Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
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 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 foreground, efface the aërial 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 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 cannot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in this
solitary lane, till 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
direction before.
“I should think you ought to be at home yourself,” said he, “if you
have a home in this neighbourhood: where do you come from?”
“From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it
is moonlight: I will run over to 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 hoary gleam,
bringing it out distinct and pale from the woods that, by contrast 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.”
“Can you tell me where he is?”
“I cannot.”
“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 bonnet; neither 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
forgotten! The governess!” and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In
two minutes he rose from the stile: his face expressed pain when he
tried to move.
“I cannot commission 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 can 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 on the stile, and
went up to the tall steed; I endeavoured to catch the bridle, but it
was a spirited thing, and would not let me come near its head; I made
effort on effort, though in vain: meantime, I was mortally afraid of
its trampling fore-feet. The traveller waited and watched for some
time, and at last he laughed.
I was mortally afraid of its trampling forefeet
“I see,” he said, “the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet, so
all you can do is to aid Mahomet to go to the mountain; I must beg of
you to come here.”
I came. “Excuse me,” he continued: “necessity compels me to make you
useful.” He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me with
some stress, limped to his horse. Having once caught the bridle, he
mastered it directly and sprang to his saddle; grimacing 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 under the hedge.”
I sought it and found it.
“Thank you; now make haste with the letter to Hay, and return as fast
as you can.”
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 incident had occurred and was gone
for me: it _was_ an incident of no moment, no romance, no interest in a
sense; yet it marked with change one single hour of a monotonous life.
My help had been needed and claimed; I had given it: I was pleased to
have done something; trivial, transitory though the deed was, it was
yet an active thing, and I was weary of an existence 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 masculine; and, secondly, because it was dark, strong,
and stern. I had it still before me when I entered 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 an idea that 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 faintest waft of wind roaming fitful among
the trees round Thornfield, a mile distant; and when I glanced down in
the direction of the murmur, my eye, traversing the hall-front, caught