| 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 as 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 eyes 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!"'
THE END
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