Disclaimer: The characters and situations of Jane Eyre are the property of Charlotte Bronte, though it is now in the public domain. The words, besides the famous "Reader, I married him," are mine.
Reader, I married him. Mr St John Rivers became mine, and I, his. A blissful union, I believed, it could never be, and my love for him, in whichever branch it should grow or to whatever colour bloom, would wither under the frigidity of his regard for me-- Mrs Jane Rivers, his wife.
The gentleness with which he had once coaxed me vanished behind his hard eyes; as well did what hope I had that I could ever reach happiness in this marriage. His hard brow of white, chiseled bone was severe as he took my hand at the altar, but with none of the dark mood that Mr Rochester, my beloved, my lost one, so often conveyed, and St John’s instead furrowed in the fair, gleaming obedience of faithful servitude.
Our honey-moon was brief and distant. St John, despite his husbandly duties to which he, I must admit, upheld with the same passion and single-mindedness that underscored his very being, filled the free hours of day-light with the odd figures and pronunciation of Hindostanee. I submitted to this willingly as my tongue began to mold to the words, the roll of the phrases, and I took enjoyment in my ability, at last, to please him.
Our departure for India was postponed; first, for two months, then six, then indefinitely. St John spoke little of the fraying fabric of his plans and purpose, but his mood darkened. I was not Rosamund Oliver; I could not lift his spirits with an upturned glance or the lilt of gay laughter. I may have had the name of Rivers, but I was still Jane Eyre.
At last, the figures, the opportunities, fell into place, and we moved into India. The hot, dry sun was not kind. St John fell immediately ill from heat and self-neglect, and I did, also, though my parasite differed greatly in origin. St John's first and only child was born on a day as gray as pewter and three days before the black one on which St John Rivers, with fire, fever, and fury, died.
I cannot pretend that a pit opened in my chest on the event of my husband's death, for one had already remained there for the four years past: gaping and black, though I attempted to fill it with what little happiness being St John's wife had allowed me. With the infant child, my son, I returned to England, where home, however distant, dark, unreachable and intangible, awaited me. I still clung to a miniscule hope that I would find welcome there, to the only friendly face in the world.
And dear reader, Mr Rochester was alive! An unusual series of events had rendered him blind and lame, and, as he thought, useless, but he was alive, and all the better for it! I met him in the garden of his home at Ferndean - not the burnt out shell of Thornfield that had perished along with his wife. He looked blindly for the source of my voice as I called to him,
‘Mr Rochester, I have returned.’
At the sudden intrusion on silence, he groped wildly for me, crying my name, but I managed to elude his grasp and instead took what one hand he had left, leading him to a bench in the brush.
‘Mr Rochester,’ I said again, trying to soothe the chaos that had exploded within him. ‘Sir, I have married another.’
Oh, the depthless dark of his expression! It wanted to tear me in two. I answered his unspoken questions before he could utter another syllable.
‘I am a missionary's widow, with a small child, who now only thinks of you, sir.’
Mr Rochester's voice, his dear, sweet, deep voice, was filled with aching restrain. Caressing my hair, he asked, ‘And do you miss him, Janet?’
‘I do, sir, just as the world misses him. He was an admirable man.’
‘And I suppose not a cripple. He was handsome, then?’
‘Very, sir.’ He attempted to pull away, but I clutched his hand fast to me. ‘But it is you that I've missed, more than the entire world could ever miss a singular person. It is you to whom I've returned.’
I continued to fasten his strong, square hand and refused to let go. Nothing could tear us apart. Mr Rochester and I belonged together, to each other, as friends, as lovers, as husband and wife, and nothing, not even the lightning that had struck the horse-chestnut tree, could ever split us in two.