Redgauntlet: A Tale of the Eighteenth Century by Walter Scott (books for students to read .txt) 📖

His reasons for remaining incognito were cogent enough to account for this, and Fairford hastened to relieve him, by looking downwards in his turn; but when again he raised his face, he found the broad light eye of the stranger so fixed on him that he was almost put out of countenance by the steadiness of his gaze. During this time they remained standing.

‘Take your seat, sir,’ said the father; ‘you have been an invalid.’

He spoke with the tone of one who desires an inferior to be seated in his presence, and his voice was full and melodious.

Fairford, somewhat surprised to find himself overawed by the airs of superiority, which could be only properly exercised towards one over whom religion gave the speaker influence, sat down at his bidding, as if moved by springs, and was at a loss how to assert the footing of equality on which he felt that they ought to stand. The stranger kept the advantage which he had obtained.

‘Your name, sir, I am informed, is Fairford?’ said the father.

Alan answered by a bow.

‘Called to the Scottish bar,’ continued his visitor, ‘There is, I believe, in the West, a family of birth and rank called Fairford of Fairford.’

Alan thought this a strange observation from a foreign ecclesiastic, as his name intimated Father Buonaventure to be; but only answered he believed there was such, a family.

‘Do you count kindred with them, Mr. Fairford?’ continued the inquirer.

‘I have not the honour to lay such a claim,’ said Fairford.

‘My father’s industry has raised his family from a low and obscure situation—I have no hereditary claim to distinction of any kind. May I ask the cause of these inquiries?’

‘You will learn it presently,’ said Father Buonaventure, who had given a dry and dissatisfied HEM at the young man’s acknowledging a plebeian descent. He then motioned to him to be silent, and proceeded with his queries.

‘Although not of condition, you are, doubtless, by sentiments and education, a man of honour and a gentleman?’

‘I hope so, sir,’ said Alan, colouring with displeasure. ‘I have not been accustomed to have it questioned.’

‘Patience, young man,’ said the unperturbed querist—‘we are on serious business, and no idle etiquette must prevent its being discussed seriously. You are probably aware that you speak to a person proscribed by the severe and unjust laws of the present government?’

‘I am aware of the statute 1700, chapter 3,’ said Alan, ‘banishing from the realm priests and trafficking Papists, and punishing by death, on summary conviction, any such person who being so banished may return. But I have no means of knowing you, sir, to be one of those persons; and I think your prudence may recommend to you to keep your own counsel.’

‘It is sufficient, sir; and I have no apprehensions of disagreeable consequences from your having seen me in this house,’ said the priest.

‘Assuredly no,’ said Alan. ‘I consider myself as indebted for my life to the mistresses of Fairladies; and it would be a vile requital on my part to pry into or make known what I may have seen or heard under this hospitable roof. If I were to meet the Pretender himself in such a situation, he should, even at the risk of a little stretch to my loyalty, be free from any danger from my indiscretion.’

‘The Pretender!’ said the priest, with some angry emphasis; but immediately softened his tone and added, ‘No doubt, however, that person is a pretender; and some people think his pretensions are not ill founded. But, before running into politics, give me leave to say, that I am surprised to find a gentleman of your opinions in habits of intimacy with Mr. Maxwell of Summertrees and Mr. Redgauntlet, and the medium of conducting the intercourse betwixt them.’

‘Pardon me, sir,’ replied Alan Fairford; ‘I do not aspire to the honour of being reputed their confidant or go-between. My concern with those gentlemen is limited to one matter of business, dearly interesting to me, because it concerns the safety—perhaps the life—of my dearest friend.’

‘Would you have any objection to entrust me with the cause of your journey?’ said Father Buonaventure. ‘My advice may be of service to you, and my influence with one or both these gentlemen is considerable.’

Fairford hesitated a moment, and, hastily revolving all circumstances, concluded that he might perhaps receive some advantage from propitiating this personage; while, on the other hand, he endangered nothing by communicating to him the occasion of his journey. He, therefore, after stating shortly that he hoped Mr. Buonaventure would render him the same confidence which he required on his part, gave a short account of Darsie Latimer—of the mystery which hung over his family—and of the disaster which had befallen him. Finally, of his own resolution to seek for his friend, and to deliver him, at the peril of his own life.

The Catholic priest, whose manner it seemed to be to avoid all conversation which did not arise from his own express motion, made no remarks upon what he had heard, but only asked one or two abrupt questions, where Alan’s narrative appeared less clear to him; then rising from his seat, he took two turns through the apartment, muttering between his teeth, with emphasis, the word ‘madman!’ But apparently he was in the habit of keeping all violent emotions under restraint; for he presently addressed Fairford with the most perfect indifference.

‘If,’ said he, ‘you thought you could do so without breach of confidence, I wish you would have the goodness to show me the letter of Mr. Maxwell of Summertrees. I desire to look particularly at the address.’

Seeing no cause to decline this extension of his confidence, Alan, without hesitation, put the letter into his hand. Having turned it round as old Trumbull and Nanty Ewart had formerly done, and, like them, having examined the address with much minuteness, he asked whether he had observed these words, pointing to a pencil-writing upon the under side of the letter. Fairford answered in the negative, and, looking at the letter, read with surprise, ‘CAVE NE LITERAS BELLEROPHONTIS ADFERRES’; a caution which coincided so exactly with the provost’s admonition, that he would do well to inspect the letter of which he was bearer, that he was about to spring up and attempt an escape, he knew not wherefore, or from whom.

‘Sit still, young man,’ said the father, with the same tone of authority which reigned in his whole manner, although mingled with stately courtesy. ‘You are in no danger—my character shall be a pledge for your safety. By whom do you suppose these words have been written?’

Fairford could have answered, ‘By Nanty Ewart,’ for he remembered seeing that person scribble something with a pencil, although he was not well enough to observe with accuracy where or upon what. But not knowing what suspicions, or what worse consequences the seamen’s interest in his affairs might draw upon him, he judged it best to answer that he knew not the hand.

Father Buonaventure was again silent for a moment or two, which he employed in surveying the letter with the strictest attention; then stepped to the window, as if to examine the address and writing of the