“You are moved,” said Canon Lenthal. “The subject is a painful one, without doubt, but it may appear like egotism on my part when I express a hope that you might possibly be induced to listen to me more complacently than you would to any other. Now sit down, my lord, and view the matter in a better and more becoming spirit.”
Lord Ethalwood made no reply, but again took his seat at the table in front of the vicar.
“How could I,” he muttered, “bring the child or children of that base, low-born Italian within the walls of Broxbridge?”
“They are his children, no one will for a moment deny, that is, assuming there are any. Should there be issue of his marriage with your daughter they belong to your race—they may even resemble you in features, and in disposition also.”
“I hope not.”
“Do not say that, my dear friend—let us hope they do. They may even have the grand old Ethalwood spirit, the force, the nobility, and honour of the race from which they descend in a direct line. In a direct line, mark you—you cannot deny that.”
“I do not seek to deny it.”
“Very well, they have a greater right to succeed to the title and estates than any other living person. You may be proud, but that is no reason why you should not be just and reasonable, and I maintain that it would not be right to pass over your lineal descendants. After all there is something in a rightful claim which the best and worst of mankind generally acknowledge. It would be manifestly unjust to set it aside.”
“Really, my esteemed and reverend sir, I must tell you plainly that your argument is based upon no foundation whatever; you are jumping at a conclusion. My undutiful daughter may have no children.”
“That I admit. She may not. I am only suggesting that some effort should be made to find her. She may be dead—life is, at best, held but on a frail and uncertain tenure, but that is no reason for your remaining persistently in the dark.”