CHAPTER XX.

INSTRUCTION IN LOVING

It becomes not me to write of the doings of William Douglas--of how he began to realise his ideal, by taking the king out of the hands of Crichton and Livingston, of his being made Lieutenant-General of the Realm--of how he besieged and destroyed Crichton Castle, and afterwards took that of Edinburgh. Of course William Douglas would succeed. I never doubted of that of him, being my husband.

Twice only did he take me with him when he was received in state, and stood at the king’s right hand. But I liked not James Stewart’s appearance--no, not though he was a king and twice the descendant of kings. On his face was the birth tache which gave him his nickname--James of the Fiery Face. His temper was naturally uncertain, yet capable of rages which made him dangerous as a cur that runs amuck in the dog-days. Never could I bear the name and kind all the days of me--Stewards and turnspits mating with foreign kings and princes, yet ceasing not to intrigue with the scum and filth of the land, in order to put down the noblest and bravest of their own. Out upon the Stewarts, I say! And as to this, it was Malise who first opened my eyes.

Sholto was now often away in the north or in Edinburgh and Stirling with the Earl William. For my husband came but seldom to Thrieve since he grew so great in the land, even as it was written that he should. Yet this I think was for my sake, and he never came without bringing me a present of the rarest and best--such things as he knew would please me, curious Oriental caskets, egg-shaped, carved out of ivory, carpets of Turkey work, and for myself all manner of beautiful garmentry, which, if I had put upon me, I would have been gayer than the peacock that pivoted his tail upon the sundial in front of the arbour beneath the ilex in my garden.

I knew he meant to be kind. For ofttimes it seemed that he would arrive at Thrieve with something to say to me, and yet sit in the garden talking of indifferent things, while he took my hand, holding it in his--but only as a cousin might do, even in France. I think he remembered always the Lady’s Bower, and what had been said and done there. For me I sometimes wished he had forgotten.

I have said that my south-looking chamber had beneath it a terrace with a baluster, the same whereon I had heard the brothers A’Hannay take up their parable concerning Magdalen M‘Kim. At the least it was so, and by opening my window, either in the little outer chamber or in the bedroom, one could hear excellently what went on beneath. For my part I did not mean to hearken, but sometimes there was little else to be done at Thrieve.

So one September gloaming--still and gracious it was, I mind it yet--William Douglas and I sat together on the low seat by the window of my chamber. He had brought me stuff of Persia, soft like a cushion, yet strong, to lay upon it from end to end. All to pleasure me he did it, having taken the measure secretly, or else carried it in his head. For such at this time was his wont.

Almost, indeed, he had forgotten that he was my husband. It was so long since any one had reminded me of it--least of all William Douglas himself. So now it was more as friends that we sat together, talking easily, or rather he talking and I listening. For, to speak truth, there was in my heart a great desire to hear him speak of James, his brother, whom I had not seen since my marriage-day. Yet because I would not ask and he would not tell, I was silent while he recounted of all that Archibald was doing in the north, where he had been made Earl of Murray. Then he told of Hugh, who was now Earl of Ormond, and little John, who must needs have a barony of his own and set up as “My Lord of Balveny!”

“And what,” said I, to lead the converse, “have you done for James? Is he alone to be left plain knight when the Lieutenant-General portions out all Scotland among his brothers?”

As I was speaking a strange look passed over my husband’s face. He looked out across the green garden, over the wall of the square _enceinte_ of Thrieve to where, on the green grass, Maud’s elder children were sporting, rolling, biting, and clawing at each other like young puppies.

“Ah,” he said slowly, choosing his words, “there is an old title in Scotland that I have reserved for James, older than Murray, or Ormond, or Balveny. It is enough for my second brother that he is, and shall remain, the Master of Douglas!”

This, as I knew, was the title reserved for the heir of all. So, after this answer of William’s concerning his brother, we sat a long while silent. I know not of what my husband thought, but for me I said nothing, because I had nothing to say that would comfort him. At last he spoke, looking at me gently enough.

“You weary here?” he asked. “Have you no desire sometimes to change Thrieve for Douglas Castle or Avondale? If so, I will give the orders!”

“Then I may not go again to Edinburgh or Stirling, where the court is?” I asked, to try him. For, indeed, I knew the answer already.

“I judge it not safe,” he said. “There be many about the king’s court that would be glad to trap the Douglases all at one bird-catching. Therefore, if I am here, James is at the court, and Archie and Hugh busy in the north. As for you, little as you are, do not forget that you carry with you as your dower all Galloway and the Borders, together with such hard-won honours as can be wrenched from the thieves of Annandale and the lads of the Forest.”

He smiled faintly, and almost wistfully, holding my hand the while; but still only as a brother might.

“Yes,” I answered, “it is indeed no small thing to have laid upon another’s back the burden of so much! But for me I am content with Deeside, and Maud and Sholto--and the spectacle of another woman’s love, all siccar and untroubled!”

“There is no such thing on earth!” said William Douglas, “as you will find, my sweet cousin, when”--

“Hark, listen!” I whispered, interrupting him; “it is the cooing of the turtle-doves!”

“What--what?” he answered quickly. “I will not listen! It is not fitting--to overhear the captain of my guard and his wife at their private conversations!”

And he moved precipitately to go out.

But I caught him by the arm and dragged him down.

“It had been for your good if you had heard more and listened more, my Lord of Douglas,” I whispered to him, “ay, and stood thus behind window-bars with your finger on your lip. Good William, you know not everything! Listen, there are the makings of the prettiest quarrel down on the terrace yonder.”

“A quarrel?” he said in wonder. If I had said a tournament, I do not think he would have been more astonished.

“Yes,” said I, “a quarrel first, most petulant and provocative; afterwards--well, you shall see!”

“How do you know this?”

“Have I not watched little housewife Maud trimming her sails for a storm all day long--ay, ever since she rose and laced her stomacher?”

“St. Bride,” quoth honest Will, “do women spend their time on such trifles?”

“Ay, and enjoy it too,” I answered him. “It is their life to them, as bands and treaties and lieutenant-generalships are yours. And they have on the whole the greater certitude of happiness! But hush, here are our doves of Thrieve!”

“I cannot stay! I will not!” said William Douglas.

But I put my hand on his arm and held him forcibly, bearing all my weight upon it.

“Stay,” I said, “yes, stay, William. You may learn more in half an hour than you have learned at the king’s council-board all your life.”

By this time the evening had fallen still, soft, and with a wide peace, through which the swallows seemed to swoop down from unseen heights as from another world. You could hear the laughter of the men-at-arms sent on forage duty, paying court, after their kind, to the milkmaids, none too coy, across the water at the Mains of Thrieve.

Beneath us, and dark against the silver of the water, I could just see Maud. She leaned on the stone baluster, even as the A’Hannays had done. Sholto was farther within, occupied with some matter of the adjustment of armour, concerning the exactitude of which (as became a good soldier) he was a mighty stickler. Maud looked two or three times over her shoulder; but Sholto, busied with some intricate fabrication of leathern belts and steel buckles, whistled on, paying no heed.

“Come here, Sholto,” said Maud Lindsay quickly; “I want you!”

Sholto glanced up, with his usual swift authoritative toss of the head, an action which showed the firm setting of the chin on the neck and the squareness of the shoulders.

“In a moment, Maud,” he said. “I am busy. What is it?”

“_I want you!_”

Sholto rose instantly, throwing down the soft leathern setting of the armour he was designing, and laying aside the pieces of shining steel he had been fitting upon it.

“What is it, Maud?” he said gently, as he approached.

“You would not come,” she said. “You are not as you used to be. You think more of your armour and weapons than you do of me”--

“Dearest--!” cried Sholto, aghast at the very suddenness of the attack.

Maud turned upon him and held out her arms.

“_Do_ you love me?” she cried--“really--truly--tell me!”

“Of course I love you!” said Sholto, with the true baldness of a man long wedded, who has had time to use up his vocabulary.

“Say it otherwise, if you mean it, Sholto!” persisted Maud.

“_Je t’adore!_” said Sholto promptly. He had not been in France for nothing. Maud looked at him smiling, and then suddenly burst into tears. Any excuse was better than none. Sholto gazed at her, frankly bewildered, and then would have put his arms about her, but she repelled him indignantly.

“You make light of our love,” she said. “You would not have done it when you first knew me. But now--I am old. I am the mother of children. And what can a woman expect? Men change!”

“_Maud!_”

“Oh, ’tis easy to say ‘Maud,’ and take a poor foolish woman in your arms! But to love her, and hold to it year after year--that is another matter!”

I could feel William Douglas growing restless as the twilight deepened and from beneath the voices came clearer. But I would not let him go.

“For my sake,” I said to him.

“Oh, if Maud and Sholto would only behave themselves,” I thought, “I would yet go to Edinburgh with my husband.”

And for the rest of the time in the chamber I thought no more of any man--of James Douglas or another. The voices came again. It was Maud who spoke. Apparently somehow, without words, Sholto had made his peace, and perhaps he thought (poor man!) that Maud had altogether delivered herself.

“Sholto,” she said, looking at him softly, “do you know that sometimes I dream of going far away with you--to another country? I know not where that land is. Only that there we will have no wars or rumours of war, no steel breastplates or sharp-piercing lances, no killings and treacheries. But just you and me for ever living on in a sweet peace, in a little house by ourselves, with the children growing up about us. And then there will be always a blue sky above, and close by a river running.”

“That will do to drink, but what shall we eat?” said Sholto, with practical tenderness. “Eh, tell me that, baby?”

At another time Maud (if such had been her mood) would have resented his tone as trifling with all that was of highest and holiest. But as it happened, she only clasped him in her arms the more tightly.

“Oh, Sholto, I could live upon your love,” she said; “you are better to me than meat or drink--more necessary than the air I breathe.”

“Good,” said Sholto imperturbably. “I did not know I was so nourishing. But how about the children? Could they diet upon me too?”

We heard the clear ringing impact of fingers on cheek.

“That is for being insolent,” said Maud, whose mood changed every moment. “You know what I mean?”

“Yes!” said Sholto dutifully, but still somewhat doubtfully.

“Of course, it is all just a dream, a foolish dream,” said Maud, looking out on the river, “a dream born of the sunset and the--the--having you here with me--all alone!”

“Margaret,” whispered William Douglas, “this makes a shame of me. I will stay no longer.”

“A shame,” answered I softly. “Are we not married--you and I--even as they? Hush! you cannot go now, they will hear you! Bide. This is only the beginning--she means to quarrel with him yet, or I am a Welshman. A quarrel and a reconciliation are what I call ‘Maud’s nightcap’ when she hath been fretted.”

“You do not mean to say--?” began William Douglas.

I covered his mouth with my finger in the dark, and whispered in his ear, “Of course I do! What else is there to do in Castle Thrieve, think you, but quarrel with those we love?”

Then the voice of Maud, as I had supposed, took up her plaint.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I wake in the night and think you are dead! Does not that show how I love you?”

As Sholto appeared to contemplate this subject without extreme enthusiasm, Maud proceeded--

“Then I have beautiful visions of flying with you through the air, on angels’ wings, the two of us all clad in whiteness, and the children, too, clad like little angels (which they are now, indeed, only not able to fly). Do you ever have a dream like that?”

Conscientiously Sholto turned over the treasures of his midnight memories.

“No,” he answered simply. And then, perhaps feeling the word a little bald, he added, “But I have dreamed of riding on a horse”--

Maud pushed him from her with vigour.

“Always of horses and armour and fightings,” she said. “You never think beautiful things as I do. Why, I sometimes dream that we shall die the self-same day. It will be in the morning--no, the evening. That would be sweeter for you and for me!”

“And as to the children?” said Sholto quietly. “It would be a cheerful awakening for them, poor brats, next morning!”

“God would care for them!” said Maud, with a vague piety. She was certainly hard bestead for a cause of quarrel.

“Well,” said Sholto, “at least I think the babes would be none the worse off for one or the other of us to be spared to them!”

Maud leaped upon the argument fiercely.

“Ah, there it is,” she cried. “You want me to die before you. You would soon fill my place. I know that well!”

She pushed him back, and in the reflection of the sunset sky on the water we could see her bend a little on her knees and look up into his face.

“Ah, I believe it,” she cried, beginning quite suddenly to sob uncontrollably. “You would--perhaps you know of someone already. You are only waiting for my death to--to bring her here!”

Maud flung one arm out. She had acted so well that (like a woman!) she was beginning to believe her own chance assertions. Her hand struck him on the breast.

“I will not stay,” she cried hoarsely. “Let me go. I will take my children away. I will save them--from--from that woman!”

“Maud,” gasped Sholto, “I tell you--I swear to you--I beseech you. I never thought of such a thing! You yourself know I did not!”

“Do not deny it. Do not dare to defend yourself. Do not add lies to your wickednesses. I have seen it for long, long years. There--let me pass! I will go where the innocents sleep. If I am to die, at least let me die beside them.”

“Maud--Maud!”

She made as if to go in, but he held her to him.

“No,” said Sholto, “you mistake. All I said was that these poor five bairnies would be the better of either you or me to care for them!”

“Oh yes,” said Maud scornfully; “and it is evident that you must often have been thinking of this before, to have your answer so ready!”

“I swear to you, Maud,” said Sholto, “never before to-night”--

Maud pointed solemnly upwards to where a star was beginning to shine, sole and lonely amid the purpling deeps of heaven.

“Do not be profane,” she said. “There is One yonder who hears!”

“I care not if the four corners of heaven heard,” cried Sholto passionately. “I will swear”--

Maud laid her hands together with a sweet smile.

“Swear what?” she said, suddenly becoming gentle.

Sholto scratched his head in some perplexity.

“Upon my faith and word,” he said, “I have not an idea what it is all about!”

Maud burst into a peal of merry laughter, and clasped her husband in her arms.

“You great gowk,” she said. “Silly boy, will you never learn? I love you. Only I was fretted. I have been vexed and fretted all day, and you would not attend to me, but thought only of your stupid armouries. But I made you. Now let us make up. There, there! Will that do? Come, let us go in!”

* * * * * * *

William Douglas, constrained by my hand, silently

[Illustration: “CHILD,” HE CRIED, GRIPPING ME BY THE ARM SO HARD THAT HE HURT IT, “YOU TORMENT ME PAST BEARING.”]

protesting rather than obedient, had sat till now. He rose, and we went back into the little chamber of reception which adjoined my bedchamber.

“Are all people who love each other incurably insane?” he asked, with some heat. “Does love make of Maud Lindsay, that incomparable housewife and good mother, a puling, yammering fool? Of Sholto M‘Kim, the best lance and stoutest heart in Scotland, a reed blown by the wind, a withe twined round a woman’s fingers?”

“Even so,” I answered, “but _you_ will never know it!”

“For that, thank God,” he said. “There are quarrellings enough, and argle-barglings to spare in broad Scotland, without domesticating them at your own hearth-stone, and having the house you live in turned into a bear-pit.”

“William,” I said, “there are some things hid from the wise and prudent and revealed unto babes. Maud and Sholto have never quarrelled once since they were married.”

He snatched his hand from mine hastily--why, I know not.

“I am not a babe,” he said, “but I can believe my ears! If words mean anything, these two have been at open enmity for an hour by the clock. And you--_you_--their friend, have made an eavesdropper of William Douglas!”

At this I laughed, serenely content.

“My dear husband,” I said, “shall we go down and ask them if they regret their quarrel? For me, I judge”--

“Well, what do you judge?”

“That it would be better and happier for you and me if we quarrelled oftener after the manner of Sholto and Maud!”

This time I was not prepared for him.

“Child,” he cried, gripping me by the arm so hard that he hurt it, “you torment me past bearing. Either you mean a thing or you do not. Which is it to be--all or nothing?”

I thought him noble. I had no other thought. I felt a strange numbness, at once lax and faint, steal over my limbs. My husband held me in his arms. There was a fierce energy in his action. He hurt me, so strong he was.

Then from the chamber beneath there came, deep, throbbing, and somehow infinitely moving, the laugh of Maud Lindsay--suddenly cut in the midst as if a hand had been laid across her mouth.

The sound seemed to break the spell that was on him.

“No,” he cried, loosing me abruptly--almost, indeed, thrusting me from him. “Shall William Douglas break his word, sworn and plighted? Shall James keep the oath which I have broken?”

And with no further word he turned and strode out of the chamber. I was left alone. There was silence underneath, save that a little while after a charger neighed, and, looking from my window, I saw William Douglas, my husband, halt his horse on a little knoll outside the walls, and stand a long while looking back--the beast, fresh from the stables, meantime tossing his head and chafing visibly at the restraint.

Then he rode out of sight, and I was alone indeed--which was my loss.