“Is there only one?” I demanded.
“There are no more,” said she; and I put it in my pocket and turned my face homeward; I could not open it then; rules obliged me to be back by eight, and it was already half-past seven.
Various duties awaited me on my arrival; I had to sit with the girls during their hour of study; then it was my turn to read prayers, to see them to bed; afterward I supped with the other teachers. Even when we finally retired for the night, the inevitable Miss Gryce was still my companion; we had only a short end of candle in our candlestick, and I dreaded lest she should talk till it was all burned out; fortunately, however, the heavy supper she had eaten produced a soporific effect; she was already snoring, before I had finished undressing. There still remained an inch of candle; I now took out my letter, the seal was an initial F.; I broke it, the contents were brief.
“If J. E., who advertised in the —shire Herald of last Thursday, possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if she is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered her where there is but one pupil, a little girl, under ten years of age; and where the salary is thirty pounds per annum. J. E. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars, to the direction:
“Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote,—shire.”
I examined the document long; the writing was old-fashioned and rather uncertain, like that of an elderly lady. This circumstance was satisfactory; a private fear had haunted me that, in thus acting for myself and by my own guidance, I ran the risk of getting into some scrape; and, above all things, I wished the result of my endeavors to be respectable, proper, en règle.ba I now felt that an elderly lady was no bad ingredient in the business I had on hand. Mrs. Fairfax! I saw her in a black gown and widow’s cap; frigid, perhaps, but not uncivil; a model of elderly English respectability. Thornfield! that, doubtless, was the name of her house, a neat, orderly spot, I was sure; though I failed in my efforts to conceive a correct plan of the premises. Millcote, —shire; I brushed up my recollections of the map of England; yes, I saw it, both the shire and the town.—shire was seventy miles nearer London than the remote county where I now resided; that was a recommendation to me. I longed to go where there was life and movement; Millcote was a large manufacturing town on the banks of the A—; a busy place enough, doubtless; so much the better; it would be a complete change, at least. Not that my fancy was much captivated by the idea of long chimneys and clouds of smoke; “but,” I argued, “Thornfield will, probably, be a good way from the town.”
Here the socket of the candle dropped, and the wick went out.
Next day new steps were to be taken; my plans could no longer be confined to my own breast; I must impart them, in order to achieve their success. Having sought and obtained an audience of the superintendent, during the noontide recreation, I told her I had a prospect of getting a new situation, where the salary would be double what I now received (for at Lowood I only got £15 per annum); and requested she would break the matter for me to Mr. Brocklehurst or some of the committee, and ascertain whether they would permit me to mention them as references. She obligingly consented to act as mediatrix in the matter. The next day she laid the affair before Mr. Brocklehurst, who said that Mrs. Reed must be written to, as she was my natural guardian. A note was accordingly addressed to that lady, who returned for answer, that “I might do as I pleased; she had long relinquished all interference in my affairs.” This note went the round of the committee, and, at last, after what appeared to me most tedious delay, formal leave was given me to better my condition if I could; and an assurance added, that, as I had always conducted myself well, both as teacher and pupil, at Lowood, a testimonial of character and capacity, signed by the inspectors of that institution, should forthwith be furnished me.
This testimonial I accordingly received in about a week; forwarded a copy of it to Mrs. Fairfax, and got that lady’s reply, stating that she was satisfied, and fixing that day fortnight as the period for my assuming the post of governess in her house.
I now busied myself in preparations; the fortnight passed rapidly. I had not a very large wardrobe, though it was adequate to my wants; and the last day sufficed to pack my trunk, the same I had brought with me eight years ago from Gateshead.
The box was corded, the card nailed on. In half an hour the carrier was to call for it to take it to Lowton; whither I myself was to repair at an early hour the next morning to meet the coach. I had brushed my black stuff travelling-dress, prepared my bonnet, gloves, and muff; sought in all my drawers to see that no article was left behind; and now, having nothing more to do, I sat down and tried to rest. I could not. Though I had been on foot all day, I could not now repose an instant; I was too much excited. A phase of my life was closing to-night, a new one opening to-morrow; impossible to slumber in the interval. I must watchbb feverishly while the change was being accomplished.
“Miss,” said a servant, who met me in the lobby, where I was wandering like a troubled spirit, “a person below wishes to see you.”
“The carrier, no doubt,” I thought, and ran down stairs without inquiry. I was passing the back parlor, or teacher’s sitting-room, the door of which was half open, to go to the kitchen, when some one ran out:
“It’s her, I am sure! I could have told her anywhere!” cried the individual, who stopped my progress and took my hand.
I looked; I saw a woman attired like a well-dressed servant, matronly, yet still young; very good looking, with black hair and eyes, and lively complexion.
“Well, who is it?” she asked in a voice and with a smile I half recognized; “you’ve not quite forgotten me, I think, Miss Jane?”
In another second I was embracing and kissing her rapturously. “Bessie! Bessie! Bessie!” that was all I said; whereat she half laughed, half cried, and we both went into the parlor. By the fire stood a little fellow three years old, in plaid frock and trousers.
“That is my little boy,” said Bessie, directly.
“Then you are married, Bessie?”
“Yes; nearly five years since, to Robert Leaven, the coachman; and I’ve a little girl besides Bobby there, that I’ve christened Jane.”
“And you don’t live at Gateshead?”
“I live at the Lodge; the old porter has left.”
“Well, and how do they all get on? Tell me everything about them, Bessie; but sit down first; and, Bobby, come and sit on my knee, will you?” but Bobby preferred sidling over to his mother.
“You’re not grown so very tall, Miss Jane, nor so very stout,” continued Mrs. Leaven. “I dare say they’ve not kept you too well at school; Miss Reed is the head and shoulders taller than you are, and Miss Georgiana would make two of you in breadth.”
“Georgiana is handsome, I suppose, Bessie?”
“Very. She went up to London last winter with her mamma, and there everybody admired her, and a young lord fell in love with her, but his relations were against the match; and—what do you think? he and Miss Georgiana made it up to run away, but they were found out and stopped. It was Miss Reed that found them out; I believe she was envious, and now she and her sister lead a cat-and-dog life together; they are always quarrelling.”
“Well, and what of John Reed?”
“Oh, he is not doing so well as his mamma could wish. He went to college, and he got-plucked,bc I think they call it; and then his uncles wanted him to be a barrister, and study the law; but, he is such a dissipated young man, they will never make much of him, I think.”
“What does he look like?”
“He is very tall; some people call him a fine-looking young man; but he has such thick lips.”
“And Mrs. Reed?”
“Missis looks stout and well enough in the face, but I think she’s not quite easy in her mind. Mr. John’s conduct does not please her; he spends a deal of money.”
“Did she send you here, Bessie?”
“No, indeed; but I have long wa
nted to see you, and when I heard that there had been a letter from you, and that you were going to another part of the country, I thought I’d just set off and get a look at you before you were quite out of my reach.”
“I am afraid you are disappointed in me, Bessie.” I said this laughing; I perceived that Bessie’s glance, though it expressed regard, did in no shape denote admiration.
“No, Miss Jane, not exactly. You are genteel enough; you look like a lady, and it is as much as ever I expected of you. You were no beauty as a child.”
I smiled at Bessie’s frank answer. I felt that it was correct, but I confess I was not quite indifferent to its import. At eighteen most people wish to please, and the conviction that they have not an exterior likely to second that desire, brings anything but gratification.
“I dare say you are clever, though,” continued Bessie, by way of solace. “What can you do? Can you play on the piano?”
“A little.”
There was one in the room; Bessie went and opened it, and then asked me to sit down and give her a tune. I played a waltz or two, and she was charmed.
“The Miss Reeds could not play as well!” said she, exultingly. “I always said you would surpass them in learning; and can you draw?”
“That is one of my paintings over the chimney-piece.” It was a landscape in water-colors, of which I had made a present to the superintendent, in acknowledgment of her obliging mediation with the committee on my behalf; and which she had framed and glazed.
“Well, that is beautiful, Miss Jane! It is as fine a picture as any Miss Reed’s drawing-master could paint, let alone the young ladies themselves, who could not come near it; and have you learned French?”
“Yes, Bessie, I can both read it and speak it.”
“And you can work on muslin and canvass?”
“I can.”
“Oh, you are quite a lady, Miss Jane! I knew you would be; you will get on whether your relations notice you or not. There was something I wanted to ask you—have you ever heard anything from your father’s kinsfolk, the Eyres?”
“Never in my life.”
“Well, you know missis always said they were poor and quite despicable; and they may be poor, but I believe they are as much gentry as the Reeds are; for one day, nearly seven years ago, a Mr. Eyre came to Gateshead, and wanted to see you. Missis said you were at school fifty miles off; he seemed so much disappointed, for he could not stay—he was going on a voyage to a foreign country, and the ship was to sail from London in a day or two. He looked quite a gentleman, and I believe he was your father’s brother.”
“What foreign country was he going to, Bessie?”
“An island thousands of miles off, where they make wine—the butler did tell me—”
“Madeira?” I suggested.
“Yes, that is it—that is the very word.”
“So he went?”
“Yes; he did not stay many minutes in the house; missis was very high with him; she called him afterward a ‘sneaking trades-man.’ My Robert believes he was a wine-merchant.”
“Very likely,” I returned; “or perhaps clerk or agent to a wine-merchant.”
Bessie and I conversed about old times an hour longer, and then she was obliged to leave me. I saw her again for a few minutes the next morning at Lowton, while I was waiting for the coach. We parted finally at the door of the Brocklehurst Arms; there each went her separate way—she set off for the brow of Lowood Fell to meet the conveyance which was to take her back to Gateshead, I mounted the vehicle which was to bear me to new duties and a new life in the unknown environs of Millcote.
Chapter XI
Anew chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play; and when I draw up the curtain this time, reader, you must fancy you see a room in the George Inn, at Millcote, with such large-figured papering on the walls as inn rooms have; such a carpet, such furniture, such ornaments on the mantel-piece, such prints, including a portrait of George the Third, and another of the Prince of Wales, and a representation of the death of Wolfe. All this is visible to you by the light of an oil-lamp hanging from the ceiling, and by that of an excellent fire, near which I sit in my cloak and bonnet; my muff and umbrella lie on the table, and I am warming away the numbness and chill contracted by sixteen hours’ exposure to the rawness of an October day. I left Lowton at four o‘clock A.M., and the Millcote town-clock is now just striking eight.
Reader, though I look comfortably accommodated, I am not very tranquil in my mind; I thought when the coach stopped here there would be some one to meet me; I looked anxiously round as I descended the wooden steps the “boots” placed for my convenience, expecting to hear my name pronounced and to see some description of carriage waiting to convey me to Thornfield. Nothing of the sort was visible; and when I asked a waiter if any one had been to inquire after a Miss Eyre, I was answered in the negative; so I had no resource but to request to be shown into a private room; and here I am waiting, while all sorts of doubts and fears are troubling my thoughts.
It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth to feel itself quite alone in the world; cut adrift from every connection, uncertain whether the port to which it is bound can be reached, and prevented by many impediments from returning to that it has quitted. The charm of adventure sweetens that sensation, the glow of pride warms it; but then the throb of fear disturbs it; and fear with me became predominant when half an hour elapsed, and still I was alone. I bethought myself to ring the bell.
“Is there a place in this neighborhood called Thornfield?” I asked of the waiter who answered the summons.
“Thornfield! don’t know, ma‘am; I’ll inquire at the bar.” He vanished, but reappeared instantly.
“Is your name Eyre, miss?”
“Yes.”
“Person here waiting for you.”
I jumped up, took my muff and umbrella, and hastened into the inn passage; a man was standing by the open door, and in the lamp-lighted street I dimly saw a one-horse conveyance.
“This will be your luggage, I suppose!” said the man, rather abruptly, when he saw me, pointing to my trunk in the passage.
“Yes.”
He hoisted it on the vehicle, which was a sort of car, and then I got in. Before he shut me up, I asked him how far it was to Thornfield.
“A matter of six miles.”
“How long shall we be before we get there?”
“Happen an hour and a half.”
He fastened the car door, climbed to his own seat outside, and we set off. Our progress was leisurely, and gave me ample time to reflect; I was content to be at length so near the end of my journey; and as I leaned back in the comfortable though not elegant conveyance, I meditated much at my ease.
“I suppose,” thought I, “judging from the plainness of the servant and carriage, Mrs. Fairfax is not a very dashing person; so much the better; I never lived among fine people but once, and I was very miserable with them. I wonder if she lives alone except this little girl; if so, and if she is in any degree amiable, I shall surely be able to get on with her; I will do my best—it is a pity that doing one’s best does not always answer. At Lowood, indeed, I took that resolution, kept it, and succeeded in pleasing; but with Mrs. Reed I remember my best was always spurned with scorn. I pray God Mrs. Fairfax may not turn out a second Mrs. Reed; but if she does, I am not bound to stay with her; let the worst come to the worst, I can advertise again. How far are we on our road now, I wonder?”
I let down the window and looked out. Millcote was behind us; judging by the number of its lights, it seemed a place of considerable magnitude—much larger than Lowton. We were now, as far as I could see, on a sort of common; but there were houses scattered all over the district. I felt we were in a different region to Lowood—more populous, less picturesque; more stirring, less romantic.
The roads were heavy, the night misty; my conductor let his horse walk all the way, and the hour and a half extended, I verily believe, to two hours; at last he
turned in his seat and said:
“You’re noan so far fro’ Thornfield now.”
Again I looked out—we were passing a church; I saw its low, broad tower against the sky, and its bell was tolling a quarter; I saw a narrow galaxy of lights, too, on a hill-side, marking a village or hamlet. About ten minutes after, the driver got down and opened a pair of gates; we passed through, and they clashed to behind us. We now slowly ascended a drive, and came upon the long front of a house; candle-light gleamed from one curtained bow-window—all the rest were dark. The car stopped at the front door; it was opened by a maid-servant; I alighted and went in.
“Will you walk this way, ma‘am?” said the girl; and I followed her across a square hall with high doors all round; she ushered me into a room, whose double illumination of fire and candle at first dazzled me, contrasting as it did with the darkness to which my eyes had been for two hours inured; when I could see, however, a cozy and agreeable picture presented itself to my view.
A snug, small room; a round table by a cheerful fire; an arm-chair, high-backed and old-fashioned, wherein sat the neatest imaginable little elderly lady, in widow’s cap, black silk gown, and snowy muslin apron—exactly like what I had fancied Mrs. Fairfax, only less stately and milder-looking. She was occupied in knitting; a large cat sat demurely at her feet; nothing, in short, was wanting to complete the beau ideal of domestic comfort. A more reassuring introduction for a new governess could scarcely be conceived; there was no grandeur to overwhelm, no stateliness to embarrass; and then, as I entered, the old lady got up and promptly and kindly came forward to meet me.
“How do you do, my dear? I am afraid you have had a tedious ride, John drives so slowly; you must be cold—come to the fire.”
Jane Eyre (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 15
