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 down:  I had some questions to ask him.  But when he complied, 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!” I 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 come —­ whatever the disclosures might be —­ with comparative tranquillity.  Since he was not in the grave, I could bear, I thought, to learn that he was at the Antipodes.