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The prose of a soth career, whibsp; first trodu to Thornfield Hall seed to pledge, was not belied on a longer acquaintah the pd its intes. Mrs. Fairfa turned out to be what she appeared, a pcid-teered, kind-natured won, of petent education and aerage intelligence. My pupil was a liely child, who had been spoi and indulged, and therefore was sotis wayward; but as she was itted eo care, and no injudicious interference froany quarter eer thwarted  ns for her iroent, she soon fot her little freaks, and beca obedient and teachable. She had no great talents, no rked traits of character, no peculiar deelopnt of feeling or taste which raised her one inch aboe the ordinary leel of childhood; but her had she any deficy or ice which sunk her below it. She de reasonable progress, eained for a iacious, though perhaps not ery profound, affe; and by her silicity, gay prattle, and efforts to please, inspired , iurn, with a degree of attat suffit to ke us both tent in each other’s society.
This, par parenthèse, will be thoughol nguage by persons who eain sole does about the aure;rk藏书网;/rk of children, and the duty of those charged with their education to ceie for thean idotrous deotion: but I anot writing to ftter parental egotis to echo t, or prop up huug; I arely telling the truth. I fe a stious solicitude for Adèle’s welfare and progress, and a quiet liking for her little self: just as I cherished towards Mrs. Fairfa a thankfulness for her kindness, and a pleasure in her society proportioo the tranquil regard she had for , and the deration of her nd and character.
Anybody y b who likes, when I add further, that, now and then, when I took a walk by self in the grounds; when I went down to the gates and looked through thealong the road; or when, while Adèle pyed with her nurse, and Mrs. Fairfa de jellies ioreroo I clied the three staircases, raised the trap-door of the attid haing reached the leads, looked out afar oer sequestered field and hill, and along disky-lihat then I longed for a power of ision which ght oerpass that lit; which ght reach the busy world, towns, regions full of life I had heard of but neer seen—that then I desired re of practical eperiehan I possessed; re of inturse with kind, of acquaintah ariety of character, than was here within reach. I alued what was good in Mrs. Fairfa, and what was good in Adèle; but I belieed in the eistence of other and re iid kinds of goodness, and what I belieed in I wished to behold.
Who bs ? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called distented. uld not help it: the restlessness was in nature; it agitated to pain sotis. Then sole relief was to walk along thrridor of the third storey, backwards and forwards, safe in the silend solitude of the spot, and allow nd’s eye to dwell on whateer bright isions rose before it—and, certainly, they were ny and glowing; to let heart be heaed by the eua, which, while it swelled it in trouble, epa with life; and, best of all, to open inward ear to a tale that was neer ended—a tale iginatioed, and narrated tinuously; quied with all of i, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in actual eistence.
It is in ain to say hun beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: they st hae and they will ke it if they ot find it. Millions are o a stiller doothan ne, and llions are in sile against their lot. Nobody knows how ny rebellions besides political rebellio in the sses of life which people earth. Won are supposed to be ery calgenerally: but won feel just as hey need eercise for their facuies, and a field for their efforts, as ch as their brothers do; they suffer frotid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as n would suffer; and it is narrow-nded in their re priileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to fiheeles to king puddings and knitting stogs, to pying on the piano and er bags. It is thoughtless to n the h at the if they seek to do re or learhan has pronounecessary for their se.
When thus alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole’s ugh: the sa peal, the sa low, slow ha! ha! which, when first heard, had thrilled : I heard, too, her etric rrs; strahan her ugh. There were days when she was quite silent; but there were others when uld not at for the sounds she de. Sotis I saw her: she would e out of her roowith a basin, or a pte, or a tray in her hand, go down to the kit and shortly return, generally (oh, rontic reader, fie for telling the pin truth!) bearing a pot of porter. Her appearance always acted as a daer to the curiosity raised by her oral oddities: hard-featured and staid, she had no point to whiteresuld attach. I de so attets to draw her iion, but she seed a person of few words: a nosylbic reply usually cut short eery effort of that sort.
The other ers of the household, iz., John and his wife, Leah the houseid, and Sophie the Frenurse, were det people; but in no respect rerkable; with Sophie I used to talk French, and sotis I asked her questions about her ry; but she was not of a descriptie or narratie turn, and generally gae such apid and fused answers as were calcuted rather to check than enquiry.
October, Noeer, Deceer passed away. Oerbbr;/abbrnoon in January, Mrs. Fairfa had begged a holiday for Adèle, because she had ld; and, as Adèle seded the request with an ardour that rended how precious oasional holidays had been to in own childhood, I rded it, deeng that I did well in showing pliability on the point. It was a fine, calday, though erld; I was tired of sitting still in the library through a whole long Mrs. Fairfa had just written a letter which was waiting to be posted, so I put on bo and cloak and olunteered to carry it to Hay; the distawo les, would be a pleasant winter afternoon walk. Haing seen Adèle fortably seated in her little chair by Mrs. Fairfa’s parlour fireside, and gien her her best wa doll (which I usually kept eneloped in siler paper in a drawer) to py with, and a story-book fe of asent; and haing replied to her “Reenez bient?t, bonne ae, chère Mdlle. Jeae,” with a kiss I set out.
The ground was hard, the air was still, road was lonely; I walked fast till I got war and then I walked slowly to enjoy and analyse the species of pleasure brooding for in the hour and situation. It was three o’clock; the church bell tolled as I passed uhe belfry: the charof the hour y in its approag diess, in the low-gliding and pale-beang sun. I was a le froThornfield, in a ed for wild roses in suer, for nuts and bckberries in autu, and een now possessing a feral treasures in hips and haws, but whose best winter delight y in its utter solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of air stirred, it de no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an eergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the ddle 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 oasionally in the hedge, looked like single russet leaes that had fotten to drop.
This ne ined up-hill all the way to Hay; haing reached the ddle, I sat down on a stile which led theo a field. Gathering ntle about , and sheering hands in ff, I did not feel thld, though it froze keenly; as was attested by a sheet of ice c the causeway, where a little brooklet, now gealed, had oerflowed after a rapid thaw so days since. Fro seat uld look down on Thornfield: the grey and battlented hall was the principal obje the ale below ; its woods and dark rookery rose against the west. I liill the su down angst the trees, and sank and clear behind the I then turward.
On the hill-top aboe sat the rising on; pale yet as a cloud, but brightening ntarily, she looked oer Hay, which, half lost in trees, sent up a blue ske froits few eys: it was yet a le distant, but in the absolute hush uld hear pinly its thin rrs of life. My ear, too, fe the flow of currents; in what dales ahs uld not tell: but there were ny hills beyond Hay, and doubtless ny becks threading their passes. That eening calbetrayed alike the tinkle of the strea, the sough of the st rete.
A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at once so far away and so clear: a positie tra, tra, a tallic ctter, which effaced the soft wae-wanderings; as, in a picture, the solid ss 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 hid it, but it approached. I was just leaing 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 nd: the ries of nursery stories were there angst other rubbish; and when they recurred, turing youth added to thea igour and iidness beyond what childhoould gie. As this horse approached, and as I watched for it to appear through the dusk, I reered certain of Bessie’s tales, wherein figured a North-of-Engnd spirit called a “Gytrash,” which, in the forof horse, le, e dog, haunted solitary ways, and sotis ca upoed traellers, as this horse was now ing upon .
It was ery near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the tra, tra, I heard a rush uhe hedge, and close down by the hazel ste glided a great dog, whose bd white ade hia distinct object against the trees. It was eactly one forof Bessie’s Gytrash—a lion-like creature with long hair and a huge head: it passed ;ar.;/are, howeer, quietly enough; not staying to look up, with strange pretere eyes, in face, as I half epected it would. The horse followed,—a tall steed, and on its back a rider. The n, the hun being, broke the spell at onothing eer rode the Gytrash: it was always alone; and goblins, to notions, though they ght tenant the du carcasses of beastsuld scarcet sheer in the onpce hun for No Gytrash was this,—only a traeller taking the short cut to Mite. He passed, and I went on; a few steps, and I turned: a sliding sound and aion of “What the deuce is to do now?” and a cttering tule, arrested attention. Man and horse were down; they had slipped on the sheet of ice which gzed the causeway. The dog ca bounding back, and seeing his ster in a predit, and hearing the hroan, barked till the eening hills echoed the sound, which was deep in proportion to his gnitude. He snuffed round the prostrate group, and then he ran up to ; it was all huld do,—there was no other help at hand to suon. I obeyed hi and walked down to the traeller, by this ti struggling hielf free of his steed. His efforts were so igorous, I thought huld not be ch hurt; but I asked hithe question—
“Are you injured, sir?”
I think he was swearing, but anot certain; howeer, he ronoung so for which preented hifroreplying to directly.
“ I do anything?” I asked again.
“You st just stand on one side,” he answered as he rose, first to his knees, and then to his feet. I did; whereupon began a heaing, staing, cttering process, apanied by a barking and baying which reed effectually so yards’ distance; but I would not be drien quite away till I saw the eent. This was finally fortuhe horse was re-established, and the dog was silenced with a “Down, Pilot!” The traeller now, ;cite藏书网;/citestooping, fe his foot and leg, as if trying whether they were sound; apparently sothing ailed the for he haed to the stile whence I had just risen, and sat down.
I was in the od for being useful, or at least officious, I think, for I now drew near hiagain.
“If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I fete oher froThornfield Hall or froHay.”
“Thank you: I shall do: I hae no broken bones,—only a sprain;” and agaiood up and tried his foot, but the resu etorted an inoluntary “Ugh!”
Sothing of daylight still lingered, and the on was wag bright: uld see hipinly. His figure was eneloped in a riding cloak, fulred and steel csped; its details were not apparent, but I traced the general points of ddle height and siderable breadth of chest. He had a dark face, with sterures and a heay brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now; he ast youth, but had not reached ddle-age; perhaps he ght be thirty-fie. I fe no fear of hi and but little shyness. Had he been a handso, heroic-looking youlen, I should not hae dared to stand thus questioning hiagainst his will, and serices unasked. I had hardly eer seen a handso youth; neer in life spoken to one. I had a theoretical reerend hoge for beauty, elegance, galntry, fasation; but had I t those qualities inate in se shape, I should hae known instihat they her had nould hae syathy with anything in , and should hae shuheas one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic.
If een this stranger had sled and been good-huured to when I addressed hi if he had put off offer of assistance gaily and with thanks, I should hae gone on way and not fe any ocation to renew inquiries: but the frown, the roughness of the traeller, set at ease: I retained station when he waed to to go, and announced—
“I ot think of leaing you, sir, at so te an hour, in this solitary ill I see you are fit to unt your horse.”
He looked at when I said this; he had hardly turned his eyes in dire before.
“I should think you ought to be at ho yourself,” said he, “if you hae a ho in this neighbourhood: where do you e fro”
“Frojust below; and I anot at all afraid of being out te when it is onlight: I will ruo Hay for you with pleasure, if you wish it: indeed, I agoing there to post a letter.”
“You lie just below—do you an at that house with the battlents?” pointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the on cast a hlea bringing it out distind pale frothe woods that, by trast with the western sky, now seed one ss of shadow.
“Yes, sir.”
“Whose house is it?”
“Mr. Rochester’s.”
“Do you know Mr. Rochester?”
“No, I hae neer seen hi”
“He is not resident, then?”
“No.”
“ you tell where he is?”
“I ot.”
“You are not a serant at the hall, ourse. You are—” He stopped, ran his eye oer dress, which, as usual, was quite sile: a bck rino cloak, a bck beaer bo; her of thehalf fine enough for a dy’s-id. He seed puzzled to decide what I was; I helped hi
“I athe goerness.”
“Ah, the goerness!” he repeated; “deuce take , if I had not fotten! The goerness!” and again raint underwent scrutiny. In two nutes he rose frothe stile: his face epressed pain wheried to e.
“I ot ission you to fetch help,” he said; “but you y help a little yourself, if you will be so kind.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You hae not ahat I use as a stick?”
“No.”
“Try to get hold of horse’s bridle and lead hito : you are not afraid?”
I should hae been afraid to touch a horse when alone, but when told to do it, I was disposed to obey. I put down ff oile, a up to the tall steed; I endeaoured to catch the bridle, but it irited thing, and would not let e near its head; I de effort on effort, though in aii, I was rtally afraid of its traling fore-feet. The traeller waited and watched for so ti, and at st he ughed.
“I see,” he said, “the untain will neer be brought to Mahot, so all you do is to aid Mahot to go to the untain; I st beg of you to e here.”
I ca. “Ecuse ,” he tinued: “y pels to ke you useful.” He id a heay hand on shoulder, and leaning oh so stress, lied to his horse. Haing once caught the bridle, he stered it directly and sprang to his saddle; grig griy as he de the effort, for it wrenched his sprain.
“Now,” said he, releasing his under lip froa hard bite, “just hand whip; it lies there uhe hedge.”
I sought it and found it.
“Thank you; now ke haste with the letter to Hay, aurn as fast as you .”
A touch of a spurred heel de his horse first start and rear, and then bound away; the dog rushed in his traces; all three anished,
“Like heath that, in the wilderness,
The wild wind whirls away.”
I took up ff and walked on. The i had ourred and was gone for : it was an i of no nt, no rono i in a sense; yet it rked with ge one single hour of a notonous life. My help had been needed and cid; I had gien it: I leased to hae dohing; triial, transitory though the deed was, it was yet an actie thing, and I was weary of aence all passie. The new face, too, was like a new picture introduced to the gallery of ry; and it was dissir to all the others hanging there: firstly, because it was se; and, sedly, because it was dark, strong, and stern. I had it still before wheered Hay, and slipped the letter into the post- office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hill all the way ho. When I ca to the stile, I stopped a nute, looked round and listened, with ahat a horse’s hoofs ght ring on the causeway again, and that a rider in a cloak, and a Gytrash-like Newfoundnd dog, ght be again apparent: I saw only the hedge and a polrd willow before , rising up still and straight to et the onbe I heard only the fai waft of wind roang fitful ang the trees round Thornfield, a le distant; and when I gnced down in the dire of the rr, eye, traersing the hall-front, caught a light kindling in a window: it rended that I was te, 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 darkso staircase, to seek own lonely little roo and then to et tranquil Mrs. Fairfa, and spend the long winter eening with her, and her only, was to quell wholly the faient wakened by walk,—to slip again oer facuies the iewless fetters of an uniforand too still eistence; of aence whose ery priileges of security and ease I was being incapable of appreciating. What good it would hae do that ti to hae been tossed ior of an uain struggling life, and to hae been taught by rough and bitter eperieo long for the cadst which I now repined! Yes, just as ch good as it would do a n tired of sitting still in a “too easy chair” to take a long walk: and just as natural was the wish to stir, under circes, as it would be under his.
I li the gates; I lingered on the wn; I paced backwards and forwards on the paent; the shutters of the gss door were closed; uld not see into the interior; and both eyes and spirit seed drawn frothe gloo house—frothe grey-hollow filled with rayless cells, as it appeared to —to that sky epanded before ,—a blue sea absoled frotaint of cloud; the on asding it in sole rch; her orb seeng to look up as she left the hill-tops, frobehind which she had e, far and farther below her, and aspired to the zenith, dnight dark in its fathoess depth and asureless distance; and for those treling stars that followed heurse; they de heart trele, eins glow when I iewed the Little things recall us to earth; the clock stru the hall; that sufficed; I turned froon and stars, opened a side-door, a in.
The hall was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the high-hung bronze ; a warglow suffused both it and the lower steps of the oak staircase. This ruddy shine issued frothe great dining-roo whose two-leaed door stood open, and showed a genial fire in the grate, gng on rble hearth and brass fire-irons, and reealing purple draperies and polished furniture, i pleasant radia reealed, too, a group he ntelpiece: I had scarcely caught it, and scarcely bee aware of a cheerful ngling of oices, angst which I seed to distinguish the tones of Adèle, when the door closed.
I hasteo Mrs. Fairfa’s roo there was a fire there too, but no dle, and no Mrs. Fairfa. Instead, all alone, sitting upright on the rug, and gazing with graity at the bze, I beheld a great bd white long-haired dog, just like the Gytrash of the was so like it that I went forward and said—“Pilot” and the thing got up and ca to and snuffed . I caressed hi and he wagged his great tail; but he looked an eerie creature to be aloh, and uld not tell whence he had e. I rang the bell, for I wanted a dle; and I waoo, to get an at of this isitant. Leah entered.
“What dog is this?”
“He ca with ster.”
“With who”
“With ster—Mr. Rochester—he is just arried.”
“Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfa with hi”
“Yes, and Miss Adèle; they are in the dining-roo and John is gone for a surgeon; for ster 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 so ice.”
“Ah! Bring a dle will you Leah?”
Leah brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs. Fairfa, who repeated the news; adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon was e, and was now with Mr. Rochester: then she hurried out to gie orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take off things.
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