by Grant Allen
“That is so,” Sir Emilius answered. “He lives upon her bounty.”
“Then,” the Marchese went on, with an air of relief, “we may treat this unprepossessing gentleman as a mere cipher.”
Fede broke out in a sudden cry. “But, papa,” she said, sobbing, “Hubert doesn’t see things like that at all. He thinks he’s bound not to marry me if this man’s his father.”
The Marchese turned round with a bewildered air. “Thinks he’s bound not to marry you?” he repeated. “Not to marry a Tornabuoni! Why, why, Mr. Egremont? I ask you, yes or no? Has this man any claim on your mother’s Property?”
“On her property?” Hubert answered. “Not the least in the world, so far as I am aware.” The point of view puzzled him.
“The estate is absolutely settled on my sister,” Sir Emilius put in; “with remainder to Hubert, as I have already explained to you.”
“Then where does the difficulty come in?” the Marchese continued, looking puzzled. “Why shouldn’t you marry her?”
“You don’t understand,” Hubert cried. “With a father such as that, how can I? How dare I? I am doomed beforehand to hopeless madness.”
The Marchese almost laughed. “What, a fine young fellow like you,” he cried, “with the limbs of a mountaineer and the chest of a Bersagliere! Sentimental nonsense!”
“You can’t see it, I suppose,” Hubert murmured, “with the eye of a physiologist.”
The Marchese was severe. “No, but I can see it with the eye of a gentleman and a man of honor,” he answered, growing hot. “I understand what you mean now. You mean to act like a cad to my daughter.”
Sir Emilius detected quickened action of the heart in the swollen veins of the Marchese’s forehead. He interposed as composer of the rising storm. “Wait a moment,” he said, with his bland medical manner. “Marchese, you and I will talk things over together a little.
Julia, my dear, leave us — and you, too, Marchesa. Hubert, take your mother out into the garden awhile, and then come back to us. We must arrange this thing gradually. It’s entirely a question of the point of view. Your points of view are different. I sympathize with both — and I will try to harmonize them.”
The Marchese bowed stiffly. “As you will, signore,” he answered, with cold politeness. “But this marriage is arranged now, and cannot be put off. I allow no going back upon the claims of my daughter.”
Sir Emilius bowed in return, and motioned Mrs. Egremont and Fede to leave the room. Hubert went with them.
“Well?” the Marchese said coldly, looking across at his opponent.
“Well,” Sir Emilius began, “Marchese, my nephew is deeply in love with your daughter.”
“Sir!” the Italian exclaimed.
“I mean,” Sir Emilius corrected, perceiving his error, “Hubert’s affections are deeply engaged to her. It is through no lack of will that he has doubts about his marriage.”
“I don’t understand,” the Marchese replied, in his chilliest voice. “If he is not going to marry my daughter, how dare he tell me he has feelings of affection for her? In Italy, Sir Emilius, we cannot permit such avowals. Either the young man means marriage, or else.”
— his hand sought an imaginary sword—” we settle these questions in that way.”
Sir Emilius tried another tack. “Let me explain to you my nephew’s idea,” he said, still bland as ever. “He has — er — the profoundest admiration and respect for your daughter, Marchese. He desires to marry her. But the sudden discovery of his father’s degradation — for I will admit that Colonel Egremont is really a drunken and degraded creature — has given him such a shock that he has momentary qualms which his common sense will soon no doubt enable him to get over. He is a physiologist, you must recollect; too much a physiologist; and he fancies he must inherit his father’s physical taint. Indeed, as a medical man, I am bound to admit that the chances in favor of any person who comes from a family so deeply tainted are usually — infinitesimal. Though in Hubert’s case I have good hopes that his mother’s fine physique — but I see you are impatient.”
“I am,” the Marchese admitted, fuming visibly. “What has all this got to do with your nephew’s arrangement to marry my daughter? It is for her to consider whether she will take the risk — which, frankly, to me seems, as you say, infinitesimal.”
“I — I meant the other way,” Sir Emilius corrected, taken aback.
The Marchese pursed his lips. “Not at all,” he answered. His tone was acid. “The matter stands thus. Mr. Egremont has formally proposed for my daughter. I have accepted his offer. He now wants to back out, apparently — on a most frivolous pretext As a man of honor, I cannot permit it.”
“He will not back out, I am sure,” Sir Emilius responded diplomatically. “That is to say, when he recovers mental balance.”
“Not with impunity, certainly,” the Marchese answered stiffly. His hand moved once more towards his hip with a nervous movement.
“He is a fine healthy young fellow,” Sir Emilius went on, “with excellent principles.” The Marchese snapped his fingers. “My dear sir,” he answered, “you are altogether too English. We talk at cross purposes. What on earth do I care about your nephew’s principles? What do I care about his heredity, if that’s the right word for it? Heredity’s all very well in its way, when you know the facts. But you never know them. Isn’t marriage expressly invented to conceal them? It puts a premium on denial of paternity. Haven’t you English an unusually sensible proverb about it’s being a wise child who knows his own father?”
It was Sir Emilius’s turn now to be shocked and insulted. “My dear sir,” he exclaimed, bristling up, “remember! my sister!” Nothing but the fact that the Marchese was only a foreigner could have restrained him from deeply resenting the imputation.
“Ah, yes,” the Marchese interjected. “I forgot! In England, of course! You English are so impeccable. You have no romance, no love, no affection. These things don’t happen, chez vous. Whereas we other Italians, you see—”
“Oh, with Italians,” Sir Emilius answered drily, drawing himself up, “that’s quite another matter. But north of the Alps, Marchese—”
“True, true,” the Marchese mused. “And yet — there was your friend the poet. He caught the subtle aroma of life as it passed. And he was an Englishman. No, no, an American. Yet English and Americans are alike in that. But then I suppose poets don’t count. They have no nationality — just the poetic temperament.”
“He was the austerest and purest of men,” Sir Emilius said, too surprised to be angry. “Have you read his Gwendoline? What could be severer?”
“His poetry? Ah, yes. Most ascetic, no doubt. But his life — ah, there! I knew him well, Sir Emilius. He longed to be a saint — but he loved to be a sinner.”
“Well, Hubert, I believe, will get over this mood,” the Englishman went on, reverting to the matter in hand. “It is a natural revulsion.”
“He must get over it,” the Florentine answered, “or take the consequences. And you know what those are! Ah, here he comes to answer for it.”
As he spoke, Hubert entered, still as dejected and despondent as ever. Sir Emilius tried to prompt him. “I have been explaining to the Marchese,” he said, in his most persuasive tone, “that you are momentarily taken aback by this unfortunate episode; but that, after you have had time for reflection and consideration—”
Hubert shook his head firmly. “No, no,” he answered. “Let us be clear about this. If I am that man’s son — I will never, never marry Fede.”
“You won’t?” the Marchese cried, stepping closer.
“For her own sake, no,” Hubert answered firmly—” and for her possible children.”
The Marchese’s face grew red. “My dear sir,” he said, “this is absurd, quixotic! You don’t know what you’re talking about. The marriage is arranged, and must come off now. I believed I was dealing with persons of honor. I have telegraphed the facts to all the Florentine journals, as well
as to my family, and have received in return the congratulations of the Sindaco. By this time, my daughter’s engagement is the common talk of the Cascine. To break it off at such a stage would be, you but terribly resolute. “Hubert, darling,” she said slowly, standing between the two men, “wait! Don’t quarrel with Fede’s father! Marchese, I implore you, allow me to talk with my boy a little. I think I can persuade him. This may be arranged even now.” She spoke with resolution, but with deadly earnestness.
The Marchese looked down at her with icy politeness. “Certainly, dear lady,” he answered, with Italian courtesy. “Your sex can do much. Perhaps it may even assist you to persuade this headstrong young fanatic.” He paused for a second and mused. “You more than any one else,” he added, after a second’s thought. “The entanglement is, perhaps, not quite so impossible as the signore fancies.”
Mrs. Egremont waved Sir Emilius with one hand from the room. The Marchese bowed, and accompanied him. Fede clung to her new friend. “Must I go too?” she asked pleadingly.
Mrs. Egremont stooped down and kissed her tenderly. “Yes, dear, you must go,” she said, in a very gentle voice, yet tremulous with courage. “It is for your own sake, Fede. Wait for us in my bedroom. I will call you when I want you.”
“But nothing you can say will alter me, mother,” Hubert added, in a tone of abject despair. “I have made up my mind. That person’s son can never marry.”
“I don’t care a damn for his present condition!” the Marchese answered angrily, with idiomatic vigor. “It won’t do; I can’t even discuss the subject. As a Tornabuoni, I am the guardian of my daughter’s honor. No man shall insult her, while I live, and go unpunished. Your friend’s name, sir; your friend’s name! This has gone beyond mere talking!”
Sir Emilius made one more unavailing effort. “It is for the Marchesa’s own sake,” he said gently, “that my nephew desired to break off the marriage. I think he desires it on mistaken grounds. He is too acutely apprehensive.”
“No, uncle,” Hubert answered, growing more fixed each minute. “It is a matter of principle. I will not depart from the stand I have taken. My mother had no right to marry my father. Fede has no right to marry me. Though she beg and implore me, I refuse to put this grave wrong upon her.”
The Marchese raised his voice. “Then you must take the consequences,” he answered haughtily. “Give me the name of your friend — or I run you through, wherever I meet you, for your insult to my daughter.”
“Papa! papa!” Fede cried, rushing in and seizing his hand. The loud tones had reached her. “Oh, Sir Emilius, separate them!”
Mrs. Egremont followed the tremulous girl into the room. Her face was white as death, but terribly resolute. “Hubert, darling,” she said slowly, standing between the two men, “wait! Don’t quarrel with Fede’s father! Marchese, I implore you, allow me to talk with my boy a little. I think I can persuade him. This may be arranged even now.” She spoke with resolution, but with deadly earnestness.
The Marchese looked down at her with icy politeness. “Certainly, dear lady,” he answered, with Italian courtesy. “Your sex can do much. Perhaps it may even assist you to persuade this headstrong young fanatic.” He paused for a second and mused. “You more than any one else,” he added, after a second’s thought. “The entanglement is, perhaps, not quite so impossible as the signore fancies.”
Mrs. Egremont waved Sir Emilius with one hand from the room. The Marchese bowed, and accompanied him. Fede clung to her new friend. “Must I go too?” she asked pleadingly.
Mrs. Egremont stooped down and kissed her tenderly. “Yes, dear, you must go,” she said, in a very gentle voice, yet tremulous with courage. “It is for your own sake, Fede. Wait for us in my bedroom. I will call you when I want you.”
“But nothing you can say will alter me, mother,” Hubert added, in a tone of abject despair. “I have made up my mind. That person’s son can never marry.”
Fede cast a glance at him as she left the room. “Marry me or not, darling,” she cried, “I am yours forever. I shall be true to my name. My faith shall be faithful.”
CHAPTER XIII.
A GREAT CONFESSION.
MRS. EGREMONT flung herself in despair on the sofa. She trembled violently, and her lips quivered; but her air was resolute. Hubert seated himself by her side, his hands folded despondently.
“My boy,” the mother said softly at last, “I have something to tell you — something I hoped never to breathe while I lived — though after I was dead I always meant that you should know it. I had written it down in my desk to tell you. But you compel me to speak now. I can’t help it any longer. I can’t delay it.”
“Go on, mother,” Hubert said gloomily, taking her hand in his. “I am strong enough — and crushed enough — to bear anything now. Nothing on earth matters to me.”
“This will matter to you,” Mrs. Egremont said, in a very grave voice. “Oh, where can I begin?” She cast about for an opening.
Hubert, help me, my boy. Can’t you guess? Can’t you spare me? Something that will enable you to marry Fede.”
Hubert looked at her, dull as a leaden sky. The English boy’s implicit belief and faith in his mother prevented him for one moment from guessing the fact she was trying to tell him.
“Impossible!” he said. “Impossible! I will not and cannot.”
The mother braced herself up for a painful effort. “Listen, Hubert,” she said, speaking low. “I was married at seventeen, as I told you this morning. What did I know of life then? I have explained to you how, and you have seen with your eyes to what sort of person. Married to a man I could not possibly love — a man I soon learned to hate and despise as much as I loathed him.”
“You might have been married to him,” Hubert answered slowly, “but why did you consent to go on living with him? Every woman is the guardian of her own purity. To live with a man she loathes is a dishonor and degradation to her own body.”
“So he told me,” Mrs. Egremont whispered. But Hubert was deaf. He could not understand her.
“Why did you live with him?” he went on, more in wonder than reproach. “Why did you let him remain with you?”
“I did not — for one moment longer than I could help,” Mrs. Egremont answered, whispering low. “I bought him off, and sent him away, as soon as I was able.”
“A year too late,” Hubert answered. “And I am here to prove it.”
Mrs. Egremont clasped her hands. “No, darling, no,” she cried. “Bear with me, Hubert. I must tell it my own way, if I’m to tell it at all. Oh, how can I ever tell it? I lived with him, and hated him; but, thank God! I was childless. That alone consoled me. Four years after my marriage I went with him to Venice. I had no baby yet, then, and prayed, oh, how fervently, I might never have one. To bear a child for him, I felt, would have been cruel — no, criminal.” She paused, and looked hard at her son. “At Venice—” she went on, then broke off suddenly; “do you begin to understand, Hubert?”
The young man nestled close to her. “Go on,” he cried. “Go on! I begin to suspect. You give me fresh hope, mother.”
“At Venice,” the mother continued, hiding her face in her hands, “I met a Man — a, very great Man — the greatest I ever knew — who fascinated me deeply. I admired and respected him. Hubert, Hubert, need I say any more to you?”
Hubert leaned eagerly forward. “Yes, yes,” he cried. “Go on! I must know it all — all! Tell me everything, mother!”
“You said you wished the truth,” Mrs. Egremont moaned faintly.
“I wish the truth,” Hubert answered. “By that we live. Go on, go -on! I know it was well, mother!”
“He loved me,” the trembling woman went on. “He loved me, and he told me so. I loved him, and I denied it. I thought it was wrong to love; I thought it was right to conceal the truth. But he found it out in spite of me. ‘We needs must love the highest when we see it,’ he used to say, and — I loved him with all the purest love of my nature. Two things I lo
nged for — sympathy, and a child. He gave me sympathy, and he told me maternity was a sacred right and duty of womanhood.”
“He said the truth,” Hubert cried, drawing closer and closer to the trembling mother. “Till she has borne a child, no woman has realized her own whole nature.”
“He was beautiful and noble-hearted,” Mrs. Egremont went on—” a leader among men; a teacher and thinker; and there, in those glorious streets, among those glorious churches, he taught me new lessons — oh, Hubert, dare I say them? He taught me it was wrong for me to remain one day longer under the same roof with the husband whom I loathed — told me in almost the self-same words as those you used to-day, that in yielding myself up to a man I despised, I profaned and dishonored my own body.”
“Dear mother,” the son said, “go on! I know all now; but tell it me; tell it me!” His voice was eager.
Mrs. Egremont hid her head, overcome with womanly shame. “He told me,” she whispered, “I ought to trust my own heart, and defy conventions. He said the bond that bound me to that man was cruel and unholy. He spoke so earnestly, he loved me so purely, that, bit by bit he overcame my scruples. I could not conceal it from myself or from him. I loved him to distraction.”
Hubert smoothed her hand with a gentle pressure, but answered nothing.
“One evening at Venice,” the mother continued, “he pressed me close to his heart — his great beautiful heart — oh, close, so close; and he cried aloud to me, in a sense I had never before realized, those beautiful words, ‘Whom God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.’ The voice of God within us had joined us, he said; man’s laws and conventions should not avail to sever us.”
“I know that voice, too,” Hubert cried, leaning forward. “I know those very thoughts. They are mine, mother, mine! I see the truth now. He must have been my father — that pure great soul, not the wretched drunkard. I recognize his spirit! Am I his son, dear mother?”
