The exhibition proceeded. One after another, Fancy displayed her
pictures, all of which appeared to have been painted by some malicious
artist, on purpose to vex Mr. Smith. Not a shadow of proof could have
been adduced, in any earthly court, that he was guilty of the slightest
of those sins which were thus made to stare him in the face. In one
scene, there was a table set out, with several bottles, and glasses half
filled with wine, which threw back the dull ray of an expiring lamp.
There had been mirth and revelry, until the hand of the clock stood just
at midnight, when murder stepped between the boon companions. A young
man had fallen on the floor, and lay stone dead, with a ghastly wound
crushed into his temple, while over him, with a delirium of mingled rage
and horror in his countenance, stood the youthful likeness of Mr. Smith.
The murdered youth wore the features of Edward Spencer! "What does this
rascal of a painter mean?" cries Mr. Smith, provoked beyond all patience.
"Edward Spencer was my earliest and dearest friend, true to me as I to
him, through more than half a century. Neither I, nor any other, ever
murdered him. Was he not alive within five years, and did he not, in
token of our long friendship, bequeath me his gold-headed cane and a
mourning ring?" Again had Memory been turning over her volume, and
fixed at length upon so confused a page, that she surely must have
scribbled it when she was tipsy. The purport was, however, that, while
Mr. Smith and Edward Spencer were heating their young blood with wine, a
quarrel had flashed up between them, and Mr. Smith, in deadly wrath, had
flung a bottle at Spencer's head. True, it missed its aim, and merely
smashed a looking-glass; and the next morning, when the incident was
imperfectly remembered, they had shaken hands with a hearty laugh. Yet,
again, while Memory was reading, Conscience unveiled her face, struck a
dagger to the heart of Mr. Smith, and quelled his remonstrance with her
iron frown. The pain was quite excruciating.