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. 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 parenthèse, 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 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 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 Adèle 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 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 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

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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 Adèle, because she had a cold; and, as Adèle 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 Adèle
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 change of amusement; and having replied to her “Revenez bientôt,
ma bonne amie, ma chère 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

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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 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

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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

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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

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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 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 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 Mrs. Fairfax, and spend the long winter evening with
her, and her 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

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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 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 Adèle, when the
door closed.
I hastened to Mrs. Fairfax’s room; there was a fire there too, but no candle, and no Mrs.
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 him, and he wagged his great tail; but he looked an eerie creature
to be alone with, and I could not tell whence he had come. I rang the bell, for I wanted a
candle; and I wanted, too, to get an account 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 accident; his horse fell and his 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 Leah?”
Leah brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs. Fairfax, who repeated the news; adding
that Mr. Carter the surgeon was come, and was now with Mr. Rochester: then she
hurried out to give orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take off my things.