THE LIEUTENANT HONOURS GALVA
The residence which Edward Povey Sydney had chosen for his party
occupied a central position overlooking the blue waters of the
Mediterranean, and embracing a fine view of the Bay of Lucana from the
verdure-clad heights of the western arm to the tiny white lighthouse
that stood sentinel on the spur of rock to the eastward.
The house itself was modern, having been built five years before
Edward's arrival by a Cornhill financier, to whom the extradition laws
of San Pietro offered as much inducement as the climate. But at the
end of his first year's residence the call of the joys of London proved
too strong for the poor man of finance, and the change from the luxury
of Venta Villa to the hardships of a cell at Dartmoor had been as
unpleasant as it had been swift.
Whatever may have been the failings of the poor gentleman--and
doubtless they were many and varied--he had shown a pretty taste in the
designing and building of Venta Villa and a wise expenditure of his--or
rather other people's--money. The house stood high, having the
appearance of being propped up by a series of little lawns and white
terraces. The steps leading from the front portico, widening out as
they descended, gave upon a square courtyard in which played
curiously-carved little fountains. Palms in green tubs lined this
pathway of steps, and the banks of the lawns were gay with flowering
shrubs.
Miss Baxendale, looking adorable in an old rose, tailor-made gown, that
set off the slender lines of her little figure to perfection, stood on
the top step debating how and where to spend the hour or so before
_dejeuner_.
It was a glorious morning in late January, and the girl's eyes and
cheeks glowed with health as she drank in the delicious morning air.
Below her the promenade was bright with a happy, well-dressed crowd,
the sprinkling of uniforms adding greatly to the gaiety of the scene.
Slender victorias and smart dog-carts trotted up and down under the
acacias, and shapely motors threaded their noiseless way in and out of
the slower traffic, the sun glinting bravely upon their polished brass
and silver.
So occupied was the little lady with the novelty and beauty of her
surroundings, that she did not at first notice the scarlet and black
figure which had detached itself from the crowd of promenaders and now
stood trying to attract her attention at the gateway of the lower
courtyard. When she did so, she smiled, and waving her long white
gloves, ran lightly down to him.
It cannot be said that she was in any way attracted to Lieutenant
Gaspar Mozara, in fact, had she asked herself the question, she would
have said that she disliked him, but she was gracious to the young
soldier from a sense of duty to his uncle, for since presenting Mr.
Baxendale's letter to Senor Luazo, the old aristocrat had done
everything in his power to make their stay on the island a pleasant one.
As to the true object of their coming to San Pietro, Galva had been
willing, as in Paris, to let things in the mean time shape themselves.
Senor Luazo also, when put in possession of all the facts, advised
caution.
There seemed to her something horrible in the thought of "plotting" in
this gay little kingdom. To her the name of "plot" meant bloodshed and
hardships, and the world in all its beauty was so new, and seemed so
good to her, that she was loath to endanger her newly-acquired
paradise. She had even told Edward that she had no immediate desire to
be a queen of anywhere, let alone San Pietro--life in the little villa,
overlooking the bay, seemed to her far more desirable than existence in
the rather ugly royal palace on the hills behind the town--the palace
with its long rows of square windows, that reminded her of a workhouse.
And in her own heart she was looking forward to the visit to Paris in a
year, and her thoughts ran on the Duc de Choleaux Lasuer more often
than Mr. Sydney or Anna suspected. She told herself that she did not
want to take that journey as a queen, with a crowd of irritating
courtiers and maids-of-honour.
"I suppose this is the height of the season, Lieutenant Mozara," she
said, indicating the butterfly throng moving round them as they made
their way along the boulevard; "how happy and gay they all seem, and
what a happy and gay little kingdom you have here--laughter, laughter
everywhere."
"Yes, Miss Baxendale, it is the season--we have a long one. We are
always happy here; it is only in the height of summer that it is quiet,
and then there's nobody here to see it. All these villas are empty
then, and everybody who is anybody is in London or Paris. When the
king dies, however----"
"Why, is King Enrico very ill?"
"Surely you have heard, Miss Baxendale, that it is only a matter of
months, perhaps weeks. There will be trouble then, I'm afraid. You
see, the heir-apparent is not popular. It will be the chance for a
strong man then."
"But this heir--is he here, in Corbo?"
"Here? he's never here. It's little he troubles about San Pietro.
They say he's in Africa now, shooting lions or something silly. The
man who keeps his throne warm for him will hardly welcome him when he
does come back."
"And who will this man be--this man who keeps his throne warm?"
The young soldier turned and pointed with his cane to where Senor
Dasso's house rose, gaunt and forbidding, above the roofs and gables of
the old town.
"Dasso, undoubtedly--and with him will rise others. I am a friend of
Dasso's," he added meaningly.
"Which means----?"
The lieutenant made an expressive gesture with his shoulders.
"Who knows? A dukedom perhaps"; then, as he looked at her, "I shall
have to be looking out for a duchess."
The girl laughed, and gazed out over the sea.
"She will be a lucky woman," she said carelessly.
For a little while the smart figure in its astrakhan tunic and scarlet
riding-breeches walked on beside Galva in silence. During the two
months of their acquaintance, Lieutenant Mozara had found himself
irresistibly attracted by this beautiful girl from England, and the
task imposed upon him during the last week by Senor Dasso had been
irksome and distasteful in the extreme. Since the eventful night of
the marked cards the two men had not met, but Dasso would soon be
getting impatient, and Mozara had during the last few days learnt much
respecting Miss Baxendale's presence in San Pietro, and he suspected
more.
He found himself between two stools, his fear of Dasso and the
unbounded ambition that his suspicions of Galva's parentage had roused
in him. As the accepted suitor of the girl by his side he would be in
a strong position--strong enough, perhaps, to defy his enemy. But he
told himself he must speak before her secret was known, it would be
impossible after.
These thoughts ran quickly through his brain as they walked along the
crowded promenade. Then, impetuous as ever, he bent his head until his
lips all but touched a tendril of dark hair that had strayed from under
the fascinating toque that Galva wore.
"You think so, really, Miss Baxendale, that she will be a lucky woman.
Will _you_ be she?"
In a moment the little face became white and set.
"Lieutenant Mozara!"
"Is it so strange, then, that I should have learnt to love you? We of
the South do not hesitate to speak where our hearts are concerned. I
ask you, is it strange?"
"I--I--don't know how to answer you, lieutenant, I only know
that--that----Oh! I didn't expect this."
"Do you dislike me, Miss Baxendale?"
"Dislike--oh no, but I do not love you."
"And you could never do so?"
The girl paused in her walk and faced the young soldier. "This
conversation is distasteful to me, Lieutenant Mozara. If you will have
an answer, it is that I could never look upon you except as a friend."
A look of anger came into Mozara's narrow eyes.
"That sounds final," he said rather nastily; "there is some one else,
then?"
"You have no right to say that," and Galva thought again of a certain
nobleman and of delightful rides in the glades of Fontainebleu.
"Pardon me, Miss Baxendale, I have offended you."
"Offended--no, but I am afraid you have put a stop to a very pleasant
friendship. These walks will be impossible now, won't they?"
The girl smiled a sad little smile and went on: "I have some shopping
to do, lieutenant, and that street up there looks promising. Do you
know, a woman can tell a shop miles away."
She held out her hand, and in a moment she was gone, leaving Lieutenant
Gaspar Mozara with anger in his heart.
"So it must be the other way, my lady; Gaspar Mozara does not ask
twice." He said this between set teeth, and hailing a passing fiacre,
gave the direction of Senor Dasso's house in the old town.
* * * * *
Dasso was sitting reading in the oak-panelled library. It was a
dignified apartment, low ceilinged and sombre in colouring. The
firelight played richly on the dark red hangings and on the pewter
which stood on the low bookcases. In shadowy corners stood suits of
armour, with here and there a choice bronze statue.
The ex-Dictator put aside the book and rose as the lieutenant was
announced, and held out his hand with a show of greeting.
"I have been expecting you," he said.
Gaspar Mozara drew a chair up to face his host, and threw himself into
it with an oath. Dasso looked his inquiries.
"Expecting me, have you? It was useless my worrying you, senor, until
I had news."
Senor Dasso rose and put his hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Now look here, Gaspar, there's no need for you to be surly. There are
times ahead in San Pietro, and you should be honoured to think that I
have chosen you to work with me. Oh, I know you are thinking of those
cards--they are just my safeguard, nothing more, against treachery. A
hand such as I am playing does not allow of throwing away a single
trick, of missing a single chance. Work with me, Gaspar, and forget
that you ever played poker."
A manservant entered and placed refreshment on the table and
noiselessly withdrew.
Dasso poured out Madeira into two thin goblets of Venetian glass and
handed one to the young man, who stood looking into the fire, seeing in
the glowing coals the disdainful face of Galva Baxendale. He stood up
with a clanking of spurs on the polished oak floor and took the glass.
"To Dasso," he said, with a reckless laugh; "To King Gabriel the First."
He drained the goblet, then: "You may burn the cards, Dasso, as I have
burned my boats. Heart and soul I am with you, and any work in your
cause I will do, for it is my cause, too, now. And the more devilish
the work the better I shall like it. My fiacre is outside, Dasso; I
will come again this evening. My news can hold till then; I am taking
Julie to lunch at Amato's."