My Mr. Rochester 1(37)

“Of course, sir.”

“Do you have an umbrella or something I can use as a stick?”

“I don’t.”

“Then try to get hold of my horse's bridle and lead him to me. You’re not afraid of that either, I’ll wager.”

I most certainly am afraid to touch the horse, but his tone is so commanding I obey almost against my will. I go to the tall steed and endeavor to catch the bridle. It’s a spirited thing and won’t let me come near its head. I make effort on effort, careful to avoid its trampling feet.

After some time the stranger bursts out laughing, a weird sound, incongruous coming out of that grim figure. “Give it up,” he says. “At this rate the mountain will never come to Mohammad. You’ll have to aid Mohammad to go to the mountain. Come here.”

I obey.

“Pardon my familiarity.” Again he lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Necessity compels me to make you useful.”

Again his massive body pushes against me, his arm around my neck, his strength denied only by a sprained ankle. With no choice, I lay my arm across his back to further support him. His size comes all from muscle, his strength from muscle and will. My emotions churn, and an image invades my mind. I see this stranger doing what others have done against my wishes, but I feel no anger.

I want him to kiss me.

We shuffle and limp to his horse. Catching the bridle on first attempt, he springs to his saddle, grimacing in the effort. “Now hand me my whip,” he commands. “It lies there at the fence.”

I seek the instrument and find it, hand it up to him. Our eyes meet. Perhaps an electric current passes between us. Perhaps I imagine it.

“Now make haste with your errand to Hayton.” He turns away from me. “And return to your home as fast as you can.” At the touch of his heel, the horse starts and rears. Then the stranger bounds away, away from me with the dog Pilot rushing in his traces.

All three vanish. I am alone and my world is again silent. The bright moon stares at me serenely—and I believe a star or two winks.





« Chapter 14 »

The Master


The incident on the road has happened and is gone, a thing of no moment, no romance, and no interest. Yet I have had my wish, the answer to the very purpose of my outing. The encounter with the stranger made a quarter hour’s change in a monotonous life.

My help had been needed and claimed. I had given it. I was pleased to have done something. Something trivial and transitory, yes, but something active, an opposite in my all-too-passive existence.

And the new face will be useful to me, a new picture in the gallery of my memory, unlike any hanging there. Masculine, strong, stern. And though his face was infused with judgment, it’s a kind of judgment new to me: fair judgment. Intelligent discrimination.

I’m eager to draw that visage.

I carry the face before me when I enter Hayton and slip the letter into the slot at the post office. As I retrace my steps homeward, the brow grows less severe and more heroic. The dark eyes become rich with understanding. The broad shoulders and trim waist are more dangerous to contemplate.

When I come to the stile, I stop a minute and look around, listening for a horse on the lane. I wait for a rider in a cloak and his Gytrash-like Newfoundland dog.

I see only wild vegetation to my left and the church ahead on my right. The willow rises up to meet the moonbeams in the coming night. The faintest waft of wind gently teases the tree’s hanging bare branches.

I glance down in the direction of Thornfield Hall where there’s a light in a window. It reminds me I am now late, and I hurry on. I come back through the open gryphon gate—though I could swear I’d closed it earlier.

I linger at the gate. I linger on the lawn. I pace back and forth on the pavement. I now linger at Thornfield’s door. I find I don’t want to go in.

To pass over its threshold is to return to normalcy. To stagnation. I will cross the silent foyer and ascend the dark staircase. I’ll enter my lonely room and wash away the dust and sweat that evidence my little journey. I will spend a tranquil evening with Mrs. Fairfax, quashing entirely the excitement awakened deep within me.

I will slip again into Thornfield’s placid existence, whose very privileges of security and ease I’ve become incapable of appreciating. The door’s glass shutters are closed, but I don’t need to see inside to know what awaits me.

Both my eyes and my spirit are drawn from the gloomy house to the night sky above, a cobalt sea absolved from taint of cloud, the moon ascending in solemn march, seeming to look upward as she aspires to the fathomless depth and measureless distance of space.

The trembling stars celebrate her course, and they make my heart tremble. Once again I sense the continuity and infinite relationship of all things. I can’t bear to lose this bliss.