Villette
hours make it strong: by midnight, all sleepless watchers hear and fear
a wild south-west storm. That storm roared frenzied, for seven days. It
did not cease till the Atlantic was strewn with wrecks: it did not lull
till the deeps had gorged their full of sustenance. Not till the
destroying angel of tempest had achieved his perfect work, would he
fold the wings whose waft was thunder—the tremor of whose plumes 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 hush 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 rapture of
rescue from peril, the wondrous reprieve from dread, 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.