I sought the orchard, driven to its shelter by the wind, which all

day had blown strong and full from the south, without, however,

bringing a speck of rain. Instead of subsiding as night drew on, it

seemed to augment its rush and deepen its roar: the trees blew

steadfastly one way, never writhing round, and scarcely tossing back

their boughs once in an hour; so continuous was the strain bending

their branchy heads northward--the clouds drifted from pole to pole,

fast following, mass on mass: no glimpse of blue sky had been

visible that July day.

It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind,

delivering my trouble of mind to the measureless air-torrent

thundering through space. Descending the laurel walk, I faced the

wreck of the chestnut-tree; it stood up black and riven: the trunk,

split down the centre, gasped ghastly. The cloven halves were not

broken from each other, for the firm base and strong roots kept them

unsundered below; though community of vitality was destroyed--the

sap could flow no more: their great boughs on each side were dead,

and next winter's tempests would be sure to fell one or both to

earth: as yet, however, they might be said to form one tree--a

ruin, but an entire ruin.

"You did right to hold fast to each other," I said: as if the

monster-splinters were living things, and could hear me. "I think,

scathed as you look, and charred and scorched, there must be a

little sense of life in you yet, rising out of that adhesion at the

faithful, honest roots: you will never have green leaves more--

never more see birds making nests and singing idyls in your boughs;

the time of pleasure and love is over with you: but you are not

desolate: each of you has a comrade to sympathise with him in his

decay." As I looked up at them, the moon appeared momentarily in

that part of the sky which filled their fissure; her disk was blood-

red and half overcast; she seemed to throw on me one bewildered,

dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in the deep drift

of cloud. The wind fell, for a second, round Thornfield; but far

away over wood and water, poured a wild, melancholy wail: it was

sad to listen to, and I ran off again.

Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples

with which the grass round the tree roots was thickly strewn; then I

employed myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe; I carried them

into the house and put them away in the store-room. Then I repaired

to the library to ascertain whether the fire was lit, for, though

summer, I knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochester would like to

see a cheerful hearth when he came in: yes, the fire had been

kindled some time, and burnt well. I placed his arm-chair by the

chimney-corner: I wheeled the table near it: I let down the

curtain, and had the candles brought in ready for lighting. More

restless than ever, when I had completed these arrangements I could

not sit still, nor even remain in the house: a little time-piece in

the room and the old clock in the hall simultaneously struck ten.




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