23 Jane Eyre Read And Abridged By Stephanie Poppins

Jane Eyre is a woman with a difficult past. Her childhood was at Gateshead Hall, where she was emotionally and physically abused by her aunt and cousins. Her education was at Lowood School, where she gained few friends and role models and suffered privations and oppression. Then she arrives at Thornfield and meets the inimitable Mr Rochester...

In this episode, Mr Rochester tells Jane that he has found a governess job for her in Ireland. Jane, upset, says that Ireland is too far away and explains how much she loves Thornfield.

Transcript

Hello.

Welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph,

Your go-to romantic podcast that guarantees you a calm and entertaining transition into a great night's sleep.

Come with me as we immerse ourselves in a romantic journey to a time long since forgotten.

But before we begin,

Let's take a moment to focus on where we are now.

Take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out with a long sigh.

That's it.

Now close your eyes and feel yourself sink deeper into the support beneath you.

It is time to relax and fully let go.

There is nothing you need to be doing now and nowhere you need to go.

Happy listening.

This is SD Hudson Magic.

Jane Eyre Chapter 23 A splendid midsummer shone over England.

Skies so pure,

Sun so radiant as were then seen in long succession.

It was as if a band of Italian days had come over from the south like a flock of glorious passenger birds and lighted to rest them on the cliffs of Albion.

The hay was all got in,

The fields round Thornfield green and shorn,

The roads white and baked.

The trees were in their dark prime,

Hedge and wood,

Full-leaved and deeply tinted,

Contrasted well with the sunny hue of the cleared meadows between.

On Midsummer Eve,

Adele,

Weary with gathering wild strawberries,

Had gone to bed with the sun.

I watched her drop asleep and when I left her I sought the garden.

It was now the sweetest hour of the twenty-four and dew fell cool on Panting Plain and Scorched Summit.

Where the sun had gone down in simple state,

Spread a solemn purple,

Burning with the light of a red jewel and furnished flame at one point,

On one hill peak,

And extending high and wide,

Soft and still softer,

Over half heaven.

The east had its own charm of fine deep blue and its own modest gem,

A rising and solitary star.

Soon it would boast the moon,

But she was yet beneath the horizon.

I walked a while on the pavement,

But a subtle well-known scent,

That of a cigar,

Stole from some window.

I saw the library casement open to hand breath.

I knew I must be watched then,

So I went apart into the orchard.

No nook in the grounds more sheltered and more Eden-like.

It was full of trees.

It bloomed with flowers.

A very high wall shuttered out from the court on one side.

On the other,

A beach avenue screened it from the lawn.

At the bottom was a sunk fence,

Its sole separation from lonely fields.

A winding walk,

Bordered with laurels and terminating to a giant horse chestnut,

Circled at the base by a seat,

Led down to the fence.

Here one could wander unseen.

While such honeydew fell,

Such silence reigned,

Such gloaming gathered,

I felt as if I could haunt such shade forever.

But in threading the flower and fruit parterres at the upper part of the enclosure,

Enticed there by the light my now rising moon casts on this more open quarter,

My step is stayed,

Not by sound,

Not by sight,

But once more by a warming fragrance.

Sweet briar and southernwood,

Jasmine,

Pink and rose,

Have long been yielding their evening sacrifice of incense.

This new scent is neither of shrub nor flower.

It is,

I know it well,

It is Mr.

Rochester's cigar.

I look round and listen.

I see trees laden with ripening fruit.

I hear a nightingale warbling in a wood,

Half a mile off.

No sound 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,

Even tide is as pleasant to him as to me,

And this antique garden is 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 past.

It alights on a plant at Mr.

Rochester's foot.

He sees it and bends to examine it.

Now he has his back towards me,

Thought I,

And he is occupied too.

If I walk softly,

I can slip away unnoticed.

I trode 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 engaging 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 and look at this fellow.

I had made no noise.

He had not eyes behind.

Could his shadow fear him?

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.

The moth roamed away.

But Mr.

Rochester followed me,

And when we reached the wicket,

He said,

Turn back.

On so lovely a night,

It's a shame to sit in the house,

And surely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus meeting with a moonrise.

It is one of my faults,

That though my tongue is sometimes prompt enough at an answer,

There are times when it sadly fails me in framing an excuse,

And always the lapse occurs at some crisis,

Where a facile word or plausible pretext especially wanted to get me out of painful embarrassment.

I did not like to walk at this hour alone with Mr.

Rochester in the shadowy orchard,

But I could not find a reason to allege for leaving him.

I followed with lagging step,

And thoughts busily bent on discovering a means of extrication,

But he himself looked so composed and so grave,

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.

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,

And even for simple dame Fairfax.

Yes,

Sir,

In different ways.

I have an 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.

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'm sorry,

But I believe you must.

This was a blow,

But I did not let it prostrate me.

Well,

Sir,

I shall be ready when the order to march comes.

It is come now.

I must give it tonight.

Then you are going to be married,

Sir?

Exactly.

Precisely.

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,

Intimated to you it was my intention to put my old bachelor's neck into the sacred noose,

To enter into the holiest state 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.

As I was saying,

Listen to me,

Jane.

You're not turning your head to look after more moths,

Are you?

That was only a lady-clock child flying away home.

I wish to remind you 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,

Independent position,

That in case I married Miss Ingram,

You and little Adèle had better trot forthwith.

I pass over the sort of slur conveyed in this gesture on the character of my beloved.

Indeed,

When you are far away,

Jane,

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.

Yes,

Sir,

I will advertise immediately.

And meantime,

I suppose—I was going to say— I suppose I may stay here till I find another shelter to betake myself to.

But I stopped,

Feeling it would not do to risk a long sentence,

For my voice was not quite under command.

In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom,

Continued Mr.

Rochester,

And in the interim I shall myself look out for employment and an asylum for you.

Thank you,

Sir.

I am sorry to give all 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 that I think will suit.

It is to undertake the education of the five daughters of Mrs Dionysus Ogall of Bitternut Lodge.

You'll like Ireland,

I think.

There's such a 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 Thornfield and.

.

.

Well.

.

.

From you,

Sir.

I said this almost involuntarily,

And with as little sanction of free will my tears gushed out.

I did not cry so as to be heard,

However.

I avoided sobbing.

The thought of Mrs Ogall and Bitternut Lodge struck cold to my heart,

And colder the thought of all the brine and foaming,

Destined,

As it seemed,

To rush between me and the 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,

Said Mr Rochester.

And when you get to Ireland,

I shall never see you again,

Jane.

That's morally certain.

I never go over 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.

We will sit under the horse chestnut in peace tonight,

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 an answer by this time.

My heart was full.

Because,

He said,

I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you,

Especially when you're near me.

It's 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 raw between us,

I'm afraid that cord of communion will be snapped 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,

It was 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 come to Thornfield.

Because you were sorry to leave it,

Asked Mr.

Rochester.

I grieve to leave Thornfield.

I love Thornfield.

I love it because I have lived in it 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 no new,

Mr.

Rochester,

And it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you forever.

I have seen the necessity of departure,

And it is like looking on the necessity of death.

Amen.