Ashamed that she had broken her own solemn engagements to her exiled lover, with the natural fickleness of her sex, Annie was labouring to undermine the truth of Lilian, and, Heaven knows why, tormented the poor girl hourly, by urging the suit of Lord Clermistonlee, and left no arguments untried to carry her point, and remove the scruples of her more gentle but less facile friend. "And poor Walter!" urged Lilian, with a look of great tenderness in her mild and moistened eyes, replying to some observation of Annie. "Marry come up with your Walter!--tush! bethink you, dear Lilian, this gallant never loved you truly, or else, dost think he would have preferred following King James?" Lilian's eyes sparkled; a terrible retort trembled on her tongue, but her gentleness repressed it, and she could only exclaim with tears-- "Oh, horror! this insinuation is the most unkind of all. The unmerited shame and contumely, the dark and dishonourable suspicions that the malice of Clermistonlee has brought upon me I can bear, for I despise though I mourn them deeply--but a doubt of Walter's faith--oh, Annie, Annie, it sinks like a dagger in my heart. 'Tis the hope of his return, animated by the same spirit of love and truth in which he left me, that makes me rise superior to them all. Oh, yes!" she exclaimed, with girlish ecstasy, "my dear, dear Walter, the hour will yet come, when, with a kiss of affection, I will tell thee that this old manor and all these lands around it are thine, for ever thine!" "And your heart?" laughed Annie. "Dearest, that he has already. You see you cannot make me angry." "And Clermistonlee?" "Oh, name him not." "He loves thee truly and fondly," said Annie. "Dost think he loves me as Walter doth? dost think he knows what love means? Oh, no; he never conceived it. His passion is a turbulent phantasy, inflamed by rivalry, difficulty, and opposition, sharpened it may be by wounded pride and exasperated revenge. Oh, how can you forget the horrid mystery that involves the fate of his wife--the unhappy Alison Gilford?" "Pho! she died in France." "Of a broken heart." "Gossip, quotha!" laughed Annie, "hearts are never broken except in the pages of De Scuderi. But with all his averred evil propensities, I think there is something very noble about Lord Clermistonlee." "Noble?" "Do not his wit, his elegance, and courage excite our admiration?" "Yes--but do they make us forget that the villain lurks under that prepossessing exterior?" rejoined Lilian, scornfully. "Dear Lilian, I have but one more argument to urge, and 'tis the old one; remember that your fair fame which his addresses have injured, requires----" "What?"