The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume II. Lever Charles James
save others hazards his own eternity! Have I not done it?” cried he, carried away by an impetuous rush of feeling. “Have I not overborne the truth and sustained the falsehood? Have I not warped the judgments, and clouded the faculties, and misdirected the aspirations of many who came to me for counsel, knowing that if there might be evil now there would be good hereafter, and that for present and passing sorrow there would be a glorious day of rejoicing? To this end have I spoke Peace to the guilty man and Hope to the hardened! Not for him, nor for me, but for the countless millions of the Church, – for the mighty hosts who look to her for succor and consolation! This I call courage!”
And he drew himself proudly up, and folded his arms on his breast with an air of haughty composure; while the girl, awed by his manner, and subdued by the impetuosity of his speech, gazed at him in half fear and wonderment.
“Tell me of your father, Lola,” said D’Esmonde, in a low, soft voice, as he drew her low seat to his side.
“He was killed at Madrid; he died before the Queen!” said she, proudly.
“The death of a Toridor!” muttered the priest, mournfully.
“Yes, and Pueblos too, – he is dead!”
“Not the little child that I remember – ”
“The same. He grew up to be a fine man; some thought him handsomer than my father. My mother’s family would have made a priest of him, but he chose the prouder destiny.”
“I cannot think of him but as the child, – the little fellow who played about my knees; dressed like a matador, his long silky hair in a net.”
“Oh, do not – do not speak of him,” cried the girl, burying her face between her hands; “my heart will not bear those memories.”
The priest’s face was lighted up with a malevolent delight as he bent over her, as if revelling in the thought the emotions could call up.
“Poor little fellow!” said he, as if to himself. “How I remember his bolero that he danced for me.” He stopped, and she sobbed bitterly. “He said that Lola taught him.”
She looked up; the tears were fast coursing along her cheeks, which were pale as death.
“Eustace,” said she, tremulously, “these thoughts will drive me mad; my brain is reeling even now.”
“Let us talk of something else, then,” said he. “When did you leave the ‘Opera’ – and why?”
“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.”
“Lord Norwood! I have heard that name so often,” said she, musingly.
“At Florence, of course, he was every night at the Mazzarini Palace; the same Gerald Acton you remember long ago.”
“And he is a lord, – an English noble?”
“And you are an English peeress, Lola. There is not a coronet more safe upon a titled head than I can make yours, – can and will make,” added he, slowly. “But you must be patient; I must now speak to you, Lola, of themes in which you can take no interest, and subjects of which you know nothing. But listen to me attentively, and hear me; for fortune has not thus thrown us together without a meaning.
“The hour is come, Lola, when heretics and infidels have determined on an attack of our faith; not as they have hitherto attempted, and with such signal failure, by the weapons of controversy and discussion, but by brute force; by the might of millions driven to madness from want and misgovernment To avert this terrible calamity is now the unceasing thought of the Church. Some have counselled one thing, some another; some would go forth to the fight, trusting that, as of old, God would not forget his people; there are others who deem this course presumptuous and unwise. The hearts of kings are not as they once were, – in their confessors’ keeping. Our age and manners would send forth no crusade. The battle must be otherwise contested. You could not follow me, Lola, were I to tell you either of the perils or their antidotes. Enough that I say we must have trusty and faithful agents in every land of Europe, and in every rank in every people. From the secret whisperings of the Czar to the muttered discontent of the Irish peasant, we must know them all. To this end have we labored anxiously and eagerly for some time back, and already have we made great progress. From every Court of Europe we now receive tidings, and there is not a royal palace where our interests are unguarded. Some serve us for the glorious cause itself, some have their own price, some again are in our own hands from motives of self-interest or terror, but all are alike true. This Princess – this Dalton – I destined for a duty of the same nature. Married to a man of Midchekoff’s wealth and influence, she might have done good service, but I scarcely dare to trust her; even at the sacrifice of herself she might fail me, and, although in my power, I cannot count upon her. Think, then, of my joy at finding you, one on whose fidelity I may hazard life itself. You can be all to me, and a thousand times more than ever she could.”
“Your spy,” said the girl, steadily, but without the slightest semblance of anger.
“My friend, my counsellor, my correspondent, Lola.”
“And the price?”
“You may name it. If your heart be set on mere worldly distinction, I will prove your marriage, and although Norwood is not rich, his country never neglects the class he belongs to. Would you break the tie, the bond is in my keeping.”
“I never loved him,” cried she, passionately, “and you knew it. The marriage was one of those snares on which your mind never ceases to dwell – ”
“If you loved another, Lola – ?” said he, interrupting, and then waiting for her to finish her speech.
“And if I had,” burst she forth, “am I credulous enough to fancy that your word can reconcile every difference of rank and fortune, – that you can control destiny, and even coerce affection? No, no, Eustace; I have outlived all that!”
“Then were you wiser when you believed it,” said he, gravely. “Now for his name.”
There was a tone of almost commanding influence in which these last few words were uttered, and his dark full eyes were steadily fixed on her as he spoke them.
She hesitated to answer, and seemed to reflect.
“I ask no forced confession, Lola,” said he, proudly, and rising at the same time from his seat “In all the unreserve of our old affection, I told you my secret; yours is with yourself.”
“But can you – ” She stopped.
“I can, and I will aid you,” said he, finishing her sentence.
“There is the name, then!” cried she, as, with a passionate gesture, she drew a sealed letter from her