“I am sorry if I hurt you, Lydia. You have asked me why I hate him. Need I say anything more?” “You have only made me love him more than ever before. You cannot hurt me through Frederic.” “I am sorry that it has come to such a pass as this. It is not right that you should be made to suffer, too.” “I do not believe all that you have told me. He _is_ your son. He _is_, Mr Brood.” “I would to God I could believe that!” he cried in a voice of agony. “I would to God it were true!” “You could believe it if you chose to believe your own eyes, your own heart.” She lowered her voice to a half whisper. “Does--does Frederic know? Does he know that his mother--oh, I can't believe it!” “He does not know.” “And you did drive her out of this house?” Brood did not answer. “You sent her away and and kept her boy, the boy who was nothing to you? Nothing!” “I kept him,” he said, with a queer smile on his lips. “All these years? He never knew his mother?” “He has never heard her name spoken.” “And she?” “I only know that she is dead. She never saw him after--after that day.” “And now, Mr Brood, may I ask why you have always intended to tell me this dreadful thing?” she demanded, her eyes gleaming with a fierce, accusing light. He stared. “Doesn't--doesn't it put a different light on your estimate of him? Doesn't it convince you that he is not worthy of------” “No! A thousand times no!” she cried. “I love him. If he were to ask me to be his wife tonight I would rejoice--oh, I would rejoice! Someone is coming. Let me say this to you, Mr Brood: you have brought Frederic up as a butcher fattens the calves and swine he prepares for slaughter. You are waiting for the hour to come when you can kill his very soul with the weapon you have held over him for so long, waiting, waiting, waiting! In God's name, what has _he_ done that you should want to strike him down after all these years? It is in my heart to curse you, but somehow I feel that you are a curse to yourself. I will not say that I cannot understand how you feel about everything. You have suffered. I know you have, and I--I am sorry for you. And knowing how bitter life has been for you, I implore you to be merciful to him who is innocent.” The man listened without the slightest change of expression. The lines seemed deeper about his eyes, that was all. But the eyes were bright and as hard as the steel they resembled. “You would marry him?” “Yes, yes!” “Knowing that he is a scoundrel?” “How dare you say that, Mr Brood?” “Because,” said he levelly, “he _thinks_ he is my son.” Voices were heard on the stairs, Frederic's and Yvonne's. “He is coming now, my dear,” he went on, and then, after a pause fraught with significance, “and my wife is with him.” Lydia closed her eyes, as if in dire pain. A dry sob was in her throat. A strange thing happened to Brood, the man of iron. Tears suddenly rushed to his eyes. CHAPTER XII