“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.”