Chapter: A splendid Midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so 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 or fine deep blue, and its own modest gem, a casino 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
handbreadth; 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 dependent 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 warm-hearted 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
clock 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.

 It is summer at Thornfield Hall. One midsummer night, Jane goes for a stroll in the orchard. On seeing Mr. Rochester, she tries to sneak off, but he calls to her to join him. In a casual manner he informs her that he has decided to get married to Blanche very soon. He wants to carry out her suggestion of sending Adele away to school, and he tells Jane that the time has come for her to leave Thornfield. Mr. Rochester suggests a post for her in Ireland, but Jane is heartbroken at the thought of being far from Thornfield and Mr. Rochester. Through her tears she communicates her love for him. After teasing her a little, Mr. Rochester pulls her close to him and declares his intention to marry her. Jane at first does not believe him, and then finally consents to marry him. Suddenly, the weather changes and grows stormy, forcing them to rush indoors. While bidding Jane goodnight, Mr. Rochester kisses her in front of Mrs. Fairfax, who emerges from her room at this time. Later, Adele informs Jane that the chestnut tree, under which she and Rochester were sitting, has been struck by lightning and "half of it split away."

