CHAPTER XXXIV.

A MAIDEN LEFT ALONE

It is not, of course, to be supposed that a man so grievously wounded as James Douglas could at one time, and without repose, deliver himself of a narrative so prolonged and circumstantial as this. On the other hand, that repetitions may be avoided, I have chosen to set it in a place by itself.

And so, that being completed, it falls to be related what happened the afternoon of the day when James began the story of Arkinholm. It chanced that Sholto, in arranging the bandages of the wounded man, ripped off the shirt of soft doeskin he had worn under his body-armour. It was hard and drawn in places with the sweat and blood of the battle. But in a kind of double ply which had been recently sewn up, something crackled. Sholto, who had been about to throw the rags of doeskin into the fire, quickly ran the point of his knife along the line of unskilful stitches. A letter fell out, folded small and addressed in clear clerkly characters.

“_To Sir Sholto M‘Kim at Thrieve, or in his absence to the Abbot Laurence of Sweetheart, in trust for Malise, Armourer-Smith of Mollance and Carlinwark._”

Sholto fell back, his face suddenly white and drawn.

“It comes--from--from our--little--Magdalen!” he said.

Till that moment I had never suspected how Sholto had suffered. But it is certain that he as well as Laurence had loved the maid, he as well as his father had felt the sting of pride, the thirst for vengeance. Yet, so devoted was he to his purpose, once taken, that he had made all else subordinate to the championing of my cause, because I had been committed to him and to Maud. And other friends I had none. It was a true word he had spoken.

But he had suffered, and not till that moment did I understand how much.

Maud went quickly to him, and looked over his shoulder. But before she had read the first word she came back to me.

“I think it is fitting,” she said, “that Sholto should first read this letter by himself. It may not be for any of our eyes.”

At this moment James Douglas, opening his eyes unexpectedly, saw Sholto stand with the open writing in his hand.

“Ah,” he said, “you have found--her letter. I had forgotten. I was to give it to you if I won through. Read it! She wrote it at the Nunnery of Our Lady near to Carlisle town, and rendered it to me ere we took our departure from the field.”

He was wondrously collected, and spake as of some trifle he had overlooked. It brought back some of the old bitterness to hear him. I did not then realise that it was his nature so easily to put behind him the past. He could not help it. And indeed that is one of the greatest gifts the gods can give to any mortal. The man who would bring up the waters of Lethe to the world, would deserve better of his fellow-men than Prometheus, who from heaven brought down only fire.

Sholto went to his own chamber in order to read Magdalen’s letter. James, who had tossed and murmured, was safely asleep by the time he came down. Sholto handed me the written sheet.

“Go,” he said to Maud, “read it together--you two women. I can do no more. It is for your eyes also!”

The writing began without date or preliminary.

* * * * * * *

“I, called Magdalen M‘Kim, believing and hoping that I am about to die, write for the last time to you, Malise M‘Kim, whom I have called father all my life, and to you, Sholto and Laurence--to such also of my younger brothers as are old enough to understand.

“I am presently in the convent of the Good Sisters, near to the town of Carlisle. But I cannot abide here, having chosen a road which I must follow to the end, wheresoever it may lead me.

“Having much to say, little time to say it in, I must needs be brief.

“But first let it be understood and agreed that I blame no one--not even greatly myself! What hath been, I could not help! The wind carries the feather--the river the fallen leaf. The burn follows the valley to the sea, through deep gorge, smiling dell, and gloomy cavern; through dark pool and over foaming precipice it must needs follow on, till it reaches the Sea--which is Oblivion. So, hoping for that sea, I follow my Lord of Douglas.

“Think a little, my father, before you cast your little Magdalen off--or disallow her utterly from the number of your children. Was she not younger born--left much to herself? The lads were in the smithy--Laurence and Sholto already grown men of their years. You loved me, my father. You also, my mother. But you dwelt apart. Your thoughts were not mine, nor indeed could they be.

“So I sought my friends on the mountains. Wild things loved me--even deer and shy-starting birds of the woods. On the moor the red grouse sat only the closer as I went by. I could put my hand on the head of the brooding mavis, and her speckled breast heaved no whit the faster for that.

“But I needed love. All my life I had loved, it is true, according to my knowledge. I gave love to all that were in the woods and the earth and in the air. But, after their kind, they gave me little in return. Perchance, even my Lady of Thrieve, reading this, will understand somewhat, and if forgive she cannot, at least she will remember me with a less unkindly heart.

“Slowly it came to me that I was growing old. I had grey hairs in my heart. Nevertheless, there came enough and to spare of men and lads from here and there to tell me I was fair and desirable. And I--I had not even the desire to laugh at them. I only wished them to begone, and if they stayed overlong, or troubled me, I bade my father see to it. This out of his love, fearing that he might lose me, he was all too willing to do.

“But now I see that I did wrong, for more than ever after that I was left alone. Yet I could not bear such-like wooers near me--these roystering soldiers of the guard, these holders of twenty shilling lands with the grease of the mid-noon dinner on their gowns, loutish lads from the farm towns of Kelton and Balmaghie, smelling of the stable--_faugh!_--I was glad to render myself again up to the clear air of the hills, the green shades of the woods, and the kindly beasts and birds that never taigled or wearied me, asking for what I could not give.

“But all the time I carried, unknowing, an empty heart.

“Till one gloaming I was going homeward, singing the song of an idle peace. A dove was perched upon my shoulder, and a young kid that had lost its mother followed bleating behind, desiring my hand between its soft lips. Then--all suddenly, I was stayed by the most glorious and goodly sight that the heart of woman could desire to see.

“A man came towards me on a white horse, his stature great and goodly as the cedars of Lebanon. His visor was up, and his face like that of a young bridegroom coming forth from his chamber, high and comely to see, yet noways proud. I had never seen any like him. He was clad in armour all lined and floreated with silver and gold, and his helmet shone upon his head like silver. It had wings, too, on either side, starting up as high as the crest. A light cloak of silk was thrown carelessly over his shoulders, blue lined with white, but the trappings of his horse were of a pale clear blue, lined with crimson. And he seemed to me like one of those great knights of old of whom the harpers sing on the village green when the good folk are gathered together--St. George of England or Sir Amadis of Gaul--one to rescue ladies and to kill great flaming dragons with a stroke of his lance.

“He spoke, and his voice was so sweet and moving that I could not but stop and listen. Nay, I was not affrighted at all. Only the dove that was on my shoulder took flight, and I saw it no more.

“And then the next evening, I passing by the same way, he came again. And this time he was no longer in armour, but clad in shot silk of a gorgeous web, and with an eagle’s feather in his bonnet. And from that day forth he began to speak sweet loving words to me, and I to listen. He told me that he was the Lord James Douglas, but that I must on no account reveal the matter to my father, or I should see him no more.

“And, knowing him unwedded (for so by artful questions of my mother I learned), I thought nothing amiss. Also he told me (what I loved to hear) of his love for me, and how he would surely own me so soon as they gave him a title and earldom of his own, as they had done to his three younger brothers, Murray and Ormond and Balveny.

“And when, after many days, I found that he was indeed on the eve of marriage, and that to his brother’s wife, lo, it was too late. I had no more any pride at all, and could not choose but obey him in all things--the which, indeed, the most part of women would have been glad and proud to do, as I have seen since in England many times to my inward hurt.

“Nor do I wish him to be blamed for concealing this and other things from me. For (this also I learned in England) it is the ordinary way of a man with a maid--at least, of such a man as my Lord of Douglas with such a girl as I.

“Now I should stop here, having, indeed, nothing more to add. I have written these things that you, my father, my mother, and my brethren, might know that it was no sudden-springing evil, nor wholly of his doing.

“But this there is laid heavily upon me, that where he goes I must follow. I cannot abide among this Good Sisterhood, all clad alike in black and white, who say their prayers and sing from morn to night, from night to morn. Once I used to sing also, but not now. They tell me that he is gone to fight a great battle--that it bodes me to stay quietly here, and that if he is killed they will cherish me here all the days of my life!

“It is of their loving heart. God reward them for the wish! They are good women, and I am not worthy of one tithe of all. But stay I cannot. If so be he goes to a field of death, I will go too, and help him to find it. That we may die together I do not wish, for in that case he would die unsained. But I--I have this day confessed and been absolved by the good priest-almoner, who dwells in a lodge near by. But I pray God that it may be given to me to save him from death, at least for a while--and lead him out, so that he may make a good end, and meet me in the presence of God a man shriven and cleansed from the sins of a man, a man as wholly forgiven as if I, the little Magdalen who loved him, had the forgiving of him. As, indeed, I do forgive him from my heart.

“Finally, pray for me, my father! Pray for me, my mother. Pray for me, Sholto, and you Maud, my sister. Sing a mass for me, Laurence, whom I loved perhaps the best of all, yet knew the least. Perhaps if you had been at home, my brother Laurence--but who knows? Well--God, perhaps. To Him I do commend and commit myself, being, as is my thought and esperance, very near to death, to Mary the Mother, and to her Son who brought into the world kindliness for sinful women. Neither will He condemn me--hath He not said it?

“Dear hearts, from my heart I do bid you all a fair good-night. I shall not see another, if God please.

“This last word receive right lovingly from the _Magdalen who was yours._”

* * * * * * *

And when, all in tears, we gave the letter back to Sholto, who waited motionless by the bed of his master, he said, pointing to James Douglas, “Say nothing of this to him. He would not understand!”

And I also, being the man’s wife, knew within my heart that Sholto was right!