Part 12

We confess, however, that these feasts do not present sunny pictures exclusively; there are many who, as we have hinted, crown them with boisterous merriment. It was an ancient custom to elect, on the morning after the feast, a _Mayor_, or _Lord of the Festival_, whose word was law, and who was the sovereign dispenser of fun and frolic, and against whose command there was no appeal. The farce of "_The Mayor of Garret_" furnishes a correct example of this species of rustic revelry. We are not yet very old; but are old enough to remember the time when the mayor, or lord of the festivities referred to, was chosen in accordance with the words of Burns--

"Wha first beside his chair shall fa', Let him be king among us a'!"

But it is long since the treatment of a master of the revels ceased even to be decent--we would say merciful. In most places he is no longer paraded as an absolute monarch upon the shoulders of his subjects, but as the slave of the multitude, of whom they delight to make pastime. The mayor of the village feast, "has fallen from his high estate," of dictating imperious commands for his short hour of power; and now he is generally placed in the condition of the frog in the fable, and what may be sport to his tormentors, is well-nigh death to him.

The festival from which our present story takes its rise was held in Tweedmouth (the southern suburb of Berwick), nearly seventy years ago; and, according to custom, on Margaret's day, or the following Monday. For, although most of them are in some degree held upon the Sunday (a celebration which would "be more honoured in the breach than in the observance"), Monday may always be considered as the chief day of the feast. Now at that period there resided at Tweedmouth a Mrs Mordington, the widow of the commander of a coasting sloop, who had left her with two children, a son and daughter. The son, at the period our tale begins, was about one-and-twenty; his sister, two years younger. The son's name was George, and he was then a clerk in the office of a merchant in Gateshead. At the feast of St Margaret's, therefore--which is commemorated in Tweedmouth in July, when the sun is in the plenitude of its strength, and when the very birds, oppressed with its heat, leave the thin air and the upper branches, and, folding their wings, sit silently in the umbrageous shades, enjoying, well pleased, the coolness of their leafy shelter--George Mordington returned to Tweedside, to see his mother and his sister; yea, and there was another whom he longed not less eagerly to behold, and that was Marion Weatherly, a fair-headed maiden of nineteen, and the daughter of a master fisherman, who had the lease of some two hundred yards upon the Tweed, somewhere between where the Whitadder joins it and the bridge; but whether on the south or north side I cannot tell. As there may be thousands of the readers of these tales unacquainted with the nature of salmon fisheries, or of what is meant by having been a master fisherman in those days, I shall simply state that Mr Weatherly had taken a lease of a particular spot on one side of the Tweed, and which was in length about two hundred yards, and on that space he had the right of casting out and dragging in his nets. He had this river-farm at a very small sum annually; though, within a mile from the spot where he held it, we have known a lesser portion of fishing right in the river let for nearly two thousand pounds sterling per annum; and that, too, when the wisdom of the present generation (perhaps I ought to put the generation in the past tense) almost threw a _dyke_ across the mouth of the river, which built up what was called the _Meadow Haven_, and which haven was a gut in the rocks, by which the fish, coming in shoals from the north, entered the river; and this being built up by the _dyke_ or _pier_ aforesaid, after running their noses against a stone wall, instead of meeting with the _natural_ entrance to the river which _nature_ dictated to them to pursue, they were left, like a pack of fox-hounds that had been thrown off their scent, to seek the artificial entrance where they might find it, or for another river if they chose. Thus, the good old Tweed being half blocked up, fishing waters, in the present day, do not abound with the silver-mailed salmon, as they did in the days of Mr Weatherly. Besides, the river was then _fished_, not _harried_! It is not, therefore, wonderful that the father of Marion became a man of property.

Now, George Mordington and Marion Weatherly had known each other from childhood. I do not say that they had loved each other from that period; but they were at the same school together, and even before they left it, they were _equalled_ to each other. This _equalling_, or, as it is sometimes called, _evening_ to each other, by schoolmates or acquaintances, often goes far towards producing the wedded love of riper years. Many a match would never have been made, but for the schoolboy's or the comrade's jeer. Once name young hearts in the same breath, and you draw a magic circle round them; and, however little they may be acquainted with each other, whoever of the two may break through that circle, strikes a passing pang into the bosom of the other. Pride feels wounded, if nothing else does; but there is a feeling deeper and more tender than pride that has been rudely touched. It does not last long; but it is keen while it lasts. I am perfectly aware that there are many who may say, "Pshaw! it is all nonsense; who cares anything about these things _now_?" No middle-aged person, I grant you. Individuals of such an age like some home truth--something that comes home to their business and their bosoms as they are; and when such a thing meets them they say, "Oh, it is very natural." Granted that _it_ is natural, why should people of middle age, yea, or of grey hairs, forget that they were once young; and that what is now "stale, flat, and unprofitable" to them, is still the feelings of thousands--is still delightful to thousands--was once _their_ feelings, and delightful to _them_? Though past the sunny heyday ourselves, we like not to hear either man or woman cry out, with the Preacher, "all is vanity!" For light is beautiful--so is the sun that sheds it forth. The fair earth, with its buds, its flowers, its leaves, its fruits, and its trees with their singing birds--they are all beautiful--exquisitely beautiful! No man can look upon the works of his Maker, without adoring, worshipping, and loving the Power that formed them. Oh, when we so look abroad upon the glorious creation that is above, beneath, and around us--when we see so much that is measureless, magnificent, and that steals forth in beauty as a bud opens, until its loveliness is revealed before the very soul; and, above all, when we think also of the kind hearts that share our sorrows and our joys, that watch over us and that throb for us, that mourn with us and rejoice with us, and that are one with us in all things--we are tempted to say that all is "not vanity," but that man is the author of his own "vexation of spirit." Now George Mordington was one who loved all the works of nature for their loveliness. He saw nothing to which his young heart would respond, "it is vanity!" He loved the very worm that crawled--writhing and dying as it crawled--over his path, and pushed it gently with his foot upon its parent earth, that it might live. Was there nothing in the scenery of his birthplace that he should admire it? There was neither the sublimity of mountains to awe him into remembrance--the majesty of wooded hills (which there might be), nor lakes where echoes died in music; but there was the Tweed, the stream of his nativity, which rushes into the arms of the ocean, like a beautiful bride that has been cast off by her parent, and falls upon the neck of her lover without adornments; and there was the rich lands of the Merse and Islandshire, for ever spread out before him, with the everlasting ocean, its calms and its storms, its placid stillness and its terrible waves--forming together a scene such as he that has once looked upon can never forget. Through such scenes George Mordington recollected Marion Weatherly.

It has been mentioned that he was a clerk in Gateshead, and at the annual festival held in Tweedmouth, he went to visit his mother, his sister, and the fair Marion. I might--for I have often been a witness of such a scene--describe the joy of the doating mother as she beheld her son, in the youthful bloom of manhood, seated at her table. With delight sparkling in her eyes, she sat gazing on his face, until the tear of affection rose and bedimmed their radiance. On her left hand sat her son, and on her right her daughter, and her intended daughter, Marion Weatherly. Their dinner passed over in happiness--the mother smiled to look upon her children's joy; and when "a gentle tap came to the door," which the daughter best understood, and blushing, responded to it, George and Marion also arose, and they went into the fields together. They wandered to and fro in a narrow pathway, the length of which was rather less than a mile, while on each side of them the ripening grain formed _a waving wall_, giving promise of an abundant harvest. They wandered backward and forward, hand locked in hand, until the sun was lost behind Hallidon, and the stars began to steal out through the grey twilight.

When they shook hands at parting--"Now, George," said Marion, "you have your acquaintances to see, but do not remain late with them; for my sake and your mother's, do not."

"Dear Marion," said he, "wherefore remind me of this? I know that I must meet my acquaintances to-night, all of whom are my old friends, many of them my schoolfellows; I have promised to meet them--I have to leave for Newcastle to-morrow--and wherefore remind me that I should not remain late with them?"

"Oh!" she replied, "only that you will remember your character, George."

"Do not be interested about my character," said he; "I have hitherto supported it with credit to myself, and, I think, dear Marion, I may do also for the future."

He pressed his lips to hers, and, shaking her hand fervidly, they parted for the night; but before they parted, they had renewed their young vows, beneath an ash-tree, where they had sat down together (upon the footpath which is now known by the name of the "_Willow Back_"), and where he had carved their names four years before, and there he deepened the incision which recorded their initials; and, as Virgil somewhere hath it (though neither of them knew anything about Virgil), they vowed that, as the "bark expanded, their love would grow." This is a very common idea amongst love-engravers upon trees; but though a Mantuan swain might so write, a British peasant would frequently have cause to say, that, as the tree grew, and the bark expanded, so did his initials spread, and become vague, and more vague, until fog grew over them; and upon the heart, as on the tree where he had first carved his name, there was no trace left.

But George Mordington parted with Marion, and went to a street called the Kiln Hill, in which there then was an inn, known by the name of "THE SALMON." In it all the associates of his youth were assembled; and when he entered they rose simultaneously, each offering his hand, and exclaiming, "Ah! George! my dear fellow, how are you?"

They sat long, and they drank deeply; and, while the song, the story, the jest, or the argument went round, they forgot how time and reason were flying together. It was usual for such companies not to break up until they had witnessed the election of the mayor. The heads of several of the party began to go round as well as the glass; and of this number was George Mordington. He was a youth of the most sober and temperate habits; and before he had drank off his third glass, he might have said, in the words of the song, "This is no me!" His very countenance was changed; his manner, which was, in general, backward and retiring, became bold and boisterous. Instead of his wonted silence, he was the chief orator of the company. He spoke of things of which he ought not to have spoken, and as glass succeeded glass, so did one act of folly succeed another. Some of the more sober of the company said, they "were sorry for poor Mordington--but his head could stand nothing; and," added they, "it is a pity, for he is an excellent fellow." This, however, was only the sentiment of a part of them; and as he began to exhibit fantastic tricks, and to declaim with violent gestures upon all subjects, some said that he would make an excellent _mayor_, and proposed that a cart should be procured. Against this proposal some of his acquaintances protested; but the idea pleased his own disordered fancy, and as the madness of intoxication increased, he insisted that the bacchanalian honour should be conferred upon him.

"Well done, George!" cried the more thoughtless of the party; "he is the king of good fellows, every inch of him!"

So saying, they rushed into the street, bearing him upon their shoulders; and amidst the shouts and laughter of men and boys, he was placed in a cart, his face rubbed over with soot, his hair bedaubed with flour, and a broomstick was placed in his hand as his rod of office.

"Hurrah! George Mordington is mayor!" was the cry upon the streets; and followed by a noisy multitude, he was paraded round the village, and, in conformity with ancient custom, delivered a speech at every public-house and baker's door in the place.

Old and young leave their pillows, to "see the mayor," as they term it, and hasten to the door or window, to witness his procession as he is hurled along. There were many who, as they perceived him, expressed regret to see George Mordington in such a situation, and said it would break his mother's heart.

But, as they passed the door of Mr Weatherly, a sudden cry was heard. It was a woman's scream of agony, and as it burst forth, the maddened shout of the multitude was hushed. It struck upon the ear of George Mordington in the midst of his madness and degradation--it entered his heart. It was the cry of his betrothed Marion. He struck his hand upon his brow, and fell back in the cart as if an arrow had entered his breast. Her voice had startled him, as from a trance, into a consciousness of his shame and folly.

"He is dead!" cried the crowd--for he fell as if dead, and in a state of unconsciousness he was conveyed to his mother's house. The poor widow wept as she beheld her joy turned into shame; and as he opened his eyes and began to gaze vacantly around, his sister said unto him, but rather sorrowfully than reproachfully, "Brother! brother! who could have thought that you would have been guilty of this?"

A groan of anguish was his only reply.

"Daughter," said his mother, "do not upbraid him; he will feel anguish enough for the shame he has brought upon himself and on us, without our reproaches."

He started to his feet as he heard her voice, he thrust his fingers in his hair, he gnashed his teeth together, and howling as one in a paroxysm of insanity, exclaimed--

"What have I done? I am lost--disgraced for ever!"

"No, my son! no!" said his mother; "you have acted foolishly, very foolishly; but in time it will be forgotten."

"Never! never!" he answered; "would that the earth would swallow me up! I am worse than a madman or a villain--I am ashamed of my existence!"

They endeavoured to soothe him; and for a few hours he forgot his shame in sleep--though not wholly, for his slumber was troubled, and in the midst of it he groaned, clenched his hands, and grated his teeth together. The remembrance of his folly was stronger than sleep. He awoke, and a sensation of horror awoke with him. The extravagance and the madness of which he had been guilty in the morning were at first only remembered as a disagreeable and confused dream, which he wished to chase from his thoughts, and was afraid to remember more vividly. But, as he saw the tears on the cheeks of his mother and his sister, as they sat weeping by his bedside, all the absurdities in which he had been an actor rushed painfully, if not distinctly, across his memory; and he covered his face with his hands, ashamed to look upon the light, or on his kindred's face. He was sick and fevered, and his throat was parched; yet the sense of shame lay on his heart so keenly, that he would not ask for a drop of water to cool his tongue. For five days he was confined to his bed; and the physician who had been called in to attend him dreaded an attack of brain fever. It was ordered that he should be kept calm; but there was a troubled fire in his breast that burned and denied him rest. On the sixth day, he ventured to whisper something in his sister's ear regarding Marion.

"Poor Marion!" she replied; "though she forgives you, her father forbids her to speak to you again, and has sent her to the north of Scotland, that she may not have an opportunity of seeing you."

He sat in agony and in silence for a few moments, and rising and taking his hat, walked feebly towards the door. But, ere he had opened it, he turned back, and throwing himself upon his seat, cried--

"I am ashamed for the sunlight to fall upon my face, or for the eyes of any one that I know to look upon me."

When the sun had set, and night began to fall grey upon the river, he again rose, and went towards the house of Marion's father.

"What want ye?" said the old man, angrily, as he entered; "away, ye disgrace o' kith and kin, and dinna let the shamefu shadow o' sic a ne'er-do-weel darken my door! Away wi' ye! Dinna come here--and let ae telling be as good as a hundred--for daughter o' mine shall never speak to ye again!"

"You will not," said George, "deal with me so harshly, because I have been guilty of one act of folly. They have a steady foot who never make a slip; and, ashamed as I am of my conduct, it certainly has not been so disgraceful as never to be forgiven."

"I have told ye once, and I tell ye again," cried the old man, more wrathfully, "that my daughter shanna speak to ye while she breathes. I hope she has a spirit above it. It would be a fine story for folk to talk about, that she had married a blackguard that was mayor at Tweedmouth feast!"

"I deserve your censure," returned George; "but surely there is nothing so heinous in what I have done as to merit the epithet you apply to me. I acknowledge and am ashamed of my folly; what can I do more? And I have also suffered for it."

"Ye acknowledge your folly!" exclaimed the fisherman; "pray, sir, how could ye deny it? I saw it--the whole toun saw it--my poor daughter was a witness o' it; and yet ye have the impudence to stand there before me and say ye acknowledge it! And muckle mends it makes to say ye are sorry for it! I suppose, sir, the very murderer is sorry for his crime, when he stands condemned before the judge; but his sorrow, I reckon, is but a poor reason why he should be pardoned. Away wi' ye, I say--ye shall find no admission here. At ony rate, I have taken good care to have my silly bairn out o' your reach, and that she may be out o' the way o' the disgrace and the scandal that ye have brought upon us."

So saying, the speaker rudely closed the door in the face of his visiter.

George Mordington returned to his mother's house, gliding silently, as a ghost is said to move; for his cheek burned lest any one should look upon his face. On the following day, he prepared to set out for Gateshead; but before he went he placed the following letter, addressed to Marion Weatherly, into the hands of his sister, and which she was to give to her on her return:--

"MARION,--I cannot now call you _my_ Marion--I have disgraced you, I have dishonoured myself. Your advice, which I deemed unnecessary, was not only forgotten, but you know how it was insulted. I know you must despise me; and I blame you not--you have a right to do so. I have made myself contemptible in your eyes, but not more contemptible than my conduct has rendered me in my own. I blush to think of you, and your excellence renders my folly more despicable. Call it madness--call it what you will--for it was the infatuation, the frenzy, the insanity of an hour. Yet, dear Marion, by all the hours and scenes of happiness that are gone, by all that we have known together, and that we might yet know, cast me not off for ever! Had I been familiar with the nightly debauch, my degradation would have been less, my conduct not so extravagant. Think of me as one degraded by folly, but not abandoned to it. I have sinned, and that deeply; but my repentance is as bitter as my crime was ridiculous. Its remembrance chokes me. _Forgive me, Marion._ I write the words, but I could not utter them, for I find that I could not stand in your presence, and support the weight of the debasement which presses upon me as a galling load. Your father has treated me cruelly--I would say that he has insulted me, if it were possible to insult one who has so insulted himself. The only apology I can, or should, offer for the part I have acted ought to be, and must be, found in my future conduct. It is on this ground only that I ask and hope for your forgiveness."

So ran his letter; and having delivered it to his sister, under the promise that it should be given to Marion immediately on her return, he left his mother's house, and took his journey towards Gateshead.

On arriving at the office of his employers, they looked upon him as though they knew him not, and he perceived that the place at the desk which he had formerly occupied was filled by another; for there the tale of his follies had already reached: so true is it that evil rideth upon wings which outstrip the wind. His late master sent one of the junior clerks to inform him that he had no farther occasion for his services. George stood as if a thunderbolt had smitten him; and he went forth disconsolate, and began to wander towards South Shields, while the thought haunted him what he should do, and to whom he should apply for assistance. He had ruined his character--he was without friends, almost without money, and he wandered in wretchedness, the martyr of his own folly. He thought of his mother, of his sister, and of the fair Marion, and wept; for he not only had drawn down misery upon his own head, but he had made them miserable also. He took up his lodgings in a mean public-house by the side of the river, and went round the public offices in Newcastle and Shields, seeking for employment, but without success. In all of them he was known; in each, the tale of his indiscretion seemed to have been heard, for his entrance was greeted with a smile.