• Victoria Reeve

Jane Eyre, Flipped: Chapter 12

Chapter 12

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. Mr. Fairfax turned out to be what he appeared, a placid-tempered, kind-natured man, 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 he was committed entirely to my care, and no injudicious interference from any quarter ever thwarted my plans for his improvement, he soon forgot his little freaks, and became obedient and teachable. He had no great talents, no marked traits of character, no peculiar development of feeling or taste which raised him one inch above the ordinary level of childhood; but neither had he any deficiency or vice which sunk him below it. He made reasonable progress, entertained for me a vivacious, though perhaps not very profound, affection; and by his 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 Andre’s welfare and progress, and a quiet liking for his little self: just as I cherished towards Mr. Fairfax a thankfulness for his kindness, and a pleasure in his society proportionate to the tranquil regard he had for me, and the moderation of his 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 Andre played with his nurse, and Mr. 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 Mr. Fairfax, and what was good in Andre; 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. Men are supposed to be very calm generally: but men feel just as women feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their sisters do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as women 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 Graham Poole’s laugh: the same peal, the same low, slow ha! ha! which, when first heard, had thrilled me: I heard, too, his eccentric murmurs; stranger than his laugh. There were days when he was quite silent; but there were others when I could not account for the sounds he made. Sometimes I saw him: he would come out of his room with a basin, or a plate, or a tray in his 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. His appearance always acted as a damper to the curiosity raised by his oral oddities: hard-featured and staid, he had no point to which interest could attach. I made some attempts to draw him into conversation, but he seemed a person of few words: a monosyllabic reply usually cut short every effort of that sort.

The other members of the household, viz., Jenny and her husband, Leonard the house boy, and Simon the French nurse, were decent people; but in no respect remarkable; with Simon I used to talk French, and sometimes I asked him questions about his native country; but he 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, Mr. Fairfax had begged a holiday for Andre, because he had a cold; and, as Andre 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: Mr. Fairfax had just written a letter which was waiting to be posted, so I put on my hat and coat and volunteered to carry it to Hay; the distance, two miles, would be a pleasant winter afternoon walk. Having seen Andre comfortably seated in his little chair by Mr. Fairfax’s parlour fireside, and given him his best wax doll (which I usually kept enveloped in silver paper in a drawer) to play with, and a story-book for change of amusement; and having replied to him “Revenez bientot, ma bonne amie, mon cher M. Jean,” 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 coat about me, and sheltering my hands in my pockets, 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 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 Bertie’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 Bertie’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 woman, 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. She 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. Woan and horse were down; they had slipped on the sheet of ice which glazed the causeway. The dog came bounding back, and seeing her master in a predicament, and hearing the horse groan, barked till the evening hills echoed the sound, which was deep in proportion to her magnitude. She snuffed round the prostrate group, and then she ran up to me; it was all she could do, — there was no other help at hand to summon. I obeyed her, and walked down to the traveller, by this time struggling herself free of her steed. Her efforts were so vigorous, I thought she could not be much hurt; but I asked her the question —

“Are you injured, madam?”

I think she was swearing, but am not certain; however, she was pronouncing some formula which prevented her from replying to me directly.

“Can I do anything?” I asked again.

“You must just stand on one side,” she answered as she rose, first to her knees, and then to her 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 her foot and leg, as if trying whether they were sound; apparently something ailed them, for she 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 her again.

“If you are hurt, and want help, madam, 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 she stood up and tried her foot, but the result extorted an involuntary “Ugh!”

Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright: I could see her plainly. Her 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. She had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow; her eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now; she was past youth, but had not reached middle-age; perhaps she might be thirty-five. I felt no fear of her, and but little shyness. Had she been a handsome, heroic-looking young lady, I should not have dared to stand thus questioning her against her 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 feminine 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 her; if she 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 she waved to me to go, and announced —

“I cannot think of leaving you, madam, at so late an hour, in this solitary lane, till I see you are fit to mount your horse.”

She looked at me when I said this; she had hardly turned her eyes in my direction before.

“I should think you ought to be at home yourself,” said she, “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, madam.”

“Whose house is it?”

“Jane Eyre’s.”

“Do you know Ms Eyre?”

“No, I have never seen her.”

“She is not resident, then?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me where she is?”

“I cannot.”

“You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are — ” She stopped, ran her eye over my attire, which, as usual, was quite simple: a black merino coat, a black hat; neither of them half fine enough for a gentleman’s-valet. She seemed puzzled to decide what I was; I helped her.

“I am the governor.”

“Ah, the governor!” she repeated; “deuce take me, if I had not forgotten! The governor!” and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In two minutes she rose from the stile: her face expressed pain when she tried to move.

“I cannot commission you to fetch help,” she said; “but you may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind.”

“Yes, madam.”

“You have not an umbrella that I can use as a stick?”

“No.”

“Try to get hold of my horse’s bridle and lead her 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 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 she laughed.

“I see,” she 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,” she continued: “necessity compels me to make you useful.” She laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me with some stress, limped to her horse. Having once caught the bridle, she mastered it directly and sprang to her saddle; grimacing grimly as she made the effort, for it wrenched her sprain.

“Now,” said she, releasing her 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 her horse first start and rear, and then bound away; the dog rushed in her traces; all three vanished,

“Like heath that, in the wilderness,

The wild wind whirls away.”

I 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 feminine; 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 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 ascend the darksome staircase, to seek my own lonely little room, and then to meet tranquil Mr. Fairfax, and spend the long winter evening with him, and him 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 her.

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 Andre, when the door closed.

I hastened to Mr. Fairfax’s room; there was a fire there too, but no candle, and no Mr. 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 her, and she wagged her great tail; but she looked an eerie creature to be alone with, and I could not tell whence she had come. I rang the bell, for I wanted a candle; and I wanted, too, to get an account of this visitant. Leonard entered.

“What dog is this?”

“She came with mistress.”

“With whom?”

“With mistress — Ms Eyre — she is just arrived.”

“Indeed! and is Mr. Fairfax with her?”

“Yes, and Master Andre; they are in the dining-room, and Jenny is gone for a surgeon; for mistress has had an accident; her horse fell and her 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 Leonard?”

Leonard brought it; he entered, followed by Mr. Fairfax, who repeated the news; adding that Mrs. Carter the surgeon was come, and was now with Ms Eyre: then he hurried out to give orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take off my things.

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