The Ghostly Return of Mr. Folliott

I went quietly to church with Clara Myers, and married her one glorious morning when old St. Paul’s was tinged with glittering icicles. She was nineteen and I was nine-and-thirty. The next day I made a will and bequeathed all my property unconditionally to my wife. Soon after, the firm at which I was a managing partner needed to send someone to Calcutta to deal with an agent who had absconded with our money. I kissed Clara goodbye, expecting to return in three months. Instead, I fell ill with a burning fever in the bungalow of an old native priest, and more than a year passed before I found myself on the deck of the 'Blue-eyed Mary,' steaming into New York harbor. I had not written; my letters were lost by a neglectful servant. As I walked the pavement of my native city, I heard local men—Tewksbury, Jones, and Farnum—gossiping about my 'widow' and her impending marriage to young Birmingham. I crept into my own house, feeling like Rip Van Winkle, and discovered Clara before the fire, wearing her mourning veil. Young Birmingham was there, pleading with her, but she remained steadfast: 'I gave up my heart to the best and noblest man that ever breathed—Paul Folliott—and in his grave it is forever buried.' I revealed myself, and the 'widow' and I lived happily ever after.