CHAPTER XXII 308
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