"I'll be preparing myself to go out as a missionary to preach liberty to them that are enslaved – your harem inmates among the rest. I'll get admitted there, and I'll stir up mutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw as you are, sir, shall in a trice find yourself fettered amongst our hands: nor will I, for one, consent to cut your bonds till you have signed a charter, the most liberal that despot ever yet conferred."

– Jane Eyre, Chapter XXIV

I was trapped. I ran down the stairs, ran to get my cloak and bonnet from my room, ran passed Mary and George, ran out the servants' door, ran through the garden to the horse chestnut. Then I stopped, because I could not run any further. I was trapped.

Ice and snow blocked the garden paths. To go back and take another route would mean running into my cousin, or Mr. Rochester, who was possibly close behind me after he and Bertha –

The images of her bruises, her thin, sickly figure and hollow face, floated through my mind. I shut my eyes against the memory, but it only became more vivid and closer. Though I had often protested against her imprisonment, a part of me still thought of her as the monster who had torn my wedding veil and tried to burn us all in our beds. A part of me had agreed with Mr. Rochester. She deserved to be locked away.

But she was only a sick woman. There was no reason to be afraid of her. There were others to fear and to love.

My knees gave out and I sank to the ground next the horse chestnut, leaning against the tree's wet and blackened trunk for support.

The air was crisp with the silence only heavy snows can bring. No birds sang; they had flown south ages ago. I had only visited the garden in the summer months, when moss dotted the paths and insects buzzed lazily to and from each brightly-colored bloom. Watching from the windows of the hall during the winter, it had always appeared to be glittering and pristine under its blanket of ice and snow. But St. John had been right. The paths were muddied, the plants had died and now everything was in a state of decay. The chestnut had seen the worst of the storm; what had appeared from the window to be only branches was actually half of the trunk, scattered in pieces in the snow. It would not last the night. I leaned into the cold, dead flesh of the tree trunk and whispered –

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Jane? Where are you going?"

I turned around and saw Mr. Rochester on the garden path, wrapped in a winter cloak with his head uncovered. He, too, had rushed out in a great hurry.

"You cannot go yet, Janet," he said in a teasing voice. "It is still too cold to go back to the schoolhouse – the ice will melt tomorrow and then you can go back to your pupils."

When he saw that I was not coming, he became more serious and approached me, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet. I accepted his help.

"Come Jane – I– come back to the house. There is nothing to fear anymore. Bertha has been confined to her room again. She will not get out. She will not hurt you."

I shook my head no. No. She would not hurt me.

"And I promise that I will not touch you, again. I am sorry for my conduct on the stairs. It was wrong of me – do you forgive me for that?"

I nodded my agreement quickly, while trying to avoid the memory of the kiss – had that only been hours before? – and the violent emotions it had stirred in me.

"Then come inside," he said, tugging gently at my hand.

But I would not.

"Goodbye, Mr. Rochester," I said, extricating my hand from his tight grasp and turning to go.

More swiftly than I had thought possible, he swung around in front of me, blocking my path and pinned me against the trunk of the horse chestnut. His face was inches from mine, but there was no tenderness in his gaze this time – only fierce, passionate anger.

"No – no Jane," he growled through gritted teeth. "You will not leave! You will not leave me again!"

"Let me go!" I tore myself from his grasp, but he came after me just the same. Unable to go far in the deep snow, I flung my arms in front of my face, lest he strike me.

But he did not.

I put down my hands and looked up at his face, crumpled in confusion and hurt.

"Jane – I," he said hoarsely, "I would – I am sorry – but I would never--"

"Bertha."

He came over to me, sat down against the tree trunk as if unaware of the wet snow.

"She brought it upon herself," he said bitterly.

"Edward! How could you be so cruel?" I cried.

He broke down at my reply, for I think up until that moment, he had believed that I had not known.

"Jane, forgive me," he sobbed violently. "I did not mean it . . . I did not know what to do."

"You should care for her," I said.

"Care for such a violent woman?"

"St. John says she--" I began.

"So your cousin has visited her, too?" he scoffed, clenching his fists to remain calm. "And has he, your pious, handsome preacher, been able to make her eat? To stop her from stealing? To keep her from injuring herself and others? Has he made her see the light of God? The great power of the Almighty?"

He paused, struggling to catch his breath in the icy air.

"I have tried, Jane. I did not mean to treat her unjustly. She is so wild, so stubborn. If I were to let her have run of the house, we would all be killed in our beds. We are fettered here together by family obligations which have made us hate each other. I have tried not to hate her, but it is difficult, and I have not the heart for forgiveness that you have, Jane."

"You do!" I said, but he continued as if he did not hear me.

"I do not mean to starve her, but she will not eat. If she has been injured, they have been wounds sustained in battles over her safety and the safety of this household. If your saintly cousin thinks he can do better, let him have her. I am tired."

I regarded him silently for a moment. I would not say goodbye tonight. I knew I might go freely tomorrow. I moved closer to him, offered him my handkerchief to dry his tears, but he merely scoffed at my offering.

"You offer me this as a parting gift? No – it is too pure. I would not sully it with my tears of pity and hatred. Go now, if you choose to leave again. Leave me and do not bother with how I suffer."

"Your love would not sully me, sir – but I am unworthy to accept it!"

"You are unworthy – and yet it seems I am the one always being punished – go now, if you mean to leave." Then he was silent, setting his jaw against further conversation.

Is this how it always was to be? I wondered. No matter how close we grew, wife or no, were we always to be separated by distrust and guilt?

"I will be at the teacher's cottage for the night. I will pack my things and tomorrow I will be gone. Please, do not tell St. John. I do not want him to follow me."

He stood silently and walked away without looking at me.

It was not until I reached the cottage and had built up the fire that I noticed the tears on my cheeks. It had been too cold in the garden and I suppose they had frozen before I was aware of the emotion.