‘It is almost a pity that I cannot go with you myself, or at least send a trusty guide.’
They walked together to the bedchamber of Mrs. Crosbie, for it was in that asylum that the ladies of the period dispensed their tea, when the parlour was occupied by the punch-bowl.
‘You have been good bairns to-night, gentlemen,’ said Mrs. Crosbie; ‘I am afraid, Summertrees, that the provost has given you a bad browst; you are not used to quit the lee-side of the punch-bowl in such a hurry. I say nothing to you, Mr. Fairford, for you are too young a man yet for stoup and bicker; but I hope you will not tell the Edinburgh fine folk that the provost has scrimped you of your cogie, as the sang says?’
‘I am much obliged for the provost’s kindness, and yours, madam,’ replied Alan; ‘but the truth is, I have still a long ride before me this evening and the sooner I am on horse-back the better.’
‘This evening?’ said the provost, anxiously; ‘had you not better take daylight with you to-morrow morning?’
‘Mr. Fairford will ride as well in the cool of the evening,’ said Summertrees, taking the word out of Alan’s mouth.
The provost said no more, nor did his wife ask any questions, nor testify any surprise at the suddenness of their guest’s departure.
Having drunk tea, Alan Fairford took leave with the usual ceremony. The Laird of Summertrees seemed studious to prevent any further communication between him and the provost, and remained lounging on the landing-place of the stair while they made their adieus—heard the provost ask if Alan proposed a speedy return, and the latter reply that his stay was uncertain, and witnessed the parting shake of the hand, which, with a pressure more warm than usual, and a tremulous, ‘God bless and prosper you!’ Mr. Crosbie bestowed on his young friend. Maxwell even strolled with Fairford as far as the George, although resisting all his attempts at further inquiry into the affairs of Redgauntlet, and referring him to Tom Trumbull, alias Turnpenny, for the particulars which he might find it necessary to inquire into.
At length Alan’s hack was produced—an animal long in neck, and high in bone, accoutred with a pair of saddle-bags containing the rider’s travelling wardrobe. Proudly surmounting his small stock of necessaries, and no way ashamed of a mode of travelling which a modern Mr. Silvertongue would consider as the last of degradations, Alan Fairford took leave of the old Jacobite, Pate-in-Peril, and set forward on the road to the loyal burgh of Annan. His reflections during his ride were none of the most pleasant. He could not disguise from himself that he was venturing rather too rashly into the power of outlawed and desperate persons; for with such only, a man in the situation of Redgauntlet could be supposed to associate. There were other grounds for apprehension, Several marks of intelligence betwixt Mrs. Crosbie and the Laird of Summertrees had not escaped Alan’s acute observation; and it was plain that the provost’s inclinations towards him, which he believed to be sincere and good, were not firm enough to withstand the influence of this league between his wife and friend. The provost’s adieus, like Macbeth’s amen, had stuck in his throat, and seemed to intimate that he apprehended more than he dared give utterance to.
Laying all these matters together, Alan thought, with no little anxiety on the celebrated lines of Shakespeare,