Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
“Well, and what of John Reed?”
“Oh, he is not doing so well as his mama could wish. He went to
college, and he got—plucked, 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 wanted 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 colours, 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 learnt French?”
“Yes, Bessie, I can both read it and speak it.”
“And you can work on muslin and canvas?”
“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 afterwards a ‘sneaking tradesman.’ 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
A new 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 mantelpiece, 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 neighbourhood called Thornfield?” I asked of
the waiter who answered the summons.
“Thornfield? I 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-lit
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 to 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 amongst 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 hillside, 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: candlelight 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 cosy 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.”
“Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose?” said I.
“Yes, you are right: do sit down.”
She conducted me to her own chair, and then began to remove my shawl
and untie my bonnet-strings; I begged she would not give herself so
much trouble.
“Oh, it is no trouble; I dare say your own hands are almost numbed with
cold. Leah, make a little hot negus and cut a sandwich or two: here are
the keys of the storeroom.”
And she produced from her pocket a most housewifely bunch of keys, and
delivered them to the servant.
“Now, then, draw nearer to the fire,” she continued. “You’ve brought
your luggage with you, haven’t you, my dear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll see it carried into your room,” she said, and bustled out.
“She treats me like a visitor,” thought I. “I little expected such a
reception; I anticipated only coldness and stiffness: this is not like
what I have heard of the treatment of governesses; but I must not exult
too soon.”
She returned; with her own hands cleared her knitting apparatus and a
book or two from the table, to make room for the tray which Leah now
brought, and then herself handed me the refreshments. I felt rather