“Frederic loves me. He does not love Yvonne. He is fascinated, as I also am fascinated by her, and you, too, Mr Brood. The spell has fallen over all of us. Let me go on, please. You say that Frederic loves like his father before him. That is true. He loves but one woman. You love but one woman, and she is dead. You will always love her. Frederic is like you. He loves Yvonne as you do—oh, I know it hurts! She cast her spell over you, why not over him? Is he stronger than you? Is it strange that she should attract him as she attracted you? You glory in her beauty, her charm, her perfect loveliness, and yet you love—yes, love, Mr Brood—the woman who was Frederic's mother. Do I make my meaning plain? Well, so it is that Frederic loves me. I am content to wait. I know he loves me.”
Through all this Brood stared at her in sheer astonishment. He had no feeling of anger, no resentment, no thought of protest.
“You—you astound me, Lydia. Is this your own impression, or has it been suggested to you by—by another?”
“I am only agreeing with you when you say that he loves as his father loved before him—but not lightly. Ah, not lightly, Mr Brood.”
“You don't know what you are saying,” he muttered.
“Oh, yes, I do,” she cried earnestly. “You invite my opinion; I trust you will accept it for what it is worth. Before you utter another word against Frederic, let me remind you that I have known both of you for a long, long time. In all the years I have been in this house I have never known you to grant him a tender, loving word. My heart has ached for him. There have been times when I almost hated you. He feels your neglect, your harshness, your—your cruelty. He———”
“Cruelty!”
“It is nothing less. You do not like him. I cannot understand why you should treat him as you do. He shrinks from you. Is it right, Mr Brood, that a son should shrink from his father as a dog cringes at the voice of an unkind master? I might be able to understand your attitude toward him if your unkindness was of recent origin, but———”
“Recent origin?” he demanded quickly.
“If it had begun with the advent of Mrs Brood,” she explained frankly, undismayed by his scowl. “I do not understand all that has gone before. Is it surprising, Mr Brood, that your son finds it difficult to love you? Do you deserve———”