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Mr. Rochester had gie one week’s leae of absence: yet a nth epsed before I quitted Gateshead. I wished to leae iediately after the funeral, but Geiareated to stay till shuld get off to London, whither she was now at st inited by her uncle, Mr. Gibson, who had e down to direct his sister’s i ale the faly affairs. Geiana said she dreaded bei aloh Eliz froher she got her syathy in her deje, support in her fears, nor aid in her preparations; so I bore with her feeble-nded wailings and selfish ntations as well as uld, and did best in sewing for her and pag her dresses. It is true, that while I worked, she would idle; and I thought to self, “If you and I were destio lie always togetherusin, we would eters on a different footing. I should not settle taly down into being the forbearing party; I should assign you your share of bour, and pel you to aplish it, or else it should be left undone: I should insist, also, on your keeping so of those drawling, half-insincere pibbr..;/abbrnts hushed in your ow. It is only because our e happens to be ery transitory, a a peculiarly urnful season, that I sent thus to re so patient and pliant on  art.”
At st I saw Geiana off; but now it was Eliza’s turn to request to stay another week. Her pns required all her ti and attention, she said; she was about to depart for so unknown bourne; and all day long she stayed in her own roo her door boed within, filling trunks, etying drawers, burning papers, and holding no unication with any one. She wished to look after the house, to see callers, and answer notes of dolence.
One she told I was at liberty. “And,” she added, “I aobliged to you for your aluable serices and discreet duct! There is so differeween liing with su one as you and with Geiana: you perforyour own part in life and burden no oo-rrow,” she tinued, “I set out for the ti. I shall take up abode in a religious house near Lisle—a nunnery you would call it; there I shall be quiet and ued. I shall deote self for a ti to the eanation of the Ron Catholias, and to a careful study of the ws of their syste if I find it to be, as I half suspect it is, the o calcuted to ehe doing of all things detly and in order, I shall erace the tes of Ro and probably take the eil.”
I her epressed surprise at this resolution nor atteted to dissuade her froit. “The ocation will fit you to a hair,” I thought: “ay it do you!”
When we parted, she said: “Good-byeusin Jane Eyre; I wish you well: you hae so sense.”
I theurned: “You are not without senseusin Eliz but what you hae, I suppose, in another year will be walled up alie in a Fre. Howeer, it is not business, and so it suits you, I don’t ch care.”
“You are in the right,” said she; and with these words we each went our separate way. As I shall not hae oasion to refer either to her or her sister again, I y as well ntion here, that Geiana de an adantageous tch with a weahy worn-out n of fashion, and that Eliza actually took the eil, and is at this day superior of the ent where she passed the period of her noitiate, and which she endowed with her fortune.
How people feel when they are returning ho froan absence, long or short, I did not know: I had neer eperiehe sensation. I had known what it was to e back to Gateshead when a child after a long walk, to belded for lookinld loo; and ter, what it was to e back frochurch to Lowood, to long for a plenteous al and a good fire, and to be uo get either. her of these returnings was ery pleasant or desirable: no g drew to a gien point, increasing in its strength of attra the nearer I ca. The return to Thornfield was yet to be tried.
My journey seed tedious—ery tedious: fifty les one day, a night spent at an inn; fifty les the day. During the first twele hours I thought of Mrs. Reed i nts; I saw her disfigured and dloured face, and heard her strangely aered oice. I sed on the funeral day, thffin, the hearse, the bck train of tenants as—few was the nuer of reties—the gaping au, the silent church, the sole serice. Then I thought of Eliza and Geian I beheld ohe osure of a ball-roo the other the inte of a ent cell; and I dwe on and analysed their separate peculiarities of person and character. The eening arrial at the great town of—scattered these thoughts; night gae thequite aurn: id down on traeller’s bed, I left renisce for anticipation.
I was going back to Thornfield: but how long was I to stay there? Not long; of that I was sure. I had heard froMrs. Fairfa ieriof absehe party at the hall was dispersed; Mr. Rochester had left for London three weeks ago, but he was theed to return in a fht. Mrs. Fairfa sursed that he was goo ke arras for his wedding, as he had talked of purchasing a new carriage: she said the idea of his rrying Miss Ingrastill seed strao her; but frowhat eerybody said, and frowhat she had herself seen, shuld no longer doubt that the eent would shortly take pce. “You would be strangely incredulous if you did doubt it,” was ntal ent. “I don’t doubt it.”
The question followed, “Where was I to go?” I drea of Miss Ingraall the night: in a iid dreaI saw her closing the gates of Thornfield against and pointi another road; and Mr. Rochester looked on with his ar folded—sling sardonically, as it seed, at both her and .
I had not notified to Mrs. Fairfa the eact day of return; for I did not wish either car or carriage to et at Mite. I proposed to walk the distance quietly by self; and ery quietly, after leaing bo iler’s care, did I slip away frothe Gee Inn, about si o’clock of a June eening, and take the old road to Thornfield: a road which y chiefly through fields, and was now little frequented.
It was not a bright or splendid suer eening, though fair and soft: the haykers were at work all along the road; and the sky, though far frocloudless, was such as prosed well for the future: its blue—where blue was isible—was ld aled, and its cloud strata high and thin. The west, too, was war no watery gleachilled it—it seed as if there was a fire lit, an aar burning behind its s of rbled apour, and out of apertures shone a golden redness.
I fe gd as the road shortened before : so gd that I stopped oo ask self what that joy ant: and to rend reason that it was not to ho I was going, or to a per resting-pce, or to a pce where fond friends looked out for and waited arrial. “Mrs. Fairfa will sle you a calwele, to be sure,” said I; “and little Adèle will cp her hands and ju to see you: but you know ery well you are thinking of ahan they, and that he is not thinking of you.”
But what is so headstrong as youth? What so blind as ineperiehese affird that it;rk?;/rk leasure enough to hae the priilege of again looking on Mr. Rochester, whether he looked on or not; and they added—“Hasten! hasteh hiwhile you y: but a few re days or weeks, at st, and you are parted frohifor eer!” And then I strangled a new-bony—a deford thing which uld not persuade self to own and rear—and ran on.
They are king hay, too, in Thornfield adows: or rather, the bourers are just quitting their work, aurning ho with their rakes on their shoulders, now, at the hour I arrie. I hae but a field or two to traerse, and then I shall cross the road and reach the gates. How full the hedges are of roses! But I hae no ti to gather any; I want to be at the house. I passed a tall briar, shooting leafy and flowery branches across the path; I see the narrow stile with stoeps; and I see—Mr. Rochester sitting there, a book and a pencil in his hand; he is writing.
Well, he is not a ghost; yet eery nere I hae is unstrung: for a nt I abeyond own stery. What does it an? I did not think I should trele in this way when I saw hi or lose oice or the power of tion in his presence. I will go back as soon as I stir: I need not ke an absolute fool of self. I know another way to the house. It does not signify if I kwenty ways; for he has seen .
“Hillo!” he cries; as up his book and his pencil. “There you are! e on, if you please.”
I suppose I do e on; though in what fashion I know not; being scarcely isant of ents, and solicitous only to appear cal and, aboe all, to trol the w scles of face— which I feel rebel ily against will, and struggle to epress what I had resoled to ceal. But I hae a eil—it is down: I y ke shift yet to behae with det posure.
“And this is Jane Eyre? Are you ing froMite, and on foot? Yes—just one of your tricks: not to send for a carriage, aerireet and road like a ortal, but to steal into the iage of your ho along with twilight, just as if you were a dreaor a shade. What the deuce hae you doh yourself this st nth?”
“I hae been with aunt, sir, who is dead.”
“A true Janian reply! Good angels be guard! She es frothe other world—frothe abode of people who are dead; and tells so whes alone here in the gloang! If I dared, I’d touch you, to see if you are substance or shadow, you elf!—but I’d as soon offer to take hold of a blue ignis fatuus light in a rsh. Truant! truant!” he added, when he had paused an instant. “Absent fro a whole nth, aing quite, I’ll be sworn!”
I khere would be pleasure iing ster agaihough broken by the fear that he was so soon to cease to be ster, and by the knowledge that I was nothing to hi but there was eer in Mr. Rochester (so at least I thought) such a weah of the power of unig happiness, that to taste but of the crus he scattered to stray and stranger birds like , was to feast genially. His st words were bal they seed to ily that it iorted sothing to hiwhether I fot hior not. And he had spoken of Thornfield as ho—would that it were ho!
He did not leae the stile, and I hardly liked to ask to go by. I inquired soon if he had not been to London.
“Yes; I suppose you found that out by sed-sight.”
“Mrs. Fairfa told in a letter.”
“And did she inforyou what I went to do?”
“Oh, yes, sir! Eerybody knew your errand.”
“You st see the carriage, Jane, and tell if you don’t think it will suit Mrs. Rochester eactly; and whether she won’t look like Queen Boadicea, leaning back against those purple cushions. I wish, Jane, I were a trifle better adapted to tch with her eternally. Tell now, fairy as you are—’t you gie a char or a phier, or sothing of that sort, to ke a handso n?”
“It would be past the power of gic, sir;” and, in thought, I added, “A loing eye is all the charo such you are handso enough; or rather your sternness has a power beyoy.”
Mr. Rochester had sotis rea;s..;/sd unspoken thoughts with an a to inprehensible: in the present instance he took no notiy abrupt ocal response; but he sled at with a certain sle he had of his own, and which he used but on rare oasions. He seed to think it too good for on purposes: it was the real sunshine of feeling—he shed it oer now.
“Pass, Ja,” said he, king roofor to cross the stile: “go up ho, and stay your weary little wanderi at a friend’s threshold.”
All I had now to do was to obey hiin sileno need for tlloquise further. I got oer the stile without a word, a to leae hicaly. An iulse held fast—a force turned round. I said—or sothing in said for , and in spite of —
“Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for yreat kindness. I astrangely gd to get back again to you: and whereer you are is ho— only ho.”
I walked on so fast that een huld hardly hae oertaken had he tried. Little Adèle was half wild with delight when she saw . Mrs. Fairfa receied with her usual pin friendliness. Leah sled, and een Sophie bid “bon soir” with glee. This was ery pleasant; there is no happiness like that of being loed by your fellow-creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their fort.
I that eening shut eyes resolutely against the future: I stopped cars against the oice that kept warning of near separation and ing grief. When tea was oer and Mrs. Fairfa had taken her knitting, and I had assud a low seat near her, and Adèle, kneeling on the carpet, had led close up to , and a sense of tual affe seed to surround us with a ring of golden peace, I uttered a silent prayer that we ght not be parted far or soon; but when, as we thus sat, Mr. Rochester entered, unannounced, and looking at us, seed to take pleasure in the spectacle of a group so acable—when he said he supposed the old dy was all right now that she had got her adopted daughter back again, and added that he saw Adèle rete e croquer sa petite n Angise”—I half eo hope that he would, een after his rriage, keep us together sowhere uhe sheer of his prote, and not quite eiled frothe sunshine of his presence.
A fht of dubious calsueeded return to Thornfield Hall. Nothing was said of the ster’s rriage, and I saw no preparation going on for su eent. Alst eery day I asked Mrs. Fairfa if she had yet heard anything decided: her answer was always in the ie. Once she said she had actually put the question to Mr. Rochester as to when he was going t his bride ho; but he had answered her only by a joke and one of his queer looks, and shuld not tell what to ke of hi
Ohing specially surprised , and that was, there were no journeyings backward and forward, no isits to IngraPark: to be sure it was twenty les off, on the borders of ay; but what was that distao an ardent loer? To so practised and iigable a horsen as Mr. Rochester, it would be but a s ride. I began to cherish hopes I had nht to ceie: that the tch was broken off; that ruur had been staken; that one or both parties had ged their nds. I used to look at ster’s face to see if it were sad or fierce; but uld not reer the ti when it had been so unifory clear of clouds or eil feelings. If, is I and  upil spent with hi I cked spirits and sank into iable deje, he beca een gay. Neer had he called re frequently to his preseneer been kio when there—and, as! neer had I loed hiso well.
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