I did not like re-entering Thornfield. To pass its threshold was to return to stagnation； to cross the silent hall， to ascend the darksome staircase， to seek my own lonely little room， and then to meet tranquil Mrs. Fairfax， and spend the long winter evening with her， and her only， was to quell wholly the faint excitement wakened by my walk，—to slip again over my faculties the viewless fetters of an uniform and too still existence； of an existence whose very privileges of security and ease I was becoming incapable of appreciating. What good it would have done me at that time to have been tossed in the storms of an uncertain struggling life， and to have been taught by rough and bitter experience to long for the calm amidst which I now repined！ Yes， just as much good as it would do a man tired of sitting still in a “too easy chair” to take a long walk： and just as natural was the wish to stir， under my circumstances， as it would be under his.
I lingered at the gates； I lingered on the lawn； I paced backwards and forwards on the pavement； the shutters of the glass door were closed； I could not see into the interior； and both my eyes and spirit seemed drawn from the gloomy house—from the grey-hollow filled with rayless cells， as it appeared to me—to that sky expanded before me，—a blue sea absolved from taint of cloud； the moon ascending it in solemn march； her orb seeming to look up as she left the hill-tops， from behind which she had come， far and farther below her， and aspired to the zenith， midnight dark in its fathomless depth and measureless distance； and for those trembling stars that followed her course； they made my heart tremble， my veins glow when I viewed them. Little things recall us to earth； the clock struck in the hall； that sufficed； I turned from moon and stars， opened a side-door， and went in.
The hall was not dark， nor yet was it lit， only by the high-hung bronze lamp； a warm glow suffused both it and the lower steps of the oak staircase. This ruddy shine issued from the great dining-room， whose two-leaved door stood open， and showed a genial fire in the grate， glancing on marble hearth and brass fire-irons， and revealing purple draperies and polished furniture， in the most pleasant radiance. It revealed， too， a group near the mantelpiece： I had scarcely caught it， and scarcely become aware of a cheerful mingling of voices， amongst which I seemed to distinguish the tones of Adèle， when the door closed.
I hastened to Mrs. Fairfax’s room； there was a fire there too， but no candle， and no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead， all alone， sitting upright on the rug， and gazing with gravity at the blaze， I beheld a great black and white long-haired dog， just like the Gytrash of the lane. It was so like it that I went forward and said—“Pilot” and the thing got up and came to me and snuffed me. I caressed him， and he wagged his great tail； but he looked an eerie creature to be alone with， and I could not tell whence he had come. I rang the bell， for I wanted a candle； and I wanted， too， to get an account of this visitant. Leah entered.
“What dog is this？”
“He came with master.”
“With whom？”
“With master—Mr. Rochester—he is just arrived.”
“Indeed！ and is Mrs. Fairfax with him？”
“Yes， and Miss Adèle； they are in the dining-room， and John is gone for a surgeon； for master has had an accident； his horse fell and his ankle is sprained.”
“Did the horse fall in Hay Lane？”
“Yes， coming down-hill； it slipped on some ice.”
“Ah！ Bring me a candle， will you， Leah？”
Leah brought it； she entered， followed by Mrs. Fairfax， who repeated the news； adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon was come， and was now with Mr. Rochester： then she hurried out to give orders about tea， and I went upstairs to take off my things.
