While she was yet holding the letter and picture in her hand, Glenarvon was announced. He looked at both without exhibiting any symptom of surprise, and having read the letter, shewed it to Calantha. It greatly shocked her. “I am so used,” said he smiling, “to these scenes, that they have lost all power with me.” “Unhappy Elinor,” said Lady Avondale. “In good truth,” said Glenarvon “you may spare your pity, Calantha: the lady has spirit enough: it is her lover who ought to claim compassion.” “Now do not frown,” said he, “or reproach, or torment me about her. I know it was wrong first to take her with me—it was wrong to see her since; but never more, you may rely upon it, shall I transgress; and if you knew all, you would not blame me. She absolutely forced herself upon me. She sat at my door, and wept when I urged her to return home. What could I do: I might have resisted.—Calantha, when passion is burning in every vein—when opportunity is kind—and when those who from the modesty of their sex ought to stand above us and force us from them, forget their dignity and sue and follow us, it is not in man’s nature to resist. Is it in woman’s?” he continued smiling archly. “I blame you not,” she replied; “but I pity her. Yet wherefore not shew her some little kindness!” “A look, a word would bring her back to me. She misrepresents every thing: she deceives herself.” “Love is ever apt to do so.” “Oh! my adored Calantha, look not thus on me. You are not like this wretched girl: there is nothing feminine, or soft, or attractive in her; in you there is every charm.” “You loved her once,” said Calantha. “It was passion, phrenzy, it was not love—not what I feel for my Calantha.” “As you regard me, be kind to her.” “I was very kind once, was I not?” “Oh not in that manner—not so.” “How then my soul? explain yourself; you shall instruct me.” “Counsel her to repent.” “From the lips that first taught her to err, how will such counsel prevail?” “Why take your picture from her?” “To give it to the only friend I have left.” “I shall send it her again.” “She will only laugh at you.” “I had rather be the cause of her laughter, than of her tears.” “Fear not: she is not prone to weeping; but perhaps,” he continued in a tone of pique, “you would wish to give _me_ back also, as well as the portrait.” “Oh never—never.” This was Lady Avondale’s answer; and Lord Glenarvon was satisfied. CHAPTER XXV. Lady Avondale sent the portrait to Miss St. Clare, and vainly endeavoured to restore her to her uncle’s protection. She again spoke of her to Glenarvon.