In the morning, the young widow and myself walked slowly along toward
her father’s residence; I, more than half ashamed of the deception I had
put upon her; and she, wondering at the fortune which had poured a
golden shower into her lap, and framing thanks to be heaped upon the
good man, who had threatened poverty only to bestow riches.
At the door she hesitated, and said that I must speak for her.
“Never mind,” said I, “nature will put fit words into your mouth, and
some things are best expressed by silence.”
We entered—the widow hanging upon my arm; her whole weight was upon
it—not very large, indeed—for she was ready to sink down, oppressed
with a load of gratitude. John Cornelius sat where I had found him the
preceding evening, at the little, table covered with papers, in the
centre of the room, and with one vacant chair. Well, thought I, we shall
not want a third. He rose with much coldness in his manner, bowed
formally, took his daughter’s hand, and assisted her to the vacant seat;
he then gave me that which he had himself occupied.
“Madam,” said he, after a short pause, and in a voice which seemed
stoutly braced with resolution, and yet just ready to break down, “I
have requested your presence here, in order that you might read these
papers, for they somewhat concern you;” and taking up the certificate of
marriage, and the articles of separation, he held them out toward her.
She received them, with a word of thanks, thinking no doubt, that they
were titles to the property which I had induced her to believe was to be
bestowed upon her. As she read the articles, her color left her, and a
cold sweat started from her brow and rolled down her face, and wet her
garments. The certificate she carried twice to her eyes, and twice
failed to read, but glared upon it like one who sees a vision in his
sleep: the third time she read it aloud, screaming as if to make certain
with her voice, what her eyes doubted.
“And this,” shouted Cornelius, drawing the picture from his bosom and
holding it up, her other self, before her.
“My God—my father!” she exclaimed, rising slowly, and pulling at her
fingers; then swayed to and fro, uncertain of her step; leaped into the
old man’s arms, fastened about his neck, and slept insensible, upon his
bosom.
John Cornelius sank with his burden upon the floor, and wept, and sobbed
like a child.
A broad, plain, gold ring rolled bounding to my feet. I picked it up.
Within the circle were engraved two letters, “J. C.” It was the bridal
ring, a gift from her mother, as Ægeus gave his sword to Æthra, that the
father might recognize his child, when in the fulfillment of time they
should meet.