“Your master himself may be beyond the British Channel； for aught you know： and then； if he is at Thornfield Hall； towards which you hasten； who besides him is there？ His lunatic wife： and you have nothing to do with him： you dare not speak to him or seek his presence。 You have lost your labour—you had better go no farther；” urged the monitor。 “Ask information of the people at the inn； they can give you all you seek： they can solve your doubts at once。 Go up to that man； and inquire if Mr。 Rochester be at home。”
The suggestion was sensible； and yet I could not force myself to act on it。 I so dreaded a reply that would crush me with despair。 To prolong doubt was to prolong hope。 I might yet once more see the Hall under the ray of her star。 There was the stile before me—the very fields through which I had hurried； blind； deaf； distracted with a revengeful fury tracking and scourging me； on the morning I fled from Thornfield： ere I well knew what course I had resolved to take； I was in the midst of them。 How fast I walked！ How I ran sometimes！ How I looked forward to catch the first view of the well…known woods！ With what feelings I weled single trees I knew； and familiar glimpses of meadow and hill between them！
At last the woods rose； the rookery clustered dark； a loud cawing broke the morning stillness。 Strange delight inspired me： on I hastened。 Another field crossed—a lane threaded—and there were the courtyard walls—the back offices： the house itself； the rookery still hid。 “My first view of it shall be in front；” I determined； “where its bold battlements will strike the eye nobly at once； and where I can single out my master’s very window： perhaps he will be standing at it—he rises early： perhaps he is now walking in the orchard； or on the pavement in front。 Could I but see him！—but a moment！ Surely； in that case； I should not be so mad as to run to him？ I cannot tell—I am not certain。 And if I did—what then？ God bless him！ What then？ Who would be hurt by my once more tasting the life his glance can give me？ I rave： perhaps at this moment he is watching the sun rise over the Pyrenees； or on the tideless sea of the south。”
I had coasted along the lower wall of the orchard—turned its angle： there was a gate just there； opening into the meadow； between two stone pillars crowned by stone balls。 From behind one pillar I could peep round quietly at the full front of the mansion。 I advanced my head with precaution； desirous to ascertain if any bedroom window…blinds were yet drawn up： battlements； windows； long front—all from this sheltered station were at my mand。
The crows sailing overhead perhaps watched me while I took this survey。 I wonder what they thought。 They must have considered I was very careful and timid at first； and that gradually I grew very bold and reckless。 A peep； and then a long stare； and then a departure from my niche and a straying out into the meadow； and a sudden stop full in front of the great mansion； and a protracted； hardy gaze towards it。 “What affectation of diffidence was this at first？” they might have demanded； “what stupid regardlessness now？”
Hear an illustration； reader。
A lover finds his mistress asleep on a mossy bank； he wishes to catch a glimpse of her fair face without waking her。 He steals softly over the grass； careful to make no sound； he pauses—fancying she has stirred： he withdraws： not for worlds would he be seen。 All is still： he again advances： he bends above her； a light veil rests on her features： he lifts it； bends lower； now his eyes anticipate the vision of beauty—warm； and blooming； and lovely； in rest。 How hurried was their first glance！ But how they fix！ How he starts！ How he suddenly and vehemently clasps in both arms the form he dared not； a moment since； touch with his finger！ How he calls aloud a name； and drops his burden； and gazes on it wildly！ He thus grasps and cries； and gazes； because he no longer fears to waken by any sound he can utter—by any movement he can make。 He thought his love slept sweetly： he finds she is stone dead。
I looked with timorous joy towards a stately house： I saw a blackened ruin。
No need to cower behind a gate…post； indeed！—to peep up at chamber lattices； fearing life was astir behind them！ No need to listen for doors opening—to fancy steps on the pavement or the gravel…walk！ The lawn； the grounds were trodden and waste： the portal yawned void。 The front was； as I had once seen it in a dream； but a well… like wall； very high and very fragile…looking； perforated with paneless windows： no roof； no battlements； no chimneys—all had crashed in。
And there was the silence of death about it： the solitude of a lonesome wild。 No wonder that letters addressed to people here had never received an answer： as well despatch epistles to a vault in a church aisle。 The grim blackness of the stones told by what fate the Hall had fallen—by conflagration： but how kindled？ What story belonged to this disaster？ What loss； besides mortar and marble and wood…work had followed upon it？ Had life been wrecked as well as property？ If so； whose？ Dreadful question： there was no one here to answer it—not even dumb sign； mute token。
In wandering round the shattered walls and through the devastated interior； I gathered evidence that the calamity was not of late occurrence。 Winter snows； I thought； had drifted through that void arch； winter rains beaten in at those hollow casements； for； amidst the drenched piles of rubbish； spring had cherished vegetation： grass and weed grew here and there between the stones and fallen rafters。 And oh！ where meantime was the hapless owner of this wreck？ In what land？ Under what auspices？ My eye involuntarily wandered to the grey church tower near the gates； and I asked； “Is he with Damer de Rochester； sharing the shelter of his narrow marble house？”
Some answer must be had to these questions。 I could find it nowhere but at the inn； and thither； ere long； I returned。 The host himself brought my breakfast into the parlour。 I requested him to shut the door and sit do。 But when he plied； I scarcely knew how to begin； such horror had I of the possible answers。 And yet the spectacle of desolation I had just left prepared me in a measure for a tale of misery。 The host was a respectable…looking； middle…aged man。
“You know Thornfield Hall； of course？” I managed to say at last。
“Yes； ma’am； I lived there once。”
“Did you？” Not in my time； I thought： you are a stranger to me。
“I was the late Mr。 Rochester’s butler；” he added。
The late！ I seem to have received； with full force； the blow I had been trying to evade。
“The late！” gasped。 “Is he dead？”
“I mean the present gentleman； Mr。 Edward’s father；” he explained。 I breathed again： my blood resumed its flow。 Fully assured by these words that Mr。 Edward—my Mr。 Rochester （God bless him； wherever he was！）—was at least alive： was； in short； “the present gentleman。” Gladdening words！ It seemed I could hear all that was to e—whatever the disclosures might be—with parative tranquillity。 Since he was not in the grave； I could bear； I thought； to learn that he was at the Antipodes。
“Is Mr。 Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now？” I asked； knowing； of course； what the answer would be； but yet desirous of deferring the direct question as to where he really was。
“No； ma’am—oh； no！ No one is living there。 I suppose you are a stranger in these parts； or you would have heard what happened last autumn；—Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin： it was burnt down just about harvest…time。 A dreadful calamity！ such an immense quantity of valuable property destroyed： hardly any of the furniture could be saved。 The fire broke out at dead of night； and before the engines arrived from Millcote； the building was one mass of flame。 It was a terrible spectacle： I witnessed it myself。”
“At dead of night！” I muttered。 Yes； that was ever the hour of fatality at Thornfield。 “Was it known how it originated？” I demanded。
“They guessed； ma’am： they guessed。 Indeed； I should say it was ascertained beyond a doubt。 You are not perhaps aware；” he continued； edging his chair a little nearer the table； and speaking low； “that there was a lady—a—a lunatic； kept in the house？”
“I have heard something of it。”
“She was kept in very close confinement； ma’am： people even for some years was not absolutely certain of her existence。 No one saw her： they only knew by rumour that such a person was at the Hall； and who or what she was it was difficult to conjecture。 They said Mr。 Edward had brought her from abroad； and some believed she had been his mistress。 But a queer thing happened a year since—a very queer thing。”
I feared now to hear my own story。 I endeavoured to recall him to the main fact。
“And this lady？”
“This lady； ma’am；” he answered； “turned out to be Mr。 Rochester’s wife！ The discovery was brought about in the strangest way。 There was a young lady； a governess at the Hall； that Mr。 Rochester fell in—”
“But the fire；” I suggested。
“I’m ing to that； ma’am—that Mr。 Edward fell in love with。 The servants say they never saw anybody so much in love as he was： he was after her continually。 They used to watch him—servants will； you know； ma’am—and he set store on her past everything： for all； nobody but him thought her so very handsome。 She was a little small thing； they say； almost like a child。 I never saw her myself； but I’ve heard Leah； the house…maid； tell of her。 Leah liked her well enough。 Mr。 Rochester was about forty； and this governess not twenty； and you see； when gentlemen of his age fall in love with girls； they are often like as if they were bewitched。 Well； he would marry her。”
“You shall tell me this part of the story another time；” I said； “but now I have a particular reason for wishing to hear all about the fire。 Was it suspected that this lunatic； Mrs。 Rochester； had any hand in it？”
“You’ve hit it； ma’am： it’s quite certain that it was her； and nobody but her； that set it going。 She had a woman to take care of her called Mrs。 Poole—an able woman in her line； and very trustworthy； but for one fault—a fault mon to a deal of them nurses and matrons—she kept a private bottle of gin by her； and now and then took a d