“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.’ 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 I married Miss Ingram， both you and little Adèle had better trot forthwith. I pass over the sort of slur conveyed in this suggestion on the character of my beloved； indeed， when you are far away， Janet， I’ll try to forget it： I shall notice only its wisdom；which is such that I have made it my law of action. Adèle must go to school； and you， Miss Eyre， must get a new situation.”
“Yes， sir， I will advertise immediately： and meantime， I suppose—” I was going to say， “I suppose I may stay here， till I find another shelter to betake myself to：” but I stopped， feeling it would not do to risk a long sentence， for my voice was not quite under command.
“In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom，” continued Mr.Rochester； “and in the interim， I shall myself look out for employment and an asylum for you.”
“Thank you， sir； I am sorry to give—”
“Oh， no need to apologise！ I consider that when a dependent does her duty as well as you have done yours， she has a sort of claim upon her employer for any little assistance he can conveniently render her； indeed I have already， through my future mother-in-law， heard of a place that I think will suit： it is to undertake the education of the five daughters of Mrs. Dionysius O’Gall of Bitternutt Lodge， Connaught， Ireland. You’ll like Ireland， I think： they’re such warm-hearted people there， they say.”
“It is a long way off， sir.”
“No matter—a girl of your sense will not object to the voyage or the distance.”
“Not the voyage， but the distance： and then the sea is a barrier—”
“From what， Jane？”
“From England and from Thornfield： and—”
“Well？”
“From you， sir.”
I said this almost involuntarily， and， with as little sanction offree will， my tears gushed out. I did not cry so as to be heard， however； I avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs. O’Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart； and colder the thought of all the brine and foam， destined， as it seemed， to rush between me and the master at whose side I now walked， and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean—wealth， caste， custom intervened between me and what I naturally and inevitably loved.
“It is a long way，” I again said.
“It is， to be sure； and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge， Connaught， Ireland， I shall never see you again， Jane： that’s morally certain. I never go over to Ireland， not having myself much of a fancy for the country. We have been good friends， Jane；have we not？”
“Yes， sir.”
“And when friends are on the eve of separation， they like to spend the little time that remains to them close to each other. Come！ we’ll talk over the voyage and the parting quietly half-an-hour or so， while the stars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder： here is the chestnut tree： here is the bench at its old roots. Come， we will sit there in peace to-night， though we should never more be destined to sit there together.” He seated me and himself.
“It is a long way to Ireland， Janet， and I am sorry to send mylittle friend on such weary travels： but if I can’t do better， how is it to be helped？ Are you anything akin to me， do you think， Jane？”
I could risk no sort of answer by this time： my heart was still.
“Because，” he said， “I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me， as now： it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs， tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel， and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us， I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt； and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you，—you’d forget me.”
“That I never should， sir： you know—” Impossible to proceed.
“Jane， do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood？Listen！”
In listening， I sobbed convulsively； for I could repress what I endured no longer； I was obliged to yield， and I was shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak， it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born， or never come to Thornfield.
“Because you are sorry to leave it？”
The vehemence of emotion， stirred by grief and love within me， was claiming mastery， and struggling for full sway， and asserting a right to predominate， to overcome， to live， rise， and reign at last：yes，—and to speak.
