第86部分(第3/7 页)

t　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　acmodation。　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　pared　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。

“Just　two　miles；　ma’am；　across　the　fields。”

“My　journey　is　closed；”　I　thought　to　myself。　I　got　out　of　the　coach；　gave　a　box　I　had　into　the　ostler’s　charge；　to　be　kept　till　I　called　for　it；　paid　my　fare；　satisfied　the　coachman；　and　was　going：　the　brightening　day　gleamed　on　the　sign　of　the　inn；　and　I　read　in　gilt　letters；　“The　Rochester　Arms。”　My　heart　leapt　up：　I　was　already　on　my　master’s　very　lands。　It　fell　again：　the　thought　struck　it：—

“Your　master　himself　may　be　beyond　the　British　Channel；　for　aught　you　know：　and　then；　if　he　is　at　Thornfield　Hall；　towards　which　you　hasten；　who　besides　him　is　there？　His　lunatic　wife：　and　you　have　nothing　to