THE BOAT FROM THE MAINLAND
If the days hung heavily upon the heart of the captive in the castle on
the Alcador road, they hung no less heavily upon the man who waited in
Venta Villa.
The culpability of one's actions is too often determined by the worldly
success, or otherwise, which attends them, and Edward Povey was
experiencing some very bitter moments. Had Galva been firmly and
happily seated in the great throne-room up there in the Palace, he
would have carried his head high and have looked upon himself as a
hero, and his usurpation of the character of Sydney Kyser as a
meritorious act.
But under the existing circumstances he cursed himself for a meddlesome
idiot, or worse, and prayed that he might suddenly awake to find
himself dozing over the corner desk in the dingy Eastcheap
counting-house or in his shabby arm-chair in the front room at Belitha
Villas.
Hitherto he had accepted his present luxurious surroundings as due to
him for the trouble he was taking; now each item of them became a stab.
The well-cooked dinners which he took miserably with Anna Paluda seemed
like to choke him, and the dainty hangings of his little bedroom,
overlooking the bay, became a physical torture to him. The letter sent
him by Jasper Jarman also rankled deeply. He wished he had kept the
letter now, that he might read it again and again as a penance.
By a stroke of ill-fortune Senor Luazo was confined to his room with an
attack of gout, and the fashionable physician who attended that
estimable gentleman had made it clear to Edward that his patient was
not to be disturbed. Any help or even advice from that quarter was out
of the question.
But Mr. Povey had not been content to rest in idleness; as far as it
was possible he had acted. Disguised, he had ingratiated himself with
the landlord of The Three Lilies, and had spent hours together behind
the little curtain of the window of the room vacated by Uncle Jasper,
which overlooked the house and gardens of Gabriel Dasso. He had,
however, gained little by this, save one important point, the certainty
that Lieutenant Mozara was, without doubt, malingering in the matter of
his injuries.
The gallant officer, thinking himself secure behind the high walls of
Dasso's garden, had relaxed his precautions. Twice the watchful eye at
the window opposite had seen the crutch discarded and the black silk
sling hanging empty.
Beyond the comfort derived from this confirmation of the suspicions
which Anna Paluda had planted in his mind, Edward could make no use of
the information gained. Any day now he might receive an answer to the
letter he had sent to M. Brea in Paris, and until that came he was
loath to act. He felt that, with the help of the Duc de Choleaux
Lasuer, he would be more than a match for the conspirators. At the
same time, for Galva's sake, he determined that should no word reach
him within the next three days he would put the matter before the
British Consul.
He had met the monocled nonentity who represented the interests of
Great Britain in the island kingdom. Senor Luazo had introduced them
in the cafe attached to the Casino, and Edward had not been impressed.
The Consul did not appear to him to be the man to lean on in any great
emergency. Commerce between the idle inhabitants of San Pietro and
English ports was confined to the few boxes of dried fruits of two
Jewish firms in the business quarter of Corbo, and the Government post
in the service of His Britannic Majesty on the little island was not
one sought after by ambitious men. No, on second thoughts, Edward did
not feel inclined to disturb the alcohol-engendered ease of the
Honourable Bertie Traverson unless it became absolutely necessary.
The evening following the day on which Teresa learnt the identity of
Galva Baxendale, Edward was sitting in the little library at Venta
Villa, reading for the hundredth time a telegram which he had that
morning received. A knock at the door caused him to crumple this up
guiltily in his hands as the servant entered. A man was at the door
asking for Mr. Sydney--rather a curious person, the servant
volunteered, respectfully. Edward, eager for anything to relieve the
period of waiting, went out into the hall. A rough individual was
there, standing on the mat, his clothes dripping and making little
rain-pools on the tiled floor.
As he saw Edward he bowed a black shaggy head, and from the sodden
recesses of his heavy coat produced a dirty envelope which he held out.
Edward could see it was addressed to Mr. Sydney, at the Venta Villa,
Corbo. The light in the hall was not good, and Povey stepped back into
the library to open and read the letter. A moment later he was again
out in the hall, calling to the servant to bring wine for the
messenger. To his surprise the man had disappeared, the little pools
of water alone remaining to show where he had stood. Edward flung open
the door. The wind swept the rain in his face in clouds, and that,
together with the darkness, made the man's retreat secure. Having rid
himself of the letter entrusted to him, the carrier of the Alcador road
considered he had done all that could be expected of him. Remembering
the air of mystery with which Teresa had given him the envelope, he
wished to be done with the affair. Curiosity was not one of his
failings, and the suspiciously generous payment the old woman had made
him was burning in his pockets with a flame that called for the
extinguishing wine of a little inn he knew, nestling beneath the shadow
of the cathedral.
Edward Povey cleared the flight of richly carpeted stairs in three
bounds and burst frantically into the little drawing-room. The
black-gowned figure in the arm-chair, drawn up to the fire, rose at his
entrance and stood facing him inquiringly; one arm resting on the
chair-back, with the other she pressed a lace handkerchief to her lips.
The room was lighted by a single cluster of electric bulbs only, but
Edward could see that Anna Paluda's face was chalky-grey, and that the
large eyes looked tired with tears.
"She's found, Anna. Galva's safe."
The woman thanked God and reached out a trembling hand for the letter.
Edward switched on the other lights, and together they devoured Galva's
message. As they finished reading it the second time the chimes of the
cathedral clock reached them.
"Twelve o'clock, Anna. Nothing can be done to-night. And the
rain--listen to it."
Anna sat silent for a moment gazing out through the blurred panes at
the inky blackness beyond. The rain lashed the windows like a shower
of sand, and the waves breaking on the shore below voiced a distant
monotony. Edward was right, nothing could be done at once, except to
go to bed and get what rest one might against the morrow.
Left alone, Povey took out the telegram he had been reading and had
hastily thrust into his jacket pocket on the entrance of the servant.
He smoothed it out on a little table. It was from the Duc de Choleaux
Lasuer, and as Edward read it again he told himself that he was nearing
the end of his tribulations.
He had been rather averse to showing the cable to Anna. She knew
nothing of the affection, if it can be called only that, which existed
between Galva and the duke, or if she had noticed it in Paris it had
long ago left her memory. Edward doubted whether she would think it
wise, this calling in of a stranger to their affairs.
The message was quite brief, and stated simply that the sender had
reached Spain and was leaving by the boat which was due to arrive at
Port Corbo at nine that evening. Edward had waited anxiously in the
rain until the harbour master had told him that the heavy weather had
delayed the sturdy little vessel, which acted as passenger, cargo and
mail steamer between the island and the mainland. The man had said
that she had not yet passed the Point at the arm of the bay where the
alternate red and white flashes of the distant lighthouse showed dimly
through the driving rain. Edward had learnt that she could not berth
before two in the morning, and he had returned to the Villa for
refreshment and dry clothes.
At one o'clock he quietly ascertained that Anna had retired for the
night, then, putting on a long mackintosh, crept from the house and
started on the mile or more walk to the dock side. The rain had now
nearly ceased, and the esplanade lay a glistening line of wet asphalt
in front of him, in which the arc lamps threw a clean reflection. The
wind still blew in fitful gusts, scattering the raindrops from the
leaves of the trees that bordered the pavement.
The promenade was deserted, save for a few waiting motor-cars and
carriages outside the Casino. From time to time a whistle would call
one of these up to the entrance, and Edward would catch a glimpse of
black-coated men holding umbrellas over the dainty figures of lightly
cloaked women who, with skirts well bunched up over slender ankles and
high-heeled shoes, made a dash for the carriage door.
And here and there were shuffling figures edging along in the shadows.
These were the denizens of the hinterland of Corbo, night-birds who
crept out to the fashionable haunts in the dark hours, bent on plunder,
or perhaps the honest earning of a little of the money which was being
so freely spent there.
Past the Opera House and the gardens the way became darker. The arc
lamps became further apart, and the few cafes that were still open
showed sleepy waiters standing moodily behind the great plate-glass
windows, waiting for the stragglers to depart.
As Edward walked on he thought of the coming interview, debating within
himself whether or no he should acquaint the new arrival with the true
state of affairs. He felt that the secret was not altogether his own,
and now that he had heard from Galva that she was safe and in no
immediate danger, he said that there was no need to act hurriedly. He
rather wished, in fact, that he had not been so hasty in writing. The
duke would be useful certainly, but he complicated matters.
As he neared the dock the way became increasingly difficult. The
Powers that Be in the Island of San Pietro made up for their lavish
pandering to their rich visitors by altogether neglecting those
portions of the town that lay remote from the Casino. Short, narrow
streets, the houses of which seemed tumbling in on one in the darkness,
straggled down to the waterside. In places, the particular road which
Edward had taken was so steep that rough slabs of granite had been
crudely laid down in a series of steps, broad and shallow, down which
he stumbled dangerously.
The houses, for the most part, were in darkness, save where here and
there an open door silhouetted the shrouded figure of a woman who would
whisper to him as he hurried past. A party of Swedish sailors were
quarrelling under the hanging oil-lamp of an inn, the doors of which
were being hastily shut and bolted. Edward passed unnoticed, and in a
moment emerged on the broad cobbled wharf.
Here, doubtless with a view of favourably impressing arriving visitors,
the Powers that Be proved more prodigal with illumination, and a row of
arc lamps showed the misty forms of a few tramp steamers huddled up to
the dock edge. A little knot of seamen and luggage touts stood looking
out towards the open sea. From one of the boats a wheezy concertina
was accompanying a rich tenor voice singing an old English ballad.
His friend, the harbour master, was not to be seen, but Edward learnt
from one of the seamen that the Spanish boat was expected to be
alongside in the course of half an hour. He could hear the syren
booming dismally.
Edward Povey buried his chin more deeply between the storm-collars of
his mackintosh and waited, pacing up and down in the raw, damp mist.