Here's an alternate ending to Jane Eyre that I wrote as a final project for Chick Lit. I couldn't help but wonder how Jane Eyre would have happened if she had gone with St. John after reading the end - why was it that Jane ended the novel talking about St. John, when she had just married the man of her dreams? The story's end haunted me; I couldn't resist writing this!
I tried my best to mimic the style of Jane Eyre - hope you enjoy!
"Give the tray to me, I will carry it in."
I took it from her hand: she pointed me out the parlor door. The tray shook as I held it; the water spilt from the glass; my heart struck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened the door for me, and shut it behind me.
My hands were suddenly frail as they gripped the shuddering tray, my awed eyes falling timidly on Rochester, whose stony expression was directed toward the murmur of the dying fire. He looked the same as he had outside just moments before, devoid of the braggadocio that for so long defined his character; his eyes, once black and glinting as his beloved Mesrour's hide, had become faded in their unfocused stare. Swathes of a graying fabric wove around his head, preserving whatever horrid injury it hid from scrutiny. I swallowed nervously upon following the lines of his arms; one hand gripped the arm rest, the other hid from view in the folds of his coat. From the innkeeper's words, I knew he hid nothing of his hand from me in doing so; the harrowing thought crept along the skin of my own hands, seizing me with a growing terror.
But from where did this terror come? The sight of my beloved master had come to inspire anxiety and apprehension. Could I truly be so selfish as to feel disgust, knowing of his missing hand, his lame pace, the burns scarring his proud, arrogant face that stole from him his sight? Still I remained motionless, silent, as I denounced my thoughts; Rochester was entirely unchanged but for his appearance, though his sentiments regarding me, his "little Jane" of old, were they, too, unchanged? The possibility that my arduous journey would meet a futile end loomed unnoticed in the back of my mind, yet a feeling of quiet joy and anticipation slowly pushed it back, for I again held Rochester in my sight, though his own eyes could not hold me.
Alas, I must have given myself away, for Rochester's noble head turned swiftly in my direction, his blank, emotionless eyes roving carefully around the room though they saw nothing. If only he could see, I thought, bemused, how different the encounter would become. "Give me the water, Mary," came the voice I had heard some nights past, much less frantic, and, I realized, infinitely more exhausted in its defeated tone. My feet rejoiced at finally being allowed movement; I made shaky steps toward my sighing master, the glasses balancing precariously atop my tray. I was made to step cautiously around Pilot, whose great form slept soundly at his master's feet. Rochester shifted restlessly in his chair, eyes casting their expansive gaze toward the oaken table at his side. "What is the matter?" again came his baritone mutter, much louder.
I admit I was considerably startled, my feet stumbling suddenly onto Pilot's haggard, tangled tail. The gentle beast suddenly snorted to life, barking loudly in protest as he stood up and stared at me with an aggressive cock of his shaggy head. Unused to this reaction from Pilot, I hurriedly set down the tray on the small table and took a few steps back. Rochester was unnerved by the dog's sudden outburst, moving to stand up in a fury, his hand twitching as if it desired to reach out. "Who is there?" Unsure, now, not as defeated, but defensive. The palm of his hand sought Pilot's head as the dog kept quiet, taking cues from his master.
My voice would not come in answer; I tried a shuddering breath, my words cracking as I said them, "It is me, master. I've...returned..." Surely he would scold me for my lack of conviction in my words; it was always he who had such control over his own. I lifted my eyes to gauge his reaction, hoping finally to rediscover my life's redemption in awakening the fire in his kindred spirit. My very soul seemed to plummet dangerously as I watched Rochester's face curve into lines and angles that were most unbecoming, telling of a struggle, of disbelief, of confusion. One hand came to cover my trembling lips as Pilot mimicked the gesture, a low, rumbling growl seething through his teeth. "Returned?" again I heard the voice I cherished. "Returned from where?" He lifted a finger to point accusingly across the distance between us, his blind marksmanship easily seeking its target as I had spoken to him. "Pilot growls." the voice I adored, rising in intensity. "Speak, woman, that I might know you!"
My struggling heart seized as I grasped for words, my disbelief discarded in the face of his command. "Sir, do you not know me?" My voice was timid, paling in comparison to Rochester's furious speech. I prayed that strength return to my words as I continued, "I am Jane, my good master! Jane..." I had not the stamina to continue as my vision began to obscure the images of the floor, of Pilot's grey, hulking form, of his broad, vehement master. Rochester's ragged breathing refocused my attention, his arms now crossed across his chest. Again he spun words, each one pensive and carefully chosen, "What Jane are you that deems herself at liberty to freely invade the home of a blind and broken man?" My throat ran dry upon realizing that I had been forgotten, that no longer would I be "wicked Jane" though I felt wicked as any hell Rochester often jested that I came from.
Without regard to my own volition, as I had none left, my feet took wary steps toward my master, whose sole hand clenched and unclenched in time with his breathing, his mouth forming unspoken syllables. The smallest pang of compassion rose from my heart, growing steadily. "Sir..." My word again ignited his fury. "Leave me, wicked spirit, be gone! I do not know any Jane, I never have!" I retracted my steps as quickly as I could once Rochester advanced as if to strike out, my tears coming freely as my voice now caught around cries. "Mary!" Rochester cried out, stopping his footsteps as I stumbled toward the door. "Oust this woman at once!"
My hand found the door's handle, pushing it open as Mary pulled it. I nearly fell as the door opened into the corridor, the hem of my dress ripping as I abused it in my haste to be rid of Ferndean. Despair clawed at my chest, his jagged fingers wrenching my lungs as if all of Proverb's seven vices had claimed me. The bloom of rosy, rainy dusk had faded into stirring night; neither Mary nor Rochester pursued me as I ran, retracing my sprightly, nervous footsteps with desperate, ponderous strides. Only upon reaching the ivy-ridden stone of the aging property's wall did I stop to slow my frenzied breathing, cursing Heaven shamefully through my tears. The night swelled around me to play my antagonist, the hush of gossiped rumor passing among the stately trees in the wind. I looked up upon swallowing profoundly, my cries subsiding as I released a frail prayer through my numbing lips. I had deserted the family that took me in, my own family, I had cursed His name to the humid air of the night, I had been desirous, coveted the love of a noble man. The mottled stones of the wall provided solid support in my reverie; I understood now that God deemed me undeserving, and He was right in his judgment.
My will thus steeled, I broke from the wall, finding the scratch of the pebbled road with my feet once I left the grass. But what of His will? Had I ever known it, ever understood it? I found myself longing to know His plan as my hands clutched my arms, my steps retracing the path to the inn. I suddenly thought of St. John, of Diana, and of Mary, who I had left in my passionate impulse. St. John…was God's own apostle, pure of heart and quick of mind, an innocent man I had scorned. I again scrutinized the clouds as if to find a holy face among them, any sort of divine providence. Could my family – nay, could St. John be my true calling? I remember my stolid words to the contrary, that I was yet unconvinced that St. John was my ordained destiny, but I had I been irrevocably wrong? Was I called by God to St. John, and not to Rochester?
I could not help but remember St. John's inflammatory rhetoric, the way in which his powerful words resonated in the caverns of my chest. I had felt compelled by forces beyond my understanding to give in to his pleas, to hear the arias of angelic legions and journey with him to carry out his sacred mission. The comely burn of light in the inn greeted my vision as I broke through a grove of trees. I knew my reverie in that moment with St. John had been broken by a resounding voice that cried my name; had this voice not been Rochester, as I had fancied, but another of Satan's clever guises, conjured to keep me from salvation?
The promise of God's will infused my steps as I realized what I must do; St. John was to leave for India very soon! His face appeared with Rochester's brooding, scarred one in my mind, Adonis-like in its calm elegance. The thought of St. John as my husband lost its reviling connotation more quickly with every step that approached me to the inn's open doors; whether or not love could blossom between us became a spurned notion in the face of what I felt was my rewarding future. I suddenly felt the weight of responsibility and of purpose; I knew then that my God was truly an awesome and forgiving God that he had shown me, a wayward sheep, back into St. John's fold.
I burst through the inn door, awakening the dozing steward nearby. "Sir!" my voice rang clear, stirring him to embarrassed attention immediately. "Come dawn, I shall part again for Moor House." My resolve gave me strength; I would leave once the morning's loving aurora turned each green leaf gold.
Again I recalled St. John, his trueness of intention, his sincerity of conviction in making me his wife. I became tenacious in spirit; let such a fate arrive to me, then! I would rejoice in my work, surely, and enjoy the relief St. John's society would come to provide. My Lord's divine design had finally descended from Heaven; it would come and run its righteous course beginning with the first light.
To the ears of no one but what spirits may have haunted my rented room, I whispered in grateful joy, "Amen, even so come; Lord Jesus!"