Part 22

"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.

Lord Maxwell immediately proceeded to the Castle of the Thrieve, where a large company was assembled, for the purpose, as they thought, of celebrating the reconciliation betwixt the two clans, and also the marriage of the chief with Lady Margaret Hamilton, who had been conducted thither by her brother. On Lord Maxwell's return, he sought a private interview with the marquis--told him what he had done--asked him to communicate the circumstances to the bride, and learn whether she would be wedded to a man whose hand was newly stained with blood.

"But he has slain his enemy in honourable battle," said Lady Margaret; "he has borne himself like a true knight; and, even though he may now depart for a season, the king has pardoned more heinous offences."

When the reply was reported to the baron, he muttered, with that sneering the which betrays the bitterness of the heart--"In honourable fight!--most honourable! Would it had been so!--But I will not now undeceive her."

The nuptials proceeded; the festivities were commenced, and continued to a late hour. Early on the following morning, the baron left his weeping bride, and, with his faithful retainer, Charlie o'Kirkhouse, hastened in disguise from his own home and country.

Notwithstanding all the efforts of the Marquis of Hamilton and other friends of the expatriated Baron of Nithsdale, no pardon could be extorted from King James--whose virtue seems for once to have been proof against all the temptations and threats which his most powerful Scottish subjects could hold forth. Lord Maxwell's peace of mind was gone; for all that was dear to him--his country and kindred--were at a distance; the engrossing object of his thought for many years past had been attained; and his memory would not allow him to forget that his revenge had been accomplished by meanly assassinating his enemy. After he had remained for about three or four years, wasting the prime of his days in exile and in misery, he learned that Lady Margaret was in bad spirits; then in bad health; then that her life was despaired of; and he resolved, at all hazards, to revisit Scotland. But, before his voyage was ended, Lady Margaret had breathed her last--heart-broken in the midst of those enjoyments--wealth, power, and rank--which are fondly supposed, by those who possess them not, and by not a few who do possess them, to be the infallible means of securing human felicity. The only object which made life worth retaining, in the estimation of Lord Maxwell, was thus snatched from him; and he would have immediately delivered himself up to justice, had it not been for the remonstrances of his faithful attendant, Charlie o'Kirkhouse. The family of Sir James Johnstone, as well as the constituted authorities, hunted the baron over the whole country; until, after frequently enduring the extremity of distress, he was seized in the wilds of Caithness, to which he had ultimately been driven. The indefatigable industry of his hereditary foes pursued him even to this distant retreat; and he was brought to Edinburgh, where, once more, he returned to his old quarters in the castle.

Among the friends who came to visit him, with the view of concerting measures for his defence, was the Marquis of Hamilton.

"Do you know that they mean to rob Charles of his birthright?" said the baron, on the entrance of his friend. "Oh, my good lord, such deeds would never have been done, had some of your ancestors filled the seat of the mean-spirited prince who rules this unhappy country."

"Hush, hush, my friend!" said the marquis; "speak nought like treason. I know it all. My lord treasurer, or his deputy, cannot want the estates; and you must therefore submit to a charge of fire-raising as well as of murder."

"May my curse or my blessing--for I know not which is more likely to bring the worse consequences--rest upon them all, if they take from my race their own inheritance, because I, forsooth, have sent a hoary villain a little before his time to his account!"