Chapter 38—CONCLUSION
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Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present. Whe back from church, I went into the kit of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking the dinner and John ing the knives, and I said—“Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this m.” The housekeeper and her husband were both of that det phlegmatic order of people, to whom one may at any time safely unicate 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 chis 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 agaihe 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 goo church to be wed;” and she basted away. John, when I turo 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 loher: and he’s dht, fht 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 kit. 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 annouhat she would just give me time to get over the honeymoon, and then she would e 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 yrave or mine.”
How St. John received the news, I don’t know: he never answered the letter in which I unicated 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 mihly things.
You have not quite fotten little Adèle, 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 establishmeoo strict, its course of study too severe for a child of her age: I took her home with me. I meant to bee her governess once more, but I soon found this impracticable; my time and cares were now required by another—my husband hem all. So I sought out a school ducted on a more indulgent system, and near enough to permit of my visiting her of<bdo>?</bdo>ten, and bringing her home sometimes. I took care she should never want for anything that could tribute to her fort: she sooled in her new abode, became very happy there, and made fair progress iudies. 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 panion: 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 respeg my experienarried life, and one brief gla 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 oh. I hold myself supremely blest—blest bey<tt>藏书网</tt>ond what language express; because I am my husband’s life as fully is he is mine. No woman was ever o 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; sequently, we are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in pany. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more animated and an audible thinking. All my fidence is bestowed on him, all his fidence is devoted to me; recisely suited in character—perfect cord is the result.
Mr. Rochester tinued blind the first two years of our union; perhaps it was that circumstahat drew us so very hat 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 loamp on his eye. Never did I weary of reading to him; never did I weary of dug him where he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished to be done. And there leasure in my services, most full, most exquisite, even though sad—because he claimed these services without painful shame or damping humiliation. He loved <bdo></bdo>me so truly, that he knew an profiting by my attendance: he felt I loved him so fondly, that to yield that attendance was to indulge my sweetest wishes.
One m at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came a over me, and said—“Jane, have you a glittering or round your neck?”
I had a gold watch-: I answered “Yes.”
“And have you a pale blue dress on?”
I had. He informed me then, that for some time he had fahe obscurity clouding one eye was being less dense; and that now he was sure of it.
He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an emi oculist; and he eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He ot now see very distinctly: he ot read or write much; but he 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 ut into his arms, he could see that the boy had ied his own eyes, as they once were—large, brilliant, and black. On that occasion, he again, with a full heart, aowledged 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 e 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 attais and principles, worthy of the e. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love their wives, and are loved by<var>..</var> them.
As to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India. He entered oh he had marked for himself; he pursues it still. A more resolute, iigable pioneer never wrought amidst rocks and dangers. Firm, faithful, aed, 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 exag; he may be ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of the warrireatheart, who guards his pilgrim voy from the onslaught of Apollyon. His is the exa of the apostle, who speaks but for Christ, when he says—“Whosoever will e 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 pla 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, a filled my heart with divine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible . I know that a stranger’s hand will write to me , 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 e quickly!’ and hourly I more eagerly respond,—‘Amen; even so e, Lord Jesus!’”
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