“You forget,” she said, “your own
worth and nobleness when you insult so very helpless
a being, and one whom fate has thrown so totally into
your power. You know who and what I am, and how
impossible it is that Menteith or you can use language
of affection to me, beyond that of friendship.
You know from what unhappy race I have too probably
derived my existence.”
“I will not believe it,” said Allan, impetuously;
“never flowed crystal drop from a polluted spring.”
“Yet the very doubt,” pleaded Annot, “should
make you forbear to use this language to me.”
“I know,” said M’Aulay, “it
places a bar between us—but I know also
that it divides you not so inseparably from Menteith.—Hear
me, my beloved Annot!—leave this scene
of terrors and danger—go with me to Kintail—I
will place you in the house of the noble Lady of Seaforth—or
you shall be removed in safety to Icolmkill, where
some women yet devote themselves to the worship of
God, after the custom of our ancestors.”
“You consider not what you ask of me,”
replied Annot; “to undertake such a journey
under your sole guardianship, were to show me less
scrupulous than maiden ought. I will remain here,
Allan—here under the protection of the
noble Montrose; and when his motions next approach
the Lowlands, I will contrive some proper means to
relieve you of one, who has, she knows not how, become
an object of dislike to you.”
Allan stood as if uncertain whether to give way to
sympathy with her distress, or to anger at her resistance.
“Annot,” he said, “you know too
well how little your words apply to my feelings towards
you—but you avail yourself of your power,
and you rejoice in my departure, as removing a spy
upon your intercourse with Menteith. But beware
both of you,” he added, in a stern tone; “for
when was it ever heard that an injury was offered
to Allan M’Aulay, for which he exacted not tenfold
vengeance?”
So saying, he pressed her arm forcibly, pulled the
bonnet over his brows, and strode out of the apartment.
—After you’re
gone,
I grew acquainted with
my heart, and search’d,
What stirr’d it
so.—Alas! I found it love.
Yet far from lust, for
could I but have lived
In presence of you,
I had had my end.—PHILASTER.
Annot Lyle had now to contemplate the terrible gulf
which Allan M’Aulay’s declaration of love
and jealousy had made to open around her. It
seemed as if she was tottering on the very brink of
destruction, and was at once deprived of every refuge,
and of all human assistance. She had long been
conscious that she loved Menteith dearer than a brother;
indeed, how could it be otherwise, considering their
early intimacy, the personal merit of the young nobleman,
his assiduous attentions,—and his infinite
superiority in gentleness of disposition, and grace
of manners, over the race of rude warriors with whom
she lived? But her affection was of that quiet,
timid, meditative character, which sought rather a
reflected share in the happiness of the beloved object,
than formed more presumptuous or daring hopes.
A little Gaelic song, in which she expressed her feelings,
has been translated by the ingenious and unhappy Andrew
M’Donald; and we willingly transcribe the lines:—
