“I am convinced now,” replied Carriston, as he stood with his hand on Crispin’s shoulder. “Yes! this is indeed my son.”
“Still, you had better see the papers,” said Justinian faintly. “There is a letter for you from your wife, which will tell you all you wish to know. Rector, I have been a great sinner, I know, still I don’t think there are many actions I regret so much as robbing you of your wife. However, I have done my best to make amends, and you have forgiven me. But Crispin?”
“I also forgive you freely,” said Crispin, clasping the hand of the dying man; “for by this confession you have not only given me a father, but a wife.”
“Yes, take her!” sobbed Mrs. Dengelton, pushing her daughter towards the poet. “I always liked you, Crispin,—or shall I say Mr. Carriston?”
“I think it must be Crispin Carriston,” said the Rector, drawing Eunice towards him, “for I love the name of Crispin too well to part with it.”
“My dear father!”
“Maurice!” said Justinian, who was getting weaker.
“Yes, uncle?”
“You will find my will at my lawyer’s; it leaves all the money to you and Helena, who is to be your wife.”
“My dear wife!” repeated Maurice, kissing the weeping girl. “As to your money, uncle, I do not require it.”