Complete works of a e w.., p.347
Complete Works of a E W Mason, page 347
“Your Highness, the truth is there are great matters brewing in Spain. His Majesty was needed there most urgently. He had to decide between Innspruck and Cadiz, and it seemed that he would honour your great confidence in him and at the same time serve you best—”
Clementina would not allow him to complete the sentence. Her cheek flushed, and she said quickly, —
“You are right, Mr. Wogan. The King is right. Mine was a girl’s thought. I am ashamed of it;” and she frankly gave him her hand. Wogan was fairly well pleased with his apology for his King. It was not quite the truth, no doubt, but it had spared Clementina a trifle of humiliation, and had re-established the King in her thoughts. He bent over her hand and would have kissed it, but she stopped him.
“No,” said she, “an honest handclasp, if you please; for no woman can have ever lived who had a truer friend,” and Wogan, looking into her frank eyes, was not, after all, nearly so well pleased with the untruth he had told her. She was an uncomfortable woman to go about with shifts and contrivances. Her open face, with its broad forehead and the clear, steady eyes of darkest blue, claimed truth as a prerogative. The blush which had faded from her cheeks appeared on his, and he began to babble some foolish word about his unworthiness when the Princess-mother interrupted him in a grudging voice, —
“Mr. Wogan, you were to bring a written authority from the Prince my husband.”
Wogan drew himself up straight.
“Your Highness,” said he, with a bow of the utmost respect, “I was given such an authority.”
The Princess-mother held out her hand. “Will you give it me?”
“I said that I was given such an authority. But I have it no longer. I was attacked on my way from Ohlau. There were five men against me, all of whom desired that letter. The room was small; I could not run away; neither had I much space wherein to resist five men. I knew that were I killed and that letter found on me, your Highness would thereafter be too surely guarded to make escape possible, and his Highness Prince Sobieski would himself incur the Emperor’s hostility. So when I had made sure that those five men were joined against me, I twisted that letter into a taper and before their faces lit my pipe with it.”
Clementina’s eyes were fixed steadily and intently upon Wogan’s face. When he ended she drew a deep breath, but otherwise she did not move. The Princess-mother, however, was unmistakably relieved. She spoke with a kindliness she had never shown before to Wogan; she even smiled at him in a friendly way.
“We do not doubt you, Mr. Wogan, but that written letter, giving my daughter leave to go, I needs must have before I let her go. A father’s authority! I cannot take that upon myself.”
Clementina took a quick step across to her mother’s side.
“You did not hear,” she said.
“I heard indeed that Mr. Wogan had burnt the letter.”
“But under what stress, and to spare my father and to leave me still a grain of hope. Mother, this gentleman has run great risks for me, — how great I did not know; even now in this one instance we can only guess and still fall short of the mark.”
The Princess-mother visibly stiffened with maternal authority.
“My child, without some sure sign the Prince consents, you must not go.”
Clementina looked towards Wogan for assistance. Wogan put his hand into his pocket.
“That sure sign I have,” said he. “It is a surer sign than any written letter; for handwriting may always be counterfeit. This could never be,” and he held out on the palm of his hand the turquoise snuff-box which the Prince had given him on New Year’s day. “It is a jewel unique in all the world, and the Prince gave it me. It is a jewel he treasured not only for its value, but its history. Yet he gave it me. It was won by the great King John of Poland, and remains as a memorial of the most glorious day in all that warrior’s glorious life; yet his son gave it me. With his own hands he put it into mine to prove to me with what confidence he trusted your Highness’s daughter to my care. That confidence was written large in the letter I burnt, but I am thinking it is engraved for ever upon this stone.”
The Princess-mother took the snuff-box reluctantly and turned it over and over. She was silent. Clementina answered for her.
“I am ready,” she said, and she pointed to a tiny bundle on a chair in which a few clothes were wrapped. “My jewels are packed in the bundle, but I can leave them behind me if needs be.”
Wogan lifted up the bundle and laughed.
“Your Highness teaches a lesson to soldiers; for there is never a knapsack but can hold this and still have half its space to spare. The front door is unlatched?”
“M. Chateaudoux is watching in the hall.”
“And the hall’s unlighted?”
“Yes.”
“Jenny should be here in a minute, and before she comes I must tell you she does not know the importance of our undertaking. She is the servant to Mrs. Misset, who attends your Highness into Italy. We did not let her into the secret. We made up a comedy in which you have your parts to play. Your Highness,” and he turned to Clementina, “is a rich Austrian heiress, deeply enamoured of Captain Lucius O’Toole.”
“Captain Lucius O’Toole!” exclaimed the mother, in horror. “My daughter enamoured of a Captain Lucius O’Toole!”
“He is one of my three companions,” said Wogan, imperturbably. “Moreover, he is six foot four, the most creditable lover in the world.”
“Well,” said Clementina, with a laugh, “I am deeply enamoured of the engaging Captain Lucius O’Toole. Go on, sir.”
“Your parents are of a most unexampled cruelty. They will not smile upon the fascinating O’Toole, but have locked you up on bread and water until you shall agree to marry a wealthy but decrepit gentleman of eighty-three.”
“I will not,” cried Clementina; “I will starve myself to death first. I will marry my six feet four or no other man in Christendom.”
“Clementina!” cried her mother, deprecatingly.
“But at this moment,” continued Wogan, “there very properly appears the fairy godmother in the person of a romantical maiden aunt.”
“Oh!” said Clementina, “I have a romantical maiden aunt.”
“Yes,” said Wogan, and turning with a bow to the Princess-mother; “your Highness.”
“I?” she exclaimed, starting up in her chair.
“Your Highness has written an encouraging letter to Captain O’Toole,” resumed Wogan. The Princess-mother gasped, “A letter to Captain O’Toole,” and she flung up her hands and fell back in her chair.
“On the receipt of the letter Captain O’Toole gathers his friends, borrows a horse here, a carriage there, and a hundred guineas from Heaven knows whom, comes to the rescue like a knight-errant, and retells the old story of how love laughs at locksmiths.”
As Wogan ended, the mother rose from her chair. It may have been that she revolted at the part she was to play; it may have been because a fiercer gust shook the curtain and bellied it inwards. At all events she flung the curtain aside; the snow drifted through the open window onto the floor; outside the open window it was falling like a cascade, and the air was icy.
“Mr. Wogan,” she said, stubbornly working herself into a heat to make more sure of her resolution, “my daughter cannot go to-night. To-morrow, if the sky clears, yes, but to-night, no. You do not know, sir, being a man. But my daughter has fasted through this Lent, and that leaves a woman weak. I do forbid her going, as her father would. The very dogs running the streets for food keep kennel on such a night. She must not go.”
Wogan did not give way, though he felt a qualm of despair, knowing all the stubbornness of which the weak are capable, knowing how impervious to facts or arguments.
“Your Highness,” he said quickly, “we are not birds of passage to rule our flight by seasons. We must take the moment when it comes, and it comes now. To-night your daughter can escape; for here’s a night made for an escape.”
“And for my part,” cried Clementina, “I would the snow fell faster.” She crossed to the open window and held out her hands to catch the flakes. “Would they did not melt! I believe Heaven sends the snow to shelter me. It’s the white canopy spread above my head, that I may go in state to meet my King.” She stood eager and exultant, her eyes shining, her cheek on fire, her voice thrilling with pride. She seemed not to feel the cold. She welcomed the hardships of wind and falling snow as her opportunity. She desired not only for escape, but also to endure.
Wogan looked her over from head to foot, filled with pride and admiration. He had made no mistake; he had plucked this rose of the world to give to his King. His eyes said it; and the girl, reading them, drew a breath and rippled out a laugh of gladness that his trusted servant was so well content with her. But the Princess-mother stood unmoved.
“My daughter cannot go to-night,” she repeated resentfully. “I do forbid it.”
Wogan had his one argument. This one argument was his last resource. He had chosen it carefully with an eye to the woman whom it was to persuade. It was not couched as an inducement; it did not claim the discharge of an obligation; it was not a reply to any definite objection. Such arguments would only have confirmed her in her stubbornness. He made accordingly an appeal to sentiment.
“Your Highness’s daughter,” said he, “spoke a minute since of the hazards my friends and I have run to compass her escape. As regards four of us, the words reached beyond our deserts. For we are men. Such hazards are our portion; they are seldom lightened by so high an aim. But the fifth! The words, however kind, were still below that fifth one’s merits; for the fifth is a woman.”
“I know. With all my heart I thank her. With all my heart I pity her.”
“But there is one thing your Highness does not know. She runs our risks, — the risk of capture, the risk of the night, the storm, the snow, she a woman by nature timid and frail, — yet with never in all her life so great a reason for timidity, or so much frailty of health as now. We venture our lives, but she ventures more.”
The mother bowed her head; Clementina looked fixedly at Wogan.
“Speak plainly, my friend,” she said. “There are no children here.”
“Madam, I need but quote to you the words her husband used. For my part, I think that nobler words were never spoken, and with her whole heart she repeats them. They are these: ‘The boy would only live to serve his King; why should he not serve his King before he lives?’”
The mother was still silent, but Wogan could see that the tears overbrimmed her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Clementina was silent for a while too, and stood with her eyes fixed thoughtfully on Wogan. Then she said gently, —
“Her name.”
Wogan told her it, and she said no more; but it was plain that she would never forget it, that she had written it upon her heart.
Wogan waited, looking to the Princess, who drying her tears rose from her chair and said with great and unexpected dignity, —
“How comes it, sir, that with such servants your King still does not sit upon his throne? My daughter shall not fall below the great example set to her. My fears are shamed by it. My daughter goes with you to-night.”
It was time that she consented, for even as Wogan flung himself upon his knee and raised her hand, M. Chateaudoux appeared at the door with a finger on his lips, and behind him one could hear a voice grumbling and cursing on the stairs.
“Jenny,” said Wogan, and Jenny stumbled into the room. “Quiet,” said he; “you will wake the house.”
“Well, if you had to walk upstairs in the dark in these horrible shoes—”
“Oh, Jenny, your cloak, quick!”
“Take the thing! A good riddance to it; it’s dripping wet, and weighs a ton.”
“Dripping wet!” moaned the mother.
“I shall not wear it long,” said Clementina, advancing from the embrasure of the window. Jenny turned and looked her over critically from head to foot. Then she turned away without a word and let the cloak fall to the ground. It fell about her feet; she kicked it viciously away, and at the same time she kicked off one of those shoes of which she so much complained. Jenny was never the woman to mince her language, and to-night she was in her surliest mood. So she swore simply and heartily, to the mother’s utter astonishment and indignation.
“Damn!” she said, hobbling across the room to the corner, whither her shoe had fallen. “There, there, old lady; don’t hold your hands to your ears as though a clean oath would poison them!”
The Princess-mother fell back in her chair.
“Does she speak to me?” she asked helplessly.
“Yes,” said Wogan; and turning to Jenny, “This is the kind-hearted aunt.”
Jenny turned to Clementina, who was picking the cloak from the floor.
“And you are the beautiful heiress,” she said sourly. “Well, if you are going to put that wet cloak on your shoulders, I wish you joy of the first kiss O’Toole gives you when you jump into his arms.”
The Princess-mother screamed; Wogan hastened to interfere.
“Jenny, there’s the bedroom; to bed with you!” and he took out his watch. At once he uttered an exclamation of affright. Wogan had miscalculated the time which he would require. It had taken longer than he had anticipated to reach the villa against the storm; his conflict with Jenny in the portico had consumed valuable minutes; he had been at some pains to over-persuade the Princess-mother; Jenny herself amongst the trees in the darkness had waited more than the quarter of an hour demanded of her; Wogan himself, absorbed each moment in that moment’s particular business, — now bending all his wits to vanquish Jenny, now to vanquish the Princess-mother, — even Wogan had neglected how the time sped. He looked at his watch. It was twenty-five minutes to ten, and at ten the magistrate would be knocking at the door.
“I am ready,” said Clementina, drawing the wet cloak about her shoulders and its hood over her head. She barely shivered under its wet heaviness.
“There’s one more thing to be done before you go,” said Wogan; but before he could say what that one thing was, Jenny, who had now recovered her shoe, ran across the room and took the beautiful heiress by both hands. Jenny was impulsive by nature. The Princess-mother’s distress and Clementina’s fearlessness made her suddenly ashamed that she had spoken so sourly.
“There, there, old lady,” she said soothingly; “don’t you fret. They are very good friends your niece is going with.” Then she drew Clementina close to her. “I don’t wonder they are all mad about you, for I can’t but say you are very handsome and richly worth the pains you have occasioned us.” She kissed Clementina plump upon the cheek and whispered in her ear, “O’Toole won’t mind the wet cloak, my dear, when he sees you.”
Clementina laughed happily and returned her kiss with no less sincerity, if with less noise.
“Quick, Jenny,” said Wogan, “to bed with you!”
He pointed to the door which led to the Princess’s bedroom.
“Now you must write a letter,” he added to Clementina, in a low voice, as soon as the door was shut upon Jenny. “A letter to your mother, relieving her of all complicity in your escape. Her Highness will find it to-morrow night slipped under the cover of her toilette.”
Clementina ran to a table, and taking up a pen, “You think of everything,” she said. “Perhaps you have written the letter.”
Wogan pulled a sheet of paper from his fob.
“I scribbled down a few dutiful sentiments,” said he, “as we drove down from Nazareth, thinking it might save time.”
“Mother,” exclaimed Clementina, “not content with contriving my escape, he will write my letters to you. Well, sir, let us hear what you have made of it.”
Wogan dictated a most beautiful letter, in which a mother’s claims for obedience were strongly set out — as a justification, one must suppose, for a daughter’s disobedience. But Clementina was betrothed to his Majesty King James, and that engagement must be ever the highest consideration with her, on pain of forfeiting her honour. It was altogether a noble and stately letter, written in formal, irreproachable phrases which no daughter in the world would ever have written to a mother. Clementina laughed over it, but said that it would serve. Wogan looked at his watch again. It was then a quarter to ten.
“Quick!” said he. “Your Highness will wait for me under the fourth tree of the avenue, counting from the end.”
He left the mother and daughter alone, that his presence might not check the tenderness of their farewell, and went down the stairs into the dark hall. M. Chateaudoux was waiting there, with his teeth chattering in the extremity of his alarm. Wogan unlatched the door very carefully and saw through the chink the sentry standing by the steps. The snow still fell; he was glad to note the only light was a white glimmering from the waste of snow upon the ground.
“You must go out with her,” Wogan whispered to Chateaudoux, “and speak a word to the sentry.”
“At any moment the magistrate may come,” said Chateaudoux, though he trembled so that he could hardly speak.
“All the more reason for the sentinel to let your sweetheart run home at her quickest step,” said Wogan, and above him he heard Clementina come out upon the landing. He crept up the stairs to her.
“Here is my hand,” said he, in a low voice. She laid her own in his, and bending towards him in the darkness she whispered, —
“Promise me it shall always be at my service. I shall need friends. I am young, and I have no knowledge. Promise me!”
