At Christmas I left the school.  As the spring advanced St. John Rivers, who, with an icy heroism, was possessed by the idea of becoming a missionary, urged me strongly to accompany him to India as his wife, on the grounds that I was docile, diligent, and courageous, and would be very useful.  I felt such veneration for him that I was tempted to cease struggling with him—­to rush down the torrent of his will into the gulf of his existence, and there lose my own.

V.—­Reunion

The time came when he called on me to decide.  I fervently longed to do what was right, and only that.  “Show me the path, show me the path!” I entreated of Heaven.

My heart beat fast and thick; I heard its throb.  Suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through.  My senses rose expectant; ear and eye waited, while the flesh quivered on my bones.  I saw nothing; but I heard a voice, somewhere, cry “Jane!  Jane!  Jane!”—­ nothing more.

“Oh, God!  What is it?” I gasped.  I might have said, “Where is it?” for it did not seem in the room, nor in the house, nor in the garden, nor from overhead.  And it was the voice of a human being—­a loved, well-remembered voice—­that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently.

“I am coming!” I cried.  “Wait for me!” I ran out into the garden; it was void.

“Down, superstition!” I commented, as that spectre rose up black by the black yew at the gate.

I mounted to my chamber, locked myself in, fell on my knees, and seemed to penetrate very near a Mighty Spirit; and my soul rushed out in gratitude at His feet.

Then I rose from the thanksgiving, took a resolve, and lay down, unscared, enlightened, eager but for the daylight.

Thirty-six hours later I was crossing the fields to where I could see the full front of my master’s mansion, and, looking with a timorous joy, saw—­a blackened ruin.

Where, meantime, was the hapless owner?

I returned to the inn, where the host himself, a respectable middle-aged man, brought my breakfast into the parlour.  I scarcely knew how to begin my questions.

“Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now?”

“No, ma’am—­oh, no!  No one is living there.  It was burnt down about harvest time.  The fire broke out at dead of night.”

“Was it known how it originated?”

“They guessed, ma’am; they guessed.  There was a lady—­a—­a lunatic kept in the house.  She had a woman to take care of her called Mrs. Poole, an able woman but for one fault—­she kept a private bottle of gin by her; and the mad lady would take the keys out of her pocket, let herself out of her chamber, and go roaming about the house doing any wild mischief that came into her head.  Mr. Rochester was at home when the fire broke out, and he went up to the attics and got the servants out of their beds, and then went