“What did you say, Miss?”
“Nothing: I covered my face with the bedclothes, and turned from her to the wall.”
“That was wrong, Miss Jane.”
“It was quite right, Bessie. Your Missis has not been my friend: she has been my foe.”
“O Miss Jane! don’t say so!”
“Good-bye to Gateshead!” cried I, as we passed through the hall and went out at the front door.
The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern, whose light glanced on wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent thaw. Raw and chill was the winter morning: my teeth chattered as I hastened down the drive. There was a light in the porter’s lodge: when we reached it, we found the porter’s wife just kindling her fire: my trunk, which had been carried down the evening before, stood corded at the door. It wanted but a few minutes of six, and shortly after that hour had struck, the distant roll of wheels announced the coming coach; I went to the door and watched its lamps approach rapidly through the gloom.
“Is she going by herself?” asked the porter’s wife.
“Yes.”
“And how far is it?”
“Fifty miles.”
“What a long way! I wonder Mrs. Reed is not afraid to trust her so far alone.”