_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.

It was not till three months after my arrival there that my adventures
began. One day Mrs. Fairfax proposed to show me over the house, much of
which was unoccupied. The third storey especially had the aspect of a
home of the past--a shrine of memory. I liked its hush and quaintness.

"If there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall this would be its haunt," said
Mrs. Fairfax, as we passed the range of apartments on our way to see the
view from the roof.

I was pacing through the corridor of the third floor on my return, when
the last sound I expected in so still a region struck my ear--a laugh,
distinct, formal, mirthless. At first it was very low, but it passed off
in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber.

"Mrs. Fairfax," I called out, "did you hear that laugh? Who is it?"

"Some of the servants very likely," she answered; "perhaps Grace Poole."

The laugh was repeated in a low tone, and terminated in an odd murmur.