“You have seen the announcement in the newspapers to-day!” said Lady Corisande.
“I think, if they were certain of their prey, they would be more reserved,” said Theodora.
“There is something in that,” said Lady Corisande, musingly. “You know not what a relief it is to me to speak to you on this matter. Mamma agrees with me, and so do my sisters; but still they may agree with me because they are my mamma and my sisters; but I look upon our nobility joining the Church of Rome as the greatest calamity that has ever happened to England. Irrespective of all religious considerations, on which I will not presume to touch, it is an abnegation of patriotism; and in this age, when all things are questioned, a love of our country seems to me the one sentiment to cling to.”
“I know no higher sentiment,” said Theodora in a low voice, and yet which sounded like the breathing of some divine shrine, and her Athenian eye met the fiery glance of Lady Corisande with an expression of noble sympathy.
“I am so glad that I spoke to you on this matter,” said Lady Corisande, “for there is something in you which encourages me. As you say, if they were certain, they would be silent; and yet, from what I hear, their hopes are high. You know,” she added in a whisper, “that he has absolutely engaged to raise a popish cathedral. My brother, Bertram, has seen the model in his rooms.”
“I have known models that were never realized,” said Theodora.
“Ah! you are hopeful; you said you were hopeful. It is a beautiful disposition. It is not mine,” she added, with a sigh.
“It should be,” said Theodora; “you were not born to sigh. Sighs should be for those who have no country, like myself; not for the daughters of England—the beautiful daughters of proud England.”
“But you have your husband’s country, and that is proud and great.”
“I have only one country, and it is not my husband’s; and I have only one thought, and it is to set it free.”