Part 13

In a short time he began to be in want; and, like the prodigal, he would have "arisen and gone unto his father"--but he had no father's roof to receive him--no home, save the lowly habitation of his widowed mother--and he found himself left as an outcast on the earth. In his despair he applied to the captain of a vessel which was about to sail for America. During his father's lifetime, he had made some voyages with him, and obtained a knowledge of a seaman's duty. The skipper of the American trader, also, to whom he applied, having known him when a clerk in the merchant's office at Gateshead, agreed to take him on board, and give him, as he called it, a trial. George Mordington, accordingly, sailed for America, and several years passed, and his mother heard nothing concerning him. The letter which he had left with his sister for Marion had been delivered to her, and as she read it she wept, and her heart whispered forgiveness. But days, months, and years dragged their slow course along, and no one heard tidings of him. She began to feel that, although she had forgiven him, he had forgotten her. Her father said she "was weel quit o' the ne'er-do-weel--that he had always determined that he should not speak to her again, and he was glad that he had not attempted it."

But his poor mother mourned for him as a stricken dove that is robbed of its young; the tears fell upon her pillow at midnight, as she wept for her son, her only son, the child of her heart and hopes. Anxious and fruitless were her inquiries after him. As the mist of morning vanisheth, so had he departed from her sight; and, like it, when the sun melteth it away, he was not.

Mrs Mordington had a brother who had been many years in India, and having returned to Britain, he took up his residence in Ayrshire. Being a widower, and without children, he sent for his sister and her daughter to reside with him. They remained as the inmates of his roof for more than ten years, and during that period she heard nothing of her lost son. But her brother, who was now an old man, died, leaving to her his property; and, regarding the place where her husband's bones lay as her home, she returned to Tweedmouth. There, however, she had not been long, when disease fell, as a withering blight, on the cheeks of her remaining child. Year followed year, and, as the leaves dropped from the trees, her daughter seemed ready to drop into the grave. Over her face consumption's fitful rainbow spread its beautiful but deadly streaks; and, though the widow now possessed affluence, she knew not happiness. Her son was not, and her fair daughter was withering before her, as a flower on which the cankerworm had fixed its teeth. Yet, long the maiden lingered, until her aged mother almost hoped that they would go down into the grave together.

Eighteen years had passed since the festival which had proved fatal to the early promise and the fond prospects of George Mordington. Margaret's day had again come round, and the neighbours of the widow, with their children and friends around them, held a holiday. A slow and unwieldy vehicle, which was then the only land conveyance between Berwick and London, stopped in the village. A sunburned stranger alighted from it, and as he left the coach, a young maiden crossed his path. She seemed to be seventeen or eighteen years of age, and was dressed in a mourning-gown, with a white sarcenet hood over her head, being in the dress of one who was inviting guests to a funeral.

"Maiden," said the stranger, accosting her, "can you inform me where Mrs Mordington resides?"

"Yes, sir," she replied; "I am bidding for the funeral."

"For what funeral?" he exclaimed, eagerly.

"For her daughter's, sir," answered the maiden.

"My sister--my poor sister!" cried the stranger, clasping his hands together.

"Your sister!" said she, inquiringly gazing in his face, and throwing back her hood as she spoke.

"Heaven!" he exclaimed, and starting back; "your name, maiden--your name!" But he added, "I need not ask it; it is written on your features. Your mother's name is Marion?"

"It is," replied the astonished and half-terrified girl.

"Show me to my mother's!" he cried, smiting his hand suddenly on his bosom. "Would that I had this day to be buried in the grave prepared for my sister!"

Afraid to cast upon him another glance, she conducted him to the house.

"It is here, sir," said she, pointing to the house.

His frame, his features were convulsed; they shook with agitation. He raised his hand and struck upon the door. It was opened by a woman dressed in the garb of mourning, and whose years might be described as being between youth and middle-age.

"Do I dream!" he exclaimed, starting back as he beheld her. "I am punished!--yes, I am now punished beyond the measure of my crime! Marion, I am George Mordington!"

She clasped her hands together, a wild shriek escaped her lips, and she fell back as dead upon the floor. Others who sat with the corpse ran to her assistance; but his voice had reached an ear where its tones had lived as a memory that might never die.

"My son! my son!" cried the aged widow, and pressed forward to throw her arms around his neck.

"My mother!" he cried, springing from the ground, where he had sunk by the side of Marion.

The widow fell upon the breast of her son, and he wept aloud upon her neck.

Strangers raised Marion and conveyed her from the house. She had long believed George Mordington, the object of her early affections, was with the dead; and under this conviction, and in obedience to her father's command, she had given her hand to another. The maiden whom the betrothed husband of her youth had met on alighting from the coach was her daughter, and the features of the girl then were as the mother's had been when they last parted.

George Mordington accompanied his sister's corpse, as chief mourner, to the grave. The friends of his boyhood had forgotten the tale of his folly; but its consequences gnawed with fiercer agony in his heart than when he was first ashamed to behold his own face in a glass because of it. On the following day, it was stated that Marion was not expected to live, and she requested to speak with him before she died. He approached her bedside--she stretched her hand towards him. "Forgive me, George!" she cried. "I knew not that you yet lived. I am the wife of one who has long deserted me; my heart has long been broken, and your appearance has severed the last cord that linked me with existence. But I leave behind me a daughter. When I am gone, there will be no parent to provide for her--no father whose roof will shelter or hand defend her. As you once loved me, protect my poor child!"

"I will! I will!" he exclaimed. "Farewell, Marion!" And he rushed from the house.

She lingered for a few weeks, and he followed her to the grave, as he had done his sister. Yet the remembrance of his early shame still haunted him, and he imagined that every eye in the place of his birth looked on him with derision. He gave his mother's furniture in presents to her neighbours; and, with her and the daughter of Marion, proceeded to London. The widow lived for a few years, and, at her death, he bequeathed upon the daughter of his adoption all that his mother possessed.

"Maiden," he said, "I cannot look upon thy face, but it reminds me of the happiness I have lost, of the misery I have brought on myself and upon others. Child of my Marion, farewell! I leave you, if not rich, above want. Be virtuous, as your mother was." And again crying, "Farewell!" he left her; and George Mordington was no more heard of by any who had known him. But, after the lapse of many years, there appeared in an American newspaper the following paragraph:--

"Died, at Washington, in the seventieth year of his age, George Mordington, Esq., a native of Berwick-upon-Tweed, a patriotic senator, and an upright judge."

A LEGEND OF HOLYROOD.

Once upon a time, when a good story had not ceased to have a beginning in this way, there lived a person called William Glenday, who was a sort of sub-equerry to Mary Queen of Scots; or rather he assumed that title, because it sounded better than "head groom." This man was a widower, and lived with his daughter Mary, a very interesting young maiden, of about twenty years of age, in one of the houses within the precincts of the Abbey set apart for the Queen's household. William was a quaint Scotsman, shrewd and caustic in his remarks, like many of his nation. He was reputed rich, and somewhat addicted to making more than a proper display of his riches; in other words, he was "purse-proud." He was, however, a most loyal subject of the queen, whom he held to be a paragon of beauty. His daughter bore the same name; and it was even whispered that he had sought to trace a likeness between Mary Glenday and Mary Queen of Scots. What will the partiality of a father's love not accomplish?

On the other side of the Abbey strand--that is, on the unprivileged side--there was a house kept as a tavern or ale-house by a person of the name of Peter Connal, very well known in those days as a place of resort for the humble retainers about the palace. Instead of placing a dry picture of a type of his trade over his door, in the shape of stoups or bickers overflowing with his famous beverage, Peter conceived that he would be nearer his purpose of letting the public know the nature of his calling, by showing them the liquor itself, in a real quaigh, and in the act of being swallowed by a real toper; at least Peter gave out as a reason for his sitting on a barrel at his door during a great part of the day, drinking his ale, that he was merely showing the public a good example, and exercising the functions of his calling in such a manner as to fill his purse and his stomach at the same time--a reason which possessed so much of plausibility, that his wife, Janet Wilkinson, was not, by the mere power of logic alone, able to show any fallacy attached to it. Peter had a son named John--a very fine young man, who followed his father's trade, but demurred somewhat as to the propriety of imitating his father, when he should come to succeed him, in making himself a living signboard; a piece of self-willed precocious conceit on the part of the lad which Peter despised.

Nor did Peter Connal stand in any want of individuals to approve of these sentiments. Among others who collected at this door, and took their station on the seat on which he sat, were William Glenday, and an Italian called Giulio Massetto, a servant in the employ of the famous David Rizzio. These three were often seen sitting together at the door of the tavern, drinking Peter's ale, and discussing any point of interest which the strange proceedings of the palace at that time offered to their curiosity. Peter did not approve of the intimacy which existed between Rizzio and the queen; Giulio defended his master; and William stood up for the unfortunate Mary.

"I canna see what our royal mistress can mean," said Peter, "by a' this walkin, and ridin, and talkin, and singin, and playin on psalters and sackbuts, and pipes and whistles, wi' that Italian. It's nae farther gane than yesterday, that my son John--wha despises his ain drink, fule that he is--saw the queen and him sittin in the bonny green bower, at the corner o' the King's Orchard yonder, skirlin ane o' their Italian sangs, like twa mavises. Is that like a Queen o' Scotland and the wife o' Darnley? Na! na!"

"Cattivo!" ejaculated the choleric Italian, "thy son doth lie in his throat. My noble master is the only accomplished gentleman in this barbarous land; and my royal mistress hath made him her secretary, because thy kilted barons can only write with their swords."

"And maybe thae kilted barons may write wi' that guidly pen the word '_death_' on yer noble master's silken sash," answered Peter. "By my troth, lad, ye had better be at Cremona, playing an Italian strathspey, than here in our abbey, if ony o' our kilted barons be within hearin."

"Wheesht! wheesht! baith o' ye," said William Glenday; "ye are baith wrang. It may be ill for Giulio to speak in this fashion; but it may be waur for you, Peter, wha's living comes frae the palace, if ye are heard speakin ill o' Rizzio and the queen."

"I just say what I think," said Peter, pertinaciously. "That Italian piper would be better dangling at the black wuddy up the way yonder, than at oor queen's tail." And he quietly quaffed off a jug of his ale.

On hearing these words, Giulio could no longer restrain himself. He started from his seat, and shaking his fist in the face of Peter, turned on his heel and disappeared.

This scene, though made a little ominous by the fierce expression of the Italian's face and manner, was not long remembered. Peter continued to drink his ale, and did not hesitate to speak his mind on a subject which had, apparently, become of more than ordinary interest to him. The intimacy between him and William Glenday continued; and their children, as will appear, had good reasons that it should not be interrupted.

Now John Connal and Mary Glenday were of nearly the same age, and their sentiments accorded as closely as their years. From their earliest childhood they had associated together; and the feelings which were generated in the games and amusements of schoolmates, ripened, as they grew up, into sentiments of the heart. When the same blue-bell, which divided their affections at the "Wells o' Weary," was cast away, it was only to give place to another object of mutual sympathy. The natural elements of love, thus reinforced by early congenial habits, mutual enjoyments, and the daily intercourse of an inseparable connection, produced, in a short time, a strong attachment in the youthful pair, which had been pledged and re-pledged as often as their fears suggested any impediment to their ultimate union.

These lovers had now arrived at an age when they might have been united; and they looked forward to this happy consummation with confidence and delight. John Connal, however, did not want rivals, who sued in vain for the hand of Mary. Among these was Giulio Massetto, the Italian, who had for some time solicited the favour of the maiden. He trusted much to his superior appearance and polished manners, and looked with contempt on the poor Scot who dared to dispute with him the hand of his love. Mary was much annoyed by the Italian's importunate method of wooing; partaking more, she thought, of the impassioned character of a madman's ravings, than of the quiet, rational, and sincere mode of a Scottish courtship. She had repeatedly told him that his suit was in vain; but every repulse seemed only to increase his assiduity, and add to the pathos of his protestations and serenades.

This man had earned for himself, since he came to Scotland, a reputation for every wickedness. He had been concerned in many disgraceful amours, and violent and bloody quarrels with the inhabitants of Edinburgh, which brought upon him a hatred equal to that which his master, by his imprudent conduct with the queen, had produced against himself. It was, in consequence, suspected that his passion for Mary was a mere ebullition of that kind of love for which his countrymen were then and are to this day remarkable; and that, even if he were so fortunate as to secure the object of his desires on condition of resigning his liberty, he would, when his passion cooled, leave her to follow some other equally faithless and disgraceful amour.

Having been unsuccessful in every effort he had made with Mary, Giulio at last resolved to make an application to her father; and he trusted that the show of wealth which, by the misplaced kindness of the royal favourite, he was enabled to make, might have the effect of tempting William Glenday to endeavour to influence the affections of his daughter.

"Thou knowest, William Glenday," said the Italian, one morning, "that I love thy daughter Mary with the force of affection which a true and ardent lover ought to bear towards the devoted of his heart; and I have taken every method known in our country to induce her to forego the gratification of the infliction of her cruelty on her lover; yet she continues obdurate and determined that I shall die the victim of a passion which I cannot control. Yet, if she would but relent, how happy could I make her! My jewels amount in value to a hundred merks; and my master, on our marriage, will present me with a hundred more. Wilt thou aid me in my suit, and endeavour to persuade thy daughter that she ought to yield to the influence of my love?"

William Glenday, who was himself a little purse-proud and conceited, was by no means taken on the right side by this high-flown speech, which was, like all Giulio's conversation and manners, a gross imitation of the style of his master. William was adverse to his suit on many grounds; but the rhodomontade of this address, and the attempt to bribe him by a display of ill-gotten wealth, roused him beyond his natural bearing.

"Ye seem, sir, to hae yersel stated aneugh," answered William. "Ye admit that my dochter winna hae ye; and wharfore should I endeavour to force her luve? Besides, ye're no o' our country, man; and the lasses o' Scotland dinna like foreigners. Tak an Italian! tak an Italian! Birds o' a feather gree best thegither; and the kite and the doo winna assort ava. I carena a bodle for your merks. If they were in their richt place, they should maybe be in our ain Scotch exchequer. Neither care I sae muckle as an auld sang for yer fine speech, which nea doot comes, like yer merks, frae yer maister. Ye needna, therefore, pursue ony mair this fruitless wark--which, it would seem, ye continue by nicht in the shape o' something they ca' serenades--or, as we would say, nicht-waits--as weel as in the licht o' day, by a constant use o' thae black een o' yours, aneugh o' themsels to terrify ony young leddy. In addition to a' this, John Connal has lang been my dochter's lover; and if they wish to mak a match o't, it shanna be me that'll prevent it."

This calm and self-sufficient oration produced on the fiery and impatient temper of Giulio that rage which burned on the application of every spark. It must be confessed that even a Scotchman would have resented the hints of William, rendered more provoking by the manner in which they were uttered--a wink or a smile being always at hand to give piquancy to an innuendo; while an imperturbable, calm, and self-confident assurance gave the whole an aspect of dictation, mixed with contempt. Giulio rose suddenly, and without so much as uttering a word, went away.

In the meantime, the two lovers had got matters in considerable advancement for their marriage, which was fixed to take place in the following month. The inhabitants of the Abbey were promised a grand entertainment in William Glenday's house; and the day was looked forward to by all and sundry as a kind of holiday. There was, indeed, something in the match of more than an ordinary character; for, as a pair of twigs which have fallen connected from a tree into a stream seldom find their way together to the ocean, it seldom happens that the loves of childhood can withstand the severing impulses of the conflicting and distracting interests of a selfish and calculating world. It was even whispered that one of the maids of honour of the queen intended to grace and dignify the union by being present at the ceremony. The preparations went on with spirit. The day approached, and everything seemed to conspire to add to the happiness of a union apparently under the influence of smiling and auspicious powers.

On the evening of the day preceding that on which their marriage was to take place, one of those events occurred which arrest the attention of thousands. Peter Connal, when coming out of the house of William Glenday, was stabbed to the heart. A number of persons immediately collected on hearing his cries--the guard of the palace was roused, and search made in every direction for the perpetrator of so bloody and unaccountable an act. Amongst those who rushed out when the cry was heard, was Mary Glenday and John Connal. The latter was entirely occupied in getting his father's body carried home, in the hope of his being only wounded, and with a view to get medical aid. Mary and some neighbours remained upon the spot, searching about for any trace, by footsteps or otherwise, which might lead to the discovery of the murderer. When engaged in this search, her eye fell upon a small sword lying at a little distance from the spot where the crime was committed. Upon taking it up, she discovered, to her astonishment, that it was her father's sword, which she had not missed from the house. She instantly secreted it under her clothes, and looked about to see if she could discover her parent. He had not, however, been seen during the tumult; and, though many inquiries were made for him, no person could tell where he was. She now flew to the house, and, upon getting into the inner chamber, applied water to the instrument to wash off the blood, threw the washings into a place where they could not be seen, and, by means of ashes from the fire, scoured the instrument, so as to bring back its brightness. Having hung it up in the spot which it usually occupied, she turned to leave the room, with a view to go again to the street, to avoid any suspicion which her absence might suggest as to where she had been. As she turned, she started on observing the eyes of some person fixed on her through the window. She trembled from head to foot; and, unable to proceed a step, fell back into a chair which stood near her, and again shook with an apprehension which she could not account for. All these acts which she had performed during the last ten minutes, appeared to her as wanting the reality of life. She had done them intuitively; and as no proper, well-defined motive had been present to her mind during the time she was occupied, she was now equally at a loss to account for an apprehension which it was impossible there could be the least ground for. She questioned herself why did she secrete the sword--run home with it--wash it and scour it? Was she afraid of her father being charged as the murderer? Impossible! She was not afraid of that. She could defy the world even to suspect that her father was guilty of such a crime; and the idea of it was so absurd that it could not be entertained for a moment. Yet, was she not in fact alarmed? This was not to be denied. She tried to run over the acts which she had, as in a dream, performed by the impulse of a power external to herself; but, on looking to the window again, she saw the same eyes staring in at her.

At this moment the door opened, and a person came from John Connal to inform her that Peter was dead, and requesting to know if her father had yet been seen. She was unable to speak to the messenger, who went away without an answer. Mary continued to sit waiting with breathless impatience for the return of her parent. She heard the bustle in the street gradually die away. Occasional inquiries were made by the passengers for William Glenday, from whom they wished to get some explanation of the extraordinary case; but the servant answered them, and stated that he was not come back, and Mary was indisposed. Eleven o'clock came, and still no word of her father. She heard some people on the street going home, remarking it as strange that William Glenday should be absent, when the father of his daughter's intended husband had been stabbed dead at his door.