"And he?" she interrupted,--"he died there. Well?"
"You know the laurel hedge by the sun-dial? There is an out-house where
the gardener keeps his tools. I found a spade there, and beneath that
laurel hedge I buried him."
Lady Featherstone rose to her feet. She spoke no word; she uttered no
cry; her face was white and terrible. She stood rigid like one
paralysed; then she swayed round and fell in a swoon upon the floor. And
as she fell, something bright slipped from her hand and dropped at
Wogan's feet. He picked it up. It was a stiletto. He stood looking down
at the childish figure with a queer compassionate smile upon his face.
"She could love," said he; "yes, she could love."
He walked out of the house, led his horse back onto the road and mounted
it. The night was gathering; there were purple shadows upon the
Apennines. Wogan rode away alone.
Chapter 26 Epilogue Sir Charles Wogan had opportunities enough to appreciate in later years
the accuracy of Maria Vittoria's prophecy. "Here are two people
cross-mated," said she, and events bore her out. The jealousies of
courtiers no doubt had their share in the estrangement of that unhappy
couple, but that was no consolation to Wogan, who saw, within so short a
time of that journey into Italy, James separated from the chosen woman,
and the chosen woman herself seeking the seclusion of a convent. As his
reward he was made Governor of La Mancha in Spain, and no place could
have been found with associations more suitable to this Irishman who
turned his back upon his fortunes at Peri. At La Mancha he lived for
many years, writing a deal of Latin verse, and corresponding with many
distinguished men in England upon matters of the intellect. Matters of
the heart he left alone, and meddled with no more. Nor did any woman
ever ride on his black horse into his city of dreams. He lived and died
a bachelor. The memory of that week when he had rescued his Princess and
carried her through the snows was to the last too vivid in his thoughts.
The thunderous roll of the carriage down the slopes, the sparks
striking from the wheels, the sound of Clementina's voice singing softly
in the darkness of the carriage, the walk under the stars to Ala, the
coming of the dawn about that lonely hut, high-placed amongst the pines.
These recollections bore him company through many a solitary evening.
Somehow the world had gone awry. Clementina, withdrawn into her convent,
was, after all, "wasted," as he had sworn she should not be. James was
fallen upon a deeper melancholy, and diminished hopes. He himself was an
exile alone in his white patio in Spain. In only one point was Maria
Vittoria's prophecy at fault. She had spoken of two who were to find no
mates, and one of the two was herself. She married five years later.