made your choice, and must abide by it."

"Jane, be still a few moments: you are over-excited: I will be still
too."

A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through
the boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away--away--to an indefinite
distance--it died. The nightingale's song was then the only voice of the
hour: in listening to it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester sat quiet, looking
at me gently and seriously. Some time passed before he spoke; he at last
said--

"Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another."

"I will never again come to your side: I am torn away now, and cannot
return."

"But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is you only I intend to marry."

I was silent: I thought he mocked me.

"Come, Jane--come hither."

"Your bride stands between us."

He rose, and with a stride reached me.

"My bride is here," he said, again drawing me to him, "because my equal
is here, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry me?"

Still I did not answer, and still I writhed myself from his grasp: for I
was still incredulous.

"Do you doubt me, Jane?"

"Entirely."

"You have no faith in me?"

"Not a whit."

"Am I a liar in your eyes?" he asked passionately. "Little sceptic, you
_shall_ be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None: and that
you know. What love has she for me? None: as I have taken pains to
prove: I caused a rumour to reach her that my fortune was not a third of
what was supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the result;
it was coldness both from her and her mother. I would not--I could
not--marry Miss Ingram. You--you strange, you almost unearthly thing!--I
love as my own flesh. You--poor and obscure, and small and plain as you
are--I entreat to accept me as a husband."

"What, me!" I ejaculated, beginning in his earnestness--and especially in
his incivility--to credit his sincerity: "me who have not a friend in the
world but you--if you are my friend: not a shilling but what you have
given me?"

"You, Jane, I must have you for my own--entirely my own. Will you be
mine? Say yes, quickly."

"Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the moonlight."

"Why?"

"Because I want to read your countenance--turn!"

"There! you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled, scratched
page. Read on: only make haste, for I suffer."

His face was very much agitated and very much flushed, and there were
strong