A splendid Midsummer s as land. It alian days ed to rest t in; te and baked; trees inted, contrasted ween.
On Midsummer-eve, Adèle, rac the garden.
It est y-four:- “Day its fervid fires ed,” and deing plain and scorc. ate—pure of t of red je one point, on one ending and still softer, over s o gem, a casino and solitary star: soon it t s beneathe horizon.
I a subtle, — t of a cigar—stole from some open a be c apart into tered and more Eden-like; it rees, it bloomed it out from t, on one side; on t from t ttom s sole separation from lonely fields: a erminating in a giant nut, circled at t, led doo t as if I could suc in t parterres at t of ticed t t on ter, my step is stayed— not by sound, not by sig once more by a warning fragrance.
S-briar and sout is neit is—I kno is Mr. Rocer’s cigar. I look round and I listen. I see trees laden . I ingale t perfume increases: I must flee. I make for t leading to ter entering. I step aside into t stay long: urn ill he will never see me.
But no—eventide is as pleasant to o me, and tique garden as attractive; and rolls on, noing tree branco look at t, large as plums, aking a ripe cooping to of floo ino admire tals. A great mot alig at Mr. Rocer’s foot: , and bends to examine it.
“No I, “and oo; perly, I can slip aiced.”
I trode on an edging of turf t t not betray me: anding among t a yard or tant from ly engaged by very ated. As I crossed yet risen ly, turning—
“Jane, come and look at this fellow.”
I eyes bearted at first, and then I approached him.
“Look at Indian insect; one does not often see so large and gay a nighere! he is flown.”
treating also; but Mr. Rocer followed me, and w, he said—
“turn back: on so lovely a nig is a so sit in to go to bed meeting h moonrise.”
It is one of my faults, t tongue is sometimes prompt enoug an ansimes some crisis, is specially ed to get me out of painful embarrassment. I did not like to ter in t I could not find a reason to allege for leaving ep, and ts busily bent on discovering a means of extrication; but ent or prospective to lie .
“Jane,” ered trayed doion of tnut, “t place in summer, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You must taco tural beauties, and a good deal of the organ of Adhesiveness?”
“I am attaco it, indeed.”
“And t compre is, I perceive you foolistle coo; and even for simple dame Fairfax?”
“Yes, sir; in different h.”
“And o part hem?”
“Yes.”
“Pity!” is als in tinued presently: “no sooner settled in a pleasant resting-place, t 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.”
t I did not let it prostrate me.
“ell, sir, I so march comes.”
“It is come no give it to-night.”
“to be married, sir?”
“Ex-act-ly—pre-cise-ly: eness, you traighe head.”
“Soon, sir?”
“Very soon, my—t is, Miss Eyre: and you’ll remember, Jane, t time I, or Rumour, plainly intimated to you t it ention to put my old baco to enter into tate of matrimony—to take Miss Ingram to my bosom, in s (sensive armful: but t’s not to t—one can’t oo muc tiful Blancen to me, Jane! You’re not turning your o look after more mot it o me, discretion I respect in you— foresigy position—t in case I married Miss Ingram, bottle Adèle ter trot fort of slur conveyed in tion on ter of my beloved; indeed, ry to forget it: I sice only its ion. Adèle must go to sc get a neuation.”
“Yes, sir, I ise immediately: and meantime, I suppose—” I o say, “I suppose I may stay ill I find anoter to betake myself to:” but I stopped, feeling it do to risk a long sentence, for my voice quite under command.
“In about a monto be a bridegroom,” continued Mr. Rocer; “and in terim, I s for employment and an asylum for you.”
“to give—”
“Oo apologise! I consider t le assistance ly render ure mot I t: it is to undertake tion of ters of Mrs. Dionysius O’Gall of Bitternutt Lodge, Connauged people they say.”
“It is a long way off, sir.”
“No matter—a girl of your sense object to tance.”
“Not t tance: and the sea is a barrier—”
“From w, Jane?”
“From England and from thornfield: and—”
“ell?”
“From you, sir.”
I said t involuntarily, and, tle sanction of free ears gus. I did not cry so as to be of Mrs. O’Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my ; and colder t of all tined, as it seemed, to ruser at e, custom intervened beturally and inevitably loved.
“It is a long way,” I again said.
“It is, to be sure; and o Bitternutt Lodge, Connaug’s morally certain. I never go over to Ireland, not ry. e ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And o spend ttle time t remains to to eacalk over ting quietly ars enter into tnut tree: its old roots. Come, to-nigined to sit togeted me and himself.
“It is a long o Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little friend on sucravels: but if I can’t do better, to be o me, do you think, Jane?”
I could risk no sort of ansime: my ill.
“Because,” imes o you—especially igricably knotted to a similar string situated in ter of your little frame. And if t boisterous C cord of communion ; and tion I sake to bleeding in me.”
“t I never so proceed.
“Jane, do you nigen!”
In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress o yield, and I e distress. o express an impetuous hornfield.
“Because you are sorry to leave it?”
tion, stirred by grief and love ery, and struggling for full sing a rigo predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last: yes,—and to speak.
“I grieve to leave t, because I a full and deligarily at least. I been trampled on. I been petrified. I been buried is brigic and alked, face to face, I reverence, I deliger; and it strikes me error and anguiso feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see ty of departure; and it is like looking on ty of death.”
“y?” he asked suddenly.
“ before me.”
“In w shape?”
“In tiful woman,—your bride.”
“My bride! bride? I have no bride!”
“But you will have.”
“Yes;—I h.
“t go:- you yourself.”
“No: you must stay! I s—and t.”
“I tell you I must go!” I retorted, roused to sometay to become noto you? Do you tomaton?—a mac feelings? and can bear to cer dastle, I am soulless and less? You t! And if God ed me y and muc as o leave me, as it is noo leave you. I am not talking to you noom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal fles is my spirit t addresses your spirit; just as if botood at God’s feet, equal,—as we are!”
“As ed Mr. Rocer—“so,” o , 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 o one inferior to you—to one believe you truly love; for I ter t me go!”
“o Ireland?”
“Yes—to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now.”
“Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a ic bird t is rending its os desperation.”
“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free o leave you.”
Anot set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him.
“And your will siny,” , and a share of all my possessions.”
“You play a farce, w.”
“I ask you to pass t my side—to be my second self, and best earthly companion.”
“For t fate you abide by it.”
“Jane, be still a fes: you are over-excited: I ill too.”
A of rembled tnut: it o an indefinite distance—it died. tingale’s song ening to it, I again . Mr. Rocer sat quiet, looking at me gently and seriously. Some time passed before last said—
“Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another.”
“I o your side: I am torn a return.”
“But, Jane, I summon you as my is you only I intend to marry.”
I : I t he mocked me.
“Come, Jane—come her.”
“Your bride stands between us.”
ride reached me.
“My bride is o him, “because my equal is here, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry me?”
Still I did not ansill I ill incredulous.
“Do you doubt me, Jane?”
“Entirely.”
“You h in me?”
“Not a w.”
“Am I a liar in your eyes?” ely. “Little sceptic, you s love you knoo prove: I caused a rumour to reac my fortune a t er t I presented myself to see t; it —I could not—marry Miss Ingram. You— you strange, you almost uneartreat to accept me as a husband.”
“, me!” I ejaculated, beginning in ness—and especially in y—to credit y: “me you- if you are my friend: not a s w you have given me?”
“You, Jane, I must irely my own. ill you be mine? Say yes, quickly.”
“Mr. Rocer, let me look at your face: turn to t.”
“hy?”
“Because I to read your countenance—turn!”
“t scarcely more legible tce, for I suffer.”
ated and very mucrong ures, and strange gleams in the eyes
“Oorture me!” searc faitorture me!”
“? If you are true, and your offer real, my only feelings to you must be gratitude and devotion—t torture.”
“Gratitude!” ed; and added 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 wiso be your wife?”
“I do; and if an oato satisfy you, I s.”
“then, sir, I will marry you.”
“Edtle wife!”
“Dear Edward!”
“Come to me—come to me entirely noone, speaking in my ear as his cheek was laid on mine, “Make my happiness—I will make yours.”
“God pardon me!” h me: I have her, and will hold her.”
“to meddle, sir. I o interfere.”
“No—t is t of it,” and look of exultation savage; but, sitting by mare of parting—called to t only of to drink in so abundant a floone—it one. found less? ill I not guard, and c love in my , and constancy in my resolves? It e at God’s tribunal. I knoions —I was.”
But yet set, and nut tree? it he laurel walk, and came sweeping over us.
“e must go in,” said Mr. Rocer: “t ill morning, Jane.”
“And so,” t I, “could I a livid, vivid spark leapt out of a cloud at only of Mr. Rocer’s shoulder.
to t e before aking off my ser out of my loosened observe first, nor did Mr. Rocer. t. troke of twelve.
“en to take off your t—good-night, my darling!”
edly. ood t airs. “Explanation ime,” t I. Still, temporarily misconstrue as tning gleamed, cataract-like as torm of ttle ao my door in t, to ask if I ranquil: and t , t rengthing.
Before I left my bed in ttle Adèle came running in to tell me t t nut at ttom of truck by lig, and split away.