THE POINT OF VIEW.
HE stood for some seconds just within the doorway, with his mock-military air, twirling his grizzled mustache, and surveying complacently the whole family group whom he had thrown by his action into this state of misery. The eyeglass, screwing up that bloated face, made him more hideous than even he would have been by nature. Then he spoke very jauntily. “Sorry to intrude, I’m sure,” he said with a hateful grin, “upon this domestic party, — and at such a moment! But after all, we must remember, I’m the Head of the House — and” — spreading his hands pathetically—” what is Home without a Father?”
He had evidently been drinking even more than usual, and his voice was thick; but he had still a strange air of affected bonhomie, and a triumphant manner.
Hubert sprang up with a fierce gesture. “How dare you enter this room, sir?” he cried, moving forward.
The Colonel advanced a step, blustering.
“Upon my soul,” he said, bridling up, “pretty sort of treatment for a long-lost parent! My own flesh and blood to assault me in that fashion! Am I to be debarred from access to my wife’s rooms, and violently attacked by my son on the threshold? If I were not the best-natured old reprobate in the world, by George, sir, I tell you, I’d lose my temper.” He gave a little start, and took a long look through his eyeglass at Fede. “What, a joy forever?” he exclaimed, with one of his odious leers. “So this is your fiancee, then, is it, Mr. Hubert? Why, I’ve been hearing all about her downstairs from the head waiter. Good morning, my dear! Delighted, I’m sure, to make your acquaintance! A deuced good-looking young woman she is too, Hubert. As pretty as they make ’em! But the Egremonts were always famous for their taste in their choice of their womankind. I was a connoisseur myself in female beauty once. Look at your mother, my boy; devilish fine girl she was when she was a girl; and devilish handsome woman she is to this day, at forty odd — devilish handsome woman, though a trifle haughty!”
“Sir,” Hubert cried, unable to endure it, and placing himself full in front of the creature, with one fist raised warningly.
“Hot-tempered, isn’t he, my dear?” the Colonel continued with a nod to Fede. “Can’t restrain his emotions. But, children, you should never let — fie, fie, Mr. Hubert! Allow me to introduce myself, my dear, as your prospective papa-in-law. We’re to be relations, you know. My name is Walter Egremont; my address — Europe.” He moved suddenly forward, with a curious lurch, as if to kiss her.
Fede shrank back in terror. “Oh, Hubert, don’t let him come near me!” she cried, retreating, with a face of fierce repugnance.
Hubert caught the man in his arms and flung him bodily back. “Stand off, sir!” he cried, growing red in the face. “How dare you?”
Sir Emilius laid one hand on the intruder’s shoulder. “Now, restrain yourself, Walter,” he said. “This is not a pot-house. Leave the room instantly, if you know what’s good for you. I will talk matters over with you in the garden quietly.” For he was used to the insane, and he saw at a glance that the Colonel’s mood was not far off from alcoholic insanity.
As for Colonel Egremont, he drew back a pace, reeling slightly as he did so, not so much from drink as from his nervous affection, and scanned Fede and Hubert up and down solemnly. “A pretty pair,” he mused aloud, in a judicial tone. “A very pretty pair! Upon my soul, I’m proud of them. Julia, my dear, this son of mine’s a handsome, well-grown, upstanding young Egremont. The very model of the race! I always did believe in the doctrine of heredity!”
“Then how dare you become the father of a son?” Hubert burst out bitterly. “How dare you reproduce your own vile image?”
The Colonel measured him up and down with his eye, and smiled. “That’s pretty straight, that is!” he answered slowly, as if trying to take it in. “One in the eye for me! Pretty hot and strong! Prepare to receive cavalry! Julia, you haven’t brought your boy up to respect his parents. Train up a child in the way he should go — you know Mr. Solomon. Signorina Marchesa, do you allow this young fellow to speak in such very unparliamentary terms of your future father?”
He took a step towards her again. Hubert darted upon him wildly. “Leave this room, sir,” he cried, lifting the Colonel bodily and carrying him to the door. “You’re not fit to remain under the same roof with my mother and this lady. Though you were fifty times my father, if you speak like that, by God, sir, you shall answer for it.”
The Colonel, however, was still imperturbable. “Go on, young man,” he cried, in a half-angry, half-mocking voice; “go on! Pray don’t be shy. Don’t mind my feelings — a father’s feelings! Say just what you please! Curse me to slow music!”
He half turned the door handle. Hubert and Sir Emilius followed him up menacingly. At the same moment the door burst open suddenly, and the Marchese entered with a look of amazement.
“Why, what is this?” he inquired, looking about him, and taking it in. “Are we to explain in this way your unaccountable conduct, Mr. Egremont? What is this man doing here?
I suppose he’s the person you spoke about, Fede?”
The Colonel took advantage of the unexpected diversion to return to the room. “Yes,” he answered, with slow maliciousness, delighted to display himself to the utmost disadvantage before Fede’s father. “Every family of distinction has a skeleton in its cupboard, — and” — he adjusted his eyeglass— “I am the skeleton!”
The Marchese surveyed him with profound contempt from head to foot, and then held out one hand to keep him at a respectful distance.
“Well, and a precious ugly specimen too,” he answered, deliberately.
“Runs through the family,” the Colonel murmured, glancing with amusement from the Marchese to Fede. “If this is Italian politeness — give me the refined and courteous London costermonger.”
The Marchese turned to Sir Emilius. “If I judge rightly,” he said, in his coldest voice., “when I arrived you were just engaged in ejecting this — person?”
“We were,” Sir Emilius answered frankly.
“Then why does he come back?” the Marchese demanded, in a rather acrid tone.
Colonel Egremont bristled up. “Take care, sir,” he cried, blustering, “how you venture to touch a British soldier!”
The Marchese took his measure with a rapid glance. “Oh, if you elevate it to the dignity of an international contest,” he answered deliberately, “though Switzerland is neutral territory — well, evviva l’Italia!” And with a sudden and dexterous advance, he seized the intruder in his powerful arms — for he was a very strong man — lifted him clean off the floor, and bundled him out unceremoniously.
Sir Emilius, with the coolness of a doctor in trying circumstances, turned the key in the door the moment the Colonel was safely outside it.
The Marchese addressed himself to Hubert, evidently ruffled. “I hope, Mr. Egremont,” he said, “this awkward little episode may be made satisfactorily to account for your extraordinary absence at so critical a moment. My daughter has told me something of this creature. A most loathsome object! He lays some preposterous claim to being your father, doesn’t he? A madman, no doubt. But why should his conduct have driven you to absent yourself with such marked discourtesy at such a juncture?”
Sir Emilius glanced at Hubert imploringly. But Hubert was true to his principle of fidelity to the truth. “I must tell him, uncle,” he said, with a piteous shake of his head. “I can’t deny it! — Marchese, the man says what is simply true. He is my father!”
The Marchese smiled benignly. The avowal seemed rather to please him than otherwise. “Oh, of course,” he answered, appeased, “if he has happened to turn up at an inconvenient moment and upset your arrangements, I can easily understand there may be some reason for your singular conduct. I gather that a certain degree of coldness seems to reign within the family.”
“Let me explain,” Sir Emilius said blandly, fearing that Hubert might make things worse in his present mood of despair. “This man, I regret to say, is really Mrs. Egremont’s husband. But I must also admit he is a rake and a drunkard. His financial transactions have also been — well, let us put it, imaginative. To say it in brief, he has disgraced the family. My sister is compelled to live alone, and to pension him off, on condition that he never comes nearer England than Nice or Lugano. As he generally lives under an assumed name, and has had nothing to do for years with my nephew, we didn’t feel bound to mention his existence heretofore to Hubert, who thought till now that his father was dead, and has only just learnt accidentally of his survival.”
The Marchese smiled a cynical smile. “Don’t apologize for that,” he answered. “It does not concern me. It is Mr. Hubert’s absence that calls for an explanation, which will, no doubt, be forthcoming. For my own part, I don’t like too much unity in a family circle. It’s entirely bourgeois — shows the relations have never had any Property worth speaking of to quarrel over. From what you told me, I gather Mrs. Egremont has, by English law, sole control of her own estate, and that this superfluous husband possesses no legal claim of any sort upon her.”
“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.”