Calantha knew not then one word of what had passed. The morning after she was informed by Mrs. Seymour that Lord Glenarvon was gone. “Gone! where?” she said rather in surprise, and agitated. “I know not,” replied Mrs. Seymour, coldly enough. “I conclude to Belfont: his uncle Lord de Ruthven is arrived there. But, indeed, I am glad he is gone:—you have not conducted yourself well. I, your aunt, have no doubt of you; but others, who know you less, Calantha, blame you more.” A letter was now delivered to Mrs. Seymour: she opened it: it was from Glenarvon; she was dreadfully agitated upon reading it. It contained these words:—“As you seem to doubt the confidence and attachment with which your niece, the Countess of Avondale, has honoured me, I enclose you one of her own letters, that you may see my vanity alone did not authorise me in the conclusion that she was attached to me. Her duplicity to me can scarcely justify the means I take of opening an aunt’s eyes; but the peculiar circumstances of my situation will, I hope, excuse it. “Your most obedient servant, “GLENARVON.” This letter enclosed one of Lady Avondale’s—one which, however, she had not blushed to write. She read it with terror when Mrs. Seymour placed it in her hands. Cruel Glenarvon! could he have the heart thus to betray me—to my own aunt too. Oh! had that aunt been less indulgent, less kind, what had been my fate? “You are innocent yet, my child,” said Mrs. Seymour, placing her arms around her; “and the early conviction of the meanness and wickedness of him for whom you were preparing to sacrifice so much, will render it easy to reclaim yourself from your present errors, and look with less confidence in future.”—“Never, never, will I pardon him,” cried Calantha, with supprest indignation. “I will not hate; that were too flattering to his vanity: I will not fly; that were a proof that there was cause for it: but, lowered to the dust as I ought to feel—humbled to the earth (and whilst she spoke, she looked and felt more proudly, more vainly than ever), even I can despise him. What are superior talents, if he who possesses them can act thus? Oh! I would rather die in torture, than ever pardon this.” “Be less violent,” said Mrs. Seymour, with a look of heart-broken tenderness and affection: “that stubborn spirit must be subdued.”—“I will revenge——” “Be calm, Calantha: think what you are saying: how unfeminine and how puerile! Put off these frowns and this idle rage, and look reasonably upon your own conduct, not upon his.”—“Shall you ever permit him to enter these doors again?”—“Had I the power, assuredly never.”—“Oh, let him return; I care not; I can see him with the scorn, with the indifference he deserves. Do not look thus, my dearest aunt: dry your tears: I am not worth one single tear now; but I will act in future so as to silence even these too just reproaches.”