Chapter Chapter 23 · A splendid Midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so radiant

. 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, Adèle, 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 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

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 Adèle, 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 Adèle

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. Adèle 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 Adèle 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.