The Princess Galva: A Romance

by David Whitelaw

  CHAPTER XXXI

  A FINAL NOTE BY EDWARD POVEY

  It may be a matter of some astonishment to the few people whom I numberas my intimate friends that the records of my doings from the time whenMr. Kyser accosted me as I leant on the parapet of London Bridge, tothe time I left the kingdom of San Pietro, have not been chronicled bymyself in the first person.

  To be candid, such was my original intention, and, indeed, I commencedthe task only to find that it was beyond me. There were certainincidents in the record where my actions, however well they turned out,were perhaps not the actions of a strictly honest man. These (althoughI wish it to be clearly understood that I regret nothing) I felt that Icould not write of without feeling a not unnatural bias.

  I claim that in my schemes I did harm to no one; I will even go furtherand claim that I have been the humble instrument by which happiness anda splendid inheritance came to Galva. Had I returned Mr. Kyser'sletter to America, it would probably never have reached Mr. Baxendale.If, in an after life, I meet this latter gentleman, I will have nofear. The case of the San Pietro inheritance, had I not undertaken thematter, would have been thrown into the hands of some unknown andperhaps unscrupulous lawyer who would have exploited the affair for hisbenefit rather than Galva's.

  I do not wish to hide the fact that it was not alone the thought ofthis unknown girl which embarked me on my mission. I believe thatbeneath the shell of the most ordinary existence there is a kernel ofromance, and it was this which tempted me.

  I have always held that Romance is not dead, as some would have usbelieve, but that it is a question of environment. I heard a lectureronce say that Yesterday was romantic, and so is To-morrow, but neverTo-day--our grandparents and grandchildren, but never our brothers andsisters. Who can dare to say what lies beneath the most prosaicexterior? Where is the line which marks the difference between the manwho drives his omnibus down Cheapside and the charioteer of ancientRome? One wears a shiny felt hat, and the other, I believe, affected afillet of gold in his hair. Apart from that they are identical. Ionce knew a man who wore side-whiskers and lectured in little halls ontemperance, and I know for a fact that an ancestor of his helped tomurder a cardinal on the steps of an Italian cathedral. But I do notbelieve that romance is dead in my temperate friend, it is onlydormant. One of these days something will stir in his mind, and hewill see things as they are, just as something stirred in me thatevening I looked over London Bridge. I do not expect he will murder acardinal, they don't do those things now. I know he feels secretlyproud of his descent from his violent ancestor--the murder of acardinal ages ago is so romantic--but should his brother shoot acurate, I think he would die of shame. Yet the crimes are identical.Why is it?

  It is now two years since the events recorded in this book happened,and the proof sheets have just come from the friend who has taken uponhimself the task of putting my notes into story form. With them, thereis a letter in which he asks me to write a final note--to tie a knot,as it were, in the string of the tale.

  I must pay my friend the compliment of saying that he has made good useof the data I have given him, and he has dealt as leniently as he couldwith my little failings.

  I have spent a very pleasant two years, and I gather from Charlottethat she is as happy as I am. Perhaps, after one of our yearly dinnerswe will decide to take up again the life which was interrupted by thevisit of Uncle Jasper. I hope not, however.

  It is May now, a month which I always spend in the little cottage atTremoor. Their Majesties the King and Queen of San Pietro, travellingas Mr. and Mrs. Baxendale, come to Cornwall also and spend a week eachyear. They will be here in a few days now, and with them they arebringing the Crown Prince, as sturdy a little Estrato as ever graced acradle. I saw him last January, for I spend the winters in thedelightful climate of Corbo. I do not stay at the palace, but find itmore to my taste to take a suite of rooms at the Imperial, that newhotel which faces the bay near the Casino.

  I rode out to Casa Luzo a few days before I last left the island, andit was with very mixed feelings that I gazed on the stucco porch andthe little garden. I thought of Galva and Armand, of old Pieto andTeresa, and the ruffian who was wounded in the leg. The place has beendone up, and is, I think, in the possession of a wealthy fruit merchantof Madrid.

  Pieto and Teresa were well when I last saw them. They keep a small innon the Alcador Road, and by Teresa's careful watching of the stock, theworthy pair manage to wring from the business a fair living. Theyreceive also a yearly sum from the Royal Pensions list.

  Anna Paluda resides at the palace. I often find myself wondering whatbusiness it was that really brought her to London with me. In mypocket-book is an old and much folded cutting from the _Daily Mail_which has put strange fancies into my head. One of these days I willshow Anna the cutting and watch those great black eyes as she reads it.It is a report of an inquest and goes--

  "THE DORRINGTON STREET MYSTERY

  "_Yesterday Mr. Paxton, the coroner of St. Pancras, held an inquest onthe body of the man Gabriel who was found dead in the first-floor roomof a boarding-house in Dorrington Street._

  "_Mrs. Brand, the landlady, giving evidence, spoke of the curioushabits of the deceased. Mr. Gabriel took the room about a month agoand had lived a very retired life, going out only at night._

  "_The servant, Elizabeth Harker, gave corroborative evidence, and spokeof the discovery of the body. She had been called at about half-pastfive in the morning by a Mrs. Graham, the lodger who rented the roomnext to the deceased. The lady complained of a smell of gas, and,together with the witness, tried to rouse Mr. Gabriel. No answer beinggiven to their knocking, they turned the handle, and the door, to theirsurprise, came open._

  "_To a question from the coroner witness said that she had never knownthe deceased to sleep with his door unlocked._

  "_Further evidence was called showing that deceased had evidentlydestroyed all marks and papers that might lead to his identity. Thewindows of the room had been carefully plugged up and two gas jets wereturned full on._

  "_The coroner, in a few words to the jury, said that this was one ofthe many cases he had had to deal with of mysterious foreigners who metno less mysterious deaths in his district._

  "_From the evidence he should say that Mr. Gabriel was most anxious tohide his identity, and the evidence that he did not go out in daylightpointed to the fact that he went in fear of something. The deceasedseemed to be of Spanish nationality, and the recent disturbances inBarcelona made one wonder whether this man was not a refugee or amember of one of the numerous secret societies, whose plans, perhaps,he had betrayed. It looked as though his fear had got the better ofhim at last, and that he had chosen death at his own hands rather thanat those of his enemies._

  "_The jury, after a few moments' deliberation, returned a verdict ofsuicide. The body, if not identified by to-morrow, will be buried bythe authorities._

  "_A curious aspect of the case is that the Mrs. Graham who discoveredthe smell of gas has disappeared. There is nothing to connect her withthe tragedy, but her evidence might have thrown some light on theaffair. We understand the police, are making inquiries as to themissing woman, who took the room she occupied only a week ago._"

  The affair is now one of London's unsolved mysteries. Personally Ihave, as I said, my fancies--the date of the cutting is ten days aftermy arrival, with Anna, in London--but it is no business of mine.

  It is peaceful here in this little spring-coloured garden. The sun hasjust dropped down behind a bank of storm-clouds over the sea and thelights of Pendeen are flashing out. A tramp steamer, miles away andlooking like a toy on the broad Atlantic, is ploughing her way downtowards the Longships. Perhaps she is going to Bilbao, or even Corboor Rozana. Above me a large bird is planing on outstretched motionlesswings in the copper blue of the sky, and the moors around me look likemasses of crumpled mauve velvet in the darkening twilight.

  And I--I sit here and smoke a very excellent cig
ar and wonder if Fatewill ever stretch out her hand again to pick me up and drop me againinto the whirl of things.

  I say to myself that I hope not--and know that I lie.

  THE END

  _Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay_

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