The woods were alive with the evening songs of the birds, and a light wind that blew in from the sea brought with it the chimes from the Cathedral belfry. The shrubberies loomed big in the violet twilight and afar out the sea lay placid, steel-blue and mysterious.
Edward Povey, surveying the scene from the comfort of a bath-chair, was putting to himself a few pertinent and very necessary questions. Some lines which he had heard years back came into his mind, he couldn't remember them exactly, but they had to do with what the devil would do when he was sick.
Amongst other thoughts which crowded into the brain of Mr. Povey were the warm feelings he had experienced towards Charlotte when, as he thought, he lay dying in Enrico's death chamber, and he told himself that they were very right thoughts to have.
He remembered also the events of the past few months, Galva's unremitting care and tenderness to him during the period of his convalescence. The thought that the time had now come when his part in her affairs was done was a very bitter one, but as day followed day the feeling that he was an impostor grew stronger. He had long thought that he must get away from it all. Every kind word, every smile was a stab to him. To explain matters now would do no good, spoiling as it would Galva's happiness. He hated, too, to think of her eyes regarding him in any other way but with admiration, the thought of the disgust that might show in her face unnerved him. He felt very thankful that his fears of death had been premature, and that he had been spared to witness the reception by the Corbians of their new Queen, but, at the same time, the grim visitor would at least have put him out of his predicament.
His recovery had not been rapid enough to allow of his attending the festivities of the Coronation, which had taken place with much pomp and circumstance a few weeks after Enrico had been laid in the Cathedral. The kindly doctor, however, had permitted the invalid's couch to be wheeled out on to one of the balconies of his room.
From there he had seen the procession leave the palace, had noted the enthusiasm of the holiday crowd, and, best of all, had seen Galva turn in her carriage and wave her bouquet of orchids at his balcony. Then the cavalcade, winding like a gaily coloured stream of ribbon, had been swallowed up in the twistings and turnings of the old town, and Povey, lying there in the genial afternoon sunshine, had been left to imagine the rest.
By the aid of his field glasses he had seen the bunting and banners fluttering bravely on the buildings in the town, which lay spread out beneath him shining like a jeweller's tray of gems in the sun-rays. He had seen the yachts in the bay gay with little flags. He had heard, too, the bells pealing joyously from the tall belfry of the Cathedral, the firing of the guns on the fort, and the distant murmur of the people cheering their Queen.
He had said a little prayer for everybody and had fallen asleep there on the flower-decked balcony. When he awoke he was again in his room and the candles were being lit.
The Queen of San Pietro stood there before him flushed with her happiness and resplendent in her finery of state. Her little head was thrown slightly back and she appeared taller than she really was in the sweeping mantle of crimson and ermine which fell from her shoulders and spread out on the carpet behind her. As she noted the wondering admiration on Edward's face she gave him a delightful little smile.
"A right down, regular, Royal Queen," she quoted gaily as she dropped an elegant curtsey. "Oh, guardy dear, it's been splendid—just splendid—nothing but sun and cheers and flowers—and joy."