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Updated: June 16, 2025
After a brief period of married life, Charlotte Brontë died on March 31, 1855. I. The Master of Thornfield Hall Thornfield, my new home after I left school, was, I found, a fine old battlemented hall, and Mrs. Fairfax, who had answered my advertisement, a mild, elderly lady, related by marriage to Mr. Rochester, the owner of the estate and the guardian of Adela Varens, my little pupil.
Leah had been saying something I had not caught, and the charwoman remarked "She gets good wages, I guess?" "Yes," said Leah; "I wish I had as good; not that mine are to complain of, there's no stinginess at Thornfield; but they're not one fifth of the sum Mrs. Poole receives. And she is laying by: she goes every quarter to the bank at Millcote.
Of course I did not I had never heard of him before; but the old lady seemed to regard his existence as a universally understood fact, with which everybody must be acquainted by instinct. "I thought," I continued, "Thornfield belonged to you." "To me? Bless you, child; what an idea! To me! I am only the housekeeper the manager.
Jane, a real strapper!" and that as soon as he brings home his bride to Thornfield, she, the governess, must "trot forthwith" but that he shall make it his duty to look out for employment and an asylum for her indeed, that he has already heard of a charming situation in the depths of Ireland all with a brutal jocoseness which most women of spirit, unless grievously despairing of any other lover, would have resented, and any woman of sense would have seen through.
She wanted to know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall, and what sort of a person the mistress was; and when I told her there was only a master, whether he was a nice gentleman, and if I liked him. I told her he was rather an ugly man, but quite a gentleman; and that he treated me kindly, and I was content.
Rochester comes to Thornfield, and sends for the child and her governess occasionally to bear him company.
A joyous stir was now audible in the hall: gentlemen's deep tones and ladies' silvery accents blent harmoniously together, and distinguishable above all, though not loud, was the sonorous voice of the master of Thornfield Hall, welcoming his fair and gallant guests under its roof.
Our little governess is now summoned away to attend her aunt's death-bed, who is visited by some compunctions towards her, and she is absent a month. When she returns Thornfield Hall is quit of all its guests, and Mr. Rochester and she resume their former life of captious cordiality on the one side, and diplomatic humility on the other. At the same time the bugbear of Miss Ingram and of Mr.
"You would be strangely incredulous if you did doubt it," was my mental comment. "I don't doubt it." The question followed, "Where was I to go?" I dreamt of Miss Ingram all the night: in a vivid morning dream I saw her closing the gates of Thornfield against me and pointing me out another road; and Mr. Rochester looked on with his arms folded smiling sardonically, as it seemed, at both her and me.
I asked, knowing, of course, what the answer would be, but yet desirous of deferring the direct question as to where he really was. "No, ma'am oh, no! No one is living there. I suppose you are a stranger in these parts, or you would have heard what happened last autumn, Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin: it was burnt down just about harvest-time.
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