AND FEDE?
MRS. EGREMONT sank back on the sofa once more, terrified. “Oh, what have I done?” she cried, clasping her hands. “What have I done? My poor boy, I have ruined you!” Hubert smoothed her hair once more with his hand. “Dear mother,” he answered, “you have done nothing at all. What is Milworth to me, compared to the relief of knowing after all I am a great man’s son — not that besotted creature’s? Even if Milworth were lost, I am young, and strong, and a Fellow of my college; I am far better off than nine men out of ten who were with me at Oxford. I could earn enough for myself, and for you and Fede. But Milworth will not go. He cannot take it. My grandfather meant it should be yours and your children’s; the silly phrase about “issue of her body, lawfully begotten,” is a mere verbal trick and catchword of the lawyers. Suppose even he tries to prove his point — what evidence has he for the matter but your word? What corroboration, what witnesses? If he goes about talking after so long a lapse of time, nobody will believe him. He may talk till he dies, and the whole world will laugh at him. But he will not talk. His very insanity will urge him to secretiveness.”
Mrs. Egremont wrung her hands. “Oh, why did I tell him?” she cried, in her reaction. “Why did I tell him?”
“If you had not told him, I think I should have been forced to tell,” Hubert answered calmly. “I could not stand his vile insinuation that I was born of such a father as he is. Now I know the truth, that imputation shocks me. Dear mother, you immensely exaggerate the importance of his threats. He could only take action after your death, and in case he survived you. But he will not survive you. If only you knew the man’s state as well as I do! He’s more than half delirious mad already, and the slightest extra strain will drive him into an asylum. There he’ll die within six months — and nobody will believe him.”
“But meanwhile, meanwhile?” Mrs. Egremont said faintly.
“There is no meanwhile,” Hubert answered. “He is on the very verge of a nervous breakdown. If he were to try any large issue, the shock and excitement would kill him instantly. I handled him gently just now, because, to say the truth, I was afraid of killing him. For your sake, I didn’t wish him to die before your eyes. His heart is all gone to pieces. You need not be afraid of him. Now, the next thing is, I must explain this to Fede.”
“Explain this to Fede?” Mrs. Egremont cried, drawing back. “Oh, Hubert, never!”
“I must break it to her somehow, dearest mother,” Hubert said, leaning over her tenderly. “But you need not be afraid of her. I feel sure we can trust her. You see, I must account somehow for this change of front. Only an hour ago, I told her I could never, never marry her. Now, after what I have learned — that I am the inheritor of a great man’s noble qualities — of course I need no longer hesitate to take her. And I must give some reason for my altered attitude.”
Mrs. Egremont clung to him. “But, Hubert,” she cried passionately, overcome with false shame, “do you think it is necessary? Oh, darling, wait at least. Take time, take time to reflect and consider. Don’t act precipitately. How do we know what a young girl like that may choose to think of it? It was different with you, darling. For one thing, you are my son; for another thing, you are a man; for a third, you are a philosopher, a thinker, a reasoner. But — a pure young girl like that! Suppose, when she hears, she were to hate and despise me?”
Hubert kissed away her tears. “No, mother,” he said, “no; now is the moment to act. Now is the time to tell her. She is waiting anxiously in your room to know what all this means. She will willingly embrace any explanation that makes it possible for me to marry her. Besides, I feel sure I can depend upon Fede. I have faith in her faithfulness. She is Italian, you know, and she understands passion quite otherwise than our English girls. She is Oxford-bred, again, and she understands reason more than most other women. She will take the story in its true light; she will, I know — for she has seen your husband!”
He rose to call Fede. Mrs. Egremont still clung to him. “But her father must know too,” she cried; “and, oh, Hubert, I could never bear that! Any talk of it would kill me.”
Hubert disentwined her clinging arms gently. “He need not know,” he answered. “His point of view is so different. It will be necessary to say no more to her father than that, on second thoughts, I find my difficulties altogether removed, and that no sufficient obstacle prevents my marrying Fede. That will satisfy the Marchese. It is all he asks of me. The property is his aim. To him, this is merely a matter of business.” He unwound the clasping arms with difficulty, and moved over to the door. “Fede,” he called out, opening it, “Fede!”
By the very sound of his voice, the poor girl recognized at once that all was well, and entered the room radiant. “Yes, darling,” she cried, rushing up to him.
“Fede,” Hubert said, in a very slow voice, “it is all a mistake, dearest. That wretched creature is not my father. I can marry you after all. He is nothing to me — nothing.” Fede flung herself into his arms, and burst into a little flood of hysterical tears. “I told you so,” she cried. “I told you so, dearest. I was sure of it all along. I knew it, Hubert. My name was justified. I had faith in you — faith! My heart against your brain! My instinct against your science!”
She lay in his arms for a moment, indulging her love. Then she withdrew with reluctance, and turned to Mrs. Egremont. The two women stood there, trembling, and faced each other. Mrs. Egremont’s eyes were fixed on the floor. Fede half understood what was next to follow.
She glanced across tenderly at her future husband’s mother. “Then he was an impostor after all,” she said, in her gentle voice. “It was true what Hubert said. His own father died — years ago — did he not? And this man—” she faltered.
Mrs. Egremont raised her eyes and fixed them steadily, with an effort, on the young girl’s face. “Dear Hubert’s father died,” she said, hesitating, “ten years ago — at Florence.”
“And this wretched creature is not your husband?” Fede put in, with a deep flush.
Hubert looked at her earnestly. His face was grave. “This wretched creature is my mother’s husband,” he said in plain words, “but not my father. As you are to marry me, darling, it is well you should know it. You had faith in me, Fede: I have faith in you.” And he gazed into her eyes with deep intentness.
Fede drew back, and caught her breath suddenly.
Mrs. Egremont fell away in turn, and fixed her gaze on the girl, terrified. “Oh, Fede,” she cried, “I have shocked you. Do you understand now? Can you — can you ever again speak to me?”
“Wait!” Hubert cried. “Let me tell her all. She must know the whole truth.” He pointed to the photograph. “That was my father, Fede,” he said, with deep pride. “The poet, your father’s friend, whom you saw, you told me, as a child, in Florence!”
Still Fede stood blushing. “My child, my child,” Mrs. Egremont cried, unable to endure the suspense any longer, “if you hate me for it, tell me so!”
Fede turned to her in amaze. “Could I wish our Hubert to be that other man’s son?” she answered, wondering.
Mrs. Egremont stretched out wild arms of passionate yearning towards her. “Then you won’t renounce me, Fede?” she cried, gasping.
The girl rushed into her embrace and covered her with hot kisses. “Mother, dear mother,” she cried, using that sacred name naturally, “I love you, I love you! How sweet of you to trust me! I loved you from the very first moment I saw you. I love you now ten times better than ever.” And she clung to her in an ecstasy.
“I thanked her for giving me such a father,” Hubert whispered in her ear. “Do you thank her, Fede?”
Fede clasped her to her breast. “I thank you, dearest,” she murmured, and laid her hand trustfully on the elder woman’s shoulder. “You have done more for me than that. You have given me Hubert.”