There was a step behind him and Padre Somalian’s voice startled him. “My son, a message for you.”
Gordon turned heavily, the chill of that intercepted purpose cold upon him. He took the slender roll of parchment the friar handed him and opened it. It was officially ruled and engrossed—a baptismal certificate:
AT ST. GILES’-IN-THE-FIELDS, LONDON.
| Christian Name. | Parents’ Christian Names. | Surname. | Father’s Residence. | Father’s Rank. | By Whom. |
| Allegra. | Rt. Hon. George Gordon (Reputed) by Jane. | Clermont. | Travelling on the Continent. | Peer. | Percy Bysshe Shelley. |
The man who read snatched at the top of the paper. The date was March ninth, 1818. He felt a mist before his eyes. Almost two years ago, and he had not known! For two years he had had a daughter from whom he was not necessarily debarred, whom hatred in England could not touch. A thrill ran through him. He felt a recrudescence of all those tender impulses that had stirred in him when Ada was born. The mother’s dislike or indifference had doubtless concealed the fact from him. And indeed, when in that time had he deserved otherwise? Why was he told now? Who had brought this record?
The padre, watching him curiously, saw the pang that shot across his face—the pang of the new remorseful conscience.
“The gentleman in the gondola,” he said, “asked to see you.”
“I will go down,” Gordon answered. He closed the window, drew the iron bar from his coat and slipped it back between its staples.
“A wild day to have crossed the lagoon,” the friar observed. “Stay—take this.” He threw off the outer robe he wore and held it out. “It will shed the rain.”
Gordon went rapidly through the wall-gate to the wharf where he had first set foot on the island. His own gondola, battered and tossing, lay there.