But she was a grim and a laidly dame.
When into the castle court drave she,
The seven bairns stood wi’ the tear in their e’e.
Nor ale nor mead to the bairnies she gave,
“But hunger and hate frae me ye’s have.”
—Danish Ballad.
TWENTY years elapsed after the midnight when the infant boy was left at Hawksglen Castle by the gentle Johnston, whom we dub with that epithet in accordance with the Border usage of characterizing the principal families, or clans, as the haughty Homes, the bauld Rutherfords, the sturdy Armstrongs, the gentle Johnstons, et sic de cæteris. But “gentle,” as applied to the Johnstons, was an ironical misnomer, they being a peculiarly rude and turbulent race, living in “sturt and strife.” A story is told that a Baron, who was at deadly feud with them, having captured several, ordered their heads to be cut off and flung into a sack, which he gave to one of his retainers to carry home; and the man, when he got the grisly burden upon his back, gave it a good shake, saying jocosely, “Gree amang yoursells, Johnstons!” Our Johnston seemed a full-fledged scion of this law-defying race.
Let us now fill up the gap of those twenty years with a brief recital of events which concern our tale.
Sir James Elliot of Hawksglen was the lineal descendant of a famous Border house; and a worthier representative of a baronial stock it would have been rather difficult to single out among his compeers. High renown had been earned by his ancestors in the feuds and wars of the marches. His father received his death-wound in resisting a Southron inroad some few years anterior to the period when our legend opens. Sir James, an only son and only child, was thus left master of wide domains when he had just passed his majority. His mother was an amiable lady; but after the loss of her husband she never regained that happy buoyancy of mind which had distinguished her during her wedded life. To all her dependants she was a kind and indulgent mistress, ever ready to forgive shortcomings, and to relieve the wants of humble vassals when overtaken by pinching poverty. Seeing that her son inherited the martial spirit of his sire, it became her aim to induce him to bury animosities and feuds, and to cultivate, as much as he could, and as far as the circumstances of the times allowed, the arts of peace. She meant well. But Sir James would say to himself, as he paced through his hall, and gazed on several grim portraits of the Elliots of Hawksglen with which it was decorated:—