She had spent the day packing—happily and with a steady hand. Her old Lowood gowns forsaken, she had filled her trunks with linen, with black satins, and with pearl-grey silks. As she closed the lid, it seemed as if she was securing a treasure of hope—setting aside dreams of bliss for only two more nights. He was gone that night from Thornfield, but she was not terribly lonesome for him. Not yet. She was almost glad to have a short time to think, to anticipate the day when Jane Eyre would die and Jane Rochester would be born. No sadness clouded her aspect, for she loved him too well. But a soft gloom, a contented and momentary grief filled her chamber as she examined her thin Lowood clothes, memories both good and bad associated so closely with the shabby cotton. Jane Eyre. Jane Eyre. When he was not there with her, it seemed that all the love, the bright hope was a dream, a sweet dream. To have someone love her despite all her faults, bitterness and past was a beautiful hope that Jane had believed impossible. Why—only a few months earlier, she had hardened her heart, chilled it with ice, to prepare it for a life of solitude. But now, her inward soul flourished, expanded and grew. Each day, she loved him more; and with each day, his love healed her, as a balm to wounds. She would always be Jane Eyre: but soon, that name would be lost. She would be his.

Turning to her bridal garments, hung carefully in the closet, she touched the veil, the lace, the soft whiteness. Purity and beauty glimmered around the fairy-like array; she smiled. This was to be the first material manifestation of Jane Rochester. This clean, white cloud, all light and no shadow.

So foreign, but so longed for, this new Jane. She was almost afraid of her.

But the clock in the hall struck nine, and Jane swiftly left her room to bid Adele goodnight.

"Good night Madam!" Adele hung round her teacher's neck with kisses, as Jane lifted her into her bed.

"Good night, Adele." Jane brushed back hair from the child's forehead.

"Miss Eyre! Your eyes are all glittering. Are you sad when you should be so happy?"

"No. No. They are happy tears, Adele. Good night."

Although she was not terribly tired, Jane felt there was no reason to stay awake. He was not there to call for her. And no one else at Thornfield was about. So, quickly in the moonlight, she slipped into bed, gazing as she lay, at the white vision that waited for her across the room. A bride. A bride. Jane Eyre to be a bride. Jane Eyre to be no more. To be another. To be his.

And with a smile, she closed her eyes and slept.

--

Footsteps padded gently along the corridor. The night was dark, the shadows long and deep. A lone candle moved in the blackness. The bearer of the candle walked slowly, deliberately, carefully, so not to wake any one. No noise, an unbearable silence. The figure, a woman, slipped down the halls, turning corners with a ghostlike quietness. Soon, she came near the main corridor; she made as if to move quickly to the great staircase. However, her gait suddenly froze. With a slow movement, she turned her face to the door just adjacent. It was a normal door—like any of the others. But she was drawn to it. Silent, ever so silent, she opened the door and stepped into the room.

Close to the door, a bed stood with a gentle sleeper. But that did not interest her. No. Her eye was caught by a white glowing in the other end of the room. Softly placing the candle beside the bed on a table, the figure approached the whiteness. It was a wedding dress and a veil—delicate, small, and glittering in the moonlight. With a trembling hand, she reached out to touch the purity; it captivated her so. At her touch, the veil came loose from its place and fell to the floor. With a quick hand, she snatched it up, not roughly but swiftly. It seemed so transparent. Like a cloud, she lifted it up above her not heeding anything else in the room and walked to the long mirror. She could see her reflection through the chiffon, a dark, wild face—an unknown face. Who was this?

A rustle of sheets should have alerted her that the sleeper was awake, but she did not heed it. The whiteness, the misty cloud fascinated her eye. With a soft gesture, she dropped the veil over her head, down over her thick black hair—covering it with the beautiful light.

For moment, she stood still, looking at her image. Then, with her long hand, she reached out to her reflection and touched the glass—a gentle caress. Who was this lost face in the glass?

Then, her eyes caught in the mirror another face, a pale one, not covered by a veil, but shrouded in fear. It was a plain face—a childish one. The two faces seemed to meet in the silver glass, a strange thing. But, the spell evaporated once the child spoke aloud:

"What are you? What are you doing?"

Roused from her reverie, the woman snatched back her hand from the cool mirror and turned to face the speaker. But she could not see—the veil. The veil kept her from seeing the child. At once, the whiteness became a choking, swirling mass. A wind roared in her ears. She must get it off her head—she must! This wicked brightness! With a sudden rage, she ripped it from her head and tore at it with her fingers and nails. A tangible fury was hers! Breath came quivering as she shredded the soft material. In a final effort, she threw it to the ground and walked towards the person on the bed. As she neared, the candle began to flicker and spark at the movement.

Taking the candle in her hand, she stared at the thin, little thing in the bed—a ghost in a white night dress with long hair around her shoulders. And the spirit stared back. Their eyes met in a stifling silence. The child-woman, trembling, whispered:

"who…who…" Then, her chest convulsed, and she fell back onto her bed—still, unconscious. The candle blew out—quenched.

For a long while, the woman remained at the bedside, watching the girl in the quiet dark. Then, with a tentative gesture, she reached her fingers out and touched the girl's small thin hand. In the moonlight, it looked like alabaster. Grimly, she felt the pulse, the blood inside—red and flowing; but all was silver. She said nothing as she stood palm to palm with the strange child. A sadness incarnate—palm to palm—she withdrew her fingers at last. She could hear footsteps—Grace in the corridor. In silence, she withdrew, not noticing the piece of paper that fluttered from her robe pocket to the floor.

--

"Now then, are you satisfied?" He held her shoulders at arms length, looking at her face. "Do you accept my solution to the mystery?"

Jane hesitated for a moment, her face pale, then with a grim smile she nodded:

"Yes, sir."

Rochester smiled at her and wrapped his arms about her, drawing her close. "Then chase dull care away, Janet. Sleep with Adele in the nursery tonight, to be sure. But dream no more of sorrow, of parting and of woe. Dream on happiness—dream of bliss." He whispered, quite close, letting his voice caress her cheek and ear. With a full heart, she kissed his shoulder and his cheek; he took her face in his hands, saying,

"Look there, the stars are out at last. The storm has passed."

She looked, a night calm, a night sweet. "The night is serene, sir. And so am I."

He took her hand and kissed it softly, with a smile.

"I am glad of it. Good night then, my Jane, my bride."

She embraced him, warm and fond, not entirely willing to retreat to her own room.

"O how I do love you, sir." She whispered into his waistcoat, just loud enough for him to hear. But he drew back, not quickly but surely. His face was not stern, but moved.

"What did you say, Janet?" He asked with tremble in his voice.

She blushed, but did not avert his eye.

"You heard, sir. I know you did." She smiled, touching his lips with her fore finger. "Now goodnight, till tomorrow, God bless you, sir."

With a joyful expression, she withdrew from his arms and left the library, quietly removing to the nursery.

But he remained by the fire. As soon as the door closed and he heard her footstep disappear into the night, he gave out a gasping cry.

"Dear God!" He fell to his knees before the fireplace, his hand tight over his mouth, trying to quell the sobs that threatened there.

"Do not! Do not,… O God!... I beg of you! Please!"

His chest heaved for breath as his tears escaped.

"Do not remove from me…this…this…happiness! Dear heaven…forgive me."

--

Sophie eagerly entered the governess' room to fetch the wedding garments. Her face was bright and happy. As she walked to the closet, her foot trod upon a slip of paper. Leaning down, she picked it up and placed it upon Miss Eyre's writing desk.

"Another one of her strange drawings" She mused, as she gathered together the dress and merrily retreated to Miss Eyre's dressing room.

An hour passed before the bride issued forth.

Crowned with a plain square of tulle and tiny summer flowers, Jane walked, joyous, flushed and poignant, towards the door. A vision of morning beauty, of bridal purity, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror.

This, this was soon to be Jane Rochester. This happy woman!

Then, she heard reverberations of Rochester's voice below:

"Where can she be!" his voice echoed, in annoyance.

"I am sure she will not be long." Mrs. Fairfax replied with a quivering voice.

With a smile, Jane rushed to the door and to the stairs to meet her lover. And Sophie closed the closed the chamber door behind them.