THE promise of a smooth career, which my first calm introduction to

Thornfield Hall seemed to pledge, was not belied on a longer

acquaintance with the place and its inmates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out

to be what she appeared, a placid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of

competent 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 committed entirely to my care, and no

injudicious interference from any quarter ever thwarted my plans for

her improvement, she soon forgot 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 neither had

she any deficiency or vice which sunk her below it. She made

reasonable progress, entertained for me a vivacious, though perhaps

not very profound, affection; and by her simplicity, gay prattle,

and efforts to please, inspired me, in return, with a degree of

attachment sufficient to make us both content in each other's society.

This, par parenthese, will be thought cool language by persons

who entertain solemn doctrines about the angelic nature of children,

and the duty of those charged with their education to conceive for

them an idolatrous devotion: but I am not writing to flatter

parental egotism, to echo cant, or prop up humbug; I am merely telling

the truth. I felt a conscientious solicitude for Adele'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 proportionate to 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 Adele

played with her nurse, and Mrs. Fairfax made jellies in the storeroom,

I climbed the three staircases, raised the trap-door of the attic, and

having reached the leads, looked out afar over sequestered field and

hill, and along dim sky-line- that 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 experience than I possessed; more of

intercourse with my kind, of acquaintance with variety of character,

than was here within my reach. I valued what was good in Mrs. Fairfax,

and what was good in Adele; 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

discontented. 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 silence and 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, expanded

it with life; and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that

was never ended- a tale my imagination created, and narrated

continuously; quickened with all of incident, 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 action; and they will make it if they

cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine,

and millions are in silent revolt 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 men feel; they need exercise for

their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their

brothers do; they suffer from too rigid 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

confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to

playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to

condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn

more than custom has pronounced necessary 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 eccentric murmurs; stranger than her

laugh. There were days when she was quite silent; but there were

others when I could not account for the sounds she made. Sometimes I

saw her: she would come out of her room with a basin, or a plate, or a

tray in her hand, go down to the kitchen and shortly return, generally

(oh, romantic reader, forgive 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 which interest could attach. I made some attempts to

draw her into conversation, 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 French nurse, were decent people; but in

no respect remarkable; with Sophie I used to talk French, and

sometimes I asked her questions about her native country; but she

was not of a descriptive or narrative turn, and generally gave such

vapid and confused answers as were calculated rather to check than

encourage inquiry.

October, November, December passed away. One afternoon in

January, Mrs. Fairfax had begged a holiday for Adele, because she

had a cold; and, as Adele seconded 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

morning: Mrs. Fairfax had just written a letter which was waiting to

be posted, so I put on my bonnet and cloak and volunteered to carry it

to Hay; the distance, two miles, would be a pleasant winter

afternoon walk. Having seen Adele comfortably 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 a change of amusement; and having

replied to her 'Revenez bientot, ma bonne amie, ma chere Mdlle.

Jeannette,' 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

under the belfry: the charm of the hour lay in its approaching

dimness, in the low-gliding and pale-beaming sun. I was a mile from

Thornfield, in a lane noted 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 forgotten to drop.

This lane inclined up-hill all the way to Hay; having reached the

middle, I sat down on a stile which led thence into 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

covering the causeway, where a little brooklet, now congealed, 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 object in the vale below me; its woods and dark rookery rose

against the, west. I lingered till the sun went down amongst the

trees, and sank crimson and clear behind them. I then turned eastward.

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 chimneys: 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 and depths 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 nearest 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 metallicclatter,

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 foreground, efface the aerial distance of azure hill,

sunny horizon, and blended clouds where tint melts into tint.

The din was on the causeway: a horse was coming; the windings of

the lane yet 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

upon belated travellers, as this horse was now coming upon me.

It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the

tramp, tramp, I heard a rush under the hedge, and close down by the

hazel stems glided a great dog, whose black and white colour made

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 me, however, quietly enough; not staying to look up, with

strange pretercanine 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 once. Nothing 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 commonplace 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 predicament, and hearing the horse groan,

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 was

pronouncing some formula which prevented him from replying to me

directly.

'Can 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, accompanied 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 fortunate;

the horse was re-established, and the dog was silenced with a 'Down,

Pilot!' The traveller now, 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 can fetch some one either

from Thornfield Hall or from Hay.'

'Thank you: I shall do: I have no broken bones,- only a sprain;'

and again he stood 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

considerable breadth of chest. He had a dark face, with stern features

and a heavy brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and

thwarted just now; he was past 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 young

gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus questioning him

against his will, and offering my services unasked. I had hardly

ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken to one. I had a

theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry,

fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine

shape, I should have known instinctively that they neither had nor

could have sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned

them 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