“Ah, don't I? Well, I've got just a little bit of my mother safe here over my heart—a little faded card, that's all—and you shall not rob me of that. I wish to God I had her here, just as she was when she had the picture taken. Don't glare at me like that. I don't intend to give it up. Last night I was sorry for you. I had the feeling that somehow you have always been unhappy over something that happened in the past, and that my mother was responsible. And yet when I took out this photograph, this tiny bit of old cardboard—see, it is so small that it can be carried in my waistcoat pocket—when I took it out and looked at the pure, lovely face, I—by Heaven, I knew she was not to blame!”
“Have you finished?” asked Brood, wiping his brow. It was dripping.
“Except to repeat that I am through with you for ever. I've had all that I can endure, and I'm through. My greatest regret is that I didn't get out long ago. But like a fool—a weak fool—I kept on hoping that you'd change and that there were better days ahead for me. I kept on hoping that you'd be a real father to me. Good Lord, what a libel on the name!” He laughed raucously. “I'm sick of calling you father. You did me the honour downstairs of calling me 'bastard.' You had no right to call me that; but, by Heaven, if it were not for this bit of cardboard here over my heart, I'd laugh in your face and be happy to shout from the housetops that I am no son of yours. But there's no such luck as that! I've only to look at my mother's innocent, soulful face to———”
“Stop!” shouted Brood in an awful voice. His clenched hands were raised above his head. “The time has come for me to tell you the truth about this innocent mother of yours. Luck is with you. I am not your father. You are———”
“Wait! If you are going to tell me that my mother was not a good woman, I want to go on record in advance of anything you may say, as being glad that I am her son no matter who my father was. I am glad that she loved me because I was her child, and if you are not my father, then I still have the joy of knowing that she loved some one man well enough to———” He broke off the bitter sentence and with nervous fingers drew a small leather case from his waistcoat pocket. “Before you go any farther, take one look at her face. It will make you ashamed of yourself. Can you stand there and lie about her after looking into———”
He was holding the window curtains apart, and a stream of light fell upon the lovely face, so small that Brood was obliged to come quite close to be able to see it. His eyes were distended.
“It is not Matilde—it is like her, but—yes, yes; it is Matilde! I must be losing my mind to have thought———” He wiped his brow. “But it was startling—positively uncanny.” He spoke as to himself, apparently forgetting that he had a listener.
“Well, can you lie about her now?” demanded Frederic.
Brood was still staring, as if fascinated, at the tiny photograph.
“But I have never seen that picture before. She never had one so small as that. It———”