Calantha resolved to fly: yes; she felt the necessity. To-morrow, she said, she would go. That to-morrow came, and she had not strength. Glenarvon wrote constantly: she replied with the same openness. “Your letters chill me,” he said, “call me your friend, your lover: call me Glenarvon—Clarence if you will. All these forms, these regulations are odious amongst those who are attached. Say that you love, beloved Calantha: my own heart’s friend, say it; for I see it, and know it. There is no greater crime in writing it than in feeling it.” Calantha said it too soon—too soon she wrote it. “My dearest Clarence, my friend, my comforter:” such were the terms she used. Shame to the pen, the hand that dared to trace them. Days, and days passed, and soon Glenarvon was all on earth to her; and the love he felt or feigned, the only hope and happiness of her existence. CHAPTER XXI. Lord Avondale now looked more and more coldly on Calantha; but all others courted and flattered her. The Princess and many others had departed. Mrs. Seymour alone appeared to watch her with anxiety. In vain Calantha affected the most thoughtless gaiety: remorse and suspense alternately agitated her mind. One evening she observed Lord Glenarvon and her aunt, Mrs. Seymour, in earnest discourse—she knew not then that she herself was the subject. “She is pure, she is innocent,” said Mrs. Seymour: “her spirits wild and thoughtless, may have led her into a thousand follies; but worse, never—never.”—“Fierce passion burns in her eye,” said Glenarvon, scornfully: “the colour in her cheeks varies.—I love her as well as you can,” he continued, laughing; “but do you think she does not love me a little in return?”—“Oh! even in jest, do not talk thus of Calantha,” said Mrs. Seymour: “you alarm me.”—“There is no occasion,” replied Glenarvon: “calm yourself. I only said, that were I to attempt it I could succeed; she should be ready to leave you, and Lord Avondale, her dear husband and her babes, and her retinue, and all else; and I could make her follow me as St. Clara did: aye verily; but, in truth, I will not.” Mrs. Seymour was angry; she coloured; she was hurt. “You could not,” she replied with warmth. “O I know her well, and know you could not. Whatever her faults, she is so pure, so chaste even in thought.”—“She loves me.”—“It is false” said Mrs. Seymour, still more eagerly. “Even if she had any foolish romantic liking to another than her husband, Buchanan is the favourite”—“Buchanan!” said Lord Glenarvon with a sneer. “I will make her heart ache for this,” after which he retired.