of that masculine character which was deemed befitting in a Borderer's
wife; and, although she had mingled in the gaieties of the unhappy
Mary's court, that sternness which was part of her inheritance as a
daughter of the house of Douglas had not been perceptibly diminished in
the course of her residence at Holyrood. The aggrandisement of her
husband's family was the perpetual subject of her thoughts; and whatever
affected their honour or their interest was felt as keenly by Lady
Maxwell as by the most devoted follower. At the time to which this
narrative relates, her meditations ran even more frequently and fully
than usual in their accustomed channel.
About ten years before James VI. succeeded to the throne of England, the
hereditary feud which had for generations subsisted betwixt the Maxwells
of Nithsdale and the Johnstones of Annandale broke forth with redoubled
violence. Several of the lairds, whose possessions lay within the
district which was disturbed by the contentions of these two races, had
sustained serious injury from the incursions of marauders from
Annandale, and, in consequence, had entered into a secret compact,
offensive and defensive, with Lord Maxwell. This transaction reached the
ears of Sir James Johnstone, who forthwith endeavoured to break the
league which had so greatly extended his rival's power. The petty
warfare betwixt the two barons was carried on for some time, without
producing any very decisive result. The compact was still unbroken, and,
to all appearance, the Maxwells were rapidly acquiring that ascendency
which would soon render resistance hopeless. But the worsted party
obtained the aid of the Scotts and other clans from the midland
district. Lord Maxwell, on the other hand, rallied around him the barons
of Nithsdale, displayed his banner as the king's lieutenant, and
hastened to attack his opponents in their fastnesses.
Although Lady Maxwell entertained no extravagant dread with regard to
the safety of her husband and son, or even with regard to the result of
a conflict for which such ample preparations had been made, she could
not suppress a feeling of impatience, when the afternoon of the second
day after the departure of the expedition arrived without bringing any
intelligence of the result. She endeavoured, however, to check the
melancholy course of her thoughts, by supposing that the pursuit of the
enemy had occasioned the delay; but then she deemed it strange that her
husband had sent no messenger with the tidings of his success; and again
she pleased herself with the reflection, that he had reserved for
himself the agreeable duty of announcing the happy issue of the
conflict.
The shades of evening were descending, when Lady Maxwell, with her
little daughters and younger son, proceeded to the battlements of the
Thrieve. This ancient stronghold--which was a royal castle, though the
keeping of it was intrusted to the family of Maxwell--was situated on a
small island formed by the river Dee, in the centre of a muirish tract
of country. Its gloomy appearance was, and still is, in harmony with the
surrounding desolation; but it is now no longer the abode of man, and is
left, a monument of departed greatness, to moulder away. Lady Maxwell
had not continued long to gaze over the wilderness which stretched
around, when she observed a band of mosstroopers approaching from the
east; and the light was still strong enough to show that these warriors
had not the appearance of a host returning victorious from battle. On
the contrary, their steeds were jaded; they seemed themselves to be
exhausted with toil; and, instead of the shouts of laughter which
usually burst from the merry bands of Borderers, silence seemed to
prevail in their ranks. "Pray God nothing evil hath happened!" exclaimed
the lady, in alarm. And scarcely had she descended to the hall of the
castle, when her eldest son, a youth of twenty years, stood in her
presence--but he stood alone. The loss which she had sustained flashed
across her mind in an instant. "Your father! where is my husband?"
ejaculated Lady Maxwell, wildly. "But I need not ask--I know it all--he
will return no more. Is it not so?"
The silence of her son showed her that she had guessed aright. But,
although her heart grew sick, and her limbs waxed weak, she suppressed
her emotion, and hastened to her chamber, there to give vent to her
grief in solitude. Meanwhile, preparations for the evening meal were
made; the exhausted soldiers ranged themselves beside the table which
extended through the baronial hall; and their young master occupied the
seat of his father--though, at the moment, he could have wished that
some less trying proof of his self-command had been exacted. But it
would have been deemed a want of hospitality, had he not remained beside
his guests, of whom some were barons inferior only to himself in
consequence.
When the hunger of the half-famished troopers was somewhat appeased, the
events of the morning began to form the topic of conversation--which,
however, was carried on only in whispers. Lord Maxwell, it seems, had
encountered his opponents at the Dryffe Sands, not far from Lockerby, in
Annandale, and had been defeated, partly in consequence of the cowardice
of his confederates, whose alliance with him had been the sole cause of
the renewed hostility. He was struck from his horse in his flight; and
although he sued for quarter, the miscreant by whom he was assailed
struck off his hand, which had been stretched forth as the sign of
entreaty, and mercilessly slaughtered the unfortunate baron. Many of his
followers perished in the fight, and most of them were cruelly wounded,
especially by slashes in the face.[3] The young Lord Maxwell and his
friends (having left a sufficient body of men to repel any immediate
invasion) proceeded to the castle of the Thrieve, situated in the
recesses of his family possessions, and a very considerable distance
from the scene of the conflict, for the purpose of concerting measures
with regard to the further prosecution of hostilities.
[Footnote 3: This kind of wound is called a "Lockerby lick"--the place
which bears that name being in the immediate vicinity of the field of
battle.]
After the deliberations of the evening were concluded, and the wearied
soldiers had gone to rest, Lady Maxwell summoned her son to her
presence, and asked what course it was intended to adopt.
"Orchardstone talks of a bond," replied young Maxwell.
"A bond of alliance! And did you listen to him?" said the lady, looking
keenly at her son; "did you let him repeat the word? An eye that shrinks
from the gaze of another tells no good tale; a cheek in which the blood
ebbs and flows within a moment, betrays no stout heart. It must not be.
Peace! who would talk of peace to one who has just suffered bereavement?
Talk not to me of peace--talk not to me of bonds. Talk of revenge.
Remember that the blood of him who has been treacherously slain flows in
your veins. You had no craven heart from him--you have none from me. Why
then do you stand mute and wavering?"
"Madam, you have forestalled me," said the youth. "I will have revenge.
The king----"
"What! would you play the spaniel to James?--a craven sovereign, worthy
of a craven suitor. Boy, will you break my heart outright? Will you doom
me to disgrace, as the mother of a coward?--make me curse the day in
which I was wedded, and the hour in which you were born? This comes of
the monkish tricks taught you by that old man whom your father brought
to his house, not to make a coward of his son, but to shelter a
trembling priest from persecution."
"Madam, let me speak, if it please you. I am no coward--no craven,"
exclaimed the young lord, proudly. "I am not a child that needs to be
chidden with the rod or with harsh speeches; and my father's blood boils
as fiercely in my veins as the blood of the Douglas in yours. Our
deliberations are not at an end, and by daybreak to-morrow they will be
resumed."
"Nay, but, my son, you say not that you will seek revenge," cried Lady
Maxwell; "you speak of those petty barons, whom you demean yourself so
far as to consult. Your father told them what was his will, and never
asked what was theirs. It was theirs to obey."
"Why do you speak so hardly of me?" asked the youth. "Have I not borne
myself like my equals and my race? But you shall not want revenge--you
shall not want the heart's blood that you ask. This house, these lands,
these vassals, are yours, until revenge is yours. They will be employed
in the pursuit of revenge. No lady shall hold your place; my life shall
have but one object, till that object is accomplished; my being shall
have but one end; my thoughts shall have only one aim; my heart will
delight in only one hope."
"Stay, stay, my son," interrupted Lady Maxwell, in a calmer tone than
had hitherto marked her address; "you have said enough--ay, more than
enough--to satisfy my doubts. I would not remain sole lady of this
castle."
"The oath is recorded in heaven, and may not be recalled," was the
answer of the young lord.
Lord Maxwell, after receiving a maternal benediction, retired to his
chamber; and, notwithstanding the difficulties which he knew it would be
his lot immediately to encounter, the fatigue of the day was more than
enough to insure him a good night's rest. His slumbers continued
undisturbed, until the old man to whom reference has already been made
came to his bedside early on the following morning. This person was a
clansman, who had entered the church, and had embraced the doctrines of
the Reformation. About ten years before the death of Lord Maxwell, that
nobleman had quarrelled with the Earl of Arran, who at that time was the
reigning favourite of James VI; and he had then brought his learned
clansman to the Castle of the Thrieve. The rude warden of the west
marches--for Lord Maxwell held that office--had no taste for the
religious exercises which his namesake, John, wished to introduce into
the household; and it may be said that the baron's favour for
Presbyterianism was owing to the single circumstance that Arran was an
object of detestation common to him and to the ministers. But, although
few listeners could be found for the discourses of the aged preacher,
his assiduity had enabled him to impart a share of his knowledge to his
patron's son and heir, who in some measure repaid him for his care, by
regarding him with strong feelings of respect and attachment.
When Lord Maxwell had dressed himself, he proceeded to the study of his
aged friend, who had requested an interview with him at that early hour.
"I fear your rest has been broken by my impatience," said the minister;
"but, as I was anxious to see you before your comrades were astir, it
was not easy to do otherwise."
The young baron assured him that he was completely refreshed, and begged
him to mention the cause of his anxiety.
"You will pardon me," said the old man, "if I intrude a word or two of
advice upon you. The rules of Border morality require you to avenge the
death of your father. I have oftentimes shown you wherein these rules
were wrong; and you have owned that what I have said was true. Are you
now ready to act upon your own independent judgment, to forego your
desire for revenge, and to enter into alliance with Johnstone? Will you
permit those barons who are now asleep beneath the roof-tree of your
house to make you do what you know and feel to be wrong?"
"It may not be," said the other; "my fathers have died on the
battle-field, and I must not die in my bed. But I am bound by a solemn
vow--by all that I hope and enjoy--to seek revenge, by day and by night,
by all honourable means; to risk life, lands, liberty--ay, happiness in
this world and the next--before I abandon the pursuit."
"Ay, but, my son," replied the aged minister--"for so would I call thee,
who are dearer to me than life--a vow or oath which has an evil object
in view may be honourably broken. The honour is in breaking, not in
keeping it."
"The oath is no longer in mine own keeping; and I would not break it,
even if I could. It may be that an evil oath should be broken; I pretend
not to skill in these matters. But I feel," said Lord Maxwell, in an
energetic tone--"I feel that this oath of mine cannot be broken. I have
not taken it in haste; and sooner would I wish that my head, severed
from my body, were placed over the gate of Johnstone's castle of
Lochwood, there by turns to blacken in the sun and bleach in the rain,
than I would now break my vow in one particular."
"Alas! for thee, my son!" exclaimed the minister, in the tremulous
accents of age and of distress. "I deemed that thou wouldst prove an
honour to thy kind and thy country; that for thee might be reserved the
task of healing the wounds of this distracted land."
"Forgive me, my second father," said the young baron, taking his aged
friend by the hand; "my doom is fixed, but my deeds must be done within
a narrower sphere. My objects are not like those of princes. Blood has
been shed, and it must be wiped away; life has been lost, and it must be
avenged. My father has perished miserably--yet not miserably, for he
died on the field of battle. His blood cries aloud for vengeance."
The aged minister's grief would not allow him to utter the prayer that
passed from his heart to heaven on behalf of his erring pupil. Lord
Maxwell silently wrung the hand that was enclosed in his own, and
hastened to meet the barons, who had now assembled in the hall, and only
waited until their host should assume his place, before beginning their
morning's repast.
Considerable division of opinion existed in the councils of the
Nithsdale barons, with regard to the propriety of putting an end to the
disturbances, by entering into league with Sir James Johnstone; but the
determination with which Lord Maxwell avowed his intention of calling
upon them all to act in conformity with their previous letters of
_manrent_, soon put an end to the deliberations of the morning, and
immediate steps were taken for pursuing the warfare with renewed vigour.
Sir Robert Maxwell of Orchardstone, who was married to a sister of Sir
James Johnstone, but who had, nevertheless, taken the part of his chief,
Lord Maxwell, in the recent disputes, was permitted to remain inactive;
but his contingency of men was required as rigorously as that of any
other baron who had bound himself to give all support to the head of the
clan. Day after day incursions were made by these hostile tribes into
the territory of each other; their hatred hourly waxed stronger; those
courtesies which even mosstroopers sometimes practised were thrown aside
with shameful indifference. Rapine and crimes of every complexion were
of daily occurrence; villages were burned without compunction; neither
age nor sex was spared; slaughter and conflagration were now the end and
aim of the freebooters, instead of plunder. No redeeming ray was cast
over the horrors of this continued warfare, by any of those
circumstances which sometimes show the hearts of men in their more
favourable aspects; and to describe the progress of events in this
district of country for the course of many succeeding years, would serve
only to weary and disgust with a repetition of the most fearful
atrocities.
Is it wonderful that a familiarity with scenes of blood should steel
the heart of the young baron, and make him deaf to the voice of
compassion or remonstrance? Need it be said that cruelty became the
characteristic of his mind? that his temper became harsh, his
disposition imperious, and his spirit as untameable as it was fiery?
Neither the threats nor the entreaties of his sovereign himself could
make Lord Maxwell lay aside his vindictive purpose: the former were
despised, because they could not be executed; the latter were unheeded,
because they were as dust in the balance, compared with the revenge
which the young chief had vowed to obtain. The appointment of his
experienced rival to the wardenry of the middle marches, about five or
six years after the battle of Dryffe Sands, made the cup of bitterness
overflow. Lord Maxwell took advantage of Sir James Johnstone's absence
to ravage that baron's territory with greater ferocity than ever; and,
on the pretext afforded by this last fearful inroad, he was prohibited
from approaching the Border counties. The mandate was scorned, because
it could not be carried into effect; and these hostile tribes continued
to lay waste the territories of each other, until King James ascended
the English throne, when, in the course of a year or two, the power of
that monarch was so much strengthened, that he was, ere long, enabled to
place under the command of Sir James Johnstone a force which was found
sufficient for the purpose of expelling the refractory Lord Maxwell.
The fugitive baron, half-frenzied with anger and disappointment, was
invited by his kinsman, the Marquis of Hamilton, to take up his abode in
Craignethan Castle, a stronghold situated in the most fertile district
of Clydesdale, upon a rock which overhangs the river. The marquis and
his father (who had died a short time before the arrival of Lord Maxwell
at Craignethan) had always supported their relative whenever differences
arose betwixt him and the court of King James; and this support was
tendered, not so much from the coarser motives which, for the most
part, lay at the foundation of noble friendships in those days, as from
regard to Lord Maxwell, whose better qualities had not been so totally
obscured in the course of his brief but bloody career, as to prevent him
from becoming an object of affection among his own kindred and
dependants.
But neither the marquis, nor his mother (who still lived to relate,
rather for her own amusement than for the edification of her hearers,
the achievements of her race), nor his sister, the Lady Margaret, could
devise any means of dispelling the gloom which marked the countenance
and deportment of their guest; and he seemed even to hate the very
amusements with which his friends endeavoured to draw his thoughts away
from the bitter recollections that were the daily subject of his
contemplation. His only enjoyment seemed to consist in traversing the
romantic scenes which lay around; and scarcely a day passed without a
visit to some of those spots in which the rude magnificence exhibited by
nature in the rocks and ravines, was contested with the gentleness and
beauty that characterised many patches reclaimed from the waste by the
industry of the neighbouring husbandmen. At other times he would roam
through the woods until he lost himself in their mazes, and his mind was
roused into activity by the effort to retrace his steps.
A beautiful dell, in which all sorts of scenery were harmoniously
combined, was a favourite haunt of the baron; and here he often
stretched himself at mid-day beneath the shadow of some vast oak or
beech, that he might meditate in solitude and in silence on schemes for
retrieving his affairs--for restoring him to his possessions in their
full extent and without restraint--and, above all, for consummating that
revenge which was still ungratified, notwithstanding all the rapine and
slaughter of eight years.
As he was one day engaged in such contemplations--profaning with evil
thoughts the retreats which seemed to have been consecrated by nature to
peace, and holiness, and all good affections--his attention was arrested
by a song familiar to Borderers, and composed by one of the men who had
been executed for the murder of Sir James Johnstone's predecessor in the
wardenship of the middle marches. But, although the associations which
were awakened in the mind of Lord Maxwell on hearing "Johnnie
Armstrong's Last Good-night,"[4] were of a mixed nature, the sweet tones
of the singer, and the allusions to the Border, made him forget, in the
delight of the moment, the more painful meditations which had been thus
agreeably interrupted. The delicious dream lasted only for a minute; the
voice of song was hushed; and although the baron, with curiosity to
which he had for years remained a stranger, started alertly from the
ground, that he might discover the sweet disturber of his thoughts, he
was too late; for no one save himself stood within the dell, where he
had sought solitude, though, as it turned out, he had not altogether
found it.
[Footnote 4: "The music of the most accomplished singer," says
Goldsmith, in his "Essays," "is dissonance to what I felt when an old
dairymaid sang me into tears with 'Johnnie Armstrong's Last
Good-night.'" Of this ballad only two stanzas (which are subjoined) have
survived till modern times. The beauty of these only deepens the feeling
of regret at the loss of the rest.
"This night is my departing night,
For here nae langer must I stay;
There's neither friend nor foe o' mine
But wishes me away.
"What I have done, through lack o' wit,
I never, never can recall:
I hope ye're a' my friends as yet--
Good-night, and joy be with you all!"]
His reveries were now at an end for the time; and he returned to the
castle with that reluctance which every man feels when he is about to
mingle in society, without possessing the power of deriving delight from
his intercourse with human-kind.
In the course of the evening--which was usually devoted by the guests of
the marquis to sports, varied by occasional conversations on all sorts
of subjects, from lively to severe--a keen dispute arose betwixt a young
French count and one of his comrades with regard to the merits of
Scottish music. After arguing, and stating, and re-stating their
opinions, until they found that the one could not convince the other,
they agreed to refer the point to Lord Maxwell, who seemed to be the
only person not talking, or listening to talk, at the moment; and they
then proceeded to give specimens at once of their own vocal powers and
of the beauty of the music peculiarly prevalent in their respective
countries. After the trial was completed, a round of laughter greeted
the competitors, whose performance, it may be supposed from this
reception, was none of the most beautiful. The umpire, when asked to
deliver his award, only shook his head.
"Though I don't pretend to say which is the _better_ singer," said Lord
Maxwell, "I will undertake to convince our foreign friend that Scottish
melodies are at least equal to the music which he adores; but you, my
lord, must aid me, otherwise this mighty dispute must remain unsettled."
"Speak your wish," said the marquis, "and it shall be gratified, if I
can help you."
"You have sometimes told me that I do nothing but mope about your woods
and ravines, scarcely opening my eyes or my ears; but to-day, at least,
it was not so. My day-dreams were agreeably dispelled by some
songstress, who had escaped, however, before I could discover whether
the lips which breathed such melody were as sweet as the song. Could you
only hear "Armstrong's Good-night" warbled as I heard it to-day, your
disputes would soon be at an end. Perhaps some of the village girls
may----"
"No village girl, my lord," exclaimed the defender of Scottish music.
All eyes were in a moment fixed upon Lady Margaret, whose blushes had
betrayed her. The ballad was once more sung; and need it be said that
the disbeliever in Scottish melody became a convert, and, like other
converts, became even more zealous than his old antagonist in praises of
the song and of the songstress? Lord Maxwell began to chide himself for
not having sooner discovered that Lady Margaret was not only endowed
with a sweet voice, but possessed of great personal attractions. He had,
indeed, frequently heard her sing, but the right chord had never been
touched before; and it was only when the ballads with which he was
familiar, and which were the native growth of his own province, fell
upon his ear, that attention was awakened, and the full beauty of the
vocal powers possessed by his unseen charmer was perceived.
Margaret Hamilton was now in her eighteenth year, and possessed that
irregular beauty, glowing with life and health, which wins the heart
more readily than the most faultless but chilling perfection of feature.
The high intelligence and elevated feeling which met "in her aspect and
her eyes," her bright complexion and raven ringlets, made her such a
being as the imagination delights to portray and contemplate, though the
beautiful vision which flits across the mind seldom has a living, and
breathing, and moving counterpart in the material world.