The Princess Galva: A Romance

by David Whitelaw

  CHAPTER XV

  EDWARD SHOOTS AN ARROW INTO THE AIR

  In a state of the deepest dejection Edward Povey listened to the story.At times during its recital he would raise his head and look at GasparMozara. The lieutenant, when Edward's head was bent again, eyed hishearer narrowly.

  He had told his tale well--circumstantially and yet with the feelingthat Anna Paluda, who, sitting rigidly in her chair, never once removedher doubting eyes from his face, did not believe a word he was saying.He found it increasingly difficult to marshal his facts under the fireof those steady watching eyes. Hitherto, this grim lady in black hadheld no importance for him, but now, as he looked at her and felt herpresence, she took on a new individuality. To Mozara it seemed asthough an unconsidered pawn belonging to an opponent had creptunobserved up the chess-board of his plans and had become suddenly aforce to be reckoned with.

  The lieutenant was between two stools. He had told his tale, and wasnow anxious to be gone, but he felt that no sooner did he leave, sosurely some piece of evidence, some vital point in the scheme wouldoccur to him as having been left unsaid.

  He had made his way to the little villa as soon as the third-ratemedical man, whom Dasso had pressed into the plot, had given thelieutenant permission to get up, a sorrowful figure in deep mourning.His right arm was suspended in a sling of black silk and was tightlyswathed in surgical bandages. He had sunk in well-simulated exhaustioninto the big chintz-covered arm-chair in the drawing-room facing thesea, and had laid an ebony crutch beside him on the carpet. One leghad been carefully stretched out stiffly before him.

  Edward, all unsuspecting, had assisted him in his movements and hadopened the windows, letting in the bracing breeze that blew up from thebay. Anna Paluda, however, had merely inclined her head. When thelieutenant entered she had felt only a dull anger against the author ofher poor Galva's death. It was only as his story progressed that shegrew to doubt the truth of what she was listening to. Gaspar had begunwith well-acted expressions of sympathy and with carefully consideredphrases of self-condemnation. He told them that the blame of theaccident had been entirely his in agreeing to Miss Baxendale's demandsfor increased speed. The road was one on which he had seldom travelledand they had rounded the spur of the hillside before he was aware oftheir danger. He had applied the brakes and turned the wheel to keepin the middle of the narrow road but the impetus had been too great.There had been a hideous skid as the car crashed almost broadside intothe old and crumbling wall.

  The lieutenant had remembered no more until he had come to his sensesto find that he was being carried along on some kind of rough litter.The pain and the jolting had caused him again to lose consciousness,and when next he awoke he was in his uncle's house.

  There had been no questions from his hearers. Anna had sat rigidly asbefore, and Edward, his head between his hands, rocked himself gentlyto and fro. From time to time he gave a little moan.

  Gaspar had fixed his eyes on the centre of a rose pattern in thecarpet, and had resumed his tale in a low, hopeless voice.

  "My first thoughts were of Miss Baxendale and of how she had fared.For two days they would tell me nothing except that she was slightlyhurt. I only heard yesterday the true state of affairs, how her cloakand hat had been found in the ravine near the Wrecked car. The river,they tell me, is deep here and weed-grown and there are great rockyholes. I----"

  The lieutenant had risen with a choking sound in his throat as herecited these details. He leant heavily on his crutch, standing beforeAnna and Edward.

  "This is as painful to me--as to you. I--I--can say no more." Headvanced to the little bowed figure before him and held out ahesitating left hand.

  "I would like to hear you say one word, sir. This affair will be withme to the day of my death. I am beyond the reach of Miss Baxendale'spardon, but not of yours. You will perhaps be leaving San Pietro and Iwould like a word to remember and look back on. It would be one spotof brightness in the darkness of my future."

  Edward had taken the proffered hand and the lieutenant had bent lowover it, pressing it to his lips. Then he turned for the harder taskof facing Anna Paluda. But that lady had taken advantage of his backbeing turned to slip unnoticed away. Gaspar's relief at being sparedthe leave-taking was mixed with a disquieting feeling of a pendingmisfortune. He told himself that it would be long before he couldforget the eyes of the lady in black.

  Painfully, and with dragging step, Mozara left the house and made hisway down the path to the boulevard. The fiacre which had been waitingfor him was drawn up at the curb, and into it the wounded officer washelped by the driver, who, mounting his box, turned his horse and droveoff in the direction of the Old Town.

  Edward had sat where his visitor had left him, the prey to the mostpoignant sorrow and agony of mind. To his own rash and criminal act inpersonating another man all this tragedy was due. Although he had, attimes, told himself that Miranda would not be seated upon a thronewithout some opposition, he had never imagined that danger threatenedthe girl herself. She was so beautiful and tender-hearted, sodelightfully modern, that the idea of her being the centre of a plot ofscheming scoundrels had barely occurred to him. That an accidentshould have been the cause of her death was a stunning blow to thelittle man who sat in the sunlit drawing-room, gazing blankly at thewall before him.

  He rose at last with a sigh, and passed out through the French windowson to the balcony. Below him rolled the carriages and motors of thefashionable world of Corbo; from the smart cafe a little up theboulevard came the sound of strings of a gipsy orchestra and thelaughter and chatter of the crowd of loungers who were taking theirabsinthe. Edward told himself that in the whole of San Pietro therewas no house afflicted as was Venta Villa. The flowering shrubs on thebalcony on which he stood, the gaudy red-striped awning over his headseemed to mock him, and he turned from the gay scene with a little sob.It was then that he saw Anna Paluda. She was sitting in a low wickerchair, and like him had been gazing out upon the boulevard and on tothe blue of the bay beyond.

  She beckoned Edward to come to her side, and standing there, one handresting on the little iron railing, he listened while the lady told himof her disbelief in no undecided voice.

  Edward's expression changed as he drank in her words, and the hand onthe railing tightened its hold till the knuckles showed white patchesof skin. The suggestion of doubt on what he had looked upon as anaccepted tragedy was acting as balm upon his spirits, and all thehidden power of his brain was responding to the call and demandingaction--deeds.

  "And you say you watched him?"

  "Yes, from this balcony. As he was getting into the cab, the driverwho was helping him stumbled a little. I distinctly saw Senor Mozaraput out his _right_ hand and grasp the back of the hood. I had doubtedbefore in my own mind, but this is certain. The lieutenant's right armis as sound as his left, for all his surgical bandages. Again, whyshould so important a personage as the nephew of Senor Luazo call inthe services of an unknown medical man, instead of the familypractitioner?"

  The lady paused for a moment, then went on fiercely--

  "Oh! I can see it all now. Dasso, the cursed regicide, is at thebottom of this. I, who have suspected the man, have watched hisfriends. I have seen meaning looks, glances pass from evil eye to evileye. Mr. Sydney--you will understand that I, too, have a quarrel withDasso. The hand that struck down Queen Elene struck down my child--thebaby at whose tomb I, her mother, have to sorrow in secret----"

  Edward laid a hand lightly on the weeping woman's shoulder.

  "And my sorrow, Anna, my anguish! Have you thought of that, of what itmeans to me, who have indirectly brought Miranda to this?"

  Anna took his hand between both of hers and looked up at him throughher tears.

  "You have been kindness itself, Mr. Sydney. You had your duty to Mr.Baxendale and you have done it nobly."

  The man turned away and thought of Kyser. Anna's trust in hisintegrity was almost too much for h
im to bear. Rapidly the littledevils of pro and con invaded his conscience. Then and there heregistered a silent vow that come what might he would go through withit. There was no turning back now; he would not add cowardice to hiscrime. If Miranda were still in the land of the living, his would bethe hand that would save her and deal vengeance where it was due. Hehoped that, if need be, he might die in the doing. He went into hisbedroom and took from his trunk a leather writing-case, and from one ofits pockets a letter. It had been handed to him as they left the hotelin Paris, and was from the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer. He had laughed ashe read it and put it away in his case. Now he read it with allseriousness. It was merely a short note, in which the writer had setdown boyishly his admiration for Miss Baxendale. He had heroicallydemanded that should that lady ever be in trouble, he should be calledupon to come to her assistance. A letter addressed under cover to M.de Brea, the manager of the hotel, would always find the duke.

  It was a letter breathing the spirit of knight errantry, such a letteras a love-sick boy of twenty would write. And yet, as Edward read thewords under the changed conditions, they seemed to hold a deal of truthand manliness. The duke was a high-spirited young man, a littleaddicted, as Edward had seen, to the vices of his class, but he hadliked and admired him in many ways.

  There could be no harm, he told himself, in writing to him. Perhapshis grace had already forgotten that he had written such a letter; butEdward rather thought otherwise.

  That evening after dinner he took a letter out and posted it himself.The outer envelope was addressed to--

  M. de Brea, Manager, Ruttez Hotel, Rue Scribe, Paris;

  the inner merely to--

  His Grace le Duc de Choleaux Lasuer (by the courtesy of M. de Brea).