windows which lookedover the moor.
The walls, papered a dull grey-green, were wainscoted to the height ofan elbow with dark oak, and were hung with etchings and engravings,mostly of local scenery, in narrow black frames. The table laid forluncheon was tastefully decorated with little silver pots containingslender ferns, and in the centre a tall glass held a sheaf of latecampions.
Edward felt at ease immediately with his two hostesses, and heappreciated to the full the well-served meal. The subject of the"mission" of Mr. Sydney was not touched upon until coffee had beenbrought, then--
"And what is it you are going to do with me, Mr. Sydney?" the girllaughed across the table.
"I--I hardly know, Miss Baxendale; the matter rests more with you, Ithink, than with me. I'm merely here if I'm wanted, as it were." Heturned to the elder lady. "There is, I suppose, no two questions onthe 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 herarms round her foster-mother's neck.
"_You_ want to go to San Pietro, Anna," she said, "for all these yearsyou have been away from your native land. There must be many thingsthat 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 thewild waste of heath aglow with its tints of cinnamon and mauve. Akestrel wheeled slowly across his vision uttering its dismal cry.
His thoughts were of the sad-voiced, white-haired lady--and again aunit in the adventure took individuality.
For the first time he thought of what the enterprise meant for AnnaPaluda. Away in the vaulted splendour of the cathedral at Corbo, herbaby had been sleeping unavenged for fifteen years, sleeping on a royalbreast in a tomb emblazoned with the arms of the Estratos. What hadbeen the anguish of this mother's heart, who, for the sake of hersecret, had been forced to nurse her grief alone? What a cruelscourging of the old wound the return would mean to her.
When Edward turned again, Galva had resumed her seat. He drew up tothe table and took from his pocket the things that Mr. Nixon had givenhim, a few articles of jewellery, and a letter. The girl opened t
heletter. It was addressed to
SENOR LUAZO, _Calle Mendaro_, 66, _Corbo_,
and set out at full length the history of Mr. Baxendale's find in thewood. Not an item of evidence had been overlooked that could prove thetruth of Miranda's parentage. The jewellery comprised two or threerings and a brooch, engraved with the royal arms. These Anna hadsnatched up in their hurried flight from the palace.
The princess read to the end, but there was nothing that she had notalready learnt from her foster-mother. On the arrival of Edward'sletter, 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 storyof the substitution of the children might suggest a plot.
They discussed the matter in all its bearings. The love of adventureand the call of romance appealed strongly to the eighteen-year-oldgirl, and made the suggested journey a very desirable thing. Theywould go to Senor Luazo in the Calle Mendaro, and place the whole factsof the affair before him. There could be no harm in that. They wouldtravel 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 theland lay. There would be nothing in their appearance or manner tosingle them out from the other families who wintered in the littlewhite villas that bordered the beautiful bay of Lucana, which was fastrivalling Monte Carlo as a pleasure resort. The names Galva andBaxendale would suggest nothing. The girl had dropped her real name ofMiranda 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 villagecould easily be found to look after it during their absence. In themean time, Mr. Sydney (as Edward must now be called) must bring histraps from Penzance and stay with them at Morna Cottage.
* * * * *
It was late afternoon, and the two women were taking a last walk on thecarn above the house in which they had lived so long. The scene aroundthem was magnificent in the extreme. Away to the west sea and sky werestained with the afterglow of the setting sun. Around them thedesolate moors stretched out in gentle undulations, shadowy andmysterious. 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 alittle while it would be dark enough to make out the light on theScilly Islands, blinking like a great red eye over the Atlantic.
The village in the valley was fast merging into the dusk; here andthere a yellow light twinkled from a window. Miranda grew sad as shelooked.
"It is all so beautiful, Anna, and I have been so happy here. I fearsometimes at the journey we are taking--perhaps we will never see allthis 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--_our_ land. I canremember now the colours that the Yeldo hills take in the evening; thesea, too, is beautiful in the bay, and we also have the storms that youlove 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 thegrief is here still. But we won't talk of my mission. This is not thetime for troubling your royal little head over the long-ago affairs ofan old woman."
With arms linked affectionately they walked down to the house.
The Princess Galva: A Romance Page 7
