The convulsed motions ceased; and the old man unbuttoned his waistcoat, as if to relieve some sense of oppression; uncovered his gray hairs; and, after leaning back to rest himself, with his eyes fixed, and in reverie for a few moments, he sat upright again in his chair, and exclaimed, as he looked round, “Son!—Did not somebody say that word? Who is so cruel to say that word before me? Nobody has ever spoken of him to me—but once, since his death! Do you know, sir,” said he, fixing his eyes on Count O’Halloran, and laying his cold hand on him, “do you know where he was buried, I ask you, sir? do you remember how he died?”
“Too well! too well!” cried the count, so much affected as to be scarcely able to pronounce the words; “he died in my arms: I buried him myself!”
“Impossible!” cried Mr. Reynolds. “Why do you say so, sir?” said he, studying the count’s face with a sort of bewildered earnestness. “Impossible! His body was sent over to me in a lead coffin; and I saw it—and I was asked—and I answered, ‘In the family vault.’ But the shock is over,” said he: “and, gentlemen, if the business of your visit relates to that subject, I trust I am now sufficiently composed to attend to you. Indeed, I ought to be prepared; for I had reason, for years, to expect the stroke; and yet, when it came, it seemed sudden!—it stunned me—put an end to all my worldly prospects—left me childless, without a single descendant, or relation near enough to be dear to me! I am an insulated being!”
“No, sir, you are not an insulated being,” said Lord Colambre: “You have a near relation, who will, who must, be dear to you; who will make you amends for all you have lost, all you have suffered—who will bring peace and joy to your heart: you have a grand-daughter.”
“No, sir; I have no grand-daughter,” said old Reynolds, his face and whole form becoming rigid with the expression of obstinacy. “Rather have no descendant than be forced to acknowledge an illegitimate child.”
“My lord, I entreat as a friend—I command you to be patient,” said the count, who saw Lord Colambre’s indignation suddenly rise.
“So, then, this is the purpose of your visit,” continued old Reynolds: “and you come from my enemies, from the St. Omars, and you are in a league with them,” continued old Reynolds: “and all this time it is of my eldest son you have been talking.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the count; “of Captain Reynolds, who fell in battle, in the Austrian service, about nineteen years ago—a more gallant and amiable youth never lived.”
Pleasure revived through the dull look of obstinacy in the father’s eyes.
“He was, as you say, sir, a gallant, an amiable youth, once—and he was my pride, and I loved him, too, once—but did not you know I had another?”