I rose; I dressed myself with care:  obliged to be plain —­ for I had no article of attire that was not made with extreme simplicity —­ I was still by nature solicitous to be neat.  It was not my habit to be disregardful of appearance or careless of the impression I made:  on the contrary, I ever wished to look as well as I could, and to please as much as my want of beauty would permit.  I sometimes regretted that I was not handsomer; I sometimes wished to have rosy cheeks, a straight nose, and small cherry mouth; I desired to be tall, stately, and finely developed in figure; I felt it a misfortune that I was so little, so pale, and had features so irregular and so marked.  And why had I these aspirations and these regrets?  It would be difficult to say:  I could not then distinctly say it to myself; yet I had a reason, and a logical, natural reason too.  However, when I had brushed my hair very smooth, and put on my black frock —­ which, Quakerlike as it was, at least had the merit of fitting to a nicety —­ and adjusted my clean white tucker, I thought I should do respectably enough to appear before Mrs. Fairfax, and that my new pupil would not at least recoil from me with antipathy.  Having opened my chamber window, and seen that I left all things straight and neat on the toilet table, I ventured forth.

Traversing the long and matted gallery, I descended the slippery steps of oak; then I gained the hall:  I halted there a minute; I looked at some pictures on the walls (one, I remember, represented a grim man in a cuirass, and one a lady with powdered hair and a pearl necklace), at a bronze lamp pendent from the ceiling, at a great clock whose case was of oak curiously carved, and ebon black with time and rubbing.  Everything appeared very stately and imposing to me; but then I was so little accustomed to grandeur.  The hall-door, which was half of glass, stood open; I stepped over the threshold.  It was a fine autumn morning; the early sun shone serenely on embrowned groves and still green fields; advancing on to the lawn, I looked up and surveyed the front of the mansion.  It was three storeys high, of proportions not vast, though considerable:  a gentleman’s manor-house, not a nobleman’s seat:  battlements round the top gave it a picturesque look.  Its grey front stood out well from the background of a rookery, whose cawing tenants were now on the wing:  they flew over the lawn and grounds to alight in a great meadow, from which these were separated by a sunk fence, and where an array of mighty old thorn trees, strong, knotty, and broad as oaks, at once explained the etymology of the mansion’s designation.  Farther off were hills:  not so lofty as those round Lowood, nor so craggy, nor so like barriers of separation from the living world; but yet quiet and lonely hills enough, and seeming to embrace Thornfield with a seclusion I had not expected to find existent so near the stirring locality of Millcote.  A little hamlet, whose roofs were blent with trees, straggled up the side of one of these hills; the church of the district stood nearer Thornfield:  its old tower-top looked over a knoll between the house and gates.