before the occurrence of the incident already mentioned; and a walk
without a companion was now the exception from the general rule. That
companion--need it be recorded--was Margaret Hamilton. Every scene that
deserved a visit--every wondrous work of nature or curious work of man,
within a range of several miles around Craignethan Castle--was pointed
out by Lady Margaret for the admiration of her brother's guest. Nor was
it long before the admiration bestowed upon the lifeless scenes which
they contemplated in common was transferred to each other by the
animated observers themselves. They rapidly proceeded through all the
stages of that fever which, in its crisis, is called love. The feuds,
and animosities, and revenge, of the Nithsdale baron were for a time
forgotten; those better affections which had been cherished by the
preceptor of his youth--the gentler feelings which produce the
courtesies and kindnesses of life--the intellectual tastes which had
long lain uncultivated, and had indeed borne many weeds under the
influence of harsh passions--all these began in some measure to revive;
his spirit, freed for a season from the operation of those motives which
had hitherto guided it with so much power, appeared to be softened; his
demeanour lost somewhat of its sternness; and a new passion seemed
gradually to be expelling all those fiercer emotions by which he had
hitherto been governed.
But these delightful days could not last for ever; and the marquis,
although he was pleased when he first saw the change in the deportment
of his relative, felt that the intimacy of his sister and his kinsman
could not last long without ripening into attachment. Yet he attempted
to soothe his disquietude by the usual excuse that his apprehensions
were outrunning the reality; and he delayed all interference until
interference was in vain. Besides, he was himself about to enter into
the state of wedlock, and could not be in a very fit condition for
treating the affections of others with anything like severity. Autumn
had arrived before the marquis introduced the subject. He rallied his
kinsman on his bachelorship.
"But why may not I remain a bachelor, and be as happy as you?"
"What!--I would Lady Margaret heard you. Could _she_ not make you change
your mind?" said the marquis, keenly eyeing Lord Maxwell.
The baron gave no reply; for the words died on his lips. The blood
forsook his cheek; the fire was quenched in his eye; even his stature
seemed to lessen; and he looked as if Heaven in its wrath had struck him
with its thunderbolt. The oath which he had sworn, and which he had
broken even by his sloth in lingering at Craignethan Castle, recurred to
his mind in all its force:--one aim, one hope, one affection, one
object--revenge, bloody revenge, on the head of the clan that had slain
his father, was all for which he had vowed to live, until the deed of
death was accomplished, or he himself was laid in the dust. He
remembered, with loathing unspeakable, the words which he had uttered;
his heart felt crushed within him; and he stood without speaking a word,
until his horrorstricken friend seized him by the hand, and roused him
from the fearful reverie into which he had so suddenly fallen.
"I thank you--I thank you," cried Maxwell, abstractedly; "but I forget.
Your roof can shelter me no more. I must leave you now--ay, this very
instant."
"But, my dear friend," said the marquis, interrupting him, "why do you
speak of departure? I did not mean offence, and let none be taken."
"Nay, nay, I am not offended at aught: you have reminded me of my duty;
and every moment that I stay here is a moment lost. I must to horse."
"But not without telling me why you leave me so abruptly. You say I have
not offended you; and yet you talked not of departure until this moment.
If the reason be one that can be told, why should you conceal it from
your warmest friend?"
"My father's death is unavenged. I have loitered here like a dull slave
shrinking from his task. I have forfeited my faith--I have broken my
oath. I must redeem the one, and fulfil the other."
"What task? what faith? what oath?" ejaculated the marquis, hurriedly.
"I have told you the task--to revenge my father's death! I have sworn
that, until the life's-blood of his foe be sprinkled on the earth, I
will not rest by day or by night--I will not enjoy land, power, or life
itself, except as the means of accomplishing my purpose. I will remain
unwedded--I will possess no hope in earth or in heaven, save one--the
hope of revenge. I have broken my faith; for I have not laboured without
ceasing, but have lazily sojourned under this roof. That faith must be
redeemed by the fulfilment of my vow. Should the fair lady of whom you
spoke," he added, in a tone little elevated above a whisper, "deign to
look down on one so unworthy, she will see me a suitor at her feet
whenever my first duty has been discharged."
The remonstrances of the marquis could avail nothing, and Lord Maxwell
sallied forth from Craignethan Castle. The prohibitions of his sovereign
had no power to prevent the baron and his vassals from renewing
hostilities against their hereditary enemies. The awakened chief
hastened, despite the royal mandate, to his native possessions; the
joyous news of his return spread, in a day, from Thrieve Castle to the
remotest hamlet in Eskdale--for the authority of the Maxwells extended
over the vast district of country which lies on the Scottish side of the
Solway. Immediate preparations were made for an incursion into
Annandale. But these movements did not take place without the knowledge
of Sir James Johnstone, who, on his side, mustered his vassals, and
obtained reinforcements of royal troops, for the purpose of protecting
his own territory, as well as enforcing obedience to the will of his
sovereign, by compelling Lord Maxwell once more to retire from the
Borders. The Lord of Nithsdale proceeded on his expedition, with the
view of pursuing his opponent into his fastnesses in the hills; but his
schemes were baffled by Sir James Johnstone, who selected a rising
ground not very far from the scene of the bloody conflict of Dryffe
Sands, as an advantageous position for receiving the attack of his
enemy. Lord Maxwell had expected that he would have taken his opponent
unawares--that he would have found Johnstone's retainers scattered, and
his territory undefended; but, nevertheless, with characteristic
impetuosity, he resolved to risk a battle; the disgrace of retreating
without striking a blow, the dismay which anything like vacillation was
likely to produce among his retainers, and those motives which addressed
themselves more directly to his passions, all weighed with him, even
though he learned that his force was inferior to that of his foe.
The conflict was severe and protracted; but, although Lord Maxwell's
followers fought with desperate courage, they were unable to keep their
ground against the large and well-appointed force arrayed against them.
Their leader rallied them once and again; animated them by his own
example; called on them to bear themselves as they were wont; reminded
them, by one or two words, of former conflicts bravely fought; and did
all that he could to secure victory. But his efforts were in vain, and
his retainers fled on every side, after the battle had been contested
until not a man remained without a wound. He, however, did not join his
followers, though they tried to hurry him from the field; but he
disengaged himself from their grasp, and, frantic with disappointment,
rushed into the midst of his adversaries. The cry, "Take him alive," was
instantly heard; and Lord Maxwell, overwhelmed by numbers, and exhausted
by his unremitting exertions, was the prisoner of Sir James Johnstone.
But he was not now permitted to choose his own place of retirement; and,
after remaining for some days in Annandale, he was conveyed to
Edinburgh, and immured in the castle. Solitude, instead of soothing his
passions, made them more vehement than ever; and the desire of revenge,
which had been originally produced on the death of his father, now
derived additional energy from his sense of personal injury and
suffering.
It could not be supposed that the fate of Lord Maxwell could be regarded
by his friends with that cold indifference which is the general feeling
among men when misfortune overtakes their neighbours. The ties of
clanship had not lost their strength in the days of King James; and
other ties, which had been knit under happier circumstances, were not
forgotten in the hour of danger. Lady Margaret Hamilton, who, like
persons of the same rank, usually resided in Edinburgh during the winter
and spring, heard of the imprisonment of the baron with grief, which, it
may be, was not ummingled with joy at the anticipation of his presence
in the same city; and the resolution that she would endeavour to procure
his release was scarcely formed, when she found an agent and coadjutor
in the person of a retainer of Lord Maxwell, commonly called Charlie o'
Kirkhouse. This freebooter, who was the baron's foster brother, was
devotedly attached to his chief; and he would have earnestly petitioned
the authorities to place him in attendance on Lord Maxwell, had he not
recollected that he would thereby, in a great measure, be prevented from
assisting that nobleman to escape. Charlie, though a shrewd fellow, had
been more in the practice of executing than devising schemes; and as he
thought it scarcely possible for himself, single-handed, to effect his
object, he proceeded to the Marquis of Hamilton's, for the purpose of
obtaining an interview with Lady Margaret, who, as he supposed, would
readily give him all the aid in her power. Charlie made his application
on the pretext that he wished to visit his chief, and suggested that the
marquis could facilitate his free and frequent admission. But Lady
Margaret recommended him rather to enlist in the royal service; and, as
he would then be received into the castle, he would be better able to
assist Lord Maxwell in any attempt to escape; while, at the same time,
he would be able to co-operate with her in any schemes which she might
devise for effecting the same object. By dint of perseverance, Charlie
overcame the proverbial and preliminary difficulty of making the first
step; and, by abusing his chief for a tyrant and everything that was bad
(his peculiar dialect told too many tales), he next endeavoured to win
the confidence of his superiors, and thus remove the only obstacles
which prevented him from obtaining access to the prisoner. This,
however, was a much more tedious process than he imagined. Will
o'Gunmerlie, a follower of Johnstone, who was stationed in the castle by
his chief, with the view of making up for the deficiencies in point of
vigilance on the part of the constituted authorities, retained the
clannish dislike of the Nithsdale soldier, and thwarted him so often,
that he began almost to despair of success; but he still hoped, by
ingratiating himself with some of the superior officers in the garrison,
that all obstacles would ere long be overcome.
While he was one day on guard, in the immediate neighbourhood of Lord
Maxwell's prison, one of his comrades approached, accompanied by a
youth, whose bonnet was pulled down upon his brows, and whose face was,
in consequence, for the most part concealed from view.
"Wha's this, Charlie, think ye?" said the soldier, laconically.
"I canna say I ken," replied Charlie, closely scrutinising the stranger.
"Hae ye nae guess wha he is?" repeated the soldier.
Charlie shook his head.
"Am I not," said the youth, stepping up to the perplexed sentinel--"am I
not Lord Maxwell's brother?"
"His brither!!!" exclaimed Charlie, in a tone which can only be
represented by a regiment of notes of admiration.
"Yes--his brother," repeated the youth, at the same time slightly
raising his bonnet so as to give Charlie a peep of a very fair
complexion. "Look at me again."
Charlie's wonder ceased in a moment.
"I daurna dispute what you say."
"Then he is Lord's Maxwell's brother!" said the conductor of the youth.
"Wha else should he be?" replied Charlie o' Kirkhouse, at the same time
resuming his duties.
Leave of admission was soon obtained for the youth; and, in the course
of a few minutes, he stood in the presence of Lord Maxwell. The room
into which he was introduced was small and gloomy--for the light was
admitted only by a single loophole, guarded by a bar of iron; and
everything showed that this was, indeed, a prison. The tenant of this
apartment was engaged at a table, placed as near the scanty window as
possible, and covered with books and papers, which he seemed to be
intently studying.
"Your brother, my lord," said the jailer. "I will return in
half-an-hour," he added, turning to the youth, whom he then left
standing in the middle of the room.
"My brother Charlie?" exclaimed Lord Maxwell, starting up, and hastening
to meet his visiter. "I thought you had been in London. But how? you are
not my brother. Charlie was a strapping fellow when last I saw him,
and--excuse me--you have the advantage."
But, instead of answering, the youth blushed "celestial rosy red, love's
proper hue"--and that so deeply, that even through the gloom the baron
saw the glow on the cheek.
"What! a youth--and to blush!" said he, eyeing his visiter keenly; "it
cannot be; and yet who should it be but----"
"You have not forgotten 'Johnny Armstrong's Good-night,'" whispered the
youth.
"Nor that voice," added the baron, saluting his pretended brother. "What
good spirit has brought you here, my dear Lady Margaret?"
"I have brought you the means of escape: you can disguise yourself in my
cloak and hat; the jailer will not know the difference in this dismal
light, or rather darkness; the sentinel at the end of the court is
Charlie o'Kirkhouse, who may be sent as your guide and guard to the
gate; the cloak and hat will deceive the rest, whose recollection is
doubtless by this time faint enough to favour the attempt."
"It must not be; for, even though no evil were to result from the
attempt, I would not have you subjected to the rudeness of menials."
"Say not so, my lord, for nobody will dare to injure me. I never made a
request before, and I may never make another."
"Nay--not so, I hope; but it cannot be that I should meanly leave you in
my stead. Forgive me, my dear lady, if I refuse to avail myself of the
means of escape which you propose; but deem me not so selfish as to
value my own freedom above yours--as to skulk in disguise from these
walls, and leave you here exposed to the insults of the angry underlings
deputed by a suspicious enemy to watch my every movement."
"Would that I could prevail upon you, my dear lord," said Lady Margaret,
affectionately, "to make the attempt; and would that I could prevail
upon you to cast aside your schemes of vengeance, to devote your
energies to the cause of your country, and to hear in your halls the
sounds of merriment rather than the wailings of sorrow over friends
whose lives have been lost in feudal warfare."
"Would that I could prevail upon myself," rejoined Lord Maxwell, "and
be content to pass my years in peace and in happiness, with none save
one to care for. But I forget myself: these things cannot come to pass."
"And why not?--why may they not now? If you will sign a bond, disavowing
all intent of renewing your hereditary warfare with your hereditary
foes, you would be placed at liberty; and my brother will pledge his
life and land for your word."
"No more--tempt me no more; my will was weak and wavering; but I have
not yet renounced my vow. You have spoken of my hereditary foes--shall I
be the first of my race to cast away my heritage? Happiness is a dream:
I know it now--for this moment--though bolts and bars retain me
here--though the sun's blessed ray scarce reaches me--though I have
passed my days in tumult and trouble, which will accompany me till life
has reached its close. But this is all a dream: in a little while, you,
my dear lady, will leave me; and with you, the dream will depart."
"Is there no hope left? Is your heart closed against me? Is your ear
deaf to my prayer? Will you not hasten from these horrid walls? Will you
sign no bond?"
"Never--never: I would as soon sign my own death-warrant, or yours; for
to sign my own would not wring my heart. I will sign no bond: I will
give no pledge. I need no man's honour to be gauged for my forbearance.
Pardon me, if I seem rude, and rough, and stern. I would that the time
were come when it might not be so--that my destiny were accomplished;
for it may be that, by brooding over schemes of vengeance, our minds are
filled with strange presentiments. When one deed has been done--when my
first task has been completed--when my vow is fulfilled--happiness may
yet be in store."
Neither the tears nor the entreaties of Lady Margaret could prevail on
the inflexible baron; who, however, declared his resolution to try some
other means of escape; and with this view suggested the propriety of
ascertaining what assistance could now be rendered by Charlie o'
Kirkhouse. Lady Margaret, as she was conducted from the baron's cell,
communicated to the trooper the joint wishes of his chief and of
herself.
Lord Maxwell now occupied his mind with projects of escape; and closely
examined the aperture which admitted a scanty portion of light into the
apartment; but its construction presented almost insuperable obstacles.
Nothing daunted, however, he resolved to try whether, by displacing a
part of the wall, he might not be able to open a passage; but the rate
at which the work advanced was so slow, that a whole lifetime would have
been required to accomplish his object.
As he had one evening arranged the rubbish according to his usual custom
before meal-times, so that his operations might not be visible to the
jailer, that functionary entered; but, instead of quietly placing on the
table the viands which he bore, he addressed himself, in an under tone,
to Lord Maxwell: "Would you like to escape, my lord?"
"Charlie o' Kirkhouse, as I'm a living man!" exclaimed the baron. "How
got you here?"
"Hush--you shall know afterwards. Let us change dresses; I will remain
in your stead."
"But you must not run into danger on my account."
"Danger! What danger? They dinna care to meddle wi' sma' gentry like me.
You maun do as I bid you."
"Well, well, Charlie," said the baron, nothing loth to seize the
opportunity of escape, undeterred by any feeling of delicacy in the
event of his substitute being discovered, and satisfying his scruples
with the reflection that Charlie's insignificance would protect him from
insult or injury.
The exchange was forthwith made; and so well had Charlie selected the
hour, that Lord Maxwell received no interruption, except from the sentry
at the outer gate, who wanted to crack a joke with his friend Charlie
o'Kirkhouse. Though the soldier looked somewhat suspicious when his joke
was acknowledged only by a "humph," yet nothing further occurring to
strengthen his suspicions, he quietly resumed his measured tread.
The baron soon provided himself with a horse; and the following morning
found him at Thrieve Castle.
Meanwhile, Charlie o'Kirkhouse, who remained the tenant of Lord
Maxwell's apartment, was missed by his comrades; but the story of the
sentinel, that he had seen "the Nithsdale trooper in a huff trampin'
doun the toun," satisfied them for the night. The jailer--who had a
second key, and thus was able to obtain admission--was taken aback on
visiting the cell on the following morning, when he found himself rather
roughly hugged by the prisoner, who thrust him head over heels into a
recess filled with what was, in courtesy, called a bed. Before the
astounded functionary could open his mouth, he heard the door locked,
and found himself a prisoner. He shouted, kicked, and thumped on the
door, and made all the din in his power. Charlie found the key in the
door at the end of a passage which led to the cell, and which had
prevented him from making his escape in the night-time; but his dress
attracted the notice and suspicion of some officers. He was seized
without delay. His excuse, however, that he had been "a guizardin" would
have served his purpose, had not the imprisoned jailer, by dint of
clamour, brought some of his comrades to the door, and let them know the
state of the case. Charlie was immediately pursued; and, as he had not
reached the castle gate, he was captured without difficulty.
"A pretty fellow you are," said Will o'Gunmerlie, "ye leein scoon'rel!
but yese get your ser'in for lattin aff yon villain, that ye used to
misca' waur nor ony Johnstone. Here. Habbie, Dandie, gie him a roun'
dizzen--and sync arither--and sync anither."
Charlie o' Kirkhouse fidgeted a little on hearing this order issued, and
he would fain have made another attempt to escape; but it was in vain.
"Come ane, come a'," he recklessly cried, when no hope was left, "I
carena; four dizzen's nae waur nor ane." The punishment was inflicted
with full vigour by Will o' Gunmerlie's ministers of justice; and the
luckless Charlie was thrust out of the castle, to find comfort and
shelter where he might.
Meanwhile, Lord Maxwell tried to raise the barons of Nithsdale; but the
times had changed so greatly since the accession of James to the English
throne, that the lairds felt themselves more independent than they were
of old, when their only choice was either to join the standard of some
powerful chief, or to suffer their possessions to be spoiled by his
retainers. Besides, they were weary of contests with their neighbours;
and most of them peremptorily refused to comply with the baron's wishes.
His wrath may be more easily conceived than described. After spending
some weeks in ineffectual attempts to overcome the resolution of his
refractory vassals, he applied to Sir Robert Maxwell of Orchardstone
(who, as has already been stated, was connected by marriage with Sir
James Johnstone), for the purpose of obtaining an interview with his
antagonist, and of trying whether that baron could not be prevailed upon
to intercede for him with the king. The aged knight, gratified at the
conciliatory disposition shown by Lord Maxwell, fixed time and place for
a meeting between the two chiefs, who accordingly hastened, each with a
small body of attendants, to the confines of their respective
territories, with the view of holding an amicable conference. Leaving
most of their attendants at some distance, Sir Robert Maxwell of
Orchardstone, Sir James Johnstone, accompanied by Will o' Gunmerlie, and
Lord Maxwell, accompanied by Charlie o' Kirkhouse (who had recovered
from the effects of his whipping), proceeded to enter on the business
which had called them together.
"I houp ye're nane the waur o' bein i' the castle, Charlie," cried Will
o'Gunmerlie, sneeringly.
"Nae thanks to you; I'll hae it oot o' yer hide some day. Tak ye tent,
ma man; ye've taen gude whangs o' ither folk's leather--look to yer
ain."
"Ha! ha! ha!" was the only reply of the other.
"Dinna anger me," vociferated Charlie, in a nettled tone, looking at his
pistol; "I tauld ye ye would get yer ser'in. There's nocht to hinder me
frae giein ye't noo. There--tak that!" And in a moment the freebooter
raised his pistol, and shot the unsuspecting Will o'Gunmerlie, who
rolled from his horse in the agonies of death.
Sir James Johnstone, on hearing the shot and the groans of his murdered
attendant, turned about to see what had happened, and (in the words of
the old chronicler) "immediately Maxwell shot him behind his back with
ane pistoll chairgit with two poysonit bullets." The unfortunate chief
fell from his horse; and, although he lingered for some time, his wound
was mortal. He lived, however, so long as to declare his wishes with
regard to various weighty matters, and to utter a word of consolation to
Orchardstone, whose grief was rendered agonising by the recollection
that his credulity had been the means of hastening the death of Sir
James.