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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.'