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Princess Galva, The

<h3> CHAPTER XXVII </h3> <h4> THE IMPOSTOR </h4> The sun newly sunk behind the Yeldo Hills had stained the sky with rose and amber, and it was very peaceful in the darkening grounds of the Palace of Corbo. The woods were alive with the evening songs of the birds, and a light wind that blew in from the sea brought with it the chimes from the Cathedral belfry. The shrubberies loomed big in the violet twilight and afar out the sea lay placid, steel-blue and mysterious. Edward Povey, surveying the scene from the comfort of a bath-chair, was putting to himself a few pertinent and very necessary questions. Some lines which he had heard years back came into his mind, he couldn't remember them exactly, but they had to do with what the devil would do when he was sick. Amongst other thoughts which crowded into the brain of Mr. Povey were the warm feelings he had experienced towards Charlotte when, as he thought, he lay dying in Enrico's death chamber, and he told himself that they were very right thoughts to have. He remembered also the events of the past few months, Galva's unremitting care and tenderness to him during the period of his convalescence. The thought that the time had now come when his part in her affairs was done was a very bitter one, but as day followed day the feeling that he was an impostor grew stronger. He had long thought that he must get away from it all. Every kind word, every smile was a stab to him. To explain matters now would do no good, spoiling as it would Galva's happiness. He hated, too, to think of her eyes regarding him in any other way but with admiration, the thought of the disgust that might show in her face unnerved him. He felt very thankful that his fears of death had been premature, and that he had been spared to witness the reception by the Corbians of their new Queen, but, at the same time, the grim visitor would at least have put him out of his predicament. His recovery had not been rapid enough to allow of his attending the festivities of the Coronation, which had taken place with much pomp and circumstance a few weeks after Enrico had been laid in the Cathedral. The kindly doctor, however, had permitted the invalid's couch to be wheeled out on to one of the balconies of his room. From there he had seen the procession leave the palace, had noted the enthusiasm of the holiday crowd, and, best of all, had seen Galva turn in her carriage and wave her bouquet of orchids at his balcony. Then the cavalcade, winding like a gaily coloured stream of ribbon, had been swallowed up in the twistings and turnings of the old town, and Povey, lying there in the genial afternoon sunshine, had been left to imagine the rest. By the aid of his field glasses he had seen the bunting and banners fluttering bravely on the buildings in the town, which lay spread out beneath him shining like a jeweller's tray of gems in the sun-rays. He had seen the yachts in the bay gay with little flags. He had heard, too, the bells pealing joyously from the tall belfry of the Cathedral, the firing of the guns on the fort, and the distant murmur of the people cheering their Queen. He had said a little prayer for everybody and had fallen asleep there on the flower-decked balcony. When he awoke he was again in his room and the candles were being lit. The Queen of San Pietro stood there before him flushed with her happiness and resplendent in her finery of state. Her little head was thrown slightly back and she appeared taller than she really was in the sweeping mantle of crimson and ermine which fell from her shoulders and spread out on the carpet behind her. As she noted the wondering admiration on Edward's face she gave him a delightful little smile. "A right down, regular, Royal Queen," she quoted gaily as she dropped an elegant curtsey. "Oh, guardy dear, it's been splendid—just splendid—nothing but sun and cheers and flowers—and joy." She turned to her husband who was standing a little behind her, for the ceremonies in the Cathedral had been twofold that day, and the Archbishop who had placed the crown on the little head, had, in the little private chapel, placed a circlet of gold also on the Queen's finger. "I didn't see a single house, Armand," she ran on, "that was not flying a flag. And to think that we owe all this to guardy here. If he had died, and we really thought he was going to, didn't we? there would have been no joy, then, only——" She had leant over and kissed him and Armand had taken his hand and gripped it hard. Was it any wonder that the explanation that had hovered so long on Edward's lips retired from the unequal contest? And now as he sat in his bath-chair he remembered all these things, and sighed regretfully as he told himself that there was only one way left for him in honour to take. It was time for him to leave the stage, to take off the motley, for he had no part in the next act of the drama. The attendant, who in the gorgeous Estrato livery was slowly propelling the chair, pulled up rather suddenly, as, turning into one of the alley-ways which led back to the palace he came in sight of the figure of a woman. Anna Paluda turned at the sound of the wheels on the gravel, and Edward saw that she thrust a paper hurriedly into the black silk reticule hanging by a cord from her waist. Her manner, too, as she came towards him, was, he thought, a little strained. Evidently Madame Anna Paluda had been taken somewhat unawares. For a little while, after greeting Edward, she walked on beside the bath-chair, speaking of commonplaces, on subjects ranging from the politics (such as they were) of San Pietro to the evening light shining in the western windows of the palace. Then a sudden thought came to the man in the chair and he turned to the lady by his side. "This chair is quite light, Anna; do you think you could—or better still, I will walk the rest of the distance, it isn't far." "You'll do nothing of the sort. I know you can walk, but you will find the air chilly after all those rugs." She turned to the attendant, "You can go, Juan—I will attend to Mr. Sydney." With a bow the man left them, and Anna, taking the handle, leant over to the occupant of the chair. "You wanted to say something to me?" A moment's final hesitation, then Edward took the plunge. "Yes, Anna, I wanted to tell you that I intend leaving Corbo for England as soon as the doctor will let me. My business, you know—I've been away from it long enough." "But you will come back, Mr. Sydney?" "Oh yes—that is, I——Oh, I'm sure to come back—yes—sure—to—come—back." Had Edward been facing Anna as he spoke he would have noticed a curious light creep into the black eyes, as though something had occurred suddenly to her. One hand involuntarily left the handle of the chair and caressed the black silk reticule. As she felt the paper under her fingers she smiled. "But—some one will have to go with you—you have had an illness—it isn't safe, is it, for you to travel alone?" "Tut, tut, Anna, I'm fit as a cello. Why, I walked twice round the palace this morning; besides, I'm not going to-morrow." Now that his departure had been decided on, and he had burnt his boats, he felt disposed to allow himself the luxury of delay. "It may be a month before I really go," he added. Again Edward would have seen a look come into Anna's eyes—disappointment this time, unmistakable disappointment at his last words. But the woman said nothing, and before Edward spoke again the chair had reached the doorway of the palace and footmen were assisting him to alight. Anna accompanied him up the broad staircase, until he reached the corridor on which his apartment was situated, then she turned and made her way swiftly to her own room. Entering, she locked the door and crossed to the large wardrobe which took up one side of the apartment wall. From beneath some clothes in a drawer she lifted her leather jewel case, and carrying it over to the dressing-table lit the candles which stood on either side of the draped mirror. She selected a tiny key from the bunch at her waist and, opening the case, took out a box, a little cardboard box, which had once contained chocolates. The lid was broken here and there, and had been carefully pasted together with scraps of plaster paper. Anna removed the cover carefully and tenderly, and leant her head in her hands and gazed down at what lay therein. A baby shoe of white kid, soiled and still showing the shape of tiny toes, a bunch of faded ribbon, a little armless doll with staring beady eyes; and, most pathetic of all, two or three of the original chocolates the box had held—hard and colourless. The woman raised her head and looked at herself in the mirror. She had not been crying, for her eyes were quite dry, but into them had come a look of determination, of a set purpose in which tears had no place and tenderness no part. She looked again at the articles in the box. "A little while—not long now," she murmured, "then, perhaps I may weep." Silently she put away the baby relics back into the wardrobe drawer. Then from the reticule she took the letter she had been reading when Edward had come upon her in the grounds. She smoothed out the creases and held it to the light on the dressing-table. It was headed from the offices of The Imparcial, and read— "MADAM, "Acting under your instructions, I have caused inquiries to be made by my correspondents in Paris, London and Vienna. The man Dasso, who disappeared so suddenly from Corbo, had covered his traces so well that it was not until now that we have lit upon a clue of any sort. "My Paris correspondent in the Rue Scribe, M. Dupine, has been watching, as you suggested, the places of entertainment and the restaurants on the boulevards. Your idea that our man would appear sooner or later at one or the other of these was quite correct. M. Dupine came face to face with him in the lounge of the Folies Bergere. "Curiously enough, Dasso seemed to scent danger, for he left hurriedly, but Dupine succeeded in following him. He tells me he (Dupine) was reading a copy of my paper at the time he saw Dasso, and attributes the latter's flight to that fact. "Dasso left the Gare St. Lazare the next morning, travelling to Dieppe, and so across the Channel. "Dupine, being now known by sight to Dasso, wisely refrained from following him on to the boat, where he would have certainly been observed, but wired comprehensively to a confrere in Brighton to motor over to Newhaven and take up the chase. "I have heard only this morning that this gentleman has been successful, and that Dasso is now staying in unpretentious lodgings in Bloomsbury, No. 9, Dorrington Street. "Having thus, madam, followed out your wishes, I have only to assure you that my information will be kept secret until such time as you give consent for publication. I thank you for your promise that I shall have first and exclusive news of eventualities, and beg to assure you of my devoted services. "I am, madam, "Yours obediently, ALFONSO PINZATO "(Editor)." For a long time the excuse that she would have to make to Galva before she could leave the island had been worrying Anna. She thought of Edward as she folded the letter and put it away. "Yes, some one must travel with him—Galva would never let him go alone. Edward Sydney, the sooner you are able to travel the better I shall be pleased." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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