“Mrs. Fairfax,” I called out, “did you hear that laugh?  Who is it?”

“Some of the servants very likely,” she answered; “perhaps Grace Poole.”

The laugh was repeated in a low tone, and terminated in an odd murmur.

“Grace!” exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.

I didn’t expect Grace to answer, for the laugh was preternatural.

Nevertheless, the door nearest me opened, and a servant came out—­a set, square-made figure, with a hard, plain face.

“Too much noise, Grace,” said Mrs. Fairfax.  “Remember directions!”

Grace curtseyed silently, and went in.

Not unfrequently after that I heard Grace Poole’s laugh and her eccentric murmurs, stranger than her laugh.

Late one fine, calm afternoon in January I volunteered to carry to the post at Hay, two miles distant, a letter Mrs. Fairfax had just written.  The lane to Hay inclined uphill all the way, and having reached the middle, I sat on a stile till the sun went down, and on the hill-top above me stood the rising moon.  The village was a mile distant, but in the absolute hush I could hear plainly its murmurs of life.

A rude noise broke on the fine ripplings and whisperings of the evening calm, a metallic clatter, a horse was coming.  The windings of the lane hid it as it approached.  Then I heard a rush under the hedge, and close by glided a great dog, not staying to look up.  The horse followed—­a tall steed, and on its back a rider.  He passed; a sliding sound, a clattering tumble, and man and horse were down.  They had slipped on the sheet of ice which glased the causeway.  The dog came bounding back, sniffed round the prostrate group, and then ran up to me; it was all he could do.  I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller struggling himself free of his steed.  I think he was swearing, but am not certain.

“Can I do anything?” I asked.

“You can stand on one side,” he answered as he rose.  Whereupon began a heaving, stamping process, accompanied by a barking and baying, and the horse was re-established and the dog silenced with a “Down, Pilot!”

“If you are hurt and want help, sir,” I remarked, “I can fetch someone, either from Thornfield Hall or from Hay.”

“Thank you, I shall do.  I have no broken bones, only a sprain.”  And he limped to the stile.

He had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow.  His eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted; 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.  His frown and roughness set me at ease.

He waved me to go, but I said: 

“I cannot think of leaving you in this solitary lane till you are fit to mount your horse.”

“You ought to be at home yourself,” said he.  “Where do you come from?”

“From just below.”

“Do you mean that house with the battlements?”