“Be cautious how you harp on this theme, priest. In your good zeal to hammer the metal soft you may chance to crush your own finger.”
“I must be frank with you, my Lord, whatever the hazard. He would be a sorry surgeon who, after giving his patient all the agony of the knife, stopped short, and left the malady unextirpated.”
“Come now, D'Esmonde,” said Norwood, as with a strong grasp he drew the other down on the sofa beside him, “You have your debt to acquit in this matter as well as myself. I do not seek to know how or why or upon whom. Your priestly craft need not be called into exercise. I want nothing of your secrets; I only ask your counsel. That much in our common cause you cannot refuse me. What shall I do in this affair? No cant, no hypocritical affectation of Christian forgiveness, none of that hackneyed advice that you dole out to your devotees; speak freely, and like a man of the world. What is to be done here?”
“If the marriage admitted of dispute or denial, I should say disavow it,” said the priest “It is too late for this.”
“Go on. What next?”
“Then comes the difficulty. To assert your own honor, you must begin by a recognition of her as your wife. This looks rash, but I see no other course. You cannot call Midchekoff to a reckoning on any other grounds. Then comes the question, is such a woman worth fighting for? or must the only consideration be the fact that she bears your name, and that she is the Viscountess Norwood in every society she can enter? How is this to be borne? The stricter code of England rejects such claimants altogether from its circle; but on the Continent they are everywhere. Will it be possible for you to live under this open shame?”
“Your advice is, then,——shoot him!” said Norwood; and he bent his eyes fixedly on the priest as he spoke. “It is my own notion, also. If the choice were open to me, D'Esmonde, I 'd rather have exacted the payment of this debt from Onslow; I hated the fellow from my very heart. Not that I owe this Russian any good will. We have more than once been on the verge of a quarrel. It was not my fault if it went no further. They say, too, that he has no taste for these things. If so, one must stimulate his appetite, that's all!—eh, D'Esmonde? Your countrymen seldom need such provocations?”
“We have our faults, my Lord; but this is scarcely amongst their number.”
“You're right, D'Esmonde,” said the other, pursuing his former line of thought. “It's no petty penalty to exact from a fellow with fifty thousand a year! I almost fancy I should have been a coward myself at such a price!”
“You 'll have some difficulty in obtaining access to him, my Lord,” remarked the Abbé. “He lives in strict privacy, and refuses admission to every one.”