Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, theparson and clerk, were alone present. When we got back from church,I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cookingthe dinner and John cleaning the knives, and I said -

"Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning." Thehousekeeper and her husband were both of that decent phlegmaticorder of people, to whom one may at any time safely communicate aremarkable piece of news without incurring the danger of havingone's ears pierced by some shrill ejaculation, and subsequentlystunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and shedid stare at me: the ladle with which she was basting a pair ofchickens roasting at the fire, did for some three minutes hangsuspended in air; and for the same space of time John's knives alsohad rest from the polishing process: but Mary, bending again overthe 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 bastedaway. 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 thecadet of the house, therefore, he often gave him his Christianname)--"I knew what Mr. Edward would do; and I was certain he wouldnot wait long neither: and he's done right, for aught I know. Iwish 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 hearmore, I left the kitchen. In passing the door of that sanctum sometime after, I caught the words -

"She'll happen do better for him nor ony o't' grand ladies." Andagain, "If she ben't one o' th' handsomest, she's noan faal andvarry good-natured; and i' his een she's fair beautiful, onybody maysee that."

I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge immediately, to say what Ihad done: fully explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana andMary approved the step unreservedly. Diana announced that she wouldjust give me time to get over the honeymoon, and then she would comeand see me.

"She had better not wait till then, Jane," said Mr. Rochester, whenI read her letter to him; "if she does, she will be too late, forour honeymoon will shine our life long: its beams will only fadeover your grave or mine."

How St. John received the news, I don't know: he never answered theletter in which I communicated it: yet six months after he wrote tome, without, however, mentioning Mr. Rochester's name or alluding tomy 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 notof those who live without God in the world, and only mind earthlythings.

You have not quite forgotten little Adele, have you, reader? I hadnot; I soon asked and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go and seeher at the school where he had placed her. Her frantic joy atbeholding me again moved me much. She looked pale and thin: shesaid she was not happy. I found the rules of the establishment weretoo 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 nowrequired by another--my husband needed them all. So I sought out aschool conducted on a more indulgent system, and near enough topermit of my visiting her often, and bringing her home sometimes. Itook care she should never want for anything that could contributeto her comfort: she soon settled in her new abode, became veryhappy there, and made fair progress in her studies. As she grew up,a sound English education corrected in a great measure her Frenchdefects; and when she left school, I found in her a pleasing andobliging companion: docile, good-tempered, and well-principled. Byher grateful attention to me and mine, she has long since wellrepaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to offer her.

My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience ofmarried life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whosenames have most frequently recurred in this narrative, and I havedone.

I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to liveentirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myselfsupremely blest--blest beyond what language can express; because Iam my husband's life as fully is he is mine. No woman was evernearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his boneand 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 ofthe heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we areever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as insolitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long:to talk to each other is but a more animated and an audiblethinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidenceis devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character--perfectconcord 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--thatknit us so very close: for I was then his vision, as I am still hisright hand. Literally, I was (what he often called me) the apple ofhis eye. He saw nature--he saw books through me; and never did Iweary of gazing for his behalf, and of putting into words the effectof field, tree, town, river, cloud, sunbeam--of the landscape beforeus; of the weather round us--and impressing by sound on his ear whatlight could no longer stamp on his eye. Never did I weary ofreading to him; never did I weary of conducting him where he wishedto go: of doing for him what he wished to be done. And there was apleasure in my services, most full, most exquisite, even though sad--because he claimed these services without painful shame or dampinghumiliation. He loved me so truly, that he knew no reluctance inprofiting by my attendance: he felt I loved him so fondly, that toyield that attendance was to indulge my sweetest wishes.

One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letterto his dictation, he came and bent over me, and said--"Jane, haveyou 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 theobscurity clouding one eye was becoming less dense; and that now hewas sure of it.

He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminentoculist; and he eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. Hecannot now see very distinctly: he cannot read or write much; buthe can find his way without being led by the hand: the sky is nolonger 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 inheritedhis own eyes, as they once were--large, brilliant, and black. Onthat occasion, he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that Godhad tempered judgment with mercy.

My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those wemost love are happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are bothmarried: alternately, once every year, they come to see us, and wego to see them. Diana's husband is a captain in the navy, a gallantofficer and a good man. Mary's is a clergyman, a college friend ofher brother's, and, from his attainments and principles, worthy ofthe connection. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love theirwives, and are loved by them.

As to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India. Heentered on the path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still.A more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never wrought amidst rocksand dangers. Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and zeal,and truth, he labours for his race; he clears their painful way toimprovement; he hews down like a giant the prejudices of creed andcaste that encumber it. He may be stern; he may be exacting; he maybe ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of the warriorGreatheart, who guards his pilgrim convoy from the onslaught ofApollyon. His is the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but forChrist, when he says--"Whosoever will come after me, let him denyhimself, and take up his cross and follow me." His is the ambitionof the high master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in the firstrank of those who are redeemed from the earth--who stand withoutfault before the throne of God, who share the last mighty victoriesof the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful.

St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself hashitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close:his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I receivedfrom him drew from my eves human tears, and yet filled my heart withdivine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptiblecrown. I know that a stranger's hand will write to me next, to saythat the good and faithful servant has been called at length intothe joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death willdarken St. John's last hour: his mind will be unclouded, his heartwill be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith steadfast. Hisown words are a pledge of this -

"My Master," he says, "has forewarned me. Daily He announces moredistinctly,--'Surely I come quickly!' and hourly I more eagerlyrespond,--'Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!'"