Calantha thought she had sufficient honour and spirit to tell her husband at once the danger to which she was exposed; but when she considered more seriously her situation, it appeared to her almost ridiculous to fancy that it was so imminent. If upon some occasion, Lord Glenarvon’s manner was ardent, the ensuing morning she found him cold, distant and pre-occupied, and she felt ashamed of the weakness which for one moment could have made her imagine she was the object of his thoughts. Indeed, he often took an opportunity of stating, generally, that he never could feel either interest or love for any thing on earth; that once he had felt too deeply and had suffered bitterly from it; and that now his sole regret was in the certainty that he never again could be so deceived. He spoke with decision of leaving Ireland, and more than once repeated, emphatically to the Duke, “I shall never forget the kindness which prompted you to seek me out, when under very unpleasant circumstances; I shall immediately withdraw my name from the club; my sentiments I cannot change: but you have already convinced me of the folly of spreading them amongst the unenlightened multitude.” Sir Everard, who was present, lifted up his hands at such discourse. “He is a convert of mine, I verily believe,” he cried; “and Elinor”—“Miss St. Clare,” whispered Glenarvon, turning to the Doctor, “has long been admonished by me, to return to an indulgent uncle, and throw herself on your mercy.” “My mercy!” said Sir Everard, bursting into tears,—“my gratitude. Oh! my child, my darling.” “And believe me,” continued Lord Glenarvon, with an air which seemed haughtily to claim belief, “I return her as innocent as she came to me. Her imagination may have bewildered and beguiled her; but her principles are uncorrupted.” “Generous young nobleman!” exclaimed Sir Everard, ready to kneel before him—“noble, mighty, grand young gentleman! wonder of our age!” Lord Glenarvon literally smiled through his tears; for the ridicule of Sir Everard did not prevent his excellent and warm feelings from affecting those who knew him well. “And will she return to her poor uncle?” “I know not,” said Lord Glenarvon, gravely: “I fear not; but I have even implored her to do so.” “Oh, if you fail who are so fair and so persuasive, who can hope to move her?” “She may hear a parent’s voice,” said Glenarvon, “even though deaf to a lover’s prayer.” “And are you indeed a lover to my poor deluded Elinor?” “I was,” said Lord Glenarvon, proudly; “but her strange conduct, and stubborn spirit have most effectually cured me; and I must own, Sir Everard, I do not think I ever again can even affect a feeling of that sort: after all, it is a useless way of passing life.” “You are right,” said the Doctor; “quite right; and it injures the health; there is nothing creates bile, and hurts the constitution more, than suspense and fretting:—I know it by myself.”