ewhowtobegin;suchhorrorhadIofthepossibleanswers.AhespectacleofdesolationIhadjustleftpreparedmeinameasureforataleofmisery.Thehostectable-looking,middle-agedman.

    “YouknowThornfieldHall,ofcourse?”Imaosayatlast.

    “Yes,ma’am;Ilivedthereonce.”

    “Didyou?”Notinmytime,Ithought:youareastraome.

    “IwasthelateMr.Rochester’sbutler,”headded.

    Thelate!Iseemtohavereceived,withfullforce,theblowIhadbeentryingtoevade.

    “Thelate!”gasped.“Ishedead?”

    “Imeanthepreseleman,Mr.Edward’sfather,”heexplained.Ibreathedagain:mybloodresumeditsflow.FullyassuredbythesewordsthatMr.Edward—myMr.Rochester(Godblesshim,whereverhewas!)—wasatleastalive:was,inshort,“thepreseleman.”Gladdeningwords!ItseemedIcouldhearallthatwastoe—whateverthedisclosuresmightbe—withparativetranquillity.Sincehewasnotinthegrave,Icouldbear,Ithought,tolearnthathewasattheAntipodes.

    “IsMr.RochesterlivingatThornfieldHallnow?”Iasked,knowing,ofcourse,whattheanswerwouldbe,butyetdesirousofdeferringthedirectquestionastowherehereallywas.

    “No,ma’am—oh,no!Nooneislivingthere.Isupposeyouareastraheseparts,oryouwouldhaveheardpenedlastautumn,—ThornfieldHallisquitearuin:itwasburntdownjustaboutharvest-time.Adreadfulcalamity!suimmensequantityofvaluablepropertydestroyed:hardlyanyofthefurniturecouldbesaved.Thefirebrokeoutatdeadofnight,andbeforetheenginesarrivedfromMillcote,thebuildingwasonemassofflame.Itwasaterriblespectacle:Iwitmyself.”

    “Atdeadofnight!”Imuttered.Yes,thatwaseverthehouroffatalityatThor