| 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 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.'
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