A/N: This piece was written as an assignment for my literature class. I'm not fond of it myself, but perhaps true Bronte fans will enjoy what I perceive aspainful sappiness and extreme excess verbosity.

By the way- if you don't recognize the word, that's because it (supposedly) dates back to Victorian England, and is no longer in use.

Another Possibility

I awoke the next morning far earlier than I had intended; indeed, the first rays of the sun had not yet begun to creep timidly across the simple quilt that I had slumbered beneath. For a moment –one, brief, terrifying moment- I feared that it had all been a dream; that I remained far away from Ferndean and my love, perhaps preparing in dull anticipation for a long journey and a life of taxing toil under a foreign sky. Then Memory returned to me, caressing and comforting, bringing back my sense of self.

I was to be married, and in a meagre few hours! Hurrying into my dress, I promised myself in earnest that the day should be free of such baleful news and occurrence as had plagued that fateful day so many months before.

As it happened, sleep had evaded others besides me, and the kitchen below was already a centre of activity. This commotion served to alleviate the Spartan décor wonderfully, and as I surveyed the scene, I realized that I had already come to think of my new surroundings as home. Although John and Mary were present, I scarcely took the time to exchange obligatory pleasantries with them before hurrying over to where Mr. Rochester sat alone. He turned as I approached, and as I studied his expressive black eyes, I was reminded painfully that they themselves could not see. As Mr. Rochester pulled my into his lap, I thought fiercely to myself, "What does it matter, really, if he is blind? After all, what is the sight of a mortal eye compared to the sight into the soul, which my love most assuredly possessed?"

After breakfast Mr. Rochester and I went walking in the garden. I hastened to explain all I could see to him, taking especially great pains to impress upon him such details as the verdancy of each leaf, the gossamer dew that coated each stem of grass and every flower.

"Surely", I told him, pressing my hand into his larger and stronger one, "Eden itself had no beauty compared to this!"

At length, Mr. Rochester ordered me upstairs to prepare myself for the ceremony. It was not a lengthy process, as I had neither jewellery nor an extravagant dress. I hurried downstairs to find that John and Mary had gone out, but Mr. Rochester was waiting.

"Janet, love," he greeted me, impatience and slight apprehension evident in his voice. "It seems we have a visitor."

He stepped slightly to one side, nearly tripping over a low stool as he did so. I instinctively moved forward to help him, but he waved me away. Instead, I turned around to greet the stranger who had been standing sheltered in the dim shadows next to the cupboard. I gasped in surprise as the stranger was revealed- the fair hair, tall stature, and Grecian profile- it was St. John. He acknowledged my presence with a nod, and I quickly masked my astonishment.

"This is a pleasant surprise, cousin. I had thought it to be your intention to remain at Cambridge for another several days."

"It was."

"Then why- "

"In Cambridge, I prayed for you hourly, as had been my promise. The words of God came to me as I prayed, and I realized that, by letting you deny God and return to this man, I myself was failing in my work as a missionary." He paused and surveyed Mr. Rochester and I, but we both remained silent, so St. John continued. "Will you persist in allying yourself with a sinner, Jane? Have you forgotten the past transgressions of this man, whom you intend to marry?"

I felt anger rise inside of me, a searing fury such as I had not felt since I was a young child in the Reeds' care. My anger was not directed at St. John- he was, after all, merely doing what he felt to be right. No, I was angry at the world for finding yet another way of spoiling my happiness so close to my marriage. Indeed, I began to wonder if I was cursed never to marry; if I had perchance offended the Lord in some way that he deemed it imprudent to allow me gratification.

"I had not thought to hear such obloquies from you, cousin," I could tell that St. John noticed the flush of my cheeks and the forced come of my voice, but he made no comment on it, merely saying:

"Such a man could hardly be described as the epitome of rectitude."

Mr. Rochester, who had thus far remained silent to the point that I had nearly forgotten of his presence, said, "Such affronts, while perhaps true in the past- for I have led a sinful life, that I will not deny- nevertheless, I have, maugre your apparent beliefs, repented and asked God for the strength to live my life purely. "

"You have heard the saying, 'Nothing is stronger than habit'. Can you be so sure of repentance and forgiveness such a short time after the committing of your sins?"

There was silence. St. John looked from me to Mr. Rochester and back again, and nodded as if something had been explained to him. Then he leaned over, retrieved his surtout from where he had folded it over a chair, and put it on.

"Jane, you will come with me. Take ten minutes to gather your things together – you can't possibly have much- and meet me here. I have a coach waiting."

I was too stunned to speak.

"And who gave you the right to come here and order my soon-to-be wife in such a manner?" Mr Rochester asked, and all eyes turned on him.

"I claim no right but the right to serve God."

Mr. Rochester began to laugh, first softly, then growing in both volume and harshness until it felt like the very walls were shaking. I took a step backwards involuntarily.

"I see! I see!" he cried. "And of course, God spoke to you and told you to intrude upon my house and kidnap my fiancé!"

St. John observed Mr. Rochester coolly. "And see how you now prove your still sinful nature? Would you deny God for your own pleasure? Be it what it would, this would not be new behaviour for you, I know." He turned to me. "Go, Jane. Gather your things."

"Yes, Jane, go! Leave me again! Go off to India and forget all about me! It will be better that way, won't it now?" Mr. Rochester collapsed against the wall, breathing heavily and looking quite insane.

They were both looking at me, now, and I was frozen with fear and indecision. I wanted nothing more at that moment than to flee upstairs to my room and hide from the world, but I knew that I couldn't. I wasn't a child anymore. Long seconds passed. And then-

"Go, Jane," Mr. Rochester whispered, no longer shouting. He sat at the table, seeming to stare at his mutilated arm, although I knew that he could not see it at all.

Every moment seemed to last an eternity. St. John, the pastor, my cousin, stood in front of the door, watching me closely but with as much emotion as the statue he often seemed to be. Mr. Rochester, my Edward, my love, sat with the air of a man who has given up all hope of a life, and has condemned himself to settle for mere existence.

I couldn't bear it.

"No," I whispered, and then again, stronger this time, "No." I strode over to Mr. Rochester and sat down next to him, taking into my hands the cauterized stump where his own hand used to be.

"You defy God, then? You willingly condemn yourself to Hell?" St. John asked.

"I condemn myself to whatever fate awaits one who commits such a crime as to love another."

I stood and walked over to the door where St. John stood, and opened it.

"I hope this will not ruin our friendship, cousin. I respect and care for you as a brother, but on this matter, I must choose my own way."

My cousin met my gaze for a minute, and then turned and walked out the door. Then he looked back at me.

"I will be in touch," he said, and then turned again and walked away. I watched until he was out of sight, and then closed the door and returned to my seat be Mr. Rochester.

"It's time to go, love."

"Go where? What are you talking about, Jane?"

"Oh, my Edward, have you forgotten? We have a date with the local priest, and we're going to be late."