“The child lived, grew up, was brought to America, and lives still.”
“Oh, saints in heaven! What do I hear? My son—my child lives still! Heaven of heavens! You wear the face and form of Reginald Germaine—can it be that you—”
“Even so, madam, Countess De Courcy, I am his son and yours!”
Was it his bold, open face, or her mother’s heart, that told Lady Maude he spoke the truth? With a mighty cry, she held out her arms, and the next moment he was clasped in a wild embrace.
The other young gentleman seemed suddenly to have found some very absorbing prospect out of the window that completely enchained his attention, and rendered the frequent use of his handkerchief necessary. He did not turn round for nearly fifteen minutes, and then the new-found mother and son were sitting together on the sofa, with their hands clasped, talking in a low tone, while her eyes never wandered from his face.
He was telling her the story of his father, of his escape, of his subsequent life, of their meeting, and of his confession and dying request.
Lady Maude’s face, as she listened, grew so white and fixed and rigid that you might have thought it marble, save for the horror unspeakable, the terrible look burning in the great, black eyes. No word fell from her lips; her very heart seemed congealing, petrifying; she sat like one transformed to stone.
“And now, my dearest mother,” said Ray, “I have another revelation to make to you—one that, I hope, will in some measure atone for the necessary pain the one I have just been making has caused you.”
She did not speak; she sat as cold and white as marble.
“You had another child—a daughter?” he began, hesitatingly.