“Unhappy, wretched creature!” cried D'Esmonde; “where have you learned these lessons?—who could have taught you this?”
“You,—and you alone, Eustace. In reading your nature I unread my own faith. In seeing your falsehood, I learned to believe there was no truth anywhere. I asked myself, what must be the religion if this man be its interpreter?”
“Hold,——hold!” cried D'Esmonde, passionately. “It is not to such as you I can render account of my actions, nor lay bare the secret workings of my heart. Know this much, however, woman, and ponder over it well; that if a man like me can make shipwreck of his whole nature, crush his hopes, and blast his budding affections, the cause that exacts the sacrifice must needs be holy. Bethink you that my goal is not like yours. I have not plotted for a life of inglorious ease. I have not schemed to win a pampered and voluptuous existence. It is not in a whirlwind of passionate enjoyment I have placed the haven of my hopes. you see me—as I have ever been—poor, meanly housed, and meanly fed; not repining at my lot either, not deeming my condition a hard one. Why am I thus, then? Are the prizes that worldly men contend for above my reach? Am I the inferior of those who are carrying away the great rewards of life? Where is the stain of falsehood in all this?”
“Were I to copy the picture and paint myself in the same colors,” said Lola,——“were I to show what I have stooped to,—a scoff and a shame!—how I neither faltered at a crime nor trembled before exposure——all that I might be—what I now am—”
“The mistress of a Prince!” said D'Esmonde, with a contemptuous smile.
“Was it a prouder fortune when my lover was the serge-clad seminarist of Salamanca?” said she, laughing scornfully.
“I linked you with a higher destiny, Lola,” said D'Esmonde, deliberately.
“Again you refer to this pretended marriage. But I put no faith in your words; nor, were they even true, should they turn me from my path.”
“At least you should confirm your claim to his name and title,” said D'Esmonde. “The rank you will thus attain will but strengthen your position in the world; and they who would treat contemptuously the Toridor's daughter will show every courtesy and deference to the English peeress.”
“I will hazard nothing on your advice, priest!” said she, proudly. “I know you as one who never counselled without a scheme of personal advantage. This Acton has injured you. You desire his ruin; or, perhaps, some deep intrigue awaits myself. It matters not; I will not aid you.”