Conclusion.
And what became of every body-the
every body of this simple record of six months’
household history, such as might have happened in any
life? For it includes no extraordinary events,
and is the history of mere ordinary people, neither
better nor worse than their neighbors, making mistakes,
suffering for them, retrieving them, and then struggling
on, perhaps to err again. Is not this the chronicle
of all existence? For we are none of us either
bad or good, all perfect or wholly depraved, and our
merits go as often unrewarded as our sins.
Whether the future career of Sir Edwin
Uniacke be fair or foul, time alone can prove.
At present the chances seem in favor of the former,
especially as he has done the best thing a man of fortune,
or any man who earns an honest livelihood, can do-he
has married early, and report says, married well.
She is an earl’s daughter, not beautiful, and
rather poor, but gentle, simple-minded, and good, as
many a nobleman’s daughter is, more so than
girls of lesser degree and greater presumption.
Except sending marriage-cards, Sir
Edwin has attempted no communication with Dr. and
Mrs. Grey. Nor do they wish it. The
difference between themselves and him, in wealth, rank,
habits, tastes, would always make such association
undesirable, even had they expected it renewed.
But they did not. In their complete and contented
life they had-until the marriage-cards came-almost
forgotten the young man’s existence.
The aunts still live at Avonside Cottage,
one cultivating flowers and the other society with
equal assiduity. It is to be hoped both find
an equal reward. As Aunt Henrietta grows to
be no longer a middle-aged, but an elderly lady, less
active, less clever, and more dependent upon other
people’s kindness and especially upon that of
the Lodge-which never fails her-she
sometimes is thought to be growing a little gentler
in her manner and ways, a little less suspicious,
less ill-natured, less ready to see always the black
and hard side of things instead of the sunny and sweet.
At any rate, there is never now the
shadow of dispute between herself and her brother-in-law’s
family! and she always talks a great deal “about
about dear Mrs. Grey,” her elegant looks and
manners (which are certainly patent to all), what
a very good wife she has settled down into, and how
much attached she is to the master. Even darkly
hinting- in moments confidential-that
“to my certain knowledge” Mrs. Grey had,
as Christian Oakley, the opportunity of making an excellent
marriage with a gentleman of family and position, who
was devotedly in love with her, but whom she refused
for the love of Dr. Arnold Grey. Which statement,
when she came to hear it-which of course
she did: every body hears every thing in Avonsbridge-only
made Christian smile, half amused, half sad, to think
how strangely truth can be twisted sometimes, even
by well-meaning people, who are perfectly convinced
in their own minds and consciences that they never
tell a lie, and wouldn’t do such a thing for
the world.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Grey sighed, and
wondered if there was any absolute truth and absolute
goodness to be found any where except in her own husband-her
well-beloved and honored husband.
He is “turnin’ auld”
now, like John Anderson in the song, and the great
difference in age between himself and his wife is beginning
to tell every year more plainly, so that she thinks
sometimes, with a sharp pain and dread, of her own
still remaining youth, fearing lest it may not be
the will of God that they two should “totter
down” the hill of life together. But she
knows that all things-death and life included-are
in His safe hands, and that sufficient unto the day
is the evil thereof.
It has pleased Him to drop one other
bitter drop into what would otherwise have been the
entire sweetness of Christian’s overflowing
cup. She has no children-that is,
no children of her very own. Year by year, that
hope of motherhood, in all its exquisite bliss, slipped
away. At last it had quite to be let go, and
its substitute accepted-as we most of us
have, more or less, to accept the will of Heaven instead
of our will, and go on our way resignedly, nay, cheerfully,
knowing that, whether we see it or not, all is well.
Christian Grey had to learn this lesson,
and she did learn it, not at first, but gradually.
She smothered up all regrets in her silent heart,
and took to her bosom those children which Providence
had sent her. She devoted herself entirely to
them, brought them up wisely and well, and in their
love and their father’s she was wholly satisfied.