"Poor girl!" he repeated; "poor, rash, but generous maiden! your fate
is that of her in Scottish story, who thrust her arm into the staple
of the door, to oppose it as a bar against the assassins who
threatened the murder of her sovereign. The deed of devotion was
useless; save to give an immortal name to her by whom it was done, and
whose blood flows, it is said, in the veins of my house."
I cannot explain to the reader, whether the recollection of this
historical deed of devotion, and the lively effect which the
comparison, a little overstrained perhaps, was likely to produce in
favour of Margaret Ramsay, was not qualified by the concomitant ideas
of ancestry and ancient descent with which that recollection was
mingled. But the contending feelings suggested a new train of ideas.--
"Ancestry," he thought, "and ancient descent, what are they to me?--My
patrimony alienated--my title become a reproach--for what can be so
absurd as titled beggary?--my character subjected to suspicion,--I
will not remain in this country; and should I, at leaving it, procure
the society of one so lovely, so brave, and so faithful, who should
say that I derogated from the rank which I am virtually renouncing?"
There was something romantic and pleasing, as he pursued this picture
of an attached and faithful pair, becoming all the world to each
other, and stemming the tide of fate arm in arm; and to be linked thus
with a creature so beautiful, and who had taken such devoted and
disinterested concern in his fortunes, formed itself into such a
vision as romantic youth loves best to dwell upon.
Pages:
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616