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Princess Galva, The

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<h3> CHAPTER XXXI </h3> <h4> A FINAL NOTE BY EDWARD POVEY </h4> It may be a matter of some astonishment to the few people whom I number as my intimate friends that the records of my doings from the time when Mr. Kyser accosted me as I leant on the parapet of London Bridge, to the time I left the kingdom of San Pietro, have not been chronicled by myself in the first person. To be candid, such was my original intention, and, indeed, I commenced the task only to find that it was beyond me. There were certain incidents in the record where my actions, however well they turned out, were perhaps not the actions of a strictly honest man. These (although I wish it to be clearly understood that I regret nothing) I felt that I could 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 further and claim that I have been the humble instrument by which happiness and a splendid inheritance came to Galva. Had I returned Mr. Kyser's letter to America, it would probably never have reached Mr. Baxendale. If, in an after life, I meet this latter gentleman, I will have no fear. The case of the San Pietro inheritance, had I not undertaken the matter, would have been thrown into the hands of some unknown and perhaps unscrupulous lawyer who would have exploited the affair for his benefit rather than Galva's. I do not wish to hide the fact that it was not alone the thought of this unknown girl which embarked me on my mission. I believe that beneath the shell of the most ordinary existence there is a kernel of romance, and it was this which tempted me. I have always held that Romance is not dead, as some would have us believe, but that it is a question of environment. I heard a lecturer once say that Yesterday was romantic, and so is To-morrow, but never To-day—our grandparents and grandchildren, but never our brothers and sisters. Who can dare to say what lies beneath the most prosaic exterior? Where is the line which marks the difference between the man who drives his omnibus down Cheapside and the charioteer of ancient Rome? One wears a shiny felt hat, and the other, I believe, affected a fillet of gold in his hair. Apart from that they are identical. I once knew a man who wore side-whiskers and lectured in little halls on temperance, and I know for a fact that an ancestor of his helped to murder a cardinal on the steps of an Italian cathedral. But I do not believe that romance is dead in my temperate friend, it is only dormant. One of these days something will stir in his mind, and he will see things as they are, just as something stirred in me that evening I looked over London Bridge. I do not expect he will murder a cardinal, they don't do those things now. I know he feels secretly proud of his descent from his violent ancestor—the murder of a cardinal ages ago is so romantic—but should his brother shoot a curate, 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 upon himself the task of putting my notes into story form. With them, there is 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 use of the data I have given him, and he has dealt as leniently as he could with my little failings. I have spent a very pleasant two years, and I gather from Charlotte that she is as happy as I am. Perhaps, after one of our yearly dinners we will decide to take up again the life which was interrupted by the visit of Uncle Jasper. I hope not, however. It is May now, a month which I always spend in the little cottage at Tremoor. Their Majesties the King and Queen of San Pietro, travelling as Mr. and Mrs. Baxendale, come to Cornwall also and spend a week each year. They will be here in a few days now, and with them they are bringing the Crown Prince, as sturdy a little Estrato as ever graced a cradle. I saw him last January, for I spend the winters in the delightful climate of Corbo. I do not stay at the palace, but find it more to my taste to take a suite of rooms at the Imperial, that new hotel which faces the bay near the Casino. I rode out to Casa Luzo a few days before I last left the island, and it was with very mixed feelings that I gazed on the stucco porch and the little garden. I thought of Galva and Armand, of old Pieto and Teresa, and the ruffian who was wounded in the leg. The place has been done up, and is, I think, in the possession of a wealthy fruit merchant of Madrid. Pieto and Teresa were well when I last saw them. They keep a small inn on the Alcador Road, and by Teresa's careful watching of the stock, the worthy pair manage to wring from the business a fair living. They receive also a yearly sum from the Royal Pensions list. Anna Paluda resides at the palace. I often find myself wondering what business it was that really brought her to London with me. In my pocket-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 will show 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 on the body of the man Gabriel who was found dead in the first-floor room of a boarding-house in Dorrington Street. "Mrs. Brand, the landlady, giving evidence, spoke of the curious habits of the deceased. Mr. Gabriel took the room about a month ago and had lived a very retired life, going out only at night. "The servant, Elizabeth Harker, gave corroborative evidence, and spoke of the discovery of the body. She had been called at about half-past five in the morning by a Mrs. Graham, the lodger who rented the room next to the deceased. The lady complained of a smell of gas, and, together with the witness, tried to rouse Mr. Gabriel. No answer being given to their knocking, they turned the handle, and the door, to their surprise, came open. "To a question from the coroner witness said that she had never known the deceased to sleep with his door unlocked. "Further evidence was called showing that deceased had evidently destroyed all marks and papers that might lead to his identity. The windows of the room had been carefully plugged up and two gas jets were turned full on. "The coroner, in a few words to the jury, said that this was one of the many cases he had had to deal with of mysterious foreigners who met no less mysterious deaths in his district. "From the evidence he should say that Mr. Gabriel was most anxious to hide his identity, and the evidence that he did not go out in daylight pointed to the fact that he went in fear of something. The deceased seemed to be of Spanish nationality, and the recent disturbances in Barcelona made one wonder whether this man was not a refugee or a member of one of the numerous secret societies, whose plans, perhaps, he had betrayed. It looked as though his fear had got the better of him at last, and that he had chosen death at his own hands rather than at those of his enemies. "The jury, after a few moments' deliberation, returned a verdict of suicide. The body, if not identified by to-morrow, will be buried by the authorities. "A curious aspect of the case is that the Mrs. Graham who discovered the smell of gas has disappeared. There is nothing to connect her with the tragedy, but her evidence might have thrown some light on the affair. We understand the police, are making inquiries as to the missing woman, who took the room she occupied only a week ago." The affair is now one of London's unsolved mysteries. Personally I have, as I said, my fancies—the date of the cutting is ten days after my arrival, with Anna, in London—but it is no business of mine. It is peaceful here in this little spring-coloured garden. The sun has just dropped down behind a bank of storm-clouds over the sea and the lights of Pendeen are flashing out. A tramp steamer, miles away and looking like a toy on the broad Atlantic, is ploughing her way down towards the Longships. Perhaps she is going to Bilbao, or even Corbo or Rozana. Above me a large bird is planing on outstretched motionless wings in the copper blue of the sky, and the moors around me look like masses of crumpled mauve velvet in the darkening twilight. And I—I sit here and smoke a very excellent cigar and wonder if Fate will ever stretch out her hand again to pick me up and drop me again into the whirl of things. I say to myself that I hope not—and know that I lie. THE END <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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