closure, 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.

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 with-
out 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

-247-