Redgauntlet: A Tale of the Eighteenth Century by Walter Scott (classic novels .TXT) 📕

envelope with the assistance of a stronger light, and Alan Fairford beheld him, with no less amazement than high displeasure, coolly and deliberately break the seal, open the letter, and peruse the contents.

‘Stop, sir, hold!’ he exclaimed, so soon as his astonishment permitted him to express his resentment in words; ‘by what right do you dare’—

‘Peace, young gentleman,’ said the father, repelling him with a wave of his hand; ‘be assured I do not act without warrant—nothing can pass betwixt Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Redgauntlet that I am not fully entitled to know.’

‘It may be so,’ said Alan, extremely angry; ‘but though you may be these gentlemen’s father confessor, you are not mine; and in breaking the seal of a letter entrusted to my care, you have done me’—

‘No injury, I assure you,’ answered the unperturbed priest; ‘on the contrary, it may be a service.’

‘I desire no advantage at such a rate, or to be obtained in such a manner,’ answered Fairford; ‘restore me the letter instantly, or’—

‘As you regard your own safety,’ said the priest, ‘forbear all injurious expressions, and all menacing gestures. I am not one who can be threatened or insulted with impunity; and there are enough within hearing to chastise any injury or affront offered to me, in case I may think it unbecoming to protect or avenge myself with my own hand.’

In saying this, the father assumed an air of such fearlessness and calm authority, that the young lawyer, surprised and overawed, forbore, as he had intended, to snatch the letter from his hand, and confined himself to bitter complaints of the impropriety of his conduct, and of the light in which he himself must be placed to Redgauntlet should he present him a letter with a broken seal.

‘That,’ said Father Buonaventure, ‘shall be fully cared for. I will myself write to Redgauntlet, and enclose Maxwell’s letter, provided always you continue to desire to deliver it, after perusing the contents.’

He then restored the letter to Fairford, and, observing that he hesitated to peruse it, said emphatically, ‘Read it, for it concerns you.’

This recommendation, joined to what Provost Crosbie had formerly recommended, and to the warning which he doubted not that Nanty intended to convey by his classical allusion, decided Fairford’s resolution. ‘If these correspondents,’ he thought, ‘are conspiring against my person, I have a right to counterplot them; self-preservation, as well as my friend’s safety, require that I should not be too scrupulous.’

So thinking, he read the letter, which was in the following words:—

‘DEAR RUGGED AND DANGEROUS, ‘Will you never cease meriting your old nick-name? You have springed your dottrel, I find, and what is the consequence?—why, that there will be hue and cry after you presently. The bearer is a pert young lawyer, who has brought a formal complaint against you, which, luckily, he has preferred in a friendly court. Yet, favourable as the judge was disposed to be, it was with the utmost difficulty that cousin Jenny and I could keep him to his tackle. He begins to be timid, suspicious, and untractable, and I fear Jenny will soon bend her brows on him in vain. I know not what to advise—the lad who carries this is a good lad—active for his friend—and I have pledged my honour he shall have no personal ill-usage. Pledged my honour, remark these words, and remember I can be rugged and dangerous as well, as my neighbours. But I have not ensured him against a short captivity, and as he is a stirring active fellow, I see no remedy but keeping him out of the way till this business of the good Father B—— is safely blown over, which God send it were!—Always thine, even should I be once more CRAIG-IN-PERIL.’

‘What think you, young man, of the danger you have been about to encounter so willingly?’

‘As strangely,’ replied Alan Fairford, ‘as of the extraordinary means which you have been at present pleased to use for the discovery of Mr. Maxwell’s purpose.

‘Trouble not yourself to account for my conduct,’ said the father; ‘I have a warrant for what I do, and fear no responsibility. But tell me what is your present purpose.’

‘I should not perhaps name it to you, whose own safety may be implicated.’

‘I understand you,’ answered the father; ‘you would appeal to the existing government? That can at no rate be permitted—we will rather detain you at Fairladies by compulsion.’

‘You will probably,’ said Fairford, ‘first weigh the risk of such a proceeding in a free country.’

‘I have incurred more formidable hazard,’ said the priest, smiling; ‘yet I am willing to find a milder expedient. Come; let us bring the matter to a compromise.’ And he assumed a conciliating graciousness of manner, which struck Fairford as being rather too condescending for the occasion; ‘I presume you will be satisfied to remain here in seclusion for a day or two longer, provided I pass my solemn word to you that you shall meet with the person whom you seek after—meet with him in perfect safety, and, I trust, in good health, and be afterwards both at liberty to return to Scotland, or dispose of yourselves as each of you may be minded?’

‘I respect the VERBUM SACERDOTIS as much as can reasonably be expected from a Protestant,’ answered Fairford; ‘but methinks, you can scarce expect me to repose so much confidence in the word of an unknown person as is implied in the guarantee which you offer me.’

‘I am not accustomed, sir,’ said the father, in a very haughty tone, ‘to have my word disputed. But,’ he added, while the angry hue passed from his cheek, after a moment’s reflection, ‘you know me not, and ought to be excused. I will repose more confidence in your honour than you seem willing to rest upon mine; and, since we are so situated that one must rely upon the other’s faith, I will cause you to be set presently at liberty, and furnished with the means of delivering your letter as addressed, provided that now, knowing the contents, you think it safe for yourself to execute the commission.’

Alan Fairford paused. ‘I cannot see,’ he at length replied, ‘how I can proceed with respect to the accomplishment of my sole purpose, which is the liberation of my friend, without appealing to the law and obtaining the assistance of a magistrate. If I present this singular letter of Mr. Maxwell, with the contents of which I have become so unexpectedly acquainted, I shall only share his captivity.’

‘And if you apply to a magistrate, young man, you will bring ruin on these hospitable ladies, to whom, in all human probability, you owe your life. You cannot obtain a warrant for your purpose, without giving a clear detail of all the late scenes through which you have passed. A magistrate would oblige you to give a complete account of yourself, before arming you with his authority against a third party; and in giving such an account, the safety of these ladies will necessarily be compromised. A hundred spies have had, and still have, their eyes upon this mansion; but God will protect his own.’—He crossed himself devoutly, and then proceeded,—‘You can take an hour to think of your best plan, and I will pledge myself to forward it thus far, provided it be not asking you to rely more on my word than your