TREMOOR
The morning of November the fifteenth dawned full of promise. For
three days previously the toe of Cornwall had been victimized by
sea-mists, accompanied by a lashing rain from the south-west, and the
time had hung heavily upon the hands of Mr. Povey. He appreciated now
to the full how he had cut himself adrift from his whole past, and the
knowledge that even his address was known to no living soul gave him a
curious and chilling sense of isolation.
He took moody walks about the straggling town or along the deserted
promenade to the fishy but artistic Newlyn, where he would stroll
aimlessly through the steep and narrow streets or stand and gaze out
over the froth-capped waves of the bay to where St. Michael's Mount
rose a gaunt, grey silhouette in the prevailing gloom. The evenings he
spent in the cosy little bar at the back of the hotel.
The papers, which he devoured greedily, were silent on the Kyser
mystery, and Edward could only speculate on the way things were going,
and he smiled as he wondered if they had arrested Uncle Jasper yet.
He had written a long and comprehensive letter to the Princess,
acquainting her with all the facts of her birth and the tragedy which
had followed it, and of his mission. It had seemed to him a far easier
course than telling her all the details personally. He referred her to
her nurse for all particulars, and he told her that it was in deference
to Mr. Baxendale's wish that he was deferring the pleasure of calling
upon her until the actual day of her birthday.
Edward admitted to himself that there was a suggestion of nervousness
in his manner as he made a more than usually studied toilet. He took
simplicity and dignity as the keynotes of his attire, choosing a black
cravat and black _suede_ gloves as a mark of respect for the tragedy in
the case. This he looked upon as an inspiration and one calculated to
make a good impression upon the Princess. His brown shoes, too, he
discarded for a serviceable pair of black walking boots, it being his
intention to walk the three or four miles to Tremoor. He stopped at a
florist's and purchased a little bouquet of white roses.
The promise of the early morning had been duly fulfilled, and the sun
shone a glorious augury on the undertaking, as at ten-thirty he left
the hotel.
The road he took was one to the north-west, and, after leaving the town
behind, it led him into a treeless, desolated district of wild moors
and granite-strewn carns. Villages of a few houses, scattered here and
there, showed white-washed walls and grey lichen-patched roofs against
the golden glory of the bracken. Across the moor broken stone hedges
straggled out at odd angles, and buildings falling into decay, roofless
and with floorings of rank vegetation, spoke of the time when this
district was populated by men engaged in wresting the wealth of tin
from its fastnesses in Mother Earth. A cluster of dead mine buildings
showed gauntly upon the horizon, their tall chimneys and ruined
engine-houses crumbling into decay--a very Pompeii of Industry. From
the high ground the sea could be seen on two sides--facing him to the
north the Atlantic, whilst to the south the waters of Mount's Bay
reflected the blue of the cloudless sky.
Tremoor Churchtown lay in a valley between two rugged carns, a valley
which, if followed, would lead to some rocky cove whose silver-sanded
beach gave upon the broad Atlantic. As Edward topped the rise and
stood looking down upon the peaceful hamlet with its square church
tower, he asked himself whether Baxendale had been wise to wish to
destroy the bliss of the Princess's ignorance--whether it had not been
better that she should know nothing of the stress of power, but that
she should spend her life doing good to those in the little village at
his feet.
Then Edward Povey shook himself, and with a firm tread picked his way
between the gorse bushes and the ivy-covered boulders down to a trim
little house that stood at the edge of the cluster of white-washed
cottages that comprised the village of Tremoor.
As he paused at the little green gate let in the rough stone wall, the
door opened and the Princess came smilingly down the path to meet him.
She walked with the springy step of youth and health, and held out her
hand with an engaging frankness.
A little below the medium height, the Princess made up in dignity what
she lacked in inches. Never had Edward seen such a perfectly
proportioned little figure, nor such a graceful carriage. She was
dressed in a tailor-made gown of dark blue cloth, and in her chestnut
hair she had threaded a black ribbon.
Her face was rather round than oval and the chin was dimpled. The
mouth, too, when she smiled caused other dimples to leap into play, and
one could easily imagine that she very often _did_ smile. The eyes,
large and dark, laughed and danced beneath a pair of perfectly drawn
brows, fairly thick and arching, and tapering down to a point that
looked like a single hair at their ends. Her cheeks, tanned a
delicious brown by the Cornish sun, were a little flushed with
excitement.
"Mr. Sydney, is it not?"
Edward bowed and raised his hat.
"And you are the Princess Miranda," he said.
The girl put a finger to her smiling lips.
"Not that here, Mr. Sydney--here, in Tremoor, I am Miss Galva
Baxendale--my friends would not know me by any name but that."
She turned as she spoke and preceded him up the little path, bordered
by clumps of hydrangea, veronica and fuchsia, to the house. The garden
on either side of the shingle path, a curious mixture of vegetables and
flowers, glowed with all the tints of autumn.
At the door of the house a lady was awaiting them, a white-haired woman
of some fifty years of age, tall, and with the most piercing black eyes
Edward had ever seen. She received him graciously, and led the way
into a room to the right of the little passage. It was an apartment
larger than one would have looked for in a house of the size, and was
low-ceilinged and lighted by two diamond-paned windows which looked
over the moor.
The walls, papered a dull grey-green, were wainscoted to the height of
an elbow with dark oak, and were hung with etchings and engravings,
mostly of local scenery, in narrow black frames. The table laid for
luncheon was tastefully decorated with little silver pots containing
slender ferns, and in the centre a tall glass held a sheaf of late
campions.
Edward felt at ease immediately with his two hostesses, and he
appreciated to the full the well-served meal. The subject of the
"mission" of Mr. Sydney was not touched upon until coffee had been
brought, then--
"And what is it you are going to do with me, Mr. Sydney?" the girl
laughed across the table.
"I--I hardly know, Miss Baxendale; the matter rests more with you, I
think, than with me. I'm merely here if I'm wanted, as it were." He
turned to the elder lady. "There is, I suppose, no two questions on
the matter--I mean on the matter of our journey?"
For a moment there was silence between the three. When Miranda spoke,
a suggestion of sadness had come into her voice. She rose and put her
arms round her foster-mother's neck.
"_You_ want to go to San Pietro, Anna," she said, "for all these years
you have been away from your native land. There must be many things
that you pine for over there, many friends you will want to see."
Anna Paluda raised her fine eyes to the girl's face.
"Yes, Galva, my dear, there are many things I want to see."
She spoke sadly, and Edward turned in his chair and gazed out over the
wild waste of heath aglow with its tints of cinnamon and mauve. A
kestrel wheeled slowly across his vision uttering its dismal cry.
His thoughts were of the sad-voiced, white-haired lady--and again a
unit in the adventure took individuality.
For the first time he thought of what the enterprise meant for Anna
Paluda. Away in the vaulted splendour of the cathedral at Corbo, her
baby had been sleeping unavenged for fifteen years, sleeping on a royal
breast in a tomb emblazoned with the arms of the Estratos. What had
been the anguish of this mother's heart, who, for the sake of her
secret, had been forced to nurse her grief alone? What a cruel
scourging of the old wound the return would mean to her.
When Edward turned again, Galva had resumed her seat. He drew up to
the table and took from his pocket the things that Mr. Nixon had given
him, a few articles of jewellery, and a letter. The girl opened the
letter. It was addressed to
SENOR LUAZO,
_Calle Mendaro_, 66,
_Corbo_,
and set out at full length the history of Mr. Baxendale's find in the
wood. Not an item of evidence had been overlooked that could prove the
truth of Miranda's parentage. The jewellery comprised two or three
rings and a brooch, engraved with the royal arms. These Anna had
snatched up in their hurried flight from the palace.
The princess read to the end, but there was nothing that she had not
already learnt from her foster-mother. On the arrival of Edward's
letter, two days previous, Anna had told her charge the whole history.
To her mind, the evidence was not as complete as she might have wished.
She tried to look at it with the eyes of strangers, to whom the story
of the substitution of the children might suggest a plot.
They discussed the matter in all its bearings. The love of adventure
and the call of romance appealed strongly to the eighteen-year-old
girl, and made the suggested journey a very desirable thing. They
would go to Senor Luazo in the Calle Mendaro, and place the whole facts
of the affair before him. There could be no harm in that. They would
travel under the names of Mr. Sydney and Miss Baxendale, his ward, and,
with the money at their disposal, could stay in Corbo and see how the
land lay. There would be nothing in their appearance or manner to
single them out from the other families who wintered in the little
white villas that bordered the beautiful bay of Lucana, which was fast
rivalling Monte Carlo as a pleasure resort. The names Galva and
Baxendale would suggest nothing. The girl had dropped her real name of
Miranda for so long; she could do so for a few months more.
The cottage in Cornwall need not be given up; some woman in the village
could easily be found to look after it during their absence. In the
mean time, Mr. Sydney (as Edward must now be called) must bring his
traps from Penzance and stay with them at Morna Cottage.
* * * * *
It was late afternoon, and the two women were taking a last walk on the
carn above the house in which they had lived so long. The scene around
them was magnificent in the extreme. Away to the west sea and sky were
stained with the afterglow of the setting sun. Around them the
desolate moors stretched out in gentle undulations, shadowy and
mysterious. In the clear twilight the lights of the coast shone out;
below them, the four flashes of Pendeen, and, further up the shore,
Godrevy and Trevose flickered uncertainly to the distant sight. In a
little while it would be dark enough to make out the light on the
Scilly Islands, blinking like a great red eye over the Atlantic.
The village in the valley was fast merging into the dusk; here and
there a yellow light twinkled from a window. Miranda grew sad as she
looked.
"It is all so beautiful, Anna, and I have been so happy here. I fear
sometimes at the journey we are taking--perhaps we will never see all
this again, and I love every stone of Tremoor."
Anna Paluda placed her arm tenderly round the young shoulders.
"There are fine sights, too, in San Pietro, Miranda--_our_ land. I can
remember now the colours that the Yeldo hills take in the evening; the
sea, too, is beautiful in the bay, and we also have the storms that you
love to watch so much.
"Besides," she went on, "you may return, but I--never. I, too, had a
'mission'; it is nearly over now, and I must stay with my child.
No--don't pity me, Miranda; the time of tears is long past, but the
grief is here still. But we won't talk of my mission. This is not the
time for troubling your royal little head over the long-ago affairs of
an old woman."
With arms linked affectionately they walked down to the house.