My Mr. Rochester 1(38)

A little thing recalls me from the sublime. The grandfather clock in the hall strikes seven times. Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane. I turn from moon and stars, open the door, and go in.

In the foyer, the high-hung bronze wall sconce is lit. Yet a brighter light issues from the parlor whose pocket door stands open. Within, a homely fire burns in the grate, revealing people near the mantel. There’s a cheerful mingling of voices, including Adele’s eager childish tone.

The door closes.

I run to Mrs. Fairfax’s office. There is a fire there too but no lamp and no Mrs. Fairfax. Alone on the rug before the fire lies a great black long-haired dog with a white blaze on its forehead. The very double of the Gytrash of the lane.

It is so like the other that I step forward. “Pilot?”

The thing gets up and comes to me and sniffs at me. I pet him, and he wags his great tail, but still he’s an eerie creature to be alone with. I ring the bell for a lamp, and I hope too for an account of this visitor.

“What dog is this?” I ask Leah who answers my call.

“He came with Master.”

“With whom?”

“With Master. Mr. Rochester. He is just arrived.”

“Thank you, Leah.”

I hurry for the staircase. This is terrible! I will stay in my room, and perhaps by tomorrow morning he’ll be gone again. I cannot live in the same house with that man. He is too…he is too much. I’m three quarters of the way up when the pocket doors below slide again into the wall.

“Jane, there you are,” Mrs. Fairfax calls up to me. “Come down at once. Mr. Rochester is here. He wants you.”

My Mr. Rochester