CHAPTER XX
THE BOAT FROM THE MAINLAND
If the days hung heavily upon the heart of the captive in the castle on the Alcador road, they hung no less heavily upon the man who waited in Venta Villa.
The culpability of one's actions is too often determined by the worldly success, or otherwise, which attends them, and Edward Povey was experiencing some very bitter moments. Had Galva been firmly and happily seated in the great throne-room up there in the Palace, he would have carried his head high and have looked upon himself as a hero, and his usurpation of the character of Sydney Kyser as a meritorious act.
But under the existing circumstances he cursed himself for a meddlesome idiot, or worse, and prayed that he might suddenly awake to find himself dozing over the corner desk in the dingy Eastcheap counting-house or in his shabby arm-chair in the front room at Belitha Villas.
Hitherto he had accepted his present luxurious surroundings as due to him for the trouble he was taking; now each item of them became a stab. The well-cooked dinners which he took miserably with Anna Paluda seemed like to choke him, and the dainty hangings of his little bedroom, overlooking the bay, became a physical torture to him. The letter sent him by Jasper Jarman also rankled deeply. He wished he had kept the letter now, that he might read it again and again as a penance.
By a stroke of ill-fortune Señor Luazo was confined to his room with an attack of gout, and the fashionable physician who attended that estimable gentleman had made it clear to Edward that his patient was not to be disturbed. Any help or even advice from that quarter was out of the question.
But Mr. Povey had not been content to rest in idleness; as far as it was possible he had acted. Disguised, he had ingratiated himself with the landlord of The Three Lilies, and had spent hours together behind the little curtain of the window of the room vacated by Uncle Jasper, which overlooked the house and gardens of Gabriel Dasso. He had, however, gained little by this, save one important point, the certainty that Lieutenant Mozara was, without doubt, malingering in the matter of his injuries.
The gallant officer, thinking himself secure behind the high walls of Dasso's garden, had relaxed his precautions. Twice the watchful eye at the window opposite had seen the crutch discarded and the black silk sling hanging empty.
Beyond the comfort derived from this confirmation of the suspicions which Anna Paluda had planted in his mind, Edward could make no use of the information gained. Any day now he might receive an answer to the letter he had sent to M. Brea in Paris, and until that came he was loath to act. He felt that, with the help of the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, he would be more than a match for the conspirators. At the same time, for Galva's sake, he determined that should no word reach him within the next three days he would put the matter before the British Consul.
He had met the monocled nonentity who represented the interests of Great Britain in the island kingdom. Señor Luazo had introduced them in the café attached to the Casino, and Edward had not been impressed. The Consul did not appear to him to be the man to lean on in any great emergency. Commerce between the idle inhabitants of San Pietro and English ports was confined to the few boxes of dried fruits of two Jewish firms in the business quarter of Corbo, and the Government post in the service of His Britannic Majesty on the little island was not one sought after by ambitious men. No, on second thoughts, Edward did not feel inclined to disturb the alcohol-engendered ease of the Honourable Bertie Traverson unless it became absolutely necessary.
The evening following the day on which Teresa learnt the identity of Galva Baxendale, Edward was sitting in the little library at Venta Villa, reading for the hundredth time a telegram which he had that morning received. A knock at the door caused him to crumple this up guiltily in his hands as the servant entered. A man was at the door asking for Mr. Sydney—rather a curious person, the servant volunteered, respectfully. Edward, eager for anything to relieve the period of waiting, went out into the hall. A rough individual was there, standing on the mat, his clothes dripping and making little rain-pools on the tiled floor.
As he saw Edward he bowed a black shaggy head, and from the sodden recesses of his heavy coat produced a dirty envelope which he held out. Edward could see it was addressed to Mr. Sydney, at the Venta Villa, Corbo. The light in the hall was not good, and Povey stepped back into the library to open and read the letter. A moment later he was again out in the hall, calling to the servant to bring wine for the messenger. To his surprise the man had disappeared, the little pools of water alone remaining to show where he had stood. Edward flung open the door. The wind swept the rain in his face in clouds, and that, together with the darkness, made the man's retreat secure. Having rid himself of the letter entrusted to him, the carrier of the Alcador road considered he had done all that could be expected of him. Remembering the air of mystery with which Teresa had given him the envelope, he wished to be done with the affair. Curiosity was not one of his failings, and the suspiciously generous payment the old woman had made him was burning in his pockets with a flame that called for the extinguishing wine of a little inn he knew, nestling beneath the shadow of the cathedral.
Edward Povey cleared the flight of richly carpeted stairs in three bounds and burst frantically into the little drawing-room. The black-gowned figure in the arm-chair, drawn up to the fire, rose at his entrance and stood facing him inquiringly; one arm resting on the chair-back, with the other she pressed a lace handkerchief to her lips. The room was lighted by a single cluster of electric bulbs only, but Edward could see that Anna Paluda's face was chalky-grey, and that the large eyes looked tired with tears.
"She's found, Anna. Galva's safe."
The woman thanked God and reached out a trembling hand for the letter. Edward switched on the other lights, and together they devoured Galva's message. As they finished reading it the second time the chimes of the cathedral clock reached them.
"Twelve o'clock, Anna. Nothing can be done to-night. And the rain—listen to it."
Anna sat silent for a moment gazing out through the blurred panes at the inky blackness beyond. The rain lashed the windows like a shower of sand, and the waves breaking on the shore below voiced a distant monotony. Edward was right, nothing could be done at once, except to go to bed and get what rest one might against the morrow.
Left alone, Povey took out the telegram he had been reading and had hastily thrust into his jacket pocket on the entrance of the servant. He smoothed it out on a little table. It was from the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, and as Edward read it again he told himself that he was nearing the end of his tribulations.
He had been rather averse to showing the cable to Anna. She knew nothing of the affection, if it can be called only that, which existed between Galva and the duke, or if she had noticed it in Paris it had long ago left her memory. Edward doubted whether she would think it wise, this calling in of a stranger to their affairs.
The message was quite brief, and stated simply that the sender had reached Spain and was leaving by the boat which was due to arrive at Port Corbo at nine that evening. Edward had waited anxiously in the rain until the harbour master had told him that the heavy weather had delayed the sturdy little vessel, which acted as passenger, cargo and mail steamer between the island and the mainland. The man had said that she had not yet passed the Point at the arm of the bay where the alternate red and white flashes of the distant lighthouse showed dimly through the driving rain. Edward had learnt that she could not berth before two in the morning, and he had returned to the Villa for refreshment and dry clothes.
At one o'clock he quietly ascertained that Anna had retired for the night, then, putting on a long mackintosh, crept from the house and started on the mile or more walk to the dock side. The rain had now nearly ceased, and the esplanade lay a glistening line of wet asphalt in front of him, in which the arc lamps threw a clean reflection. The wind still blew in fitful gusts, scattering the raindrops from the leaves of the trees that bordered the pavement.
The promenade was deserted, save for a few waiting motor-cars and carriages outside the Casino. From time to time a whistle would call one of these up to the entrance, and Edward would catch a glimpse of black-coated men holding umbrellas over the dainty figures of lightly cloaked women who, with skirts well bunched up over slender ankles and high-heeled shoes, made a dash for the carriage door.
And here and there were shuffling figures edging along in the shadows. These were the denizens of the hinterland of Corbo, night-birds who crept out to the fashionable haunts in the dark hours, bent on plunder, or perhaps the honest earning of a little of the money which was being so freely spent there.
Past the Opera House and the gardens the way became darker. The arc lamps became further apart, and the few cafés that were still open showed sleepy waiters standing moodily behind the great plate-glass windows, waiting for the stragglers to depart.
As Edward walked on he thought of the coming interview, debating within himself whether or no he should acquaint the new arrival with the true state of affairs. He felt that the secret was not altogether his own, and now that he had heard from Galva that she was safe and in no immediate danger, he said that there was no need to act hurriedly. He rather wished, in fact, that he had not been so hasty in writing. The duke would be useful certainly, but he complicated matters.
As he neared the dock the way became increasingly difficult. The Powers that Be in the Island of San Pietro made up for their lavish pandering to their rich visitors by altogether neglecting those portions of the town that lay remote from the Casino. Short, narrow streets, the houses of which seemed tumbling in on one in the darkness, straggled down to the waterside. In places, the particular road which Edward had taken was so steep that rough slabs of granite had been crudely laid down in a series of steps, broad and shallow, down which he stumbled dangerously.
The houses, for the most part, were in darkness, save where here and there an open door silhouetted the shrouded figure of a woman who would whisper to him as he hurried past. A party of Swedish sailors were quarrelling under the hanging oil-lamp of an inn, the doors of which were being hastily shut and bolted. Edward passed unnoticed, and in a moment emerged on the broad cobbled wharf.
Here, doubtless with a view of favourably impressing arriving visitors, the Powers that Be proved more prodigal with illumination, and a row of arc lamps showed the misty forms of a few tramp steamers huddled up to the dock edge. A little knot of seamen and luggage touts stood looking out towards the open sea. From one of the boats a wheezy concertina was accompanying a rich tenor voice singing an old English ballad.
His friend, the harbour master, was not to be seen, but Edward learnt from one of the seamen that the Spanish boat was expected to be alongside in the course of half an hour. He could hear the syren booming dismally.
Edward Povey buried his chin more deeply between the storm-collars of his mackintosh and waited, pacing up and down in the raw, damp mist.