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Page 16
* * * * *
My story is ended, Nelly, and my promise fulfilled. The rest you know.
How the detective, who left London before four o'clock that morning,
found the rusty knife that had been buried with the hand, and
apprehended Parker, who confessed his guilt. The wretched man said, that
being out on the fatal night about some sick cattle, he had met poor
Edmund by the low gate; that Edmund had begun, as usual, to taunt him;
that the opportunity of revenge was too strong, and he had murdered him.
His first idea had been flight, and being unable to drag the ring from
Edmund's hand, which was swollen, he had cut it off, and thrown the body
into the ditch. On hearing of the finding of the body, and of poor
George's position, he determined to brave it out, with what almost fatal
success we have seen. He dared not then sell the ring, and so buried it
in his barn. Two things respecting his end were singular: First, at the
last he sent for Dr. Penn, imploring him to stay with him till he died.
That good man, as ever, obeyed the call of duty and kindness, but he was
not fated to see the execution of my brother's murderer. The night
before, Thomas Parker died in prison; not by his own hand, Nelly. A fit
of apoplexy, the result of intense mental excitement, forestalled the
vengeance of the law.
Need I tell you, dear friend, who know it so well, that I am happy?
Not, my love, that such tragedies can be forgotten--these deep wounds
leave a scar. This one brought my husband's first white hairs, and took
away my girlhood for ever. But if the first blush of careless gaiety has
gone from life, if we are a little "old before our time," it may be that
this state of things has its advantages. Perhaps, having known together
such real affliction, we cannot now afford to be disturbed by the petty
vexations and worthless misunderstandings that form the troubles of
smoother lives. Perhaps, having been all but so awfully parted, we can
never afford, in this short life, to be otherwise than of one heart and
one soul. Perhaps, my dear, in short, the love that kept faith through
shame, and was cemented by fellow-suffering, can hardly do otherwise
than flourish to our heart's best content in the sunshine of prosperity
with which God has now blessed us.
THE SMUT.
The councillor's chimney smoked. It always did smoke when the wind was
in the north. A Smut came down and settled on a brass knob of the
fender, which the councillor's housekeeper had polished that very
morning. The shining surface reflected the Smut, and he seemed to
himself to be two.
"How large I am!" said he, with complacency. "I am quite a double Smut.
I am bigger than any other. If I were a little harder, I should be a
cinder, not to say a coal. Decidedly my present position is too low for
so important an individual. Will no one recognize my merit and elevate
me?"
But no one did. So the Smut determined to raise himself, and taking
advantage of a draught under the door, he rose upwards and alighted on
the nose of the councillor, who was reading the newspaper.
"This is a throne, a crimson one," said the Smut, "made on purpose for
me. But somehow I do not seem so large as I was."
The truth is that the councillor (though a great man) was, in respect
of his nose, but mortal. It was not made of brass; it would not (as the
cabinet-makers say) take a polish. It did not reflect the object seated
on it.
"It is unfortunate," said the Smut. "But it is not fit that an
individual of my position (almost, as I may say, a coal) should have a
throne that does not shine. I must certainly go higher."
But unhappily for the Smut, at this moment the councillor became aware
of something on his nose. He put up his hand and rubbed the place. In an
instant the poor Smut was destroyed. But it died on the throne, which
was some consolation.
Moral.
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