radiant as were then seen in long succession, seldom favour even

singly, our wave-girt land. It was as if a band of Italian days had

come from the South, like a flock of glorious passenger birds, and

lighted to rest them on the cliffs of Albion. The hay was all got

in; the fields round Thornfield were green and shorn; the roads

white and baked; the trees were in their dark prime; hedge and wood,

full-leaved and deeply tinted, contrasted well with the sunny hue of

the cleared meadows between.

   On Midsummer-eve, Adele, weary with gathering wild strawberries

in Hay Lane half the day, had gone to bed with the sun. I watched

her drop asleep, and when I left her, I sought the garden.

   It was now the sweetest hour of the twenty-four:- 'Day its fervid

fires had wasted,' and dew fell cool on panting plain and scorched

summit. Where the sun had gone down in simple state- pure of the

pomp of clouds- spread a solemn purple, burning with the light of

red jewel and furnace flame at one point, on one hill-peak, and

extending high and wide, soft and still softer, over half heaven.

The east had its own charm of fine deep blue, and its own modest

gem, a rising and solitary star: soon it would boast the moon; but she

was yet beneath the horizon.

   I walked a while on the pavement; but a subtle, well-known scent-

that of a cigar- stole from some window; I saw the library casement

open a hand-breadth; I knew I might be watched thence; so I went apart

into the orchard. No nook in the grounds more sheltered and more

Eden-like; it was full of trees, it bloomed with flowers: a very

high wall shut it out from the court, on one side; on the other, a

beech avenue screened it from the lawn. At the bottom was a sunk

fence; its sole separation from lonely fields: a winding walk,

bordered with laurels and terminating in a giant horse-chestnut,

circled at the base by a seat, led down to the fence. Here one could

wander unseen. While such honey-dew fell, such silence reigned, such

gloaming gathered, I felt as if I could haunt such shade for ever; but

in threading the flower and fruit parterres at the upper part of the

enclosure, enticed there by the light the now rising moon cast on this

more open quarter, my step is stayed-not by sound, not by sight, but

once more by a warning fragrance.

   Sweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine, pink, and rose have long

been yielding their evening sacrifice of incense: this new scent is

neither of shrub nor flower; it is- I know it well- it is Mr.

Rochester's cigar. I look round and I listen. I see trees laden with

ripening fruit. I hear a nightingale warbling in a wood half a mile

off; no moving form is visible, no coming step audible; but that

perfume increases: I must flee. I make for the wicket leading to the

shrubbery, and I see Mr. Rochester entering. I step aside into the ivy

recess; he will not stay long: he will soon return whence he came, and

if I sit still he will never see me.

   But no- eventide is as pleasant to him as to me, and this antique

garden as attractive; and he strolls on, now lifting the

gooseberry-tree branches to look at the fruit, large as plums, with

which they are laden; now taking a ripe cherry from the wall; now

stooping towards a knot of flowers, either to inhale their fragrance

or to admire the dew-beads on their petals. A great moth goes

humming by me; it alights on a plant at Mr. Rochester's foot: he

sees it, and bends to examine it.

   'Now, he has his back towards me,' thought I, 'and he is occupied

too; perhaps, if I walk softly, I can slip away unnoticed.'

   I trode on an edging of turf that the crackle of the pebbly

gravel might not betray me: he was standing among the beds at a yard

or two distant from where I had to pass; the moth apparently engaged

him. 'I shall get by very well,' I meditated. As I crossed his shadow,

thrown long over the garden by the moon, not yet risen high, he said

quietly, without turning-

   'Jane, come and look at this fellow.'

   I had made no noise: he had not eyes behind- could his shadow feel?

I started at first, and then I approached him.

   'Look at his wings,' said he, 'he reminds me rather of a West

Indian insect; one does not often see so large and gay a night-rover

in England; there! he is flown.'

   The moth roamed away. I was sheepishly retreating also; but Mr.

Rochester followed me, and when we reached the wicket, he said-

   'Turn back: on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house;

and surely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus at

meeting with moonrise.'

   It is one of my faults, that though my tongue is sometimes prompt

enough at an answer, there are times when it sadly fails me in framing

an excuse; and always the lapse occurs at some crisis, when a facile

word or plausible pretext is specially wanted to get me out of painful

embarrassment. I did not like to walk at this hour alone with Mr.

Rochester in the shadowy orchard; but I could not find a reason to

allege for leaving him. I followed with lagging step, and thoughts

busily bent on discovering a means of extrication; but he himself

looked so composed and so grave also, I became ashamed of feeling

any confusion: the evil- if evil existent or prospective there was-

seemed to lie with me only; his mind was unconscious and quiet.

   'Jane,' he recommenced, as we entered the laurel walk, and slowly

strayed down in the direction of the sunk fence and the

horse-chestnut, 'Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it not?'

   'Yes, sir.'

   'You must have become in some degree attached to the house,- you,

who have an eye for natural beauties, and a good deal of the organ

of Adhesiveness?'

   'I am attached to it, indeed.'

   'And though I don't comprehend how it is, I perceive you have

acquired a degree of regard for that foolish little child Adele,

too; and even for simple dame Fairfax?'

   'Yes, sir; in different ways, I have an affection for both.'

   'And would be sorry to part with them?'

   'Yes.'

   'Pity!' he said, and sighed and paused. 'It is always the way of

events in this life,' he continued presently: 'no sooner have you

got settled in a pleasant resting-place, than a voice calls out to you

to rise and move on, for the hour of repose is expired.'

   'Must I move on, sir?' I asked. 'Must I leave Thornfield?'

   'I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe

indeed you must.'

   This was a blow: but I did not let it prostrate me.

   'Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes.'

   'It is come now- I must give it to-night.'

   'Then you are going to be married, sir?'

   'Ex-act-ly- pre-cise-ly: with your usual acuteness, you have hit

the nail straight on the head.'

   'Soon, sir?'

   'Very soon, my- that is, Miss Eyre: and you'll remember, Jane,

the first time I, or Rumour, plainly intimated to you that it was my

intention to put my old bachelor's neck into the sacred noose, to

enter into the holy estate of matrimony- to take Miss Ingram to my

bosom, in short (she's an extensive armful: but that's not to the

point- one can't have too much of such a very excellent thing as my

beautiful Blanche): well, as I was saying- listen to me, Jane!

You're not turning your head to look after more moths, are you? That

was only a lady-clock, child, "flying away home." I wish to remind you

that it was you who first said to me, with that discretion I respect

in you- with that foresight, prudence, and humility which befit your

responsible and dependent position- that in case I married Miss

Ingram, both you and little Adele had better trot forthwith. I pass

over the sort of slur conveyed in this suggestion on the character

of my beloved; indeed, when you are far away, Janet, I'll try to

forget it: I shall notice only its wisdom; which is such that I have

made it my law of action. Adele must go to school; and you, Miss Eyre,

must get a new situation.'

   'Yes, sir, I will advertise immediately: and meantime, I

suppose-' I was going to say, 'I suppose I may stay here, till I

find another shelter to betake myself to': but I stopped, feeling it

would not do to risk a long sentence, for my voice was not quite under

command.

   'In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom,' continued Mr.

Rochester; 'and in the interim, I shall myself look out for employment

and an asylum for you.'

   'Thank you, sir; I am sorry to give-'

   'Oh, no need to apologise! I consider that when a dependant does

her duty as well as you have done yours, she has a sort of claim

upon her employer for any little assistance he can conveniently render

her; indeed I have already, through my future mother-in-law, heard

of a place that I think will suit: it is to undertake the education of

the five daughters of Mrs. Dionysius O'Gall of Bitternutt Lodge,

Connaught, Ireland. You'll like Ireland, I think: they're such

warmhearted people there, they say.'

   'It is a long way off, sir.'

   'No matter- a girl of your sense will not object to the voyage or

the distance.'

   'Not the voyage, but the distance: and then the sea is a barrier-'

   'From what, Jane?'

   'From England and from Thornfield: and-'

   'Well?'

   'From you, sir.'

   I said this almost involuntarily, and, with as little sanction of

free will, my tears gushed out. I did not cry so as to be heard,

however; I avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs. O'Gall and

Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart; and colder the thought of

all the brine and foam, destined, as it seemed, to rush between me and

the master at whose side I now walked, and coldest the remembrance

of the wider ocean- wealth, caste, custom intervened between me and

what I naturally and inevitably loved.

   'It is a long way,' I again said.

   'It is, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge,

Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane: that's

morally certain. I never go over to Ireland, not having myself much of

a fancy for the country. We have been good friends, Jane; have we

not?'

   'Yes, sir.'

   'And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to

spend the little time that remains to them close to each other.

Come! we'll talk over the voyage and the parting quietly half an

hour or so, while the stars enter into their shining life up in heaven

yonder: here is the chestnut tree: here is the bench at its old roots.

Come, we will sit there in peace to-night, though we should never more

be destined to sit there together.' He seated me and himself.

   'It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my

little friend on such weary travels: but if I can't do better, how

is it to be helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?'

   I could risk no sort of answer by this time: my heart was still.

   'Because,' he said, 'I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard

to you- especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a

string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably

knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of

your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel and two hundred

miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of

communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should

take to bleeding inwardly. As for you,- you'd forget me.'

   'That I never should, sir: you know-' Impossible to proceed.

   'Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!'

   In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I

endured no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from

head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to

express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to

Thornfield.

   'Because you are sorry to leave it?'

   The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me,

was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a

right to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last:

yes,- and to speak.

   'I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield:- I love it,

because I have lived in it a full and delightful life,- momentarily at

least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I

have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every

glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high. I

have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I

delight in,- with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have

known you, Mr. Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to

feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the

necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of

death.'

   'Where do you see the necessity?' he asked suddenly.

   'Where? You, sir, have placed it before me.'

   'In what shape?'

   'In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful woman,- your

bride.'

   'My bride! What bride? I have no bride!'

   'But you will have.'

   'Yes;- I will!'- I will!' He set his teeth.

   'Then I must go:- you have said it yourself.'

   'No: you must stay! I swear it- and the oath shall be kept.'

   'I tell you I must go!' I retorted, roused to something like

passion. 'Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you

think I am an automaton?- a machine without feelings? and can bear

to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of

living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor,

obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think

wrong!- I have as much soul as you,- and full as much heart! And if

God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made

it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am

not talking to you now through the medium of custom,

conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh;- it is my spirit that

addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave,

and we stood at God's feet, equal,- as we are!'

   'As we are!' repeated Mr. Rochester- 'so,' he added, enclosing me

in his arms, gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips:

'so, Jane!'

   'Yes, so, sir,' I rejoined: 'and yet not so; for you are a

married man- or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior to

you- to one with whom you have no sympathy- whom I do not believe

you truly love; for I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would

scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you- let me go!'

   'Where, Jane? To Ireland?'

   'Yes- to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now.'

   'Jane, be still; don't struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that

is rending its own plumage in its desperation.'

   'I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with

an independent will, which I now exert to leave you.'

   Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him.

   'And your will shall decide your destiny,' he said: 'I offer you my

hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.'

   'You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.'

   'I ask you to pass through life at my side- to be my second self,

and best earthly companion.'

   'For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by

it.'

   'Jane, be still a few moments: you are over-excited: I will be

still too.'

   A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk and trembled

through the boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away- away- to an

indefinite distance- it died. The nightingale's song was then the only

voice of the hour: in listening to it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester sat

quiet, looking at me gently and seriously. Some time passed before

he spoke; he at last said-

   'Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one

another.'

   'I will never again come to your side: I am torn away now, and

cannot return.'

   'But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is you only I intend to

marry.'

   I was silent: I thought he mocked me.

   'Come, Jane- come hither.'

   'Your bride stands between us.'

   He rose, and with a stride reached me.

   'My bride is here,' he said, again drawing me to him, 'because my

equal is here, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry me?'

   Still I did not answer, and still I writhed myself from his

grasp: for I was still incredulous.

   'Do you doubt me, Jane?'

   'Entirely.'

   'You have no faith in me?'

   'Not a whit.'

   'Am I a liar in your eyes?' he asked passionately. 'Little sceptic,

you shall be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None: and

that you know. What love has she for me? None: as I have taken pains

to prove: I caused a rumour to reach her that my fortune was not a

third of what was supposed, and after that I presented myself to see

the result; it was coldness both from her and her mother. I would not-

I could not- marry Miss Ingram. You- you strange, you almost unearthly

thing!- I love as my own flesh. You- poor and obscure, and small and

plain as you are- I entreat to accept me as a husband.'

   'What, me!' I ejaculated, beginning in his earnestness- and

especially in his incivility- to credit his sincerity: 'me who have

not a friend in the world but you- if you are my friend: not a

shilling but what you have given me?'

   'You, Jane, I must have you for my own- entirely my own. Will you

be mine? Say yes, quickly.'

   'Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the moonlight.'

   'Why?'

   'Because I want to read your countenance- turn!'

   'There! you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled,

scratched page. Read on: only make haste, for I suffer.'

   His face was very much agitated and very much flushed, and there

were strong workings in the features, and strange gleams in the eyes.

   'Oh, Jane, you torture me!' he exclaimed. 'With that searching

and yet faithful and generous look, you torture me!'

   'How can I do that? If you are true, and your offer real, my only

feelings to you must be gratitude and devotion- they cannot torture.'

   'Gratitude!' he ejaculated; and added wildly- 'Jane, accept me

quickly. Say, Edward- give me my name- Edward- I will marry you.'

   'Are you in earnest? Do you truly love me? Do you sincerely wish me

to be your wife?'

   'I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it.'

   'Then, sir, I will marry you.'

   'Edward- my little wife!'

   'Dear Edward!'

   'Come to me- come to me entirely now,' said he; and added, in his

deepest tone, speaking in my ear as his cheek was laid on mine,

'Make my happiness- I will make yours.'

   'God pardon me!' he subjoined ere long; 'and man meddle not with

me: I have her, and will hold her.'

   'There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no kindred to interfere.'

   'No- that is the best of it,' he said. And if I had loved him

less I should have thought his accent and look of exultation savage;

but, sitting by him, roused from the nightmare of parting- called to

the paradise of union- I thought only of the bliss given me to drink

in so abundant a flow. Again and again he said, 'Are you happy, Jane?'

And again and again I answered, 'Yes,' After which he murmured, 'It

will atone- it will atone. Have I not found her friendless, and

cold, and comfortless? Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace

her? Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? It

will expiate at God's tribunal. I know my Maker sanctions what I do.

For the world's judgment- I wash my hands thereof. For man's

opinion- I defy it.'

   But what had befallen the night? The moon was not yet set, and we

were all in shadow: I could scarcely see my master's face, near as I

was. And what ailed the chestnut tree? it writhed and groaned; while

wind roared in the laurel walk, and came sweeping over us.

   'We must go in,' said Mr. Rochester: 'the weather changes. I

could have sat with thee till morning, Jane.'

   'And so,' thought I, 'could I with you.' I should have said so,

perhaps, but a livid, vivid spark leapt out of a cloud at which I

was looking, and there was a crack, a crash, and a close rattling

peal; and I thought only of hiding my dazzled eyes against Mr.

Rochester's shoulder.

   The rain rushed down. He hurried me up the walk, through the

grounds, and into the house; but we were quite wet before we could

pass the threshold. He was taking off my shawl in the hall, and

shaking the water out of my loosened hair, when Mrs. Fairfax emerged

from her room. I did not observe her at first, nor did Mr.

Rochester. The lamp was lit. The dock was on the stroke of twelve.

   'Hasten to take off your wet things,' said he; 'and before you

go, good-night- good-night, my darling!'

   He kissed me repeatedly. When I looked up, on leaving his arms,

there stood the widow, pale, grave, and amazed. I only smiled at

her, and ran upstairs. 'Explanation will do for another time,' thought

I. Still, when I reached my chamber, I felt a pang at the idea she

should even temporarily misconstrue what she had seen. But joy soon

effaced every other feeling; and loud as the wind blew, near and

deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning

gleamed, cataract-like as the rain fell during a storm of two hours'

duration, I experienced no fear and little awe. Mr. Rochester came

thrice to my door in the course of it, to ask if I was safe and

tranquil: and that was comfort, that was strength for anything.

   Before I left my bed in the morning, little Adele came running in

to tell me that the great horse-chestnut at the bottom of the

orchard had been struck by lightning in the night, and half of it

split away.