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.




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