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 trod 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 promptly 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?’4
‘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.”5 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