The Princess Galva: A Romance

by David Whitelaw

  CHAPTER XXV

  IN THE DEATH CHAMBER

  A dark, silent chamber. A room magnificent and lofty in which the farcorners were shrouded in shadowy gloom.

  Edward lay in a half consciousness, staring up at the ceiling. Itcaused him no wonderment that the ceiling was strange to him, andunlike any ceiling he had ever known, or that it should be carved andpainted and rich with gilding.

  There was a faint, elusive perfume in the air that set him thinking ofcathedrals, and from somewhere near him there came a droning monotone.

  He felt no definite pain now, only a sensation of lassitude anddetachment. There was a strange tightness in the region of his heartand he felt a little cold. Turning his head he tried to rise upon hiselbow, but a sharp pain took him in the shoulder as he moved, and hewas glad to sink back again upon the pillow.

  The movement, however, slight as it had been, had left him in aposition from which he could get a better view of his surroundings, andas he took these in he gave a little gasp and felt the beads ofmoisture pricking out upon his forehead.

  In the centre of the room there was a bed, the four posts of which,richly carved, upheld a fluted canopy of dull red silk from whichdepended heavy curtains looped up with tasselled cords. Upon the panelabove the pillow an escutcheon was blazoned out in dull gold.

  Edward closed his eyes for a moment before he could make up his mind tolet them rest on the figure which he knew he would see lying beneaththe crimson canopy. He asked himself what could have been the cause ofhis, Edward Povey's, presence in the death chamber of the king of SanPietro. Then he opened his eyes and looked.

  Enrico was lying stiff in the centre of the bed, the sharp points ofhis knees and feet showing rigidly through the white sheet whichcovered his body. The thin hands were folded peacefully upon thebreast, and between the stiffening fingers had been thrust a crucifixof ebony, bearing a silver image of the Christ. Below the hands, too,Edward noticed that some one had placed a single bloom, a rose. Thelittle flower stood out eloquently among the sombre pageantry of death,"all the purer for its oneness," and he wondered idly whether it spokeof at least one who had truly sorrowed at the passing of the king, atone real regret.

  On the bed, at the feet of the dead monarch, were two cushions on whichwere pinned the several orders and medals which had belonged to Enrico;his sword, too, lay between them, together with his plumed hat and hisfield-marshal's staff.

  On either side of the bed there knelt a Sister of Mercy, and it was themonotone of their prayers that Edward had heard when he first awoke.In an alcove by the great carved fire-place a thin spiral of scentedsmoke rose from a censer. Four tall candles in silver holders made thespace round the body an oasis of light, and in the cavern of shadowbeyond loomed the strange shapes of massive furniture, and the dullgleam of mirrors. The heavy curtains had been drawn across thewindows, and there was no sound but the murmur of the women at prayerand the occasional fall of a cinder on the stone flags of the hearth.

  The scene was eerie in the extreme, and Edward gazed in fascinatedinterest at the rigid figure on the bed. Enrico had been a handsomeman in life, and with the passing of his evil soul his earthly dignityof aspect had increased. The head was lying well back and showed thenoble sweep of the brow and the clean-cut profile of the high-bridgednose. A full beard, raven black and threaded here and there with grey,rested spread out like a pall upon his breast and reached to theclasped hands. Upon the sunken wax-like cheeks the firelight flickeredand played ghastly shadow tricks in the hollows of the deep-set eyes.

  One of the nuns rose silently from her knees to attend to a candle atthe head of the bed which had been guttering in a little draught thathad found its way into the still room. As the woman turned to resumeher prayers she saw that Edward, upon his pile of rugs in the corner,was awake, and she came with noiseless steps over to him. She laid acool hand upon his brow and spoke to him in a whisper.

  "You are not to talk, senor; I have orders to fetch the Queen to youwhen you awoke."

  "The Queen!--you call her that already! But she will be asleep,she----" He ceased speaking as the white hand was pressed over hislips, and he watched the sister as she glided noiselessly to a doorthat was concealed behind a curtain near him.

  In a few moments she had returned, and behind her, Edward saw Galva,and a smile lit up his rather tired-looking eyes as she crept and kneltdown by the side of the made-up couch.

  Very adorable looked the young Queen of San Pietro as she bent herlovely head over Edward Povey. Her hair, parted in the centre, fellover her shoulders in two long plaits, showing their dark richnessagainst the steel blue of the wrapper the girl had put on. Her facewas a little pale and there were dusky rings showing under theeyes--eyes which still held a suspicion of tears.

  The nun who had fetched her crossed the room and touched her fellowwatcher on the arm, and together they left the room.

  When they were alone Galva bent lower over towards Edward and he putout his hands and took her little ones between them, and as he did sosomething warm fell upon them.

  "Why, Galva--what's all this--tears? Why----"

  "Oh, guardy, you are hurt--and I can't bear it. I would never forgivemyself--never, if anything were to happen to you. It is myfault--it----"

  "I don't know, Galva, whether I'm badly hurt or not--sometimes I thinkI am. I don't feel much pain now--but there is a tightness here. Whywas I put in this room, into the presence of death? Enrico in all hisglory is hardly the best of company for an invalid." And he smiled alittle.

  "It was the doctor, guardy, the man who had been attending the king.He had you brought here as it was nearest, and he won't let them moveyou. He tried to find the bullet, but he couldn't. He is coming againin the morning. Who shot you, guardy?"

  "Never mind that now, dear. I want to ask you something. I want youto tell me if----if----I have been of use to you, if I have helped everso little to put you where you are now--to make you Queen of SanPietro."

  Galva raised her head.

  "Why, Mr. Sydney, what a strange question--of course----"

  "Not so strange, dear, not so strange. Don't call me Mr. Sydney, justEdward. And so I have really helped a little? I'm glad. I'm--do youknow, Galva, that I have always thought that in this life we are givenour chance to combat the evil we do with good, to balance our account,as it were; that for every sin we commit, every wrong we do, we aregiven a whitewash brush, to use if we will."

  "I think so too, guardy--but you have done no wrong. I won't believeany evil of you--you are all that is noble and good."

  Edward shook his head.

  "But you don't know everything, there are one or two little thingswhich one of these days, when I am better, I will explain to you. Nowgo to bed, dear; this wrapper of yours is as thin as paper. In themorning I will explain--yes, explain. Good-night. Oh, by the bye,that is your rose, I expect, isn't it?" and he pointed to the bed, andGalva nodded. "I thought so, you little saint; I don't know any oneelse who would have put it there. Now run away, dear---in the morningI will explain."

  The girl rose and leant over the wounded man.

  "Good-night, guardy dear, and God bless you," she said, and kissed himon the lips.

  She turned at the door and sent him a little smile, and as she wentfrom sight behind the curtain, a sense of desolation came over EdwardPovey.

  He thought it would be good to die like this--and perhaps it werebetter that there should be no explanation. He had taken on themission of a man who was unable to act for himself, and he had carriedit to a successful issue. All was right with the world, and he toldhimself that his own account was with God in His heaven.

  He became mildly delirious and asked himself what more could he desireof the Romance he craved, than to pass out of life here in this chamberwhich might have been lifted bodily from a classic of the Middle Ages?What fitter surroundings than the tall sombre candlesticks, the prayingwomen, the silence, and the shrouded figure on the bed
? He turned hiseyes to Enrico and felt a strange sense of companionship.

  The pain in his chest seemed easier now, and the spasms were becomingless frequent. He lay between sleeping and waking, in a deliciousstate of ease. He thought tenderly of Charlotte, and wondered if shewould miss him very much if she were never to see him any more.

  There had been little love, little real love, between them for the pastfew years, but in his light-headedness Edward thought of her as he sawher that day years ago, decked out in the tawdry white finery of theirwedding morning, trembling beside him at the altar of the shabby littleBarnsbury church. He called to mind the girlish, shrinking figurestanding on the threshold of life, and he remembered that there weretears shining through the cheap little net veil.

  Then he went on through the years, through the hopefulness of it all,and the disappointments, through the troubled waters with theirsun-kissed moments, to the dull tinged sea of matrimonial failure. Hecould not really blame Charlotte; her lot had been perhaps a harder onethan his, after all.

  Even the journey to and from the City, the noisy companionship of thesecond-class smoker, the life of the gloomy counting-house, the snackof lunch followed by the grateful pipe smoked on the sunny side ofGracechurch Street--these had all been his, and he knew now how theyhad all helped him to endure those years in the little villa at Brixton.

  He wondered idly why God had not sent them any children. Little oneswere so necessary to life. Charlotte and he would never have driftedapart if the wondering eyes of a child had been there to see--if therehad been tiny roseleaf hands to hold them to each other. It would allhave been so different then.

  The blind at one of the windows had become disarranged, and through theaperture Edward saw the first sweet flush of the dawning. It was onlya little glimpse, but he could see an inch or two of the horizon.Above the silver edge of a bank of stormy clouds that lay low over thesea, the coming day had barred the sky with green and gold and shellpink and glory. Gradually the light in the room increased, and thecandles grew ghostlike, and the shadows lifted unexpectedly from thecorners.

  The two nuns had re-entered the room, and one of them crept softly overto his couch and gazed down at the white face. Then she tiptoed backand touched her companion on the arm.

  "We will whisper our prayers, sister; our little friend is in adelicious sleep. He'll do now. We must think of the living before thedead."