_Enter_ JOHN, R. H.

_John._ Well, I never did see any one take on for any body in such an outrageous way as my poor master does for that there governess. One would naturally suppose that the whole race of soft sexes was abolished from the face of the inhabitable globe, which everybody knows, and we in perticular, they are not.

_Enter_ MRS. JOHN, _late Grace_, L. H.

_Mrs. D._ Now, turnip skull, what are you wasting your time there for?

_John._ None of your vegetable allusions if you please, or else I might insinuate something respecting _carrots_, Mrs. Downey.

_Mrs. D._ Alluding to my hair, I presume, Mr. D.

_John._ Precisely, Mrs. D.

_Mrs. D._ Before we were married you used to call it auburn.

_John._ That’s the poetical for red, you know; only an allowable ante-nuptial fiction, as my old master, the lawyers, used to say.

_Mrs. D._ I’ll fiction your thick head with the broom-handle if you don’t mind.

_John._ Ah, you let the devil’s hoof peep out now. I suppose we’ll have the horns soon. You were a different sort of an individual when you went sneaking about Thornfield with your bit of bread and cheese, awaiting on that she-devil as was shut up there; you couldn’t say boo to a goose then.

_Mrs. D._ I’ve often had a chance since.

_John._ Mrs. D., respect the head of your family.

_Mrs. D._ There’s nothing in it.

_John._ Honour the provider of your wittles. Oh, why did I ever marry?

_Mrs. D._ That’s a question that always comes too late; and moreover is never asked except by a good-for-nothing husband; see, who is that lady beckoning to you. Stupid, go and see what she wants—while I get master’s dinner on the do.

[_Exit into house._

_Enter_ JANE, _slightly concealing her face_, L. H.

_Jane._ Is this Ferndean Farm?

_John._ It is, marm.

_Jane._ Your name is John Downey.

_John._ I never had no other as I knows on, marm. (_Aside._) Exceptin’ now and then, turnip skull and such like.

_Jane._ They told me at the inn that you could give me the information that I require. You know Thornfield Hall?

_John._ Yes, marm; I lived there once; I was the late Mr. Rochester’s own man.

_Jane._ The late—I——

_John._ Dear me, marm, anything the matter?

_Jane._ A spasm—’twill soon be over. Have I then lived and hoped for this? With one simple word to be for ever crushed, destroyed.

_Jane._ When did Mr. Rochester die?

_John._ I don’t mean the present gentleman.

_Jane._ Present? _he_ is alive then.

_John._ Oh, yes, marm, he’s _alive_!

_Jane._ Thank Heaven! I can bear anything now! the light of hope and joy rekindled! Does he live at Thornfield Hall now?

_John._ No marm; no one is living there. You must be a stranger here or you would have known that the Hall was burnt down last harvest time.

_Jane._ Burnt? the hall?

_John._ Yes, marm. The fire broke out at dead of night. It was a terrible sight. It nearly caught fire once before, at a strange time—there was a wedding about to take place.

_Jane._ But the last fire; how did it originate?

_John._ The same way. A raving lunatic, that tuned out to be Mr. Rochester’s wife, after having made several attempts, succeeded at last.

_Jane._ And was _he_! was Mr. Rochester in the house?

_John._ Oh, yes, marm, and never left it until everybody else was safe. Then he tried to get his mad wife out of the place, but she fled to the roof, where she yelled and gave a spring and in the next moment she lay upon the pavement.

_Jane._ Great Heaven! Dead?

_John._ Yes, marm, as dead as the very stones she lay on.

_Jane._ One question more. My labouring heart throbs painfully at each pulsation. I scarcely dare to ask him from fear. While there’s delay there still is hope, and yet, suspense is anguish. What of the master of the Hall—is he in the country?

_John._ Yes, marm. He can’t get out of it well, now. He’s a fixture.

_Jane._ There is an awful meaning in your words.

_John._ He’s blind, marm, stone blind.

_Jane._ Thank heaven! I had feared a worse calamity; the loss of reason—but where? do you know where he now is?

_John._ He ain’t far off, marm; he’s in the garden yonder.

_Jane._ So near. I was not prepared for this, John. Do you not know me?

_John._ Dear heart—why it’s the governess. Oh, but this will be a happy meeting for us all.

_Jane._ Let us retire from observation.

_John._ You forget, miss, he can’t see a mite.

_Jane._ Oh, terrible affliction—and I to be so long estranged from him, when words of solace were so needed. My very soul yearns to bring him comfort; it is not now a crime—it is a duty.

_John._ You’ll see him, miss, won’t you?

_Jane._ See him, John! his very shadow in the sun shall not be nearer or more constant than I, while life remains.

_John._ This is indeed a joyful return. I shouldn’t wonder but it will even smooth Mrs. D’s wrinkles. I’m married, miss; don’t you recollect Grace Pool, she’s what folks call a good woman in the _main_; I wish she _was_ in it, just to try the experiment.

_Jane._ Quick! let me see her; I must consult with her the means of introducing myself to Rochester. [_Exit John._] Be firm, be firm, my heart—no shrinking now; this is thy duty; perform it well; even though neglect and coldness be the recompense.

_Re-enter_ JOHN, _with water_.

_John._ He has just called for a glass of water.

_Jane._ His kind fate points out a means for me to see him without danger of too sudden a recognition. Give me the water, John; I’ll take it to him. Now, courage, courage.

[_Exit_, R. H.