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.
[End of text]