Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: Princess Galva]
THE
PRINCESS GALVA
_A ROMANCE_
BY
DAVID WHITELAW
AUTHOR OF "THE GANG," "MOON OF VALLEYS," ETC.
"Romance is what is round the next bend of the road and across the
horizon. Yesterday is romantic and so is to-morrow."--_Professor
Raleigh, at the London Institution_.
TORONTO
THE COPP CLARKE CO. LIMITED
1911
TO
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
IN FRIENDSHIP
_Brighton, 1910._
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
MOON OF VALLEYS
"A novel of absorbing interest."--_Truth_.
"A live story."--_Sportsman_.
"A thrilling story."--_Daily Mirror_.
"Emphatically a lively book."--_Glasgow News_.
THE GANG
"It is remarkable that with so many incidents packed into the book the
author has managed to keep his head."--_Daily Telegraph_.
"Breaks new ground in fiction."--_Standard_.
"Essentially readable."--_Winning Post_.
"A merry tale ... amazing fertility of invention."--_Daily Express_.
"Deserves the encouragement of a large success."--_Morning Leader_.
MAC STODGER'S AFFINITY
"Thoroughly and genuinely funny."--_Sporting Life_.
"An exceedingly amusing story."--_Dundee Advertiser_.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I TOO OLD AT FORTY
II AT NO. 8, BELITHA VILLAS
III BORROWED PLUMAGE
IV A LETTER FROM NEW YORK
V AN ECHO OF A TRAGEDY AND THE DRAINAGE OF A COTTAGE
VI AT THE UNION HOTEL, PENZANCE
VII TREMOOR
VIII THE PANIC OF A CARPET MANUFACTURER
IX DUCAL ATTENTIONS
X THREE HANDS AT POKER
XI THE LIEUTENANT HONOURS GALVA
XII IN THE CATHEDRAL AT CORBO
XIII THE PLOT
XIV AT CASA LUZO
XV EDWARD SHOOTS AN ARROW INTO THE AIR
XVI THE GENTLEMAN IN THE TWEED SUIT
XVII MR. JASPER JARMAN RELIEVES HIS MIND
XVIII THE CAPTIVE
XIX TERESA
XX THE BOAT FROM THE MAINLAND
XXI EDWARD SEES COMPLICATIONS
XXII THE HEART OF GALVA
XXIII THE PASSING GUN
XXIV A BULLET IN THE GROUNDS
XXV IN THE DEATH CHAMBER
XXVI THE FUGITIVE
XXVII THE IMPOSTOR
XXVIII EDWARD DEPARTS
XXIX BLOOMSBURY
XXX REVENGE
XXXI A FINAL NOTE BY EDWARD POVEY
THE PRINCESS GALVA
CHAPTER I
TOO OLD AT FORTY
The waning light of an October evening shone on the reflectors outside
the windows of the basement counting-house, and the clerk at the corner
desk could barely discern that the clock on the green painted dusty
wall pointed to a quarter to six.
In fifteen minutes Edward Povey's twenty-two years of devoted service
in the interests of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company would come to an
end, and the desk in the corner to which he had been promoted fifteen
years ago would by the immutable law of evolution pass into the
possession of his junior. Edward noticed this junior now and the
glances which that young man cast at the scratched and ink-stained slab
of mahogany that was to constitute his kingdom of the morrow. Edward
wondered dully whether the young man was as full of hope as he himself
had been. Perhaps he was waiting to be married even as he, Edward, had
waited fifteen years ago. In those days the era of the Young Man had
not been so pronounced as it is to-day, and it had been death that had
removed his predecessor.
Even now he could remember the chastened sorrow with which he mounted
the high stool of his desire. He had propped open the desk and
collected together the belongings of the deceased clerk, and posted
them with a little note of sympathy to his widow. Some had seemed too
trivial to send, and of these a few still remained, a battered
soap-box, a small square of unframed looking-glass, its red back
scratched and scored. These, together with the great ebony ruler, had
now outlasted his own reign and would pass to the new-comer.
And now the desk was propped open again, and it was his own belongings
that he was collecting into a heap. The well-known odour of the wood
came to his nostrils and he sighed a little. From shadowy and dusty
corners he got together the little trifles that had been part and
parcel of his life and arranged them in a neat pile beside him.
"If there's anything I can do for you----" began the junior, brushing
his hair in front of a little mirror and settling his purple tie
nervously.
"No, Joynings; nothing, I thank you. I'm leaving you old Brown's
looking-glass and soap-box--they're fixtures, and go with the position."
The junior tittered a little at this and pulled down the front of his
fancy waistcoat, lit a cigarette, and took a pair of roller-skates from
the drawer of his desk. He came over and held out his hand.
"Right, then I'll be popping along--good luck, old man, and all that.
You'll drop into something soon. If I hear of anything----"
"Oh, I'll be all right," said Edward Povey.
There is always a certain fascination in change and elation in abnormal
conditions, even if those conditions constitute a misfortune. Edward
Povey was surprised at his inner feelings as he left the portals of
Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company's offices. In his own mind he knew
that he ought to be feeling depressed; but the fact remained that he
was feeling nothing of the kind, indeed he felt happier than he had
done for the past twenty-two years, except perhaps on that one evening
fifteen years ago. Then he had been hurrying out to a small house in a
mean street in Barnsbury, to a little woman who was waiting for the
news that would enable her to become the wife of the man who brought
it. Now he was going to another little house in a mean street, in
Clapham this time, to the same woman, but with how different tidings
and how differently they would be received. Fifteen years ago the
future had looked very bright to the limited vision of Mr. Edward
Povey. He had left the office after his marriage with a light step and
hurried across the bridge that would lead him to the villa he had
taken. As the years passed, the light step had become a sedate walk,
and now it was hard to recognize in the little bowed figure that
shuffled each evening across London Bridge the Edward Povey of other
days.
But to-night, curiously enough, the step was not shuffling and the
little iron-grey head was more erect. The blow that had fallen when
Mr. Schultz had given him the buff envelope which contained his salary
and his _conge_ had been deadening, and the feeling had numbed him for
the whole day. Then had come the inevitable reaction, the need for
movement, for effort, and the heart of Edward Povey was responding
nobly to the call, the heart that had lain dormant since the early days
of his marriage.
For Charlotte Povey, estimable woman, cherished fondly the idea that
for fifteen years she had been moulding the life, the destinies, and
the character of her husband, and he, for the sake of peace, had given
himself unresistingly to the potter's thumb. Charlotte's method,
however, left much to be desired. With the laudable object of rousing
the soul of Edward to further action and endeavour, she let not a day
pass without comparing, much to his disparagement, his actions and even
his appearance with other men of their acquaintance.
But instead of this having the desired effect, Edward had gradually
come to believe it all; it had been so consistently impressed upon him
that he was a poor sort of a chap anyway, and the inevitable result
was--the envelope presented to him that morning by Mr. Schultz.
And now, on this calm autumn evening the chains of fifteen years fell
from him and the spirit of Edward Povey underwent a change. He began
to think that it was a good, full world--a world in which there were
more things and higher possibilities than the evil-smelling
counting-house of Kyser, Schultz & Company. He told himself that he
had wasted nearly a quarter of a century.
The city was settling to quietude under a pall of smoky opal. The
warehouses and buildings stood out gaunt and grey. The river flowing
under the railway arches up-stream was splashed with the glory of the
setting sun, little elusive reflections showing blood-red on the muddy
water. Edward had crossed London Bridge for many years, but he did not
remember ever having seen a sunset there.
Clapham! The world was bigger than Clapham.--Forty years of age! Why,
it was the prime of a man's life, rather before the prime, in fact.
Edward stopped, there was no hurry to-night, and leant over the parapet
of the bridge. Below him, on the wharf, they were unloading a tramp
steamer of boxes of fruit. The men swarming like ants up the long
gangways were carrying on their backs light crates. One of these boxes
had come apart and lay on the grimy deck shedding a little pool of
golden oranges. The clatter of winches, the jangling of cranes, all
served to make up a picture of life and movement that appealed strongly
to the man who was leaning over the stone balustrade. He could read
the name on the stern of the boat, "_Isabella--Barcelona_."
There were other boats too, and barges, huddling together as though for
warmth like little chickens in an incubator. The bascules of the Tower
Bridge, showing dimly in the haze, were being raised to let a
white-funneled steamer that was cautiously sidling out into mid-stream
slip down to the sea. Two men were working vigorously with long poles,
guiding a barge laden with straw out of her way. Edward Povey watched
her, telling himself that in a few hours she would be making her way
down Channel or breasting the waves in the North Sea. Later she would
be in some palm-fringed Southern port, or perhaps amid the romantic
islands and fjords of the North.
He wished that he, too, could go abroad, that he too could slide out of
London on the dingy bosom of Father Thames. He longed to breathe the
large airs of the ocean, to feel the sting of the salt spray, and to
reach the places blazoned so bravely forth in gold letters upon the
sterns below him. Barcelona, for instance, spoke of sunny skies and
indolence and romance, and he felt a great pity for the surging masses
of which he had so lately been one, who pushed past him with never a
glance for the river or the sunset, or for the _Isabella_ from
Barcelona.
A light tap on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie, to see the
genial face of Mr. Kyser, the other partner of the firm to whom he had
been correspondence clerk for so many years. Edward had never had much
to do with the junior partner, but what small relations they had had
seemed to be touched with more humanity than was the case with Mr.
Schultz.
"----and so you are leaving us, Mr. Povey?" Kyser was saying.
"Yes, sir, I----"
"Well, Povey, I'm sorry, yes, I'm sorry; but there, I can't interfere
with what Mr. Schultz does, it's his department, you know, but I didn't
want to pass you without a handshake. Let me see, you live at Clapham,
don't you?"
Edward Povey nodded.
"We'll get a taxi, then--or, better still, come and have a chop with
me--I want a word with you."
Edward was delighted. Surely things were far better than they had been
for a quarter of a century. Yesterday this same man would have passed
him with perhaps a nod, perhaps not even that.
The change that had come over Edward since his release from bondage was
evidently being sustained by events. For fifteen years he had passed
the spacious grill-room in Gracechurch Street, with its noble array of
chops and parsley in the window, in which he now found himself, on his
way to the little eating-house up the court where he had taken his
modest midday meal of sandwiches and stout. There was a sense of
well-being about his present surroundings that gave him a feeling as
though he had set foot in a new world and that he meant to remain in
it. The snowy linen, the silver and glass, the little green-curtained
alcoves, the obsequious waiters, the flickering and hissing of the
grill at the further end of the room, presided over by the white-clad
chef, all played their part in the awakening of Edward Povey.
"It's not much that I wanted to speak to you about, Povey, but I
thought you might help me. You'll be looking round for another place,
I suppose, but if you can find time to run out to Bushey now and again,
you'll be obliging me--personally."
Edward Povey expressed his willingness to do all that lay in his power.
"It's only to have a look at my little cottage there, Povey; I've been
living there on and off, and now I'm off to Switzerland. My man goes
with me, so I want you to run out and see that things are all right.
I'll give you the key. Any letters that come you can keep for me until
my return. I've got a few decent pictures at the cottage and some old
silver that I'm anxious not to leave altogether unattended. Can I
count on you?"
Edward repeated his assurances, but a sense of disappointment had come
over him as Kyser had been speaking. The adventure was not panning out
as he had hoped. At the same time, he told himself that he would be
paid for his services, perhaps liberally, and it might prevent him
having to touch the little nest-egg in the Post Office Savings Bank.
When Edward parted with his late employer and left the grill-room it
was with the key of Adderbury Cottage, Bushey Heath, in his pocket, and
rather a feeling of resentment against Mr. Kyser and his firm, who did
not hesitate to use a servant of twenty-two years' standing as a mere
caretaker.
And resentment was a dangerous thing in the brain of the new Edward
Povey.