CHAPTER XXII
THE HEART OF GALVA
"I think we understood each other in Paris, didn't we, Armand?"
"Yes, dearest, but a definite answer to a definite question is satisfactory; now that you have given me the sweet 'yes,' I will speak to your guardian."
"To-night—speak to him to-night, dear. I know he will be pleased, and," shyly, "if he isn't, I am really afraid that it will make no difference to the 'yes'—or to me."
Galva drew herself away from her lover's embrace.
"He will have something to tell you—about me," she went on rather solemnly; "there he is. Good-night, dearest; I am tired and I want to be alone with my happiness—for I am happy to-night, Armand—very happy."
The lips of the lovers met in the shadow of the portico, and when Edward came through the hall he found the duke alone. The two men linked arms and fell to pacing up and down the gravelled space in front of the house. It was not yet eleven and quietude had once more settled down over the Casa Luzo. As they walked, Edward was relating to the duke how he had seen the two prisoners safely disposed of in one of the roomy cellars that ran out under the back courtyard, and had learnt from old Teresa, much to his satisfaction, that it was not likely that Dasso would put in an appearance for some days.
He and Mozara had paid two visits to Casa Luzo since the coming of Galva, but on the last of these the old woman had overheard that, thinking their prisoner perfectly hidden, and the news of her death accepted, Dasso would remain near the Palace waiting for the death of the king. As Edward mentioned the dying monarch he glanced slyly up at the duke's face, paused a moment, then:
"They are saying that your poor uncle can't last long."
At this his companion wheeled round on him.
"So you know my secret?"
"I am not blind, your Highness; you are Armand Enrico Marie, Prince of Alcador, heir-apparent to the throne of San Pietro."
"——which is the only one of the eleven titles I possess of which I am not proud. It is no honour to claim kinship with King Enrico. But I am glad you know, it saves explanations—I have asked Galva to be my wife."
Edward looked up quickly, then let his gaze rest on the tree tops of the forest.
"Ye gods," he murmured, then felt that the duke was regarding him curiously.
"You are pleased, Mr. Sydney? Galva does not know that it is a throne I am offering her. I will make her a queen, she—what are you looking at, Mr. Sydney?"
Edward drew his eyes back from their contemplation of the tree tops.
"I was thinking," he said slowly.
The duke waited.
"——Yes, I was thinking," went on Edward, "whether what you have told me—oh, damn it all, you've got to know. Come inside, I think I remember seeing a bottle of wine in there, and I have a story to tell—no, not a word until we have found the bottle and you have heard the story." And the duke, mystified into silence, followed him into the house.
The dining-room still showed some signs of the late struggle, but the débris had been in part cleared away, and old Teresa was rubbing vigorously at the blood stain on the oaken floor. She rose from her knees as the men entered, and taking her bucket, slipped from the room. As the door closed behind her the duke broke the silence.
"I really cannot understand the way you have taken my news, Mr. Sydney," he began, a little haughtily, and Edward held up his hand.
"Of course you can't, I can't get the hang of it myself all at once. Sit there, will you? This Chianti is excellent"; then, when the men were seated facing each other across the wood fire—
"You will remember hearing about the tragedy at the Palace at Corbo fifteen years back. I expect you have heard the details over and over again. When the dynasty of the Estratos was all but wiped out——"
"All but, Mr. Sydney?"
"That is what I said, prince. The popular belief was that the entire tree of that illustrious house was cut off root and branch, and that all its members perished on that evil night, but it was not so. The Princess Miranda escaped the fate of her parents."
"But the child—a baby—was killed with the queen."
"A child was, but it was not hers. You were speaking to the mother of the dead child only a few hours ago. It is Anna Paluda's little one that lies buried in Corbo Cathedral."
Edward paused impressively, but the duke did not speak. He sat with his dark eyes fixed on the face of the man who was telling the tale.
"That poor woman was foster-mother to the little princess, and the two children were in the night nursery at the time of the tragedy. Queen Elene took up the wrong baby, that's all. It's one of those simple mistakes which mean so much. Anna has sunk her revenge for all these years for the sake of the little girl who was almost as much to her as her own, but her revenge is not dead; some one will pay the price when the princess's affairs are settled."
"And the Princess Miranda, what—what became of her?"
Edward threw a keen look at his listener.
"Anna escaped during the excitement, taking the child with her. A few days later, an American gentleman came across them, living in the deserted hut of some charcoal-burner in the woods. This kind-hearted Yankee, touched by the child's helplessness and the romance of the case, adopted her, smuggled her out of the country, and brought her up to the life of an English lady. Circumstances prevented his taking her back to the States with him, and she and Anna have spent a peaceful life on the Cornish moors until the girl's eighteenth birthday, a few months——"
There came the sound of light singing from the room above them, and with a meaning smile, Edward pointed to the ceiling.
"Her Highness the Princess Miranda seems happy to-night, eh, duke?"
As he spoke Edward leant over with a look of concern, and touched the other on the knee, for the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer was sitting silent, and had buried his head in his hands. "What's all this?" he asked, and noted the anguish that lived in the duke's eyes as he raised his head to answer him.
"It means the loss of everything to me—everything, Mr. Sydney. Throne, position—and a love that is more than my life to me."
"Now, look here, duke: of course the throne is Galva's, there's no getting away from that, but if she loves you and you love her—well—it seems to me that things are fitting in rather neatly."
"Oh, you don't understand. What will the people here say? How will they speak of a man who, having lost a throne, climbs back to it on the shoulders of a woman? The honour of our family is not to be judged by the standard of the devil who is dying back there in Corbo."
The duke had risen as he spoke, but Edward pressed him gently back into his chair.
"I am a plain man, duke, and have lived a plain life—how plain it has been you would never guess. One of these days I will tell you all about the hand I have played in this affair, but not now.
"But in my plain life I have learnt two or three plain facts, and one is that we must take what the good gods give us; they don't, as a rule, hold out their gifts twice. As for this fetish you call honour, what honour is there in spoiling your own life and Galva's too? You say the people will think badly of you. Let them. They will be in the minority, a few kill-joys—remember that all the world loves a lover.
"Yours is a love story that will ring through Europe. Your engagement before either of you knew the high destiny of the other has the true spice of romance, the heart-throb which always fetches the public favour. The Press will fight your battle."
Edward sat down feeling rather surprised at his own eloquence, and drank off a goblet of Chianti. Then he lit a cigar and was silent.
A moment, and the duke turned to him with a sad little smile.
"You put it very nicely, Mr. Sydney. I'll talk to Galva about it in the morning. After all, there are other things to worry about just now. I think a little action is what I want. You say that Dasso will not be here for a few days?"
Edward nodded.
"He lays great stress on being first in the field when Enrico dies. I don't expect he is ever far from his house for two minutes together. By the way, you know the Palace well, I suppose?"
"Only fairly. I have not been on speaking terms with my uncle for years, except on state occasions when it is policy for me to show up; it's only then that I come to Corbo at all. As a youth I lived in the Palace; my father died when I was eleven. I knew every inch of the building then. It's a rambling old place. Why do you ask?"
"Because I have a plan to suggest. We cannot risk more than one night here, and Galva will be glad to change her surroundings. Among the palace attendants there must be one who can be bribed to smuggle us into the building. It can only be a matter of hours before Enrico dies. Then"—and Edward rubbed his hands together with a crafty smile—"Dasso will find us there to greet him. Won't he be pleased?
"I suggest that we give the wounded ruffian in the cellar money and food. He'll be about again in a day or two. Then Pieto and Teresa, who hate Dasso like poison, will go to their master and tell of the fight and the rescue. They will also say that they overheard us planning to leave the country, that we were heartily sick of San Pietro and all its works. They will, of course, not mention your identity. Anna will join us at the Palace, and my villa will be shut up. This is if you can manage to bribe some attendant whom you know."
The prince thought a moment.
"I fancy it can be managed. I know a way into the grounds. I used it often when I wanted to break bounds. There was Pia, one of the under-gardeners, who was well disposed to me. He ought to be useful if he is still there, as I remember Dasso thrashing him once for spraying him accidentally with a hose. Your Corbian does not forget a thrashing in a hurry. Yes, Pia is our man, I think."
"Very well, then; we will leave here to-morrow afternoon and reach the walls of the grounds by the time it is dark. Then I will slip across Sebastin Park and fetch Anna. After that we will enter by your secret way, and, please Heaven, find your gardener.—We are on the laps of the gods. Now we'll take a watch, two hours each, and don't forget to pray for your uncle—that he may be spared another day."
"Amen to that," said the duke.
"The Princess Miranda begs to inform Enrico Armand, Prince of Alcador, Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, Baron Diaz, Count of the Holy Roman Empire, etc., etc., that she cannot accept the return of anything which she has graciously bestowed upon him—even her freedom."
And saying this, Galva jumped lightly up from the moss-covered boulder upon which she had been sitting, and, smiling mockingly, bowed low before the young man who stood leaning moodily against the straight bole of a pine-tree.
"But, Galva, my honour——"
"Honour, indeed! And does my happiness count for nothing? Does my honour not weigh with you? Is it honourable to ask a young girl to show you the treasure-house of her heart and then turn away? Perhaps the wares don't suit. Perhaps——"
"Galva!"
"No, you must hear me out. Oh, I wish that we were just poor ordinary people, so that we could live only for each other, perhaps away in my lovely Cornwall. But, dear, we aren't just poor ordinary people, and we must go where we are called."
The girl turned and pointed to where the dull crimson of the setting sun shone in the windows of the royal residence.
"There, Armand, is my future home, perched up there above the people whom God has given me to rule. It is for you to make it, for me, a Purgatory or a Paradise—a prison or a home."
She held out her little white hands pathetically and stood there among the trees, her queenly head thrown slightly back, her lips just parted, and with the love-light smiling from under the blue of her lids. And the duke looked at her for a moment—then, with a glad little cry, took her into his arms and kissed her on the lips.
"And now," said the princess as they walked up to a fallen tree trunk which lay half embedded in the undergrowth, "we will sit here and wait for Mr. Sydney—and we won't talk any more nonsense, will we?"
The little party had left Casa Luzo after lunch. Teresa had been instructed to delay the telling of the rescue to Dasso for as long as possible. The wounded man had gratefully accepted the handsome monetary present offered him (especially as Dasso had already paid for his services in advance), and was now making preparations to get back to his native town and the delights of bull-ring society.
The walk through the woods had been a pleasant one to Galva in her new-found happiness and freedom, and her lover had not been able to find the heart to speak the words which he knew would give her pain; in fact, Edward had been gone an hour, leaving them to await his return at the forest edge, before he had summoned up courage to the task. And then had come the battle, and it had lasted exactly ten minutes, and the spoils had been all to Galva. His mind once made up, the duke gave himself with a little sigh to his happiness.
The night came down upon the forest, and still they sat, their fingers entwined, on the fallen tree. The flush had faded from the palace windows, leaving them grey and forbidding, and with sun-down a chill wind had come in from the sea. Behind the lovers the pine trunks showed dimly like vast columns in some ghostly cathedral, and there was no sound save the gentle song of the wind in the branches.
Armand drew the rug they had brought with them closer over both their shoulders, shielding the little head that nestled so confidingly on his breast. When Edward returned with Anna Paluda, the Princess Galva awoke.
The duke rose and stretched his cramped limbs. Edward reached for his hand and shook it.
"Congratulations!" he murmured.