Reader, I married him.

A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present. When we got back from church, I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking dinner, and John cleaning the knives, and I said: “Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning.” The housekeeper and her husband were both of that decent phlegmatic order of people to whom you may at any time safely communicate a remarkable piece of news without incurring the danger of having one’s ears pierced by some shrill [exclamation], and subsequently stunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and she did stare at me: the ladle with which she was basting a pair of chickens roasting at the fire did for some three minutes hang suspended in air; and for the same space of time John’s knives also had rest from the polishing process: but Mary, bending again over the roast, said only: “Have you, Miss? Well, for sure!“

At long last, they have their happy ending, now that they can truly be equal partners.

I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge immediately to say what I had done: fully explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana and Mary approved the step unreservedly. Diana announced that she would just give time to get over the honeymoon, and then she would come and see me.
“She had better not wait till then, Jane,” said Mr. Rochester, when I read the letter to him; “if she does, she will be too late, for our honeymoon will shine our life-long: its beams will only fade over your grave or mine.”
How St. John received the news I don’t know; he never answered the letter in which I communicated it: yet six months after he wrote to me; without, however, mentioning Mr. Rochester’s name, or alluding to my marriage. His letter was then calm: and though very serious, kind. He has maintained regular, though not frequent correspondence ever since: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am not of those who live without God in the world, and only mind earthly things.

So at least St. John seems to have finally reconciled himself to the fact that, although Jane’s path is much different than his, she’s still on a righteous path.

Bronte seems to have just forgotten about the unhealthy situation of the manor house, but at any rate, they both live happily (and healthily) for at least ten more years.

After the official length of the honeymoon, Jane checks in on Adèle at the school Mr. Rochester had sent her to, and, realizing the school wasn’t the best environment for her, removed her from it. She originally intends to just teach her at home again, but at that point, Mr. Rochester still requires constant care.

So I sought out a school conducted on a more indulgent system; and near enough to permit my visiting her often, and bringing her home sometimes. I took care she should never want for anything that could contribute to her comfort: she soon settled in her new abode, became very happy there, and made fair progress in her studies. As she grew up a sound English education corrected in a great measure her French defects; and when she left school I found in her a pleasing and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, well-principled. By her grateful attention to me and mine she has long since well repaid any little kindness I ever had in my power to offer her.

Thus she eventually became a fixture in the household, even if Mr. Rochester never acknowledged her as his own.

Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union: perhaps it was that circumstance that drew us so very near – that knit us so very close! for I was then his vision, as I am still his right hand. Literally, I was (what he often called me) the apple of his eye. He saw nature – he saw books through me; and never did I weary of gazing for his behalf, and putting into words the effect of field, tree, town, river, cloud, sunbeam – of the landscape before us; of the weather round us – impressing by sound on his ear what light could no longer stamp on his eye. Never did I weary of reading to him: never did I weary of conducting him where he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished to be done. And there was a pleasure in my services, most full, most exquisite, even though sad – because he claimed these services without painful shame or damping humiliation. He loved me so truly that he knew no reluctance in profiting by my attendance: he felt I loved him so fondly that to yield that attendance was to indulge my sweetest wishes.
One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came and bent over me, and said – “Jane, have you a glittering ornament round your neck?”
I had a gold watch-chain: I answered, “Yes.”
“And have you a pale blue dress on?”
I had. He informed me then that for some time he had fancied the obscurity clouding one eye was becoming less dense; and that now he was sure of it.
He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminent oculist; and he eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He cannot now see very distinctly: he cannot read or write much; but he can find his way without being led by the hand: the sky is no longer a blank to him – the earth no longer void. When his firstborn was put into his arms, he could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they once were – large, brilliant, and black. On that occasion he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that God had tempered judgment with mercy.

I imagine the extent of his “writing” was mostly just learning to do a left-handed signature (as switching your dominant hand is difficult in the best of circumstances, let alone with a vision impairment).

She notes that Mary and Diana both acquired good husbands, but of course St. John still went to India.

St. John is yet unmarried: he will never marry now. Himself has hitherto sufficed to the toil; and the toil draws near its close: his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received from him drew from my eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart with Divine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a stranger’s hand will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death will darken St. John’s last hour: his mind will be unclouded; his heart will be undaunted; his hope will be sure; his faith steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this: – “My Master,” he says, “has forewarned me. Daily he announces more distinctly, – ‘Surely I come quickly!’ and hourly I more eagerly respond, – ‘Amen; even so, come, Lord Jesus!'”

And that’s the end of the book, because it couldn’t very well have ended any other way for St. John, but at least the rest of his family had happy endings.

It still holds up, despite some ableism and the occasional racism (there’s a reason it’s a classic, after all).

Tomorrow, I’ll briefly discuss my plans for the blog going forward.

Until then…