“While I have been lying here,” resumed Mr. Rand, “I have been haunted by a conviction that Robert is still living, or that he may have left issue.”
“My dear uncle,” interrupted Lewis; in alarm, “let me entreat you not to disturb yourself by such thoughts; call to mind how direct were the proofs of his death.”
“I know all that you would urge, Lewis, but there have been cases where the death of a person of similar name has led to a misapprehension. It may have been so in this case.”
“It is scarcely possible.”
“Perhaps you are right. My conviction is based rather upon my feelings than upon my reason.”
“Better think no more of it, uncle, it will only distress you.”
“Have I not done so? For eighteen years I have been striving to drive away the thoughts of my injustice. But it will not do. I must think of it, and thinking finds relief in speaking.”
“But, even admitting that you have wronged my cousin Robert, which, in justice to yourself I am not willing to allow, consider that your will, by its provisions, makes ample reparation for that wrong.”
“Poor, at best, Lewis. Will it make reparation for the estrangement which for eighteen years has kept apart father and son? That cannot be. And yet I would fain see even this poor atonement made.”
“You may rely upon my being guided by your wishes, uncle.”