Back Aa

Princess Galva, The

Close

<h3> CHAPTER XXVIII </h3> <h4> EDWARD DEPARTS </h4> Edward's convalescence progressed apace when once his course of action was decided upon. It had been a severe blow to Galva's happiness that she was so soon to lose the little friend whom she had come to love—a blow that was not softened by Anna's asking permission to accompany him. That her guardian was not sufficiently well to travel alone, however, made the woman's request a perfectly natural one, and when at last Edward and his self-appointed nurse, the farewells over, entered the carriage that was to convey them to the dock-side, the Queen met the situation bravely. It was not until, from an upper window of the palace, she had seen the boat dip below the horizon, that the fall extent of her loss came home to her. She remembered, with a little catch at the heart, that Edward, whilst seeming to answer her many questions as to his return, had really most successfully evaded them. Anna she was certain of. The new rulers of San Pietro had decided that in a month or so they would take a holiday, a little trip in which for a week or two they would become again just ordinary people. As the Duke and Duchess Armand de Choleaux Lasuer they would renew their acquaintance with the French capital and the long, straight motor roads, and afterwards, as Mr. and Mrs. Baxendale, they would take up their abode at the little Cornish cottage on the purple moors which the girl, in secret, so longed to see again. There they were to rejoin Anna, who would have all in readiness for them, and she looked forward with delight to the time when she could wander at evening over the hills above Tremoor, watching the lighthouses flash their warnings out over the sea and the gulls circle and scream above the rocky cliffs and the restless Atlantic. It would be a real honeymoon. Armand had never been in the "Delectable Duchy," and Galva was never tired of thinking of the things she could show him in the glorious land where her girlhood had been spent so happily. The court they held at Corbo was unpretentious in the extreme, and after the coronation and the state receptions attendant thereon, life at the palace had quieted down to a peaceful existence untrammelled by the ceremonies which appertained to larger and more important kingdoms. The girl-queen often wondered what it would have been like had she been alone. With Armand it was just as though they were living in a glorious country home; they drove out unattended, and took motor rides to one or other of their houses in the other parts of the island with as much privacy as they had run out to Fontainebleau in the days when they had first met. The business pertaining to the State of San Pietro was slight, and Se�or Luazo, who had been elevated to the post of Chancellor, proved himself invaluable. Galva saw to it that the abuses which had sprung into being under the administration of King Enrico were remedied. Trade improved, visitors, attracted by the royal love story, came in increased numbers. The Corbians at heart were a lazy, contented people, and if only left alone the little toy kingdom really seemed to rule itself. The boat train had drawn up at Victoria a few minutes after seven o'clock, and still Edward and Anna were sitting in one of the cushioned alcoves of the station buffet drinking coffee. They each knew that their journey, in company, had come to an end, and they mutually avoided the subject of separation. Each felt that the address to which he or she were going would be expected by the other, and each was unwilling to give it. And so they sat and talked of many things until the clock pointed to nine o'clock. Then Anna rose and held out her hand. "Well—good-bye for the present, Mr. Sydney," she said nervously, "I can write to you—where?" "Oh, yes—Anna—good-bye. I—I'm a little uncertain as to my movements for the next few days. I—oh, by the bye, where are you staying?" Anna Paluda bent down and took up her jewel case and handbag. "Well, Mr. Sydney—I'm like you—uncertain. I have an aunt—but she may be away. Suppose we communicate in the agony column of the Morning Post—that will be romantic, won't it?" with a little smile. "Er—yes—just the very thing. E.S. to A.P.—well, good-bye again. I'll get you a cab." Under the glass-covered yard Edward handed Anna into a taxi which had just driven up and deposited a passenger. He tried to catch the address the woman whispered to the driver, but she spoke very low and he was unsuccessful. He stood on the curb with his hat in his hand, smiling his farewells until the cab had passed through the gates. Then he gave a little sigh and made his way in the direction of the Park. "So that is all," he murmured sadly to himself. "God's in His heaven, Galva's on her throne, all's right with the world—and Edward Povey's little flutter is over." He turned slowly through the gates, and stood looking at the fa�ade of Buckingham Palace. And as he gazed at the rows of windows and at the railed courtyard, with the sentries, his thoughts turned to another palace, a palace under a blue sky and which overlooked a glittering jewel city in the sun-kissed waters of a southern sea. "God bless my little Queen," he said, and turned and walked to where the lights of Piccadilly were shining in the sky. He wandered aimlessly along among the evening throng of pleasure seekers. He felt lost, he seemed to have forgotten that London existed. He turned into the Monico and drank a whisky and soda, and as he came out he saw a green 'bus drawing up at the curb outside the Pavilion music hall. The conductor was shouting—"Russell Square, King's Cross." "Do you pass Abbot's Hotel?" Edward asked. "Just near it, sir." And Edward, giving himself no time for second thoughts, mounted to the top. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2