Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless?

On Midsummer-eve, Adèle, weary with gathering wild strawberries in Hay Lane half the day, had gone to bed with the sun. I watched her drop asleep, and when I left her I sought the garden.

But evidently, Mr. Rochester has the same idea, and Jane wants to avoid him (presumably to avoid the conversation about her seemingly inevitable departure).

“Now he has his back towards me,” thought I, “and he is occupied too; perhaps, if I walk softly, I can slip away unnoticed.”
I trod on an edging of turf that the crackle of the pebbly gravel might not betray me: he was standing among the beds at a yard or two distant from where I had to pass; the moth apparently engaged him. “I shall get by very well,” I meditated. As I crossed his shadow, thrown long over the garden by the moon, not yet risen high, he said quietly without turning: -“Jane, come look at this fellow.”
I had made no noise: he had not eyes behind – could his shadow feel? I started at first, and then I approached him.
“Look at his wings,” said he; “he reminds me rather of a West Indian insect; one does not often see so large and gay a night-rover in England: there! he is flown.”

Jane is still understandably anxious about meeting Mr. Rochester in an isolated part of the garden in the evening, but finds herself unable to form an excuse.

I followed with lagging step, and thoughts busily bent on discovering a means of extraction; but he himself looked so composed, and so grave also, I became ashamed of feeling any confusion: the evil – if evil existent or prospective there was – seemed to lie with me only; his mind was unconscious and quiet.

I mean, it’s kind of understandable that the woman would be the only one on alert in this sort of situation…

“Jane,” he recommenced, as we entered the laurel walk, and slowly strayed down in the direction of the sunk fence and the horse-chestnut, “Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You must have become in some degree attached to the house, – you, who have an eye for natural beauties, and a good deal of the organ of Adhesiveness?”
“I am attached to it, indeed.”
“And though I don’t comprehend how it is, I perceive you have acquired a degree of regard for that foolish little child Adèle, too; and even for simple dame Fairfax?”
“Yes, sir; in different ways, I have affection for both.”
“And you would be sorry to part with them?”
“Yes.”
“Pity!” he said, and sighed and paused. “It is always the way of events in this life,” he continued presently: “no sooner have you got settled in a pleasant resting-place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move on, for the hour of repose is expired.”
“Must I move on, sir?” I asked. “Must I leave Thornfield?”
“I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe indeed you must.”

When I first read this, that seemed like the way of the world, to always be moving on just when you got used to a place. I think, as you get older, you either find better ways to put down roots, or are just more inclined to find a way to stick to the same place. But Jane’s not there yet, and it seems she’s finally being forced out.

“Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes.”
“It is come now – I must give it to-night.”
“Then you are going to be married, sir?”
“Ex-act-ly – pre-cise-ly: with your usual acuteness, you have hit the nail straight on the head.”
“Soon, sir?”
“Very soon, my- that is, Miss Eyre: and you’ll remember, Jane, the first time I, or Rumour, plainly intimated to you that was my intention to put my old bachelor’s neck into the sacred noose, to enter into the holy estate of matrimony – to take Miss Ingram to my bosom, in short (she’s an extensive armful: but that’s not to the point – one can’t have too much of such a very excellent thing as my beautiful Blanche): well, as I was saying – listen to me, Jane! You’re not turning your head to after more moths, are you? That was only a lady-clock, child, ‘flying away home.’ I wish to remind you that it was you who first said to me, with that discretion I respect in you – with that foresight, prudence, and humility which befit your responsible and dependent position – that in case I married Miss Ingram – both you and little Adèle had better trot forthwith. I pass over the sort of slur conveyed in this suggestion on the character of my beloved; indeed, when you are far away, Janet, I’ll try to forget it: I shall notice only its wisdom; which is such that I have made it my law of action. Adèle must go to school; and you, Miss Eyre, must get a new situation.”

Jane again says that she’ll advertise, and Mr. Rochester again says that he’ll take care of it instead.

“Thank you, sir; I am sorry to give-“
“Oh, no need to apologise! I consider that when a dependent does her duty as well as you have done yours, she has a sort of claim upon her employer for any little assistance he can conveniently render her; indeed I have already, through my future mother-in-law, heard of a place I think will suit: it is to undertake the education of the five daughters of Mrs. Dionysius O’Gall, Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland. You’ll like Ireland, I think: they’re such warm-hearted people there, they say.”
“It is a long way off, sir.”
“No matter – a girl of your sense will not object to the voyage or the distance.”
“Not the voyage, but the distance: and then the sea is a barrier-“
“From what, Jane?”
“From England and from Thornfield: and-“
“Well?”
“From you, sir.”

Seeing as he knew about this job opportunity for a while, he might have led off with this news…but of course, the real reason for this conversation is to gauge Jane’s feelings.

I did not cry so as to be heard, however; I avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs. O’Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart; and colder the thought of all the brine and foam, destined, as it seemed, to rush between me and my master at whose side I now walked! and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean – wealth, caste, custom intervened between me and what I naturally and inevitably loved.
“It is a long way,” I again said.
“It is, to be sure; when you get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane: that’s morally certain. I never go to Ireland, not having myself much of a fancy for the country. We have been good friends, Jane; have we not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the little time that remains to them close to each other. Come – we’ll talk over the voyage and the parting quietly, half an hour or so, while the stars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder: here is the chestnut tree: here is the bench at its old roots. Come, we will sit there in peace to-night, though we should never more be destined to sit there together.” He seated me and himself.
“It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little friend on such weary travels; but if I can’t do better, how is it to be helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?”
I could risk no sort of answer by this time: my heart was so full.

I mean, “good friends” might not take evening strolls alone together…

“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you – especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I an afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you – you’d forget me.”
“That I never should, sir: you know”- impossible to proceed.
“Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!”
In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield.
“Because you are sorry to leave it?”
The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway; and asserting a right to predominate: to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last; yes – and to speak.
“I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield – I love it, because I have lived a full and delightful life, – momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic, and high. I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence; with what I delight in, – with an original, a vigorous, and expanded mind. I have known you, Mr. Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death.”

Clearly, she didn’t comprehend what he was saying when he was talking of heartstrings – but here, she emphasizes how much better her life if at Thornfield than any of her previous dwellings (which wouldn’t really say much). But then, Mr. Rochester finally shows his hand.

“Where do you see the necessity [of leaving]?” he asked solemnly.
“Where? You sir, have placed it before me.”
“In what shape?”
“In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful woman, – your bride.”
“My bride! What bride? I have no bride!?
“But you will have.”
“Yes; – I will! – I will!” he sat his teeth.
“Then I must go – you have said it yourself.”
“No: you must stay! I swear it – and the oath shall be kept.”
“I tell you I must go!” I retorted, roused to something like passion. “Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an automaton? – a machine without feelings? and can bear to have every morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! – I have as much soul as you, – and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh – it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and stood at God’s feet, equal, – as we are!”
“As we are!” repeated Mr. Rochester -“so,” he added, enclosing me in his arms, gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips: “so, Jane!”

Jane’s confusion is very understandable at this point, because MR. ROCHESTER’S BEEN LYING THIS WHOLE TIME! She has every right to be angry about him toying with her feelings, no matter what the endgame was!

“Yes, so, sir,” I rejoined: “and yet not so; for you are a married man – or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you – to one with whom you have no sympathy – whom I do not believe you truly love; for I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you – let me go!”
“Where, Jane? To Ireland?”
“Yes – to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now.”
“Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a wild, frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation.”
“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will; which I now exert to leave you.”
And another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him.

honestly, she’d save herself a lot of heartache if she just left him now

“And your will shall decide your destiny,” he said: “I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.”
“You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.”
“I ask you to pass through life at my side – to be my second self, and best earthly companion.”
“For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by it.”
“Jane, be still a few moments; you are over-excited: I will be still too.”

He’s been lying to her all this time, so she’s quite justified in her distrust of a MARRIAGE PROPOSAL.

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 great 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.”

this might be cute if he hadn’t been lying to her for so long

“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: 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 it was supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the result; it was coldness both from her and from her mother. I would not- I could not- marry Miss Ingram. You- you strange- you almost unearthly thing! – I love you as my own flesh. You – poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are – I entreat you to accept me as a husband.”
“What, me!” I [exclaimed]: 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 me own – entirely for my own. Will you be mine? Say yes, quickly.”

So, to be clear, this whole thing with Miss Ingram really WAS a farce, evidently intended to make Jane jealous. But once again, Mr. Rochester failed to consider the whole thing from Jane’s perspective, and just how much unnecessary anguish it caused her! And now all of a sudden he’s just being extremely possessive of her. What if she really HAD just been in love with Thornfield, and not interested in Mr. Rochester?

“Oh, Jane, you torture me!” he exclaimed. “With that searching and yet faithful and generous look, you torture me!”
“How can I do that? If you are true, and your offer real, my feeling to you must be gratitude and devotion – they cannot torture.”
“Gratitude!” he [exclaimed]; and added wildly – “Jane, accept me quickly. Say, Edward – give me my name – Edward- I will marry you.”
“Are you in earnest?- Do you truly love me?- Do you sincerely wish me to be your wife?”
“I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it.”
“Then, sir, I will marry you.”
“Edward – my little wife!”
“Dear Edward!”
“Come to me – come to me entirely now,” said he: and added, in his deepest tone, speaking in my ear as his cheek was laid on mine, “Make my happiness – I will make yours.
“God pardon me!” he subjoined ere long; “and man meddle not with me: I have her, and will hold her.”
“There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no kindred to interfere.”

And this brings up the fact that Jane spelled out earlier: She is entirely dependent on Mr. Rochester at this point (and, once again, HE’S OLD ENOUGH TO BE HER FATHER). She’s in no position to turn him down even if she wanted to. I mean, it’s better than making her his mistress, but she doesn’t have much of a choice either way.

And if I had loved him less I should have thought his accent and look of exultation savage; but, sitting by him, roused from the nightmare of parting – called to the paradise of union – I thought only of the bliss given me to drink in so abundant a flow. Again and again he said, “Are you happy, Jane?” And again and again I answered, “Yes.” After which he murmured, “It will atone – it will atone. Have I not found her friendless, and cold, and comfortless? Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace her? Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? It will expiate at God’s tribunal. I know my Maker sanctions what I do. For the world’s judgment- I wash my hands thereof. For man’s opinion- I defy it.”

He’s speaking an awful lot like he did in their first conversation…

But then a storm comes out of nowhere, and they head inside.

He was taking off my shawl in the hall, and shaking water out of my loosened hair, when Mrs. Fairfax emerged from her room. I did not observe her at first, nor did Mr. Rochester. The lamp was lit. The clock was on the stroke of twelve.
“Hasten to take off your wet things,” said he; “and before you go, good-night – good-night, my darling!”
He kissed me repeatedly. When I looked up, on leaving his arms, there stood the widow, pale, grave, and amazed. I only smiled at her, and ran upstairs. “Explanation will do for another time,” thought I.

It’s only after she’s in bed that Jane considers what this might look like to Mrs. Fairfax, and how much it might hurt to see her seemingly pursuing an affair with her employer.

And the next say, they discover that the tree the two of them were sitting under had been struck by lightning in the storm…

Until next time…