Jane Eyre

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 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