Читать книгу The Princess Galva - David Whitelaw - Страница 12

As Edward was, after sending in his slip of paper, ushered into the private office, a tall, gaunt man of unmistakable solicitor type rose from his desk and crossed over to him with extended hand. Edward put his out also and winced somewhat as it was tightly engulfed by the bony fingers of the solicitor.

"Mr. Sydney, I understand."

Edward Povey bowed, he had no great liking for telling lies and he preferred to act them where possible.

Mr. Abraham Nixon handed a chair to his visitor, and, reseating himself at his desk, picked up a telephone receiver and inquired for Mr. Crooks, asking that gentleman to kindly be sure that they were not disturbed for at least one hour.

At this Edward grew cold with apprehension. It seemed to him that there was something of an ordeal in front of him. Mr. Nixon's first words, however, somewhat reassured him.

"I understand from Mr. Baxendale that you are entirely ignorant of the subject referred to in his letter, Mr. Sydney."

"Entirely, Mr. Nixon, and it is perhaps better to say at once that, however much I desire to help my old friend and to fall in with his wishes, I cannot hold myself liable in any way—cannot commit myself."

Mr. Nixon held up a thin hand.

"A very sensible remark, Mr. Sydney, and one that I should have made myself had I been placed as you are. You are not in any way bound by what I am telling you except in the event of your refusal; in which case I shall enjoin you to secrecy. Pray excuse me a moment."

Selecting a flat key from a ring he took from his pocket, Mr. Nixon left the room, returning in a few minutes with a small deed-box on which was painted in white letters—

GALVA—BAXENDALE

This, Mr. Nixon placed upon a small side table, and selecting a flat key from the bunch on his ring inserted it in the lock.

"It is a curious story that I have to tell you, Mr. Sydney," he began as he pushed open the creaking lid. "I suppose I'm the only person to whom Mr. Baxendale told it. A very reserved and secretive man, Mr. Sydney."

"Very," answered Edward Povey, much relieved to hear it. Then he kept silent as he watched the solicitor remove from the box a few small articles, each carefully sealed up and docketed in a neat handwriting, the purport of which Edward could not make out at the distance. These articles arranged in a row upon his desk, Mr. Nixon leant back in his chair, and, placing the tips of his thin fingers together, began his tale.

"Perhaps you will remember, Mr. Sydney, the era of bloodshed and murder which attacked the little island kingdom of San Pietro some years back, I think in the autumn of '93. It was, in its way, as virulent as the Paris revolution, but San Pietro is a small kingdom, and although quite independent was not able to withstand the pressure of her more powerful neighbours. Spain, being the nearest, has always had a word to say in the San Pietro politics. The result was that the crisis was as short-lived as it was terrible. The reigning family had been put to death at the outburst of the revolution. The king, rather a pleasure-loving sort of person, had enjoyed some popularity among his subjects, but his marriage with an actress whom he had met in Vienna inflamed the ladies of the court, and, through them, their husbands.

"Most of these were officers standing high at court or in the army, and considering their wives insulted by the presence of an actress upon the throne, planned the assassination under the cloak of politics. The result was the terrible doings at the Palace at Corbo on that night in October.

"Baxendale, then a middle-aged man, traveling on business in Spain at the time, took ship across to San Pietro, intending to send first-hand news to a paper he was interested in in New York. Once arrived, however, he found more difficulty in returning. The Dictator whom the people had set up was very rigid in the matter of censorship, and not only could poor Baxendale get no news through, but he himself was politely but firmly told he could not leave the island.

"One afternoon about three or four days after the massacre he was taking a walk through the Sebastin Park, which I understand is on the edge of the capital, and merges from cultivation to the wild track of forest land which lies to the north. Baxendale had walked further than he had intended and was surprised to find of a sudden that the sun was sinking. As he turned to retrace his steps a curious sound came to his ears, that was for all the world like the cry of a child, The forest at this place was very dense, the branches of the tall pines interlacing overhead, whilst the undergrowth was thick enough to hide objects at a few yards.

"Baxendale parted the bushes and forced a way through them in the direction from which the cries seemed to come. The wailing had stopped, and he was telling himself that it was some forest beast he had heard when it was again taken up, and now he made out the low crooning of one who hushes and soothes a baby. At this he moved faster, and in a few moments came upon a tumble-down hut such as is used by the charcoal-burners of the woods.

"He had not been heard, for the crooning still continued and was evidently having the desired effect, as the child's cries had ceased. His light tap at the crazy-hinged door was answered only by the sudden cessation of the voice, and a dead silence. Then he cautiously pushed open the door.

"It was a poor enough place—indeed, little more than a ruin, and, in the dim light, Baxendale told me he could not at first make out any definite object. As his eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, however, he made out the figure of a woman. She was standing facing him; he could not see her face clearly, but her whole attitude was one of defiance, and she seemed to be standing at bay, guarding something behind her. Baxendale could make out a bench on which were rolled a few clothes.

"Just then a ray of the setting sun pierced the branches and illuminated the interior of the hut. On the heap of clothes was a little baby girl about two years of age. The red rays played round the curly head, and Baxendale was smitten to the heart as he looked from the sleeping babe to the woman, who, seeing in Baxendale a friend, had sunk down on the earth floor and was silently weeping."

Mr. Nixon paused, and cleared his throat. He looked at his listener for signs of attention. The latter, who had almost forgotten the part he was playing, in his interest in the tale that was being told to him, nodded his head and asked if Mr. Nixon objected to tobacco. The two men smoked for a few moments in silence, then the solicitor resumed the tale.

"Beyond this I know very little and that little I will tell quickly. Baxendale came into this office in the spring of '98 and told me all this. The little child on wakening had held up her arms to him and smiled. The good fellow could not withstand the mute appeal, and resolved then and there that she should be his charge. Afterwards, when he had got them safely across to England, the woman who was the child's nurse told him the history. She had been afraid to do so earlier for fear it would have altered Baxendale's intentions, and she was too anxious to set her back to San Pietro to risk that.

"The baby girl was the Princess Miranda, only child of the ill-fated king and queen of San Pietro. On the fatal night, the nurse told Baxendale, she had been in the night nursery with the princess and her own niece, little Miranda's foster-sister, a child only a few months older than the princess. She told him of how she had seen the flare of torches and heard the clamour, and how the distracted queen had rushed in shrieking for her baby, and had caught up what she thought was her little one, and with it under her robe had fled to what she fondly considered was a place of safety.

"As events proved, there was no place of safety for that unhappy woman that night, and when the next day the bodies were laid to rest in the royal vault, a little dead child was buried with the queen, but it was not the Princess Miranda, although the monument that was raised by the tardy conscience of the San Pietro people is engraved with her name.

"Since the revolution, the political state of San Pietro has been somewhat uncertain. The people are simple and loyal folk at heart, and it was not long before they discovered the real reason of the uprising. Then they cried loudly for a king again, and Spain, who had only been waiting for this, put Prince Enrico upon the throne. You will have heard of this man, whose follies and deviltries are the talk of Europe. San Pietro tolerates him, for his court is brilliant, and has brought much money to the place; in fact, the whole island, and more especially the capital, is now one of the pleasure centres of Europe. This has had a most beneficent effect upon the fortunes of the island, but there are still some of the more sedate families who deplore the loss of dignity of their beloved land.

"The rightful heir is of course Miranda, the little princess with whom the poor nurse sought refuge in the forest.

"She is now living in England, the nurse is still with her, and Miranda has no idea of her high birth. Baxendale never confided to me what his projects were."

The solicitor leant over and picked up a letter which had been in the deed-box and handed it over to Edward, who took it and sat with it unopened in his hand waiting for Mr. Nixon to speak.

"You will read that when you leave here, Mr. Sydney, carefully, and I shall expect to hear from you in the course of a few days. There is the matter of money to be considered. My client has made adequate provision"—Edward pricked up his ears at this—"for what he terms 'the mission.'"

"In two days I will call on you again, Mr. Nixon. Good-afternoon."

Povey stood in Leadenhall Street at the entrance to St. Mary Axe and tried to think things over. It seemed to him as though he had just emerged from the gloom of romantic forests and the splendour of courts, and the foggy atmosphere and hoard of hurrying clerks appeared to him to be unreal. Then he pulled himself together and strolled quietly westward.

Along Leadenhall Street and through the market he walked deep in thought, making his way from force of habit in the direction of London Bridge. It was not until the spars and masts of the shipping came in sight that he remembered his changed conditions, when he hailed a passing taxi and was driven to Euston.

He had not long to wait for a train to Bushey, and no sooner had it left the platform than he had the letter out of his pocket and was breaking the seal. It was written on the paper of the Waldorf Hotel, New York, and was dated at the beginning of the year.

"MY DEAR SYDNEY,

"I am addressing you in this letter, as I hope and devoutly trust that yours will be the hands into which it will fall. My own health has been so bad of late and has shown such unmistakable signs of breaking up that I fear I must give up all hope of ever carrying out, personally, my desires. Next to myself, I would wish you to do so; failing you, Mr. Nixon has his instructions what to do. But you won't fail me.

"This gentleman will have told you the outlines of the history of the Princess Miranda. It has always been my desire that on her eighteenth birthday she should be told the story of her high origin. As this date approaches—the 15th of November—I feel that the seven or eight months between us will see my finish, so while there is yet time I write to you, my old friend, to act for me in this matter.

"The Princess, I have named her Galva, after a carn in the vicinity of her house, is at present living with her nurse at Tremoor, a few miles from Penzance.

"Mr. Nixon will give you, on your expressing your willingness to undertake the mission, two or three objects which will prove beyond doubt the claim of the dear girl to the throne of San Pietro. You will go to her and tell her everything; I would not feel I had done my duty were I to keep her in ignorance, although it might be kinder to do so.

"If, after hearing you out, she elects to remain in her quiet peaceful life, she shall do so. If, on the other hand, she decides on following up her high destiny you will take her with her nurse to Corbo, travelling as independent English tourists, and seek out Señor Luazo, or his heir, at 66, Calle Mendaro, and hand him a letter which Mr. Nixon will give you. After that I can safely leave you in his keeping.

"My fortune, I have divided equally between the man who undertakes this mission and Galva herself, with the exception of an annuity to Señora Paluda, the nurse who has done so much and been so much to little Galva.

"I can easily throw my mind back to that day in the forest, and the smiling babe holding up her little arms is a picture that will always be with me even at the end. Tell Galva that I will die thinking of her and of all she has been to a lonely old bachelor.

"When the end comes, too, I will think of you and of what you are doing for me, and will bless you for it.

"And now, my old friend, good-bye.

"Yours ever, HUBERT BAXENDALE."

Edward Povey folded up the letter carefully and placed it in his pocket. Then, leaning his head in his hand, gazed out at the flying landscape and tried to think things out. It took him some little time to appreciate who he really was.

He had felt, ever since Mr. Nixon had mentioned the financial aspect of the undertaking, that he would be more than foolish to let slip such a providential way out of his sea of difficulties. The moral side to the question he was able to smooth over to his satisfaction. He knew Mr. Kyser, and Mr. Kyser's ways, and told himself that that gentleman would not welcome, at his time of life, an adventure such as the one that the solicitor had put before him that afternoon. Again, he told himself that it was not possible for him to communicate with Mr. Kyser until the eighteenth birthday of the princess had passed. He said it would be wrong and unkind to let the poor lonely girl think that she was forgotten.

Further self-discussion on the matter was taken out of his hands by a watching Fate who suggested something refreshing as he breasted the first part of the straggling hill that led from the railway station up to Bushey Heath. He paused at the Merry Month of May, then decided to push on to a little hostelry that he had noticed on the way down that morning.

He entered the door of the White Hart and turned to the right through the tiny bar into the smoke-room. Two tweed-clad artists from the near-by studios lounged in more or less elegant poses at the red-clothed table, they looked up and nodded as Edward entered, then returned to the perusal of the evening papers which had evidently just arrived.

The host of the inn came from the bar and attended to the new-comer's wants, and Edward took from his pocket an Evening News that he had bought in town. He read it listlessly for some minutes, then the two bored-looking youths looked up suddenly as the man gave a gasp. They stared at him so curiously that he felt an explanation was necessary.

"Went the wrong way—gentlemen," he said, pointing to his glass of beer—"windpipe, I think."

The elder of the two youths grunted and leaning back lit a cigarette. He watched Edward, at first carelessly, but as he saw the man take out a penknife and cut from the paper a paragraph, he grew more interested. In a few moments Edward gulped down his beer, and, without a word, made his way outside.

"Bertie," it was the elder artist who was speaking, "that chap saw something in the paper that upset him a little—is that the News you're reading?"

"Yes—why?"

"Look at page five, will you, the third paragraph from the bottom on column two. Read it out loud if you don't mind."

The paper rustled as the other young man turned to the desired portion, then in a blasé voice read:—

"MYSTERIOUS DEATH IN PARIS.

"A gentleman who arrived at the Hôtel Meurice from London two days ago has met with a fate such as is becoming more and more frequent in the streets of Paris. A gendarme passing down the Rue des Batignolles last evening about ten o'clock, came upon the body of the unfortunate man huddled into an angle of a doorway. Assistance was forthcoming, but was too late to be of any service to the victim, who had suffered terrible injuries to the head, and to which he succumbed within an hour after his admission to the hospital. The outrage points undoubtedly to being the work of the dreaded Apaches. The deceased gentleman, who was about fifty years of age, had registered under the name of Sydney Kyser, but it has been impossible to trace among his belongings any clue to his home address. The French police, however, are in communication with Scotland Yard, and are in the mean time actively engaged in searching for the perpetrators of the outrage."

"Bet you that chap knew this Kyser, or whoever it is——" a yawn—"none of our business, what! See you in Peter's studio, there's a game of bridge on, I think. Ta-ta."