It was not a bright or splendid summer evening, though fair and soft:  the haymakers were at work all along the road; and the sky, though far from cloudless, was such as promised well for the future:  its blue —­ where blue was visible —­ was mild and settled, and its cloud strata high and thin.  The west, too, was warm:  no watery gleam chilled it —­ it seemed as if there was a fire lit, an altar burning behind its screen of marbled vapour, and out of apertures shone a golden redness.

I felt glad as the road shortened before me:  so glad that I stopped once to ask myself what that joy meant:  and to remind reason that it was not to my home I was going, or to a permanent resting-place, or to a place where fond friends looked out for me and waited my arrival.  “Mrs. Fairfax will smile you a calm welcome, to be sure,” said I; “and little Adele will clap her hands and jump to see you:  but you know very well you are thinking of another than they, and that he is not thinking of you.”

But what is so headstrong as youth?  What so blind as inexperience?  These affirmed that it was pleasure enough to have the privilege of again looking on Mr. Rochester, whether he looked on me or not; and they added —­ “Hasten! hasten! be with him while you may:  but a few more days or weeks, at most, and you are parted from him for ever!” And then I strangled a new-born agony —­ a deformed thing which I could not persuade myself to own and rear —­ and ran on.

They are making hay, too, in Thornfield meadows:  or rather, the labourers are just quitting their work, and returning home with their rakes on their shoulders, now, at the hour I arrive.  I have but a field or two to traverse, and then I shall cross the road and reach the gates.  How full the hedges are of roses!  But I have no time 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 stone steps; 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 every nerve I have is unstrung:  for a moment I am beyond my own mastery.  What does it mean?  I did not think I should tremble in this way when I saw him, or lose my voice or the power of motion in his presence.  I will go back as soon as I can stir:  I need not make an absolute fool of myself.  I know another way to the house.  It does not signify if I knew twenty ways; for he has seen me.

“Hillo!” he cries; and he puts up his book and his pencil.  “There you are!  Come on, if you please.”

I suppose I do come on; though in what fashion I know not; being scarcely cognisant of my movements, and solicitous only to appear calm; and, above all, to control the working muscles of my face —­ which I feel rebel insolently against my will, and struggle to express what I had resolved to conceal.  But I have a veil —­ it is down:  I may make shift yet to behave with decent composure.