I returned to my office in a very good humor with all the world. Upon my
table I found a note from Mr. Cornelius, requesting me to call upon him
at an early hour in the evening. “A compromise—no compromises, Mr.
Cornelius. If you will, begin again; but the widow shall keep all, to
the last farthing.” And I dispatched a reply, saying I would be with him
precisely at eight.
John Cornelius lived in the upper part of the city, in a very large and
costly house, which had been built by a parvenu of sudden wealth. It
covered, with the surrounding grounds, two-thirds of a square, and had
been purchased by Mr. Cornelius at the sale of the parvenu’s succession,
rather on account of the land, than for any profitable use which he
could make of the noble structure to which the land was appurtenant. The
increasing commerce of the city had so surrounded it with warehouses and
presses for cotton, as to render it impossible to find a tenant at even
a three per cent. rent, so he moved into it himself, and, with one
slave, lived there upon fifty cents a day. The spacious and unfurnished
halls, dark, gloomy, venerable with dust, returned a hollow echo to my
tread, as I entered at the appointed hour. I found the miser sitting at
a small table, covered with papers, in the centre of a large room; the
table and two chairs, that which he occupied and one reserved for
myself, were all of furniture that it contained. He looked very pale,
did not rise to receive me, but in silence waived his hand as an
invitation to be seated. I obeyed, and waited for a declaration of the
motives which had induced him to request my presence. But during the
lapse of ten minutes he did not speak, so I drew his note from my pocket
and pushing it toward him across the table, observed that my time was
worth one dollar the minute.
“Your client is my daughter,” said Mr. Cornelius.
“Your daughter! Then you are mad, sure enough!”
Mr. Cornelius gathered up the papers which lay upon the table before him
and put them into my hands. They were, first, a certificate of his
marriage with Ann Chapman, in the city of New York, on the ninth day of
October, eighteen hundred and —; second, articles of separation entered
into, and signed in duplicate, by both parties, just one year
thereafter—being done at New York on the ninth day of October, one
thousand eight hundred and —; and last, several letters received by Mr.
Cornelius from his wife’s relatives at wide intervals, and at periods
long subsequent to their stipulated divorce. The articles contained an
acknowledgment on the part of Mrs. Cornelius of her having received
twenty thousand dollars from her husband in full satisfaction of all
claims upon him for support, and of her right of dower in his estate;
the letters were written in answer to inquiries made by himself as to
his wife’s existence and condition in life, and all, without exception,
expressed an utter inability to give him any information upon the
subject.
“In eighteen hundred and —,” said Mr. Cornelius, “I visited the North,
and there met with and hastily married Ann Chapman, then a young woman
of humble parentage—not otherwise than my own—with much beauty, a
moderate education, and a spirit which was equal to any fortune. My
business called me to England, and upon my return I saw, or fancied that
I saw, some change in her feelings toward me. She was honest, as honest
as the light in which God robes himself; but the great disparity of our
ages made me jealous of her affection; and as she was of a strong
temper, not easily controlled, while I was in some degree unreasonable
and exacting, we soon quarreled, made each other miserable, and, by
mutual consent, separated. When I took leave of her, she put her hand in
mine, and with a calmness which was terrible, called down every
suffering upon her head if, with her assent, I should see her face
again. She would go and hide her sorrow among strangers, and even the
fruit of our short-lived love, which she then carried in her bosom,
should not know me until grief and many years had ripened me for the
grave. I returned to New Orleans; I returned to my labor and my money
getting—and she, alas! she kept her purpose too well! Through many a
long month, and through many a long year, have I repented of that folly,
to find only at this hour the blood which is my own. I have heaped up
gold and houses and lands—sir, my wife and daughter would have made me
a better man.”
And he drew down his long silver locks over his face and covered it with
his hands.
“Are you satisfied as to the identity; have you no doubts, Mr.
Cornelius?”
He took a richly chased miniature from his bosom and bid me look at it.
“It is the mother as she was at twenty; it is the daughter of to-day.”
I started with surprise; it could not have been more like, had the young
widow sat for it.
“The evidence is conclusive, Mr. Cornelius; and I will now take a fee
upon the other side. Let us go at once to her house, and claim not only
that, but its fair occupant also.”
“No, no, we must meet here. These walls know me; I am at home; and I
must receive my daughter in my own house,” said Mr. Cornelius. “You are
her best friend—hereafter you shall be mine; do you then call upon her,
break this matter gently to her, and in the morning you will find me
here, waiting your coming.”
“I will not tell her that I have found her father,” said I, “for that
would be subjecting her nerves to two trials; and it might be that you
would be compelled to go to her in the end, with a physician at your
back. It is better that she should be made to expect one good fortune,
and find another; so, I will tell her that you relented, discontinued
your suit from sheer pity, and wish to make her a present equal in value
to the amount which was involved in the dispute between you, as a small
compensation for the trouble you have given her.”
“As you please,” said Mr. Cornelius, smiling, no doubt at the
improbability of the story.
“Never fear, a woman’s faith is large enough to believe any thing,” said
I, not wishing to be misunderstood; and the miser now rose, and
accompanied me to the door.