It was early on the morning of January nineteenth when Bessie found me up and nearly dressed. I was going to school that day on a coach that passed Gateshead at six o'clock. Bessie tried to get me to eat some breakfast, but I was too excited.
As we left the nursery, Bessie said, "Will you say good-bye to Mrs. Reed?"
"No. She came to my bed last night and told me not to disturb her this morning. She also said to remember that she'd always been my best friend."
"And what did you say?"
"Nothing. I turned my face to the wall."
Bessie scolded me but I didn't care. I was leaving Gateshead forever! Carrying a lantern, she walked me down to the porter's lodge, where my trunk had been sent the night before.
When the coach arrived, my trunk was hoisted up, and I was placed on a seat.
I remembered little of the fifty-mile journey. The afternoon was wet and misty; as darkness fell, we left the towns behind and moved out into open country. I was lulled to sleep by the wind rushing through the trees.
I woke up when we arrived at Lowood school. A servant led me through a door in a high wall, and then into a large building with many windows. We entered a room with a fire, where she left me alone.
A few minutes later, two women entered.
"This child is very young to have been sent alone," said the first woman, whose name was Miss Temple. She was tall with dark hair and eyes. "Are you tired?" she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.
"A little, ma'am," I admitted.
"And hungry, too, no doubt. Let her have some supper before she goes to bed, Miss Miller."
Then Miss Temple asked me about my family and whether I could read or write. She touched my cheek gently. "I hope you'll be a good girl. Now run along with Miss Miller."
Miss Miller, one of the teachers, led me through a maze of corridors until we came to a huge room filled with girls in brown dresses and pinafores. Seated at long tables and bent over their studies, they appeared countless, though I later learned there were eighty students at the school. A supper of oat cake and water was soon served, but I was too tired to eat.
The next morning we all sat down to breakfast in the dining hall. A noxious smell came from the basins on the tables.
"Disgusting!" said one of the older girls. "The porridge is burned again."
I tried a mouthful, but burned porridge is almost as bad as rotten potatoes. Breakfast was over and no one had eaten.
We filed into the schoolroom and at nine o'clock sat down to our lessons. There were four classes, and I was placed in the lowest. Suddenly everyone rose as Miss Temple entered the room.
Taking her seat near a globe, Miss Temple began giving a geography lesson to the older girls. The other teachers led classes in history and grammar followed by writing and arithmetic. At last the clock struck twelve, and Miss Temple stood up.
"This morning you had a breakfast that you couldn't eat," she said. "I've ordered a snack of bread and cheese to be served to all."
The girls cheered while the teachers looked at her in surprise. "I'll take responsibility for this," she said.
The bread and cheese were brought in, to the delight of the whole school. Then the order "To the garden" was given.
Each student put on a coarse straw bonnet and a gray cloak. I followed the girls outdoors. The garden was a wide space, surrounded by walls so high that they shut out any view. A covered veranda ran down one side. It was a cold, drizzly day for outdoor exercise.
I had not spoken to anyone yet, nor had anyone noticed me. But I was used to being lonely. I leaned against a pillar of the verandah and tried to forget both the cold and my hunger.
Presently I noticed a stone tablet over the door that said "Lowood Institution."
I was still pondering the meaning of the word "institution" when the sound of a hollow cough caught my attention. I saw a girl of about 14, sitting on a stone bench. She was bent over a book; turning a page, she happened to look up.
"Is your book interesting?" I asked.
She paused for a second and examined me. "I like it."
"What's it about?"
"You may look at it." She offered me the book.
I'd hoped that the book would contain fairy tales, but there was nothing like that on its densely printed pages. I returned it, and she was about to start reading again when I interrupted her.
"Why is this place called an institution?"
"We're all charity children," the girl explained. "Everyone has lost one or both parents, and this is an institution for educating orphans. We, or our friends, pay fifteen pounds a year so that we can stay here."
I was still puzzled. "Then why do they call us charity children?"
"Because fifteen pounds isn't enough to cover the cost of our living here. The rest is made up by subscriptions from benevolent people."
I asked more questions, and the girl explained that Mr. Brocklehurst was the treasurer and manager of Lowood. A clergyman, he lived in a fine, large house two miles away.
"So the school doesn't belong to Miss Temple?" I asked.
"I wish it did! She has to answer to Mr. Brocklehurst for everything she does as superintendent. He buys all our clothes and food."
"Are you happy here?"
"You ask too many questions. I want to read."
But I asked one more and learned that her name was Helen Burns.
Just then the bell sounded for lunch, so we filed inside. The odor that filled the dining hall was scarcely more appetizing than at breakfast. I could eat little of the fatty meat and gray potatoes.
After lunch we adjourned to the schoolroom, where lessons continued until five o'clock. During the afternoon Miss Scatcherd, one of the teachers, dismissed Helen in disgrace from history class and forced her to stand in the middle of the schoolroom. It seemed a terrible punishment to me, but Helen neither wept nor blushed. And I was left to wonder whether she was a good or naughty child.