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

to acquire the energy necessary to combat and subdue them. If, therefore, he went anxiously forward upon his uncertain and perilous expedition, the reader must acquit him of all idea, even in a passing thought, of the possibility of abandoning his search, and resigning Darsie Latimer to his destiny.

A couple of hours’ riding brought him to the little town of Annan, situated on the shores of the Solway, between eight and nine o’clock. The sun had set, but the day was not yet ended; and when he had alighted and seen his horse properly cared for at the principal inn of the place, he was readily directed to Mr. Maxwell’s friend, old Tom Trumbull, with whom everybody seemed well acquainted. He endeavoured to fish out from the lad that acted as a guide, something of this man’s situation and profession; but the general expressions of ‘a very decent man’—‘a very honest body’—‘weel to pass in the world,’ and such like, were all that could be extracted from him; and while Fairford was following up the investigation with closer interrogatories, the lad put an end to them by knocking at the door of Mr. Trumbull, whose decent dwelling was a little distance from the town, and considerably nearer to the sea. It was one of a little row of houses running down to the waterside, and having gardens and other accommodations behind. There was heard within the uplifting of a Scottish psalm; and the boy saying, ‘They are at exercise, sir,’ gave intimation they might not be admitted till prayers were over.

When, however, Fairford repeated the summons with the end of his whip, the singing ceased, and Mr. Trumbull himself, with his psalm-book in his hand, kept open by the insertion of his forefinger between the leaves, came to demand the meaning of this unseasonable interruption.

Nothing could be more different than his whole appearance seemed to be from the confidant of a desperate man, and the associate of outlaws in their unlawful enterprises. He was a tall, thin, bony figure, with white hair combed straight down on each side of his face, and an iron-grey hue of complexion; where the lines, or rather, as Quin said of Macklin, the cordage, of his countenance were so sternly adapted to a devotional and even ascetic expression, that they left no room for any indication of reckless daring or sly dissimulation. In short, Trumbull appeared a perfect specimen of the rigid old Covenanter, who said only what he thought right, acted on no other principle but that of duty, and, if he committed errors, did so under the full impression that he was serving God rather than man.

‘Do you want me, sir?’ he said to Fairford, whose guide had slunk to the rear, as if to escape the rebuke of the severe old man,—‘We were engaged, and it is the Saturday night.’

Alan Fairford’s preconceptions were so much deranged by this man’s appearance and manner, that he stood for a moment bewildered, and would as soon have thought of giving a cant password to a clergyman descending from the pulpit, as to the respectable father of a family just interrupted in his prayers for and with the objects of his care. Hastily concluding Mr. Maxwell had passed some idle jest on him, or rather that he had mistaken the person to whom he was directed, he asked if he spoke to Mr. Trumbull.

‘To Thomas Trumbull,’ answered the old man—‘What may be your business, sir?’ And he glanced his eye to the book he held in his hand, with a sigh like that of a saint desirous of dissolution.

‘Do you know Mr. Maxwell of Summertrees?’ said Fairford.

‘I have heard of such a gentleman in the country-side, but have no acquaintance with him,’ answered Mr. Trumbull; ‘he is, as I have heard, a Papist; for the whore that sitteth on the seven hills ceaseth not yet to pour forth the cup of her abomination on these parts.’

‘Yet he directed me hither, my good friend,’ said Alan. ‘Is there another of your name in this town of Annan?’

‘None,’ replied Mr. Trumbull, ‘since my worthy father was removed; he was indeed a shining light.—I wish you good even, sir.’

‘Stay one single instant,’ said Fairford; ‘this is a matter of life and death.’

‘Not more than the casting the burden of our sins where they should be laid,’ said Thomas Trumbull, about to shut the door in the inquirer’s face.

‘Do you know,’ said Alan Fairford, ‘the Laird of Redgauntlet?’

‘Now Heaven defend me from treason and rebellion!’ exclaimed Trumbull. ‘Young gentleman, you are importunate. I live here among my own people, and do not consort with Jacobites and mass-mongers.’

He seemed about to shut the door, but did NOT shut it, a circumstance which did not escape Alan’s notice.

‘Mr. Redgauntlet is sometimes,’ he said, ‘called Herries of Birrenswork; perhaps you may know him under that name.’

‘Friend, you are uncivil,’ answered Mr. Trumbull; ‘honest men have enough to do to keep one name undefiled. I ken nothing about those who have two. Good even to you, friend.’

He was now about to slam the door in his visitor’s face without further ceremony, when Alan, who had observed symptoms that the name of Redgauntlet did not seem altogether so indifferent to him as he pretended, arrested his purpose by saying, in a low voice, ‘At least you can tell me what age the moon is?’

The old man started, as if from a trance, and before answering, surveyed the querist with a keen penetrating glance, which seemed to say, ‘Are you really in possession of this key to my confidence, or do you speak from mere accident?’

To this keen look of scrutiny, Fairford replied by a smile of intelligence.

The iron muscles of the old man’s face did not, however, relax, as he dropped, in a careless manner, the countersign, ‘Not light enough to land a cargo.’

‘Then plague of all Aberdeen Almanacks!’

‘And plague of all fools that waste time,’ said Thomas Trumbull, ‘Could you not have said as much at first? And standing wasting time, and encouraging; lookers-on, in the open street too? Come in by—in by.’

He drew his visitor into the dark entrance of the house, and shut the door carefully; then putting his head into an apartment which the murmurs within announced to be filled with the family, he said aloud, ‘A work of necessity and mercy—Malachi, take the book—You will sing six double verses of the hundred and nineteen-and you may lecture out of the Lamentations. And, Malachi,’—this he said in an undertone,—‘see you give them a a creed of doctrine that will last them till I come back; or else these inconsiderate lads will be out of the house, and away to the publics, wasting their precious time, and, it may be, putting themselves in the way of missing the morning tide.’

An inarticulate answer from within intimated Malachi’s acquiescence in the commands imposed; and, Mr. Trumbull, shutting the door, muttered something about fast bind, fast find, turned the key, and put it into his pocket; and then bidding his visitor have a care of his steps, and make no noise, he led him through the house, and out at a back-door, into a little garden. Here a plaited alley conducted them, without the possibility of