CHAPTER XLII.

FINIS.

Man cannot prophesy¹. Love is no oracle². Fear sometimes imagines a vain thing. Those years of absence! How had I sickened over their anticipation³! The woe⁴ they must bring seemed certain as death. I knew the nature of their course: I never had doubt how it would harrow as it went. The juggernaut on his car towered there a grim load. Seeing him draw nigh, burying his broad wheels in the oppressed soil—I, the prostrate⁵ votary⁶—felt beforehand the annihilating⁷ craunch.

Strange to say—strange, yet true, and owning many parallels in life’s experience—that anticipatory⁸ craunch proved all—yes—nearly all the torture. The great Juggernaut, in his great chariot, drew on lofty, loud, and sullen⁹. He passed quietly, like a shadow sweeping¹⁰ the sky, at noon. Nothing but a chilling dimness was seen or felt. I looked up. Chariot and demon¹¹ charioteer were gone by; the votary still lived.

M. Emanuel was away three years. Reader, they were the three happiest years of my life. Do you scout¹² the paradox¹³? Listen. I commenced my school; I worked—I worked hard. I deemed myself the steward¹⁴ of his property, and determined¹⁵, God willing, to render a good account. Pupils came—burghers at first—a higher class ere long. About the middle of the second year an unexpected chance threw into my hands an additional hundred pounds: one day I received from England a letter containing that sum. It came from Mr. Marchmont, the cousin and heir of my dear and dead mistress. He was just recovering from a dangerous illness; the money was a peace-offering to his conscience, reproaching him in the matter of, I know not what, papers or memoranda¹⁶ found after his kinswoman’s death—naming or recommending Lucy Snowe. Mrs. Barrett had given him my address. How far his conscience had been sinned against, I never inquired. I asked no questions, but took the cash and made it useful.

With this hundred pounds I ventured to take the house adjoining mine. I would not leave that which M. Paul had chosen, in which he had left, and where he expected again to find me. My externat became a pensionnat; that also prospered¹⁷.

The secret of my success did not lie so much in myself, in any endowment, any power of mine, as in a new state of circumstances, a wonderfully changed life, a relieved heart. The spring which moved my energies lay far away beyond seas, in an Indian isle¹⁸. At parting, I had been left a legacy¹⁹; such a thought for the present, such a hope for the future, such a motive²⁰ for a persevering²¹, a laborious²², an enterprising, a patient and a brave course—I could not flag. Few things shook me now; few things had importance to vex²³, intimidate²⁴, or depress me: most things pleased—mere trifles had a charm.

Do not think that this genial²⁵ flame sustained itself, or lived wholly on a bequeathed hope or a parting promise. A generous provider supplied bounteous²⁶ fuel. I was spared all chill, all stint²⁷; I was not suffered to fear penury²⁸; I was not tried with suspense²⁹. By every vessel³⁰ he wrote; he wrote as he gave and as he loved, in full-handed, full-hearted plenitude. He wrote because he liked to write; he did not abridge³¹, because he cared not to abridge. He sat down, he took pen and paper, because he loved Lucy and had much to say to her; because he was faithful and thoughtful, because he was tender and true. There was no sham³² and no cheat, and no hollow unreal in him. Apology never dropped her slippery oil on his lips—never proffered³³, by his pen, her coward feints and paltry³⁴ nullities: he would give neither a stone, nor an excuse—neither a scorpion³⁵; nor a disappointment; his letters were real food that nourished, living water that refreshed.

And was I grateful? God knows! I believe that scarce a living being so remembered, so sustained, dealt with in kind so constant, honourable³⁶ and noble, could be otherwise than grateful to the death.

Adherent³⁷ to his own religion (in him was not the stuff of which is made the facile apostate), he freely left me my pure faith. He did not tease nor tempt³⁸. He said:—

“Remain a Protestant. My little English Puritan, I love Protestantism in you. I own its severe charm. There is something in its ritual I cannot receive myself, but it is the sole creed³⁹ for ‘Lucy.’”

All Rome could not put into him bigotry⁴⁰, nor the Propaganda itself make him a real Jesuit. He was born honest, and not false—artless, and not cunning—a freeman, and not a slave. His tenderness had rendered him ductile⁴¹ in a priest’s hands, his affection, his devotedness⁴², his sincere pious⁴³ enthusiasm blinded his kind eyes sometimes, made him abandon justice to himself to do the work of craft, and serve the ends of selfishness; but these are faults so rare to find, so costly⁴⁴ to their owner to indulge, we scarce know whether they will not one day be reckoned amongst the jewels.

And now the three years are past: M. Emanuel’s return is fixed⁴⁵. It is Autumn; he is to be with me ere the mists of November come. My school flourishes, my house is ready: I have made him a little library, filled its shelves with the books he left in my care: I have cultivated out of love for him (I was naturally no florist) the plants he preferred, and some of them are yet in bloom. I thought I loved him when he went away; I love him now in another degree: he is more my own.

The sun passes the equinox; the days shorten, the leaves grow sere⁴⁶; but—he is coming.

Frosts appear at night; November has sent his fogs in advance; the wind takes its autumn moan; but—he is coming.

The skies hang full and dark—a wrack⁴⁷ sails from the west; the clouds cast themselves into strange forms—arches and broad radiations; there rise resplendent mornings—glorious, royal, purple as monarch⁴⁸ in his state; the heavens are one flame; so wild are they, they rival battle at its thickest—so bloody⁴⁹, they shame Victory in her pride. I know some signs of the sky; I have noted⁵⁰ them ever since childhood. God watch that sail! Oh! guard it!

The wind shifts to the west. Peace, peace, Banshee—“keening” at every window! It will rise—it will swell—it shrieks⁵¹ out long: wander as I may through the house this night, I cannot lull⁵² the blast. The advancing hours make it strong: by midnight, all sleepless⁵³ watchers hear and fear a wild south-west storm. That storm roared frenzied⁵⁴, for seven days. It did not cease till the Atlantic was strewn with wrecks⁵⁵: it did not lull till the deeps had gorged⁵⁶ their full of sustenance⁵⁷. Not till the destroying angel of tempest had achieved his perfect work, would he fold the wings whose waft⁵⁸ was thunder—the tremor⁵⁹ of whose plumes⁶⁰ was storm.

Peace, be still! Oh! a thousand weepers, praying in agony on waiting shores, listened for that voice, but it was not uttered—not uttered till; when the hush⁶¹ came, some could not feel it: till, when the sun returned, his light was night to some!

Here pause: pause at once. There is enough said. Trouble no quiet, kind heart; leave sunny imaginations hope. Let it be theirs to conceive the delight of joy born again fresh out of great terror, the rapture⁶² of rescue from peril⁶³, the wondrous⁶⁴ reprieve⁶⁵ from dread⁶⁶, the fruition of return. Let them picture union and a happy succeeding life.

Madame Beck prospered all the days of her life; so did Père Silas; Madame Walravens fulfilled her ninetieth year before she died. Farewell.

THE END.