Reader,
I married him. A quiet wedding
we had: he and I, the parson
and clerk, were alone present.
When we got back from church,
I went into the kitchen of the
manor-house, where Mary was cooking
the dinner and John cleaning
the knives, and I said -
"Mary, I have been married
to Mr. Rochester this morning." The
housekeeper and her husband were
both of that decent phlegmatic
order of people, to whom one
may at any time safely communicate
a remarkable piece of news without
incurring the danger of having
one's ears pierced by some shrill
ejaculation, and subsequently
stunned by a torrent of wordy
wonderment. Mary did look up,
and she did stare at me: the
ladle with which she was basting
a pair of chickens roasting at
the fire, did for some three
minutes hang suspended in air;
and for the same space of time
John's knives also had rest from
the polishing process: but Mary,
bending again over the roast,
said only -
"Have
you, Miss?
Well, for sure!"
A
short time
after she pursued--"I
seed you go out with the master,
but I didn't know you were gone
to church to be wed;" and she
basted away. John, when I turned
to him, was grinning from ear
to ear.
"I telled Mary how it would
be," he said: "I knew what Mr.
Edward" (John was an old servant,
and had known his master when
he was the cadet of the house,
therefore, he often gave him
his Christian name)--"I knew
what Mr. Edward would do; and
I was certain he would not wait
long neither: and he's done right,
for aught I know. I wish you
joy, Miss!" and he politely pulled
his forelock.
"Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester
told me to give you and Mary
this." I put into his hand a
five-pound note. Without waiting
to hear more, I left the kitchen.
In passing the door of that sanctum
some time after, I caught the
words -
"She'll happen do better for
him nor ony o't' grand ladies." And
again, "If she ben't one o' th'
handsomest, she's noan faal and
varry good-natured; and i' his
een she's fair beautiful, onybody
may see that."
I wrote to Moor House and to
Cambridge immediately, to say
what I had done: fully explaining
also why I had thus acted. Diana
and Mary approved the step unreservedly.
Diana announced that she would
just give me time to get over
the honeymoon, and then she would
come and see me.
"She had better not wait till
then, Jane," said Mr. Rochester,
when I read her letter to him; "if
she does, she will be too late,
for our honeymoon will shine
our life long: its beams will
only fade over your grave or
mine."
How St. John received the news,
I don't know: he never answered
the letter in which I communicated
it: yet six months after he wrote
to me, without, however, mentioning
Mr. Rochester's name or alluding
to my marriage. His letter was
then calm, and, though very serious,
kind. He has maintained a regular,
though not frequent, correspondence
ever since: he hopes I am happy,
and trusts I am not of those
who live without God in the world,
and only mind earthly things.
You have not quite forgotten
little Adele, have you, reader?
I had not; I soon asked and obtained
leave of Mr. Rochester, to go
and see her at the school where
he had placed her. Her frantic
joy at beholding me again moved
me much. She looked pale and
thin: she said she was not happy.
I found the rules of the establishment
were too strict, its course of
study too severe for a child
of her age: I took her home with
me. I meant to become her governess
once more, but I soon found this
impracticable; my time and cares
were now required by another--my
husband needed them all. So I
sought out a school conducted
on a more indulgent system, and
near enough to permit of my visiting
her often, and bringing her home
sometimes. I took care she should
never want for anything that
could contribute to her comfort:
she soon settled in her new abode,
became very happy there, and
made fair progress in her studies.
As she grew up, a sound English
education corrected in a great
measure her French defects; and
when she left school, I found
in her a pleasing and obliging
companion: docile, good-tempered,
and well-principled. By her grateful
attention to me and mine, she
has long since well repaid any
little kindness I ever had it
in my power to offer her.
My tale draws to its close:
one word respecting my experience
of married life, and one brief
glance at the fortunes of those
whose names have most frequently
recurred in this narrative, and
I have done.
I have now been married ten
years. I know what it is to live
entirely for and with what I
love best on earth. I hold myself
supremely blest--blest beyond
what language can express; because
I am my husband's life as fully
is he is mine. No woman was ever
nearer to her mate than I am:
ever more absolutely bone of
his bone and flesh of his flesh.
I know no weariness of my Edward's
society: he knows none of mine,
any more than we each do of the
pulsation of the heart that beats
in our separate bosoms; consequently,
we are ever together. To be together
is for us to be at once as free
as in solitude, as gay as in
company. We talk, I believe,
all day long: to talk to each
other is but a more animated
and an audible thinking. All
my confidence is bestowed on
him, all his confidence is devoted
to me; we are precisely suited
in character--perfect concord
is the result.
Mr. Rochester continued blind
the first two years of our union;
perhaps it was that circumstance
that drew us so very near--that
knit us so very close: for I
was then his vision, as I am
still his right hand. Literally,
I was (what he often called me)
the apple of his eye. He saw
nature--he saw books through
me; and never did I weary of
gazing for his behalf, and of
putting into words the effect
of field, tree, town, river,
cloud, sunbeam--of the landscape
before us; of the weather round
us--and impressing by sound on
his ear what light could no longer
stamp on his eye. Never did I
weary of reading to him; never
did I weary of conducting him
where he wished to go: of doing
for him what he wished to be
done. And there was a pleasure
in my services, most full, most
exquisite, even though sad- -because
he claimed these services without
painful shame or damping humiliation.
He loved me so truly, that he
knew no reluctance in profiting
by my attendance: he felt I loved
him so fondly, that to yield
that attendance was to indulge
my sweetest wishes.
One
morning at
the end of
the two years,
as I was writing
a
letter to his dictation, he came
and bent over me, and said--"Jane,
have you a glittering ornament
round your neck?"
I
had a gold
watch-chain:
I answered "Yes."
"And
have you a
pale blue dress
on?"
I had. He informed me then,
that for some time he had fancied
the obscurity clouding one eye
was becoming less dense; and
that now he was sure of it.
He and I went up to London.
He had the advice of an eminent
oculist; and he eventually recovered
the sight of that one eye. He
cannot now see very distinctly:
he cannot read or write much;
but he can find his way without
being led by the hand: the sky
is no longer a blank to him--the
earth no longer a void. When
his first- born was put into
his arms, he could see that the
boy had inherited his own eyes,
as they once were--large, brilliant,
and black. On that occasion,
he again, with a full heart,
acknowledged that God had tempered
judgment with mercy.
My Edward and I, then, are
happy: and the more so, because
those we most love are happy
likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers
are both married: alternately,
once every year, they come to
see us, and we go to see them.
Diana's husband is a captain
in the navy, a gallant officer
and a good man. Mary's is a clergyman,
a college friend of her brother's,
and, from his attainments and
principles, worthy of the connection.
Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr.
Wharton love their wives, and
are loved by them.
As
to St. John
Rivers, he
left England:
he went to
India. He
entered on the path he had marked
for himself; he pursues it still.
A more resolute, indefatigable
pioneer never wrought amidst
rocks and dangers. Firm, faithful,
and devoted, full of energy,
and zeal, and truth, he labours
for his race; he clears their
painful way to improvement; he
hews down like a giant the prejudices
of creed and caste that encumber
it. He may be stern; he may be
exacting; he may be ambitious
yet; but his is the sternness
of the warrior Greatheart, who
guards his pilgrim convoy from
the onslaught of Apollyon. His
is the exaction of the apostle,
who speaks but for Christ, when
he says--"Whosoever will come
after me, let him deny himself,
and take up his cross and follow
me." His is the ambition of the
high master-spirit, which aims
to fill a place in the first
rank of those who are redeemed
from the earth--who stand without
fault before the throne of God,
who share the last mighty victories
of the Lamb, who are called,
and chosen, and faithful.
St. John is unmarried: he never
will marry now. Himself has hitherto
sufficed to the toil, and the
toil draws near its close: his
glorious sun hastens to its setting.
The last letter I received from
him drew from my eves human tears,
and yet filled my heart with
divine joy: he anticipated his
sure reward, his incorruptible
crown. I know that a stranger's
hand will write to me next, to
say that the good and faithful
servant has been called at length
into the joy of his Lord. And
why weep for this? No fear of
death will darken St. John's
last hour: his mind will be unclouded,
his heart will be undaunted,
his hope will be sure, his faith
steadfast. His own words are
a pledge of this -
"My Master," he says, "has
forewarned me. Daily He announces
more distinctly,--'Surely I come
quickly!' and hourly I more eagerly
respond,--'Amen; even so come,
Lord Jesus!'"
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