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 sol-
emn 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, bor-
dered 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 casts on this more
open quarter, my step is stayed -- not by sound, not by sight,
but once more by a warning fragrance.

Sweetbriar 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

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