Galliard had ruined him with these Ashburns.

He could never now hope to win the hand of Cynthia, to achieve which he had been willing to turn both fool and knave--aye, had turned both.

There was naught left him but to return him to the paltry Scottish estate of his fathers, there to meet the sneers of those who no doubt had heard that he was gone South to marry a great English heiress.
That at such a season he could think of this but serves to prove the shallow nature of his feelings.

A love was his that had gain and vanity for its foundation--in fact, it was no love at all.

For what he accounted love for Cynthia was but the love of himself, which through Cynthia he sought to indulge.
He cursed the ill-luck that had brought Crispin into his life.