“How can you ask? you were at Seville at the time. Have you forgotten that famous, marriage, to which, by your persuasion, I consented; was this scheme only one of those unhappy events which are to be the seed of future good?”
The sneer made no impression on the priest, who calmly answered, “Even so, Lola.”
“What do you mean, sir?” cried she, angrily; “to what end am I thus? Was I so base born and so low? Was my lot in life so ignominious that I should not have raised my ambition above a fortune like this,—the waiting-woman of one whose birth is not better than my own?”
“You are right, Lola,——perfectly right; and with patience and prudence you will be her equal yet. Acton is an English noble—”
“What care I for that?” said she, passionately; “the marriage was a counterfeit.”
“The marriage was a true and valid one.”
“And yet you yourself told me it was not binding.”
“I had my reasons for the deceit, Lola,” said he, persuasively. “You were deserted and desolate; such widowhood would have brought you to the grave with sorrow. It were better that you should strive against misery.”
“Even in shame?” asked she, scornfully.
“Even in shame, for the shame would be short-lived; but Lord Norwood is alive, and you are his wife.”