“Lord Glenarvon,” said a servant; at that very instant the door opened, and he entered. He started at seeing Calantha, who, greatly embarrassed, durst not meet his eyes. It seemed to her, that to have heard him spoken of with unkindness was a sort of treachery to an attachment like theirs. Lady Margaret’s words had wounded and grieved her; but they had not shaken her trust; and when she looked upon him and saw that beautiful countenance, every doubt left her. Before she quitted the room, she observed however, with surprise, the smile of enchanting sweetness, the air of kindness, even of interest, with which Lady Margaret received him; and one jealous fear crossing her fancy, she lingered as if reproachfully enquiring what meant these frequent visits to her Aunt. Glenarvon in a moment read the doubt:—“yes” he cried, following her, you are right: if ever I have loved another with idolatry it was thy Aunt; but be assured I loved in vain. And now Calantha, I would agree, whilst existence were prolonged, to see her no more, sooner than cause you one hour’s uneasiness. Be satisfied at least, that she abhors me. “None of this whispering,” said Lady Margaret, smiling gently, “at least in my presence.” “I never loved before as now,” said Glenarvon, aloud. “Never,” said Lady Margaret, with an incredulous and scornful smile. “No,” said Glenarvon, still gazing on Calantha; “all is candour, innocence, frankness in that heart, the one I idolized too long, was like my own utterly corrupted.” “You wrong the lady,” said Lady Margaret carelessly. “She had her errors, I acknowledge; but the coldness of Glenarvon’s heart, its duplicity, its malignity, is unrivalled.” Calantha, deeply interested and agitated, could not quit the room. Glenarvon had seized her hand, his eyes fixed upon her, seemed alone intent on penetrating her feelings: she burst into tears: he approached and kissed her. “You shall not tear her from me,” he said, to Lady Margaret, “She goes with me by God: she is bound to me by the most sacred oaths: we are married: are we not dearest?” “Have you confessed to her,” said Lady Margaret contemptuously? “Every thing.” “She loves you no doubt the better for your crimes.” “She loves me. I do believe it,” said Glenarvon, in an impassioned tone, “and may the whole world, if she wishes it, know that by every art, by every power I possess, I have sought her: provided they also know,” he continued with a sneer, “that I have won her. She may despise me; you may teach her to hate; but of this be assured—you cannot change me. Never, never was I so enslaved. Calantha, my soul, look on me.—Glenarvon kneels to you. I would even appear humble—weak, if it but gratify your vanity; for humility to you is now my glory—my pride.”