Chapter 12
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The promise of a smooth career, which my first calm introdu to Thornfield Hall seemed to pledge, was not belied on a longer acquaintah the plad its inmates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be what she appeared, a placid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of petent education and average intelligence. My pupil was a lively child, who had been spoilt and indulged, and therefore was sometimes wayward; but as she was itted eo my care, and no injudicious interference from any quarter ever thwarted my plans for her improvement, she soon fot her little freaks, and became obedient and teachable. She had no great talents, no marked traits of character, no peculiar development of feeling or taste which raised her one inch above the ordinary level of childhood; but her had she any deficy or vice which sunk her below it. She made reasonable progress, eained for me a vivacious, though perhaps not very profound, affe; and by her simplicity, gay prattle, and efforts to please, inspired me, iurn, with a degree of attat suffit to make us both tent in each other’s society.This, par parenthèse, will be thought cool language by persons who eain solemn does about the angeliature<mark>藏书网</mark> of children, and the duty of those charged with their education to ceive for them an idolatrous devotion: but I am not writing to flatter parental egotism, to echo t, or prop up humbug; I am merely telling the truth. I felt a stious solicitude for Adèle’s welfare and progress, and a quiet liking for her little self: just as I cherished towards Mrs. Fairfax a thankfulness for her kindness, and a pleasure in her society proportioo the tranquil regard she had for me, and the moderation of her mind and character.
Anybody may blame me who likes, when I add further, that, now and then, when I took a walk by myself in the grounds; when I went down to the gates and looked through them along the road; or when, while Adèle played with her nurse, and Mrs. Fairfax made jellies ioreroom, I climbed the three staircases, raised the trap-door of the attid having reached the leads, looked out afar over sequestered field and hill, and along dim sky-lihat then I longed for a power of vision which might overpass that limit; which might reach the busy world, towns, regions full of life I had heard of but never seen—that then I desired more of practical experiehan I possessed; more of intercourse with my kind, of acquaintah variety of character, than was here within my reach. I valued what was good in Mrs. Fairfax, and what was good in Adèle; but I believed in the existence of other and more vivid kinds of goodness, and what I believed in I wished to behold.
Who blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called distented. I could not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of the third storey, backwards and forwards, safe in the silend solitude of the spot, and allow my mind’s eye to dwell on whatever bright visions rose before it—and, certainly, they were many and glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant movement, which, while it swelled it in trouble, expa with life; and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended—a tale my imaginatioed, and narrated tinuously; quied with all of i, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual existence.
It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: they must have a; and they will make it if they ot find it. Millions are o a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in sile against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as mehey need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from tid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to fihemselves to making puddings and knitting stogs, to playing on the piano and embr bags. It is thoughtless to n them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than has pronounecessary for their sex.
When thus alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole’s laugh: the same peal, the same low, slow ha! ha! which, when first heard, had thrilled me: I heard, too, her etric murmurs; strahan her laugh. There were days when she was quite silent; but there were others when I could not at for the sounds she made. Sometimes I saw her: she would e out of her room with a basin, or a plate, or a tray in her hand, go down to the kit and shortly return, generally (oh, romantic reader, five me for telling the plain truth!) bearing a pot of porter. Her appearance always acted as a damper to the curiosity raised by her oral oddities: hard-featured and staid, she had no point to whiterest could attach. I made some attempts to draw her into versation, but she seemed a person of few words: a monosyllabic reply usually cut short every effort of that sort.
The other members of the household, viz., John and his wife, Leah the housemaid, and Sophie the Frenurse, were det people; but in no respect remarkable; with Sophie I used to talk French, and sometimes I asked her questions about her native try; but she was not of a descriptive or narrative turn, and generally gave such vapid and fused answers as were calculated rather to check than ence inquiry.
October, November, December passed away. Oerbbr></abbr>noon in January, Mrs. Fairfax had begged a holiday for Adèle, because she had a cold; and, as Adèle seded the request with an ardour that reminded me how precious occasional holidays had been to me in my own childhood, I accorded it, deeming that I did well in showing pliability on the point. It was a fine, calm day, though very cold; I was tired of sitting still in the library through a whole long m: Mrs. Fairfax had just written a letter which was waiting to be posted, so I put on my bo and cloak and volunteered to carry it to Hay; the distawo miles, would be a pleasant winter afternoon walk. Having seen Adèle fortably seated in her little chair by Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour fireside, and given her her best wax doll (which I usually kept enveloped in silver paper in a drawer) to play with, and a story-book for ge of amusement; and having replied to her “Revenez bient?t, ma bonne amie, ma chère Mdlle. Jeae,” with a kiss I set out.
The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely; I walked fast till I got warm, and then I walked slowly to enjoy and analyse the species of pleasure brooding for me in the hour and situation. It was three o’clock; the church bell tolled as I passed uhe belfry: the charm of the hour lay in its approag dimness, in the low-gliding and pale-beaming sun. I was a mile from Thornfield, in a laed for wild roses in summer, for nuts and blackberries in autumn, and even now possessing a few coral treasures in hips and haws, but whose best winter delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an evergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the middle of the path. Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no cattle now browsed; and the little brown birds, which stirred occasionally in the hedge, looked like single russet leaves that had fotten to drop.
This lane ined up-hill all the way to Hay; having reached the middle, I sat down on a stile which led theo a field. Gathering my mantle about me, and sheltering my hands in my muff, I did not feel the cold, though it froze keenly; as was attested by a sheet of ice c the causeway, where a little brooklet, now gealed, had overflowed after a rapid thaw some days since. From my seat I could look down on Thornfield: the grey and battlemented hall was the principal obje the vale below me; its woods and dark rookery rose against the west. I liill the su down amongst the trees, and sank crimson and clear behind them. I then turward.
On the hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as a cloud, but brightening momentarily, she looked over Hay, which, half lost in trees, sent up a blue smoke from its few eys: it was yet a mile distant, but in the absolute hush I could hear plainly its thin murmurs of life. My ear, too, felt the flow of currents; in what dales ahs I could not tell: but there were many hills beyond Hay, and doubtless many becks threading their passes. That evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of the streams, the sough of the most remote.
A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at once so far away and so clear: a positive tramp, tramp, a metallic clatter, which effaced the soft wave-wanderings; as, in a picture, the solid mass of a crag, or the rough boles of a great oak, drawn in dark and strong on the fround, efface the aerial distance of azure hill, sunny horizon, and blended clouds where tis into tint.
The din was on the causeway: a horse was ing; the windings of the la hid it, but it approached. I was just leaving the stile; yet, as the path was narrow, I sat still to let it go by. In those days I was young, and all sorts of fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind: the memories of nursery stories were there amongst other rubbish; and when they recurred, maturing youth added to them a vigour and vividness beyond what childhood could give. As this horse approached, and as I watched for it to appear through the dusk, I remembered certain of Bessie’s tales, wherein figured a North-of-England spirit called a “Gytrash,” which, in the form of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitary ways, and sometimes came upoed travellers, as this horse was now ing upon me.
It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the tramp, tramp, I heard a rush uhe hedge, and close down by the hazel stems glided a great dog, whose blad white ade him a distinct object against the trees. It was exactly one form of Bessie’s Gytrash—a lion-like creature with long hair and a huge head: it passed m<var>.</var>e, however, quietly enough; not staying to look up, with strange pretere eyes, in my face, as I half expected it would. The horse followed,—a tall steed, and on its back a rider. The man, the human being, broke the spell at onothing ever rode the Gytrash: it was always alone; and goblins, to my notions, though they might tenant the dumb carcasses of beasts, could scarce covet shelter in the onplace human form. No Gytrash was this,—only a traveller taking the short cut to Millcote. He passed, and I went on; a few steps, and I turned: a sliding sound and an exclamation of “What the deuce is to do now?” and a clattering tumble, arrested my attention. Man and horse were down; they had slipped on the sheet of ice which glazed the causeway. The dog came bounding back, and seeing his master in a predit, and hearing the hroan, barked till the evening hills echoed the sound, which was deep in proportion to his magnitude. He snuffed round the prostrate group, and then he ran up to me; it was all he could do,—there was no other help at hand to summon. I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller, by this time struggling himself free of his steed. His efforts were so vigorous, I thought he could not be much hurt; but I asked him the question—
“Are you injured, sir?”
I think he was swearing, but am not certain; however, he ronoung some formula which prevented him from replying to me directly.
“ I do anything?” I asked again.
“You must just stand on one side,” he answered as he rose, first to his knees, and then to his feet. I did; whereupon began a heaving, stamping, clattering process, apanied by a barking and baying which removed me effectually some yards’ distance; but I would not be driven quite away till I saw the event. This was finally fortuhe horse was re-established, and the dog was silenced with a “Down, Pilot!” The traveller now, <cite>藏书网</cite>stooping, felt his foot and leg, as if trying whether they were sound; apparently something ailed them, for he halted to the stile whence I had just risen, and sat down.
I was in the mood for being useful, or at least officious, I think, for I now drew near him again.
“If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I fete oher from Thornfield Hall or from Hay.”
“Thank you: I shall do: I have no broken bones,—only a sprain;” and agaiood up and tried his foot, but the result extorted an involuntary “Ugh!”
Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright: I could see him plainly. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, fur collared and steel clasped; its details were not apparent, but I traced the general points of middle height and siderable breadth of chest. He had a dark face, with sterures and a heavy brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now; he ast youth, but had not reached middle-age; perhaps he might be thirty-five. I felt no fear of him, and but little shyness. Had he been a handsome, heroic-looking youleman, I should not have dared to stand thus questioning him against his will, and my services unasked. I had hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken to one. I had a theoretical reverend homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry, fasation; but had I met those qualities inate in mase shape, I should have known instinctively that they her had nor could have sympathy with anything in me, and should have shuhem as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic.
If even this stranger had smiled and been good-humoured to me when I addressed him; if he had put off my offer of assistance gaily and with thanks, I should have gone on my way and not felt any vocation to renew inquiries: but the frown, the roughness of the traveller, set me at my ease: I retained my station when he waved to me to go, and announced—
“I ot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in this solitary laill I see you are fit to mount your horse.”
He looked at me when I said this; he had hardly turned his eyes in my dire before.
“I should think you ought to be at home yourself,” said he, “if you have a home in this neighbourhood: where do you e from?”
“From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it is moonlight: I will ruo Hay for you with pleasure, if you wish it: indeed, I am going there to post a letter.”
“You live just below—do you mean at that house with the battlements?” pointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast a hleam, bringing it out distind pale from the woods that, by trast with the western sky, now seemed one mass of shadow.
“Yes, sir.”
“Whose house is it?”
“Mr. Rochester’s.”
“Do you know Mr. Rochester?”
“No, I have never seen him.”
“He is not resident, then?”
“No.”
“ you tell me where he is?”
“I ot.”
“You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are—” He stopped, ran his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple: a black merino cloak, a black beaver bo; her of them half fine enough for a lady’s-maid. He seemed puzzled to decide what I was; I helped him.
“I am the governess.”
“Ah, the governess!” he repeated; “deuce take me, if I had not fotten! The governess!” and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In two minutes he rose from the stile: his face expressed pain wheried to move.
“I ot ission you to fetch help,” he said; “but you may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have not an umbrella that I use as a stick?”
“No.”
“Try to get hold of my horse’s bridle and lead him to me: you are not afraid?”
I should have been afraid to touch a horse when alone, but when told to do it, I was disposed to obey. I put down my muff oile, a up to the tall steed; I endeavoured to catch the bridle, but it irited thing, and would not let me e near its head; I made effort on effort, though in vaiime, I was mortally afraid of its trampling fore-feet. The traveller waited and watched for some time, and at last he laughed.
“I see,” he said, “the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet, so all you do is to aid Mahomet to go to the mountain; I must beg of you to e here.”
I came. “Excuse me,” he tinued: “y pels me to make you useful.” He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning oh some stress, limped to his horse. Having once caught the bridle, he mastered it directly and sprang to his saddle; grimag grimly as he made the effort, for it wrenched his sprain.
“Now,” said he, releasing his under lip from a hard bite, “just hand me my whip; it lies there uhe hedge.”
I sought it and found it.
“Thank you; now make haste with the letter to Hay, aurn as fast as you .”
A touch of a spurred heel made his horse first start and rear, and then bound away; the dog rushed in his traces; all three vanished,
“Like heath that, in the wilderness,
The wild wind whirls away.”
I took up my muff and walked on. The i had occurred and was gone for me: it was an i of no moment, no romano i in a sense; yet it marked with ge one single hour of a monotonous life. My help had been needed and claimed; I had given it: I leased to have done something; trivial, transitory though the deed was, it was yet an active thing, and I was weary of aence all passive. The new face, too, was like a new picture introduced to the gallery of memory; and it was dissimilar to all the others hanging there: firstly, because it was mase; and, sedly, because it was dark, strong, and stern. I had it still before me wheered Hay, and slipped the letter into the post- office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hill all the way home. When I came to the stile, I stopped a minute, looked round and listened, with ahat a horse’s hoofs might ring on the causeway again, and that a rider in a cloak, and a Gytrash-like Newfoundland dog, might be again apparent: I saw only the hedge and a pollard willow before me, rising up still and straight to meet the moonbeams; I heard only the fai waft of wind roaming fitful among the trees round Thornfield, a mile distant; and when I glanced down in the dire of the murmur, my eye, traversing the hall-front, caught a light kindling in a window: it reminded me that I was late, and I hurried on.
I did not like re-entering Thornfield. To pass its threshold was to return to stagnation; to cross the silent hall, to asd 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 faiement wakened by my walk,—to slip again over my faculties the viewless fetters of an uniform and too still existence; of aence whose very privileges of security and ease I was being incapable of appreciating. What good it would have do that time to have been tossed iorms of an uain struggling life, and to have been taught by rough and bitter experieo 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 li 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 asding it in solemn march; her orb seeming to look up as she left the hill-tops, from behind which she had e, 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 stru the hall; that sufficed; I turned from moon and stars, opened a side-door, a 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, glang on marble hearth and brass fire-irons, and revealing purple draperies and polished furniture, in the most pleasant radia revealed, too, a group he mantelpiece: I had scarcely caught it, and scarcely bee aware of a cheerful mingling of voices, amongst which I seemed to distinguish the tones of Adèle, when the door closed.
I hasteo Mrs. Fairfax’s room; there was a fire there too, but no dle, and no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, all alone, sitting upright on the rug, and gazing with gravity at the blaze, I beheld a great blad white long-haired dog, just like the Gytrash of the la 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 aloh, and I could not tell whence he had e. I rang the bell, for I wanted a dle; and I waoo, to get an at 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 act; his horse fell and his ankle is sprained.”
“Did the horse fall in Hay Lane?”
“Yes, ing down-hill; it slipped on some ice.”
“Ah! Bring me a dle will you Leah?”
Leah brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs. Fairfax, who repeated the news; adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon was e, and was now with Mr. Rochester: then she hurried out to give orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take off my things.
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