‘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.3
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: 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 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-ideal4 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 not trouble: I daresay your own hands are almost numbed with cold. Leah, make a little hot negus5 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.’