There was a salver with cake and wine on the table. He took up a glass, drank “to all true hearts that lo’ed Scotland,” and offered a glass to his guest.
Jeanie, however, declined it, saying, “that she had never tasted wine in her life.”
“How comes that, Jeanie?” said the Duke,—“wine maketh glad the heart, you know.”
“Ay, sir, but my father is like Jonadab the son of Rechab, who charged his children that they should drink no wine.”
“I thought your father would have had more sense,” said the Duke, “unless indeed he prefers brandy. But, however, Jeanie, if you will not drink, you must eat, to save the character of my house.”
He thrust upon her a large piece of cake, nor would he permit her to break off a fragment, and lay the rest on a salver.
“Put it in your pouch, Jeanie,” said he; “you will be glad of it before you see St. Giles’s steeple. I wish to Heaven I were to see it as soon as you! and so my best service to all my friends at and about Auld Reekie, and a blithe journey to you.”
And, mixing the frankness of a soldier with his natural affability, he shook hands with his prote’ge’e, and committed her to the charge of Archibald, satisfied that he had provided sufficiently for her being attended to by his domestics, from the unusual attention with which he had himself treated her.
Accordingly, in the course of her journey, she found both her companions disposed to pay her every possible civility, so that her return, in point of comfort and safety, formed a strong contrast to her journey to London.
Her heart also was disburdened of the weight of grief, shame, apprehension, and fear, which had loaded her before her interview with the Queen at Richmond. But the human mind is so strangely capricious, that, when freed from the pressure of real misery, it becomes open and sensitive to the apprehension of ideal calamities. She was now much disturbed in mind, that she had heard nothing from Reuben Butler, to whom the operation of writing was so much more familiar than it was to herself.