The nurse entered Calantha’s room, bearing her boy in her arms. She would not look on him:—“take him away,” she said; “take him to my aunt.” The child wished to stay:—for the first time he hung about her with affection; for he was not of that character, and seldom shewed his love by infantine fondness and caresses. She started from his gentle grasp, as if from something terrible: “take him away,” she shrieked to the affrighted woman, “and never let him come near me more.” I know there are some whose eyes may glance upon these pages, who will regard with indignation the confession here made respecting the character of Calantha. But it is as if those who had never known sickness and agony mocked at its power—as if those who had never witnessed the delirious ravings of fever or insanity reasoned upon its excess:—they must not judge who cannot understand. Driven to despair—guilty in all but the last black deed that brands the name and character with eternal infamy, Calantha resolved to follow Glenarvon. How indeed could she remain! To her every domestic joy was forever blasted; and a false estimate of honour inclined her to believe, that it was right in her to go.—But not to-night she said. Oh not like a culprit and a thief in the midst of the night, will I quit my father’s house, or leave my aunt sick and ill to grieve herself almost to death for my sake. Preserving, during the evening, a sullen silence, an affectation of offended pride, Calantha retired early; looked once upon the portraits of her husband and mother; and then turned from them in agony. “He was all kindness to me—all goodness: he deserved a happier fate. Happier! alas he is blest: I alone suffer—I alone am miserable; never, never can I behold him more.” These were the last words Calantha uttered, as she prepared for an interview she dreaded. It was now but twelve o’clock: she threw herself upon her bed, and waited in trepidation and alarm for the hour of three. A knock at the door aroused her. It was O’Kelly; but he waited not one instant: he left a gold casket with a ring, within was a letter: “My beloved,” it said, “I wait for thee. Oh repent not thy promise.” Nothing else was written. The hand she well knew: the signature was. “Ever and thine alone, Glenarvon.” CHAPTER XXXII. It was past three o’clock, when Calantha opened the cabinet where the page’s clothes were formerly kept, and drew from thence his mantle and plumed hat; and, thus disguised, prepared herself for the interview. She slowly descended the stairs: the noisy revels of the servants might still at intervals be heard: in a moment she glided through the apartments and passages, till she found herself at the door which led to the terrace. It opened heavily, and closed again with a loud noise. Alarmed, lest she should be discovered, she flew with rapidity over the terrace and lawn, till she approached the wood, and then she paused to take breath, and to listen if all were silent.