CHAPTER L.

THE WORN PATH

I am an old woman, and wearied with much writing; yet, like any young girl, I have my dreams of love, and may be permitted to tell them. Late have I sat, and long; early have I risen, and oft, through the stars of midnight, I have seen the daylight break upon the world as I sat at my task. And now that it is done, though I had thought that I would rejoice, my heart is no little sore; for the days are long without Laurence, and the bairns also gone forth from me, though only to homes of their own, houses, and husbands, and children.

Yet why should I complain? Few are the women who have known a longer or a happier life with the man of their heart than I had with Laurence. Two children were given to us, and now remain to me--that is, as often as their husbands will let them.

But, better than the great places they inhabit, I love the little house of Balveny, where Laurence and I tried the day of mean things, and found it right pleasant. Yet as well, or better almost, do I love the Larg of Kenmore, where still dwell, in their green age and unseared leaf, Sholto and Maud together. I grudge them not their untouched happiness. Maud is dearer to me than ever. She it was helped me to close my husband’s eyes, each of us holding a hand, and Sholto standing at the feet.

Then she came and kissed me.

“We are old women, you and I, Margaret,” she whispered; “but it is good to have known love once, and life once, ay, and also death once, when it breaks not love!”

And, indeed, she was right, and Kennedy, the great bishop, was right. All these forty years of my wedded life with him, scarce once did I think that thrice I had stood at the altar. I had, as said the canon law, been wedded but once. I was the wife of one husband, even Laurence--who alone taught me the sweetness of poverty when it is shared betwixt two, and the steadfast gladness of that pavilion of love--which to us was a quiet habitation, a tabernacle not to be taken down, nor the stakes removed, nor so much as one of the cords thereof broken. For the rest there remains little to tell, save that which shall sufficiently serve to round my tale.

Duly James Douglas gat his two hundred rose nobles from the king’s treasury. Whether “Poor Jack Neville’s Anne” profited by them or no I will not swear. Like the wild ass he was, James abode in London, snuffing up the air of hostels and taverns, of palaces and call-houses, with an equal relish. Upon occasion he would lead an army into Wales or head a foray upon Scotland with the cheerful readiness of the mercenary.

Happy and well he lived (I doubt it not), his sword on his thigh, his damoiselle by his side--Jack Neville’s Anne or another--little it mattered to hard-living, hard-fighting Lord James, last Earl of Douglas and first Scots Knight of the Garter.

But at the utmost end of his life, by one of those twists of fortune which advertise a Providence with a certain sense of the humour of things, it was his lot to die a monk of Lindores--he who had taken life with both hands and said, “This and this shall be mine, because it is good!” And the word he spake upon his ill fortune is worth setting down. For, being captured on a raid into Scotland fighting with the English against his own country-folk, they asked him whether he was content to save his life by becoming a brother of the monastery of Lindores.

“Ow ay,” quoth James Douglas; “he that can no better do, maun e’en be a monk!”

* * * * * * *

And now, not unhappy--nay, often strangely filled with joy--when Maud and Sholto are not with me, I, Margaret Douglas, called Stewart, sit by the window and read what of Laurence’s books my dim old eyes can make out. They were bonny to look into once (so they told me). And mostly I think on the things that were. On William Douglas whom I never loved--on James that never loved me--on the last of the Douglases of the Black laid aneath the parsoun’s lilac bushes in the quiet kirk acre of Balmaghie. Upon the slow beeking up of the vengeance fires in the heart of Malise, I also make my meditation. But most I think upon the marvellous long arm of God, the Maker of all, and how and why He permitted the ill-doer, even James of Douglas, to flourish till his green bay tree grew sear and old--nay, to die at the last a holy man.

And then I wonder, high and sore I wonder--as to repentance and punishment--kirk law and canon law--the law of the sowing and the law of reaping that which a man hath sown--of Him too of whom the Douglases, Black and Red alike, thought not mickle--yet who came (so I read) to teach forgiveness to men. As to that, I was as my forebears till Laurence taught me. For my husband was great and wise, and learned the spirit of Joseph’s Son--practised it too, which is more.

So now in these last days I can think of Lindores and of James Douglas mumbling litanies in his stall--yea, and even hope (I have not yet made it a prayer) that after all he died forgiven. That he would never ask it, I know. He never dreamed he had done aught to need forgiveness.

But most of all, and that which brings the strange suffusing joy to eyes that have looked on the world for over seventy years, is to sit with the window open upon the fell, watching the little path which his feet wore--the way Laurence used to come home to me for forty years.

Then, while I sit long and con over the Book, which he taught me to read in our long years together, till I am a-weary, lo! the gloaming comes up the glen, and there goes a thrilling through me that is not of this earth. The age evanishes from my limbs. The sight returns to my dim eyes. The clear heaven opens above, and I come out upon a place where there is no night.

But even then the path his feet trod remains on the hillside yonder. I can see it sitting here--yes, sitting and waiting--an old woman, but with a young heart in my breast.

Also I know, and rejoice that the time is not far off when I shall see him come down that path, my Laurence, whom I loved.

Then, from the old worn chair where I have watched and waited for him so long, I shall rise to my feet and say, “_Beloved!_” And behold, after that, the chair, the house, and the world shall know me no more for ever!

Because he and I shall have gone up that worn path together, hand in hand, silent--but not afraid.

THE END

ENDNOTES

[1] There is a pithy note here inserted by Le Sieur Philip Herault, which, however, need not impede the Fair Maid’s narrative.

[2] Let none go to look for them! The present Château of Cheverney is altogether modern--Versailles in a nutshell--while every trace of the ancient strength has passed away.

[3] I am told that it is indeed different, as seafaring men and suchlike know. Well, let them. For me I neither know nor care. Venus is the sole star that ever I knew, and her I loved chiefly because she had an excellent habit of going early to bed.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Sydney Seymour Lucas provided the illustrations.

This book was published as _May Margaret, called “the fair maid of Galloway”_ the same year in the US.

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. contrarywise/contrariwise, homecoming/home-coming, water-meadows/water meadows, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Convert footnotes to endnotes.

Punctuation: fix some quotation mark pairings/nestings, and add a few missing periods.

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