Poor Miss Finch by Wilkie Collins (heaven official's blessing novel english txt) 📖

“Examination of the rest of the vessel, and comparison of dates with the date of the log-book, showed that the officers and crew had been dead for more than two years. The positions in which we found the frozen men, and the names, where it was possible to discover them, are here set forth as follows. *”

That “lock of a woman’s hair” is now in Lucilla’s possession. It will be buried with her, at her own request, when she dies. Ah, poor Nugent! Are we not all sinners? Remember the best of him, and forget the worst, as I do.

I still linger over my writing—reluctant to leave it, if the truth must be told. But what more is there to say? I hear Oscar hammering away at his chasing, and whistling blithely over his work. In another room, Lucilla is teaching the piano to her little girl. On my table is a letter from Mrs. Finch, dated from one of our distant colonies—over which Mr. Finch (who has risen gloriously in the world) presides pastorally as bishop. He harangues the “natives” to his heart’s content: and the wonderful natives like it. “Jicks” is in her element among the aboriginal members of her father’s congregation: there are fears that the wandering Arab of the Finch family will end in marrying “a chief.” Mrs. Finch—I don’t expect you to believe this—is anticipating another confinement. Lucilla’s eldest boy—called Nugent—has just come in, and stands by my desk. He lifts his bright blue eyes up to mine; his round rosy face expresses strong disapproval of what I am doing. “Aunty,” he says, “you have written enough. Come and play.”

The boy is right. I must put away my manuscript and leave you. My excellent spirits are a little dashed at parting. I wonder whether you are sorry too? I shall never know! Well, I have many blessings to comfort me, on closing my relations with you. I have kind souls who love me; and—observe this!—I stand on my political principles as firmly as ever. The world is getting converted to my way of thinking: the Pratolungo programme, my friends, is coming to the front with giant steps. Long live the Republic! Farewell.