Man cannot prophesy. Love is no oracle. Fear sometimes imagines a vain thing. Those years of absence—how had I sickened over their anticipation! The woe 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 prostrate votary, felt beforehand the annihilating craunch.

Strange to say—strange, yet true, and owning many parallels in life’s experience—that anticipatory craunch proved all—yes, nearly all the torture. The great Juggernaut, in his great chariot, drew on lofty, loud, and sullen. He passed quietly, like a shadow sweeping the sky at noon. Nothing but a chilling dimness was seen or felt. I looked up. Chariot and demon 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 scout the paradox? Listen.

I commenced my school; I worked—I worked hard. I deemed myself the steward of his property, and determined, 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 memoranda 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 prospered.

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 isle. At parting I had been left a legacy; such a thought for the present, such a hope for the future, such a motive for a persevering, a laborious, an enterprising, a patient, and a brave course—I could not flag. Few things shook me now; few things had importance to vex, intimidate, or depress me; most things pleased; mere trifles had a charm.

Do not think that this genial flame sustained itself, or lived wholly on a bequeathed hope or a parting promise. A generous provider supplied bounteous fuel. I was spared all chill, all stint; I was not suffered to fear penury; I was not tried with suspense. By every vessel he wrote; he wrote as he gave and as he loved, in fullhanded, full-hearted plenitude. He wrote because he liked to write; he did not abridge, 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 sham and no cheat and no hollow unreal in him. Apology never dropped her slippery oil on his lips, never proffered, by his pen, her coward feints and paltry nullities; he would give neither a stone nor an excuse, neither a scorpion 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, honourable, and noble, could be otherwise than grateful to the death.

Adherent 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 tempt. 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 creed for ‘Lucy.”’

  By PanEris using Melati.

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