"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?"