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

‘By the name of Alan Fairford,’ answered the young lawyer.

‘But that,’ said Mr. Trumbull, in reply, ‘is your own proper name and surname.’

‘And what other should I give?’ said the young man; ‘do you think I have any occasion for an alias? And, besides, Mr. Trumbull,’ added Alan, thinking a little raillery might intimate confidence of spirit, ‘you blessed yourself, but a little while since, that you had no acquaintance with those who defiled their names so far as to be obliged to change them.’

‘True, very true,’ said Mr. Trumbull; ‘nevertheless, young man, my grey hairs stand unreproved in this matter; for, in my line of business, when I sit under my vine and my fig-tree, exchanging the strong waters of the north for the gold which is the price thereof, I have, I thank Heaven, no disguises to keep with any man, and wear my own name of Thomas Trumbull, without any chance that the same may be polluted. Whereas, thou, who art to journey in miry ways, and amongst a strange people, mayst do well to have two names, as thou hast two shirts, the one to keep the other clean.’

Here he emitted a chuckling grunt, which lasted for two vibrations of the pendulum exactly, and was the only approach towards laughter in which old Turnpenny, as he was nicknamed, was ever known to indulge.

‘You are witty, Mr. Trumbull,’ said Fairford; ‘but jests are no arguments—I shall keep my own name.’

‘At your own pleasure,’ said the merchant; ‘there is but one name which,’ &c. &c, &c.

We will not follow the hypocrite through the impious cant which he added, in order to close the subject.

Alan followed him, in silent abhorrence, to the recess in which the beaufet was placed, and which was so artificially made as to conceal another of those traps with which the whole building abounded. This concealment admitted them to the same winding passage by which the young lawyer had been brought thither. The path which they now took amid these mazes, differed from the direction in which he had been guided by Rutledge. It led upwards, and terminated beneath a garret window. Trumbull opened it, and with more agility than his age promised, clambered out upon the leads. If Fairford’s journey had been hitherto in a stifled and subterranean atmosphere, it was now open, lofty, and airy enough; for he had to follow his guide over leads and slates, which the old smuggler traversed with the dexterity of a cat. It is true, his course was facilitated by knowing exactly where certain stepping-places and holdfasts were placed, of which Fairford could not so readily avail himself; but, after a difficult and somewhat perilous progress along the roofs of two or three houses, they at length descended by a skylight into a garret room, and from thence by the stairs into a public-house; for such it appeared, by the ringing of bells, whistling for waiters and attendance, bawling of ‘House, house, here!’ chorus of sea songs, and the like noises.

Having descended to the second story, and entered a room there in which there was a light, old Mr. Trumbull rang the bell of the apartment thrice, with an interval betwixt each, during which he told deliberately the number twenty. Immediately after the third ringing the landlord appeared, with stealthy step, and an appearance of mystery on his buxom visage. He greeted Mr. Trumbull, who was his landlord as it proved, with great respect, and expressed some surprise at seeing him so late, as he termed it, ‘on Saturday e’en.’

‘And I, Robin Hastie,’ said the landlord to the tenant, am more surprised than pleased, to hear sae muckle din in your house, Robie, so near the honourable Sabbath; and I must mind you that it is contravening the terms of your tack, whilk stipulates that you should shut your public on Saturday at nine o’clock, at latest.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Robin Hastie, no way alarmed at the gravity of the rebuke, ‘but you must take tent that I have admitted naebody but you, Mr. Trumbull (who by the way admitted yoursell), since nine o’clock for the most of the folk have been here for several hours about the lading, and so on, of the brig. It is not full tide yet, and I cannot put the men out into the street. If I did, they would go to some other public, and their souls would be nane the better, and my purse muckle the waur; for how am I to pay the rent if I do not sell the liquor?’

‘Nay, then,’ said Thomas Trumbull, ‘if it is a work of necessity, and in the honest independent way of business, no doubt there is balm in Gilead. But prithee, Robin, wilt thou see if Nanty Ewart be, as is most likely, amongst these unhappy topers; and if so, let him step this way cannily, and speak to me and this young gentleman. And it’s dry talking, Robin—you must minister to us a bowl of punch—ye ken my gage.’

‘From a mutchkin to a gallon, I ken your honour’s taste, Mr. Thomas Trumbull,’ said mine host; ‘and ye shall hang me over the signpost if there be a drap mair lemon or a curn less sugar than just suits you. There are three of you—you will be for the auld Scots peremptory pint-stoup for the success of the voyage?’ [The Scottish pint of liquid measure comprehends four English measures of the same denomination. The jest is well known of my poor countryman, who, driven to extremity by the raillery of the Southern, on the small denomination of the Scottish coin, at length answered, ‘Aye, aye! But the deil tak them that has the LEAST PINT-STOUP.‘]

‘Better pray for it than drink for it, Robin,’ said Mr. Trumbull. ‘Yours is a dangerous trade, Robin; it hurts mony a ane—baith host and guest. But ye will get the blue bowl, Robin—the blue bowl—that will sloken all their drouth, and prevent the sinful repetition of whipping for an eke of a Saturday at e’en. Aye, Robin, it is a pity of Nanty Ewart—Nanty likes the turning up of his little finger unco weel, and we maunna stint him, Robin, so as we leave him sense to steer by.’

‘Nanty Ewart could steer through the Pentland Firth though he were as drunk as the Baltic Ocean,’ said Robin Hastie; and instantly tripping downstairs, he speedily returned with the materials for what he called his BROWST, which consisted of two English quarts of spirits, in a huge blue bowl, with all the ingredients for punch in the same formidable proportion. At the same time he introduced Mr. Antony or Nanty Ewart, whose person, although he was a good deal flustered with liquor, was different from what Fairford expected. His dress was what is emphatically termed the shabby genteel—a frock with tarnished lace—a small cocked hat, ornamented in a similar way—a scarlet waistcoat, with faded embroidery, breeches of the same, with silver knee-bands, and he wore a smart hanger and a pair of pistols in a sullied swordbelt.

‘Here I come, patron,’ he said, shaking hands with Mr. Trumbull. ‘Well, I see you have got some grog aboard.’

‘It is not my custom, Mr. Ewart,’ said the old gentleman, ‘as you well know, to become a chamberer or carouser thus late on Saturday at e’en; but I wanted to recommend to your attention a young friend of ours, that is going upon a something particular journey, with a letter to our friend the Laird from Pate-in-Peril, as they call him.’