Towards noon, Calantha went out for a few moments, and near the Elm wood met Glenarvon. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” she cried, “do not come here: some one may see you.”—“And if they do,” he said calmly, “what of that?”—“I cannot stay now:—for your sake I cannot:—meet me to-night.”—“Where? How?”—“At the Chapel.”—“At what hour?”—“At twelve.”—“That is too early.”—“At three.”—“I dare not come.”—“Then farewell.”—“Glenarvon!” He turned back. “I cannot be thus trifled with,” he said. “You have given yourself to me: I was not prepared for this wavering and caprice.”—“Oh, you know not what has passed.”—“I know all.”—“My aunt is ill.” He smiled contemptuously. “Act as you think right,” he said; “but do not be the dupe of these machinations.”—“She is really ill: she is incapable of art.”—“Go to her, then.”—“And you—shall I see you no more?”—“Never.”—“I shall come to-night.”—“As you please.”—“At all events, I shall be there, Glenarvon.—Oh look not thus on me. You know, you well know your power: do not lead me to infamy and ruin.” Glenarvon seized Calantha’s hand, which he wrung with violence. Passion in him was very terrible: it forced no fierce words from his lips; no rush of blood suffused his cheeks and forehead; but the livid pale of suppressed rage spread itself over every feature: even his hands bore testimony to the convulsive effort which the blood receding to his heart occasioned. Thus pale, thus fierce, he gazed on Calantha with disdain.—“Weak, timid being, is it for this I have renounced so much?—Is it for such as you that I have consented to live? How different from her I once loved. Go to the parents for whom I am sacrificed; call back the husband who is so preferred to me; note well his virtues and live upon his caresses:—the world will admire you and praise you. I knew how it would be and am satisfied.” Then with a rapid change of countenance from malice to bitter anguish, he gazed on her, till his eyes were filled with tears: his lips faltered as he said farewell. Calantha approached too near: he pressed her to his heart. “I am yours,” she said, half suffocated. “Nor parents, nor husband, nor fear of man or God shall ever cause me to leave you.”—“You will meet me to-night then.”—“I will.”—“You will not play upon my irritated feelings by penitential letters and excuses—you are decided, are you? Say either yes or no; but be firm to either.”—“I will come then, let death or disgrace be the consequence.” CHAPTER XXXI.