Sweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine, pink, and rose have long been yielding their evening sacrifice of incense:
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.