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Princess Galva, The

<h3> CHAPTER VII </h3> <h4> TREMOOR </h4> The morning of November the fifteenth dawned full of promise. For three days previously the toe of Cornwall had been victimized by sea-mists, accompanied by a lashing rain from the south-west, and the time had hung heavily upon the hands of Mr. Povey. He appreciated now to the full how he had cut himself adrift from his whole past, and the knowledge that even his address was known to no living soul gave him a curious and chilling sense of isolation. He took moody walks about the straggling town or along the deserted promenade to the fishy but artistic Newlyn, where he would stroll aimlessly through the steep and narrow streets or stand and gaze out over the froth-capped waves of the bay to where St. Michael's Mount rose a gaunt, grey silhouette in the prevailing gloom. The evenings he spent in the cosy little bar at the back of the hotel. The papers, which he devoured greedily, were silent on the Kyser mystery, 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 which had followed it, and of his mission. It had seemed to him a far easier course than telling her all the details personally. He referred her to her nurse for all particulars, and he told her that it was in deference to Mr. Baxendale's wish that he was deferring the pleasure of calling upon her until the actual day of her birthday. Edward admitted to himself that there was a suggestion of nervousness in his manner as he made a more than usually studied toilet. He took simplicity and dignity as the keynotes of his attire, choosing a black cravat and black su�de gloves as a mark of respect for the tragedy in the case. This he looked upon as an inspiration and one calculated to make a good impression upon the Princess. His brown shoes, too, he discarded for a serviceable pair of black walking boots, it being his intention to walk the three or four miles to Tremoor. He stopped at a florist's and purchased a little bouquet of white roses. The promise of the early morning had been duly fulfilled, and the sun shone a glorious augury on the undertaking, as at ten-thirty he left the hotel. The road he took was one to the north-west, and, after leaving the town behind, it led him into a treeless, desolated district of wild moors and granite-strewn carns. Villages of a few houses, scattered here and there, showed white-washed walls and grey lichen-patched roofs against the golden glory of the bracken. Across the moor broken stone hedges straggled out at odd angles, and buildings falling into decay, roofless and with floorings of rank vegetation, spoke of the time when this district was populated by men engaged in wresting the wealth of tin from its fastnesses in Mother Earth. A cluster of dead mine buildings showed gauntly upon the horizon, their tall chimneys and ruined engine-houses crumbling into decay—a very Pompeii of Industry. From the high ground the sea could be seen on two sides—facing him to the north the Atlantic, whilst to the south the waters of Mount's Bay reflected the blue of the cloudless sky. Tremoor Churchtown lay in a valley between two rugged carns, a valley which, if followed, would lead to some rocky cove whose silver-sanded beach gave upon the broad Atlantic. As Edward topped the rise and stood looking down upon the peaceful hamlet with its square church tower, he asked himself whether Baxendale had been wise to wish to destroy the bliss of the Princess's ignorance—whether it had not been better that she should know nothing of the stress of power, but that she should spend her life doing good to those in the little village at his feet. Then Edward Povey shook himself, and with a firm tread picked his way between the gorse bushes and the ivy-covered boulders down to a trim little house that stood at the edge of the cluster of white-washed cottages that comprised the village of Tremoor. As he paused at the little green gate let in the rough stone wall, the door 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 her hand with an engaging frankness. A little below the medium height, the Princess made up in dignity what she lacked in inches. Never had Edward seen such a perfectly proportioned little figure, nor such a graceful carriage. She was dressed in a tailor-made gown of dark blue cloth, and in her chestnut hair she had threaded a black ribbon. Her face was rather round than oval and the chin was dimpled. The mouth, too, when she smiled caused other dimples to leap into play, and one could easily imagine that she very often did smile. The eyes, large and dark, laughed and danced beneath a pair of perfectly drawn brows, fairly thick and arching, and tapering down to a point that looked like a single hair at their ends. Her cheeks, tanned a delicious brown by the Cornish sun, were a little flushed with excitement. "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 Galva Baxendale—my friends would not know me by any name but that." She turned as she spoke and preceded him up the little path, bordered by clumps of hydrangea, veronica and fuchsia, to the house. The garden on either side of the shingle path, a curious mixture of vegetables and flowers, glowed with all the tints of autumn. At the door of the house a lady was awaiting them, a white-haired woman of some fifty years of age, tall, and with the most piercing black eyes Edward had ever seen. She received him graciously, and led the way into a room to the right of the little passage. It was an apartment larger than one would have looked for in a house of the size, and was low-ceilinged and lighted by two diamond-paned windows which looked over the moor. The walls, papered a dull grey-green, were wainscoted to the height of an elbow with dark oak, and were hung with etchings and engravings, mostly of local scenery, in narrow black frames. The table laid for luncheon was tastefully decorated with little silver pots containing slender ferns, and in the centre a tall glass held a sheaf of late campions. Edward felt at ease immediately with his two hostesses, and he appreciated to the full the well-served meal. The subject of the "mission" of Mr. Sydney was not touched upon until coffee had been brought, then— "And what is it you are going to do with me, Mr. Sydney?" the girl laughed across the table. "I—I hardly know, Miss Baxendale; the matter rests more with you, I think, than with me. I'm merely here if I'm wanted, as it were." He turned to the elder lady. "There is, I suppose, no two questions on the 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 her arms round her foster-mother's neck. "You want to go to San Pietro, Anna," she said, "for all these years you have been away from your native land. There must be many things that 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 the wild waste of heath aglow with its tints of cinnamon and mauve. A kestrel wheeled slowly across his vision uttering its dismal cry. His thoughts were of the sad-voiced, white-haired lady—and again a unit in the adventure took individuality. For the first time he thought of what the enterprise meant for Anna Paluda. Away in the vaulted splendour of the cathedral at Corbo, her baby had been sleeping unavenged for fifteen years, sleeping on a royal breast in a tomb emblazoned with the arms of the Estratos. What had been the anguish of this mother's heart, who, for the sake of her secret, had been forced to nurse her grief alone? What a cruel scourging of the old wound the return would mean to her. When Edward turned again, Galva had resumed her seat. He drew up to the table and took from his pocket the things that Mr. Nixon had given him, a few articles of jewellery, and a letter. The girl opened the letter. It was addressed to SE�OR LUAZO, Calle Mendaro, 66, Corbo, and set out at full length the history of Mr. Baxendale's find in the wood. Not an item of evidence had been overlooked that could prove the truth of Miranda's parentage. The jewellery comprised two or three rings and a brooch, engraved with the royal arms. These Anna had snatched up in their hurried flight from the palace. The princess read to the end, but there was nothing that she had not already learnt from her foster-mother. On the arrival of Edward's letter, 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 story of the substitution of the children might suggest a plot. They discussed the matter in all its bearings. The love of adventure and the call of romance appealed strongly to the eighteen-year-old girl, and made the suggested journey a very desirable thing. They would go to Se�or Luazo in the Calle Mendaro, and place the whole facts of the affair before him. There could be no harm in that. They would travel 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 the land lay. There would be nothing in their appearance or manner to single them out from the other families who wintered in the little white villas that bordered the beautiful bay of Lucana, which was fast rivalling Monte Carlo as a pleasure resort. The names Galva and Baxendale would suggest nothing. The girl had dropped her real name of Miranda 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 village could easily be found to look after it during their absence. In the mean time, Mr. Sydney (as Edward must now be called) must bring his traps from Penzance and stay with them at Morna Cottage. ***** It was late afternoon, and the two women were taking a last walk on the carn above the house in which they had lived so long. The scene around them was magnificent in the extreme. Away to the west sea and sky were stained with the afterglow of the setting sun. Around them the desolate moors stretched out in gentle undulations, shadowy and mysterious. 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 a little while it would be dark enough to make out the light on the Scilly Islands, blinking like a great red eye over the Atlantic. The village in the valley was fast merging into the dusk; here and there a yellow light twinkled from a window. Miranda grew sad as she looked. "It is all so beautiful, Anna, and I have been so happy here. I fear sometimes at the journey we are taking—perhaps we will never see all this 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 can remember now the colours that the Yeldo hills take in the evening; the sea, too, is beautiful in the bay, and we also have the storms that you love 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 the grief is here still. But we won't talk of my mission. This is not the time for troubling your royal little head over the long-ago affairs of an old woman." With arms linked affectionately they walked down to the house. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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