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it was not merely a cold word now, or even a shake of the hand that
I received, but an embrace and a kiss. It seemed natural: it seemed
genial to be so well loved, so caressed by him.
'Jane, you look blooming, and smiling, and pretty,' said he: 'truly
pretty this morning. Is this my pale, little elf? Is this my
mustard-seed? This little sunny-faced girl with the dimpled cheek
and rosy lips; the satin-smooth hazel hair, and the radiant hazel
eyes?' (I had green eyes, reader; but you must excuse the mistake: for
him they were new-dyed, I suppose.)
'It is Jane Eyre, sir.'
'Soon to be Jane Rochester,' he added: 'in four weeks, Janet; not a
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day more. Do you hear that?'
I did, and I could not quite comprehend it: it made me giddy. The
feeling, the announcement sent through me, was something stronger than
was consistent with joy- something that smote and stunned: it was, I
think, almost fear.
'You blushed, and now you are white, Jane: what is that for?'
'Because you gave me a new name- Jane Rochester; and it seems so
strange.'
'Yes, Mrs. Rochester,' said he; 'young Mrs. Rochester- Fairfax
Rochester's girl-bride.'
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