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.
The End.
End of Project Gutenberg's Christian's Mistake, by Dinah Maria Mulock
Craik