"Ere many days," I said, as I terminated my musings, "I will know

something of him whose voice seemed last night to summon me.

Letters have proved of no avail--personal inquiry shall replace

them."

At breakfast I announced to Diana and Mary that I was going a

journey, and should be absent at least four days.

"Alone, Jane?" they asked.

"Yes; it was to see or hear news of a friend about whom I had for

some time been uneasy."

They might have said, as I have no doubt they thought, that they had

believed me to be without any friends save them: for, indeed, I had

often said so; but, with their true natural delicacy, they abstained

from comment, except that Diana asked me if I was sure I was well

enough to travel. I looked very pale, she observed. I replied,

that nothing ailed me save anxiety of mind, which I hoped soon to

alleviate.

It was easy to make my further arrangements; for I was troubled with

no inquiries--no surmises. Having once explained to them that I

could not now be explicit about my plans, they kindly and wisely

acquiesced in the silence with which I pursued them, according to me

the privilege of free action I should under similar circumstances

have accorded them.

I left Moor House at three o'clock p.m., and soon after four I stood

at the foot of the sign-post of Whitcross, waiting the arrival of

the coach which was to take me to distant Thornfield. Amidst the

silence of those solitary roads and desert hills, I heard it

approach from a great distance. It was the same vehicle whence, a

year ago, I had alighted one summer evening on this very spot--how

desolate, and hopeless, and objectless! It stopped as I beckoned.

I entered--not now obliged to part with my whole fortune as the

price of its accommodation. Once more on the road to Thornfield, I

felt like the messenger-pigeon flying home.

It was a journey of six-and-thirty hours. I had set out from

Whitcross on a Tuesday afternoon, and early on the succeeding

Thursday morning the coach stopped to water the horses at a wayside

inn, situated in the midst of scenery whose green hedges and large

fields and low pastoral hills (how mild of feature and verdant of

hue compared with the stern North-Midland moors of Morton!) met my

eye like the lineaments of a once familiar face. Yes, I knew the

character of this landscape: I was sure we were near my bourne.

"How far is Thornfield Hall from here?" I asked of the ostler.




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