Джейн Эйр / Jane Eyre

That night, when I had calmed down, I told my cousins I had to visit a friend, and would be gone a few days. I knew they might think this strange, since I had said I didn’t have any friends, but they didn’t remark on it. Diana just asked: “Are you sure you are fit to travel? You look pale.” I assured her that I was. And so I rose early in the morning, and packed my bag. As I left my room, I found a note slipped under my door. It read:

“Jane,

I will wait to hear your final decision when you return. In the meantime, I will pray for you.

Yours ever,

St. John Rivers”

I folded the note into my pocket, left the house, and set out across the moors in the dawn light. An hour later, I had reached the signpost at Whitcross.

I realized it was almost a year since I had first arrived at that same spot, desolate and lonely, with no idea what might become of me. Who could have guessed things would turn out as they had, and that I would now be so much happier?

And yet, as the coach drew up, and I climbed in, and the wheels began to turn to carry me in the direction of Millcote, I felt as if I was going home.

By late afternoon, I saw familiar landscapes around me. When the coach stopped at a wayside inn I knew, I climbed out, saying I would walk from there. Thornfield was less than a mile away.

I am nearly there, I thought to myself, as I set off across the fields. I will see him soon.

But then other thoughts crowded into my head. What makes you think he will be there? I scolded myself. Mr. Rochester could be abroad – he could be away visiting friends. The voice you heard was only in your head – of course, he could not really have called you. Your silly hopes are built on a dream – on nothing.

For a moment I stopped. I was stupid to have come back, after I had fled so suddenly, and vowed never to see Mr. Rochester again. What was I doing? If I wanted to know how he was, any local person could tell me. There was no need for anyone at Thornfield to see me at all. I must turn back.

But I couldn’t turn back. Something was pulling me on, and I grew desperate to reach the house. I longed to see the orchard, the rookery, the thorn trees, and the high battlements. I kept walking.

As I came nearer, I came across individual stones and trees that I remembered from before, and they filled me with such emotion that I started to run. I hurried along behind the orchard wall, hearing the rooks cawing. I knew that when I turned at the end of the wall, I would see the house. I could not help but think I might see Mr. Rochester too, standing in his window, or walking on the lawn.

I reached the end of the orchard, and ran around the corner onto the path that led up to the house. Then I stumbled to a halt, and stood there helplessly on the path, gazing in horror at what I saw.

Thornfield Hall was an empty, blackened ruin.

The front of the house still rose up, high and grand, but its windows were empty of glass, and its broken stonework was dark with soot and covered with weeds. Behind the gaping doorway lay heaps of rubble, overgrown with moss, where the roof and the chimneys had fallen down.

I began to walk forward again, disbelieving. I crossed the lawn, staring up at the shell of the house. Silence surrounded me, broken only by the cries of the rooks as they circled around the deserted building.

Thornfield had clearly been destroyed by a great fire. But now I could hardly bear the thought that came into my head: had the fire taken lives as well as property? I had to know what had happened. I turned and ran all the way back to the inn, and asked the owner if he could answer some questions I had.

“Of course, Miss – how can I help?”

“Do you know Thornfield Hall?” I asked.

“I used to work there.”

“Did you? Why, so did I – many years ago now,” he said. “I was the late Mr. Rochester’s butler.”

“The late Mr. Rochester?” I gasped, feeling every bone in my body turn cold.

“Ah, you misunderstand me. I mean old Mr. Rochester, the present Mr. Rochester’s father.”

I breathed again. Mr. Rochester was alive after all.

“So… is the present Mr. Rochester still living at Thornfield?” I asked. Of course, I knew he could not be, but I wanted to hear the whole story.

“Oh no – no one’s living there. Have you not heard about the fire?”

“I’ve been away for some time.”

“Oh, Miss, I’m afraid the house has been burned to the ground! It was last autumn, about harvest time. A fire started in the night, and before they could bring the fire engines from Millcote it was all ablaze. I saw it myself. Such a shame – nothing could be saved. All that fine furniture, burned to a crisp!”

“How did the fire start?”

“Well, it was a shady business, Miss. I don’t know if you ever heard any gossip that Mr. Rochester kept a strange lady in secret at the house – a lunatic?”

“I… I did hear something about that.”