But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully thebeauties of the scene and season; they let us ramble in the wood, likegipsies, from morning till night; we did what we liked, went wherewe liked: we lived better too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family nevercame near Lowood now: household matters were not scrutinised into; thecross housekeeper was gone, driven away by the fear of infection;her successor, who had been matron at the Lowton Dispensary, unused tothe ways of her new abode, provided with comparative liberality.Besides, there were fewer to feed; the sick could eat little; ourbreakfast-basins were better filled; when there was no time to preparea regular dinner, which often happened, she would give us a largepiece of cold pie, or a thick slice of bread and cheese, and this wecarried away with us to the wood, where we each chose the spot weliked best, and dined sumptuously.
My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone, rising white anddry from the very middle of the beck, and only to be got at bywading through the water; a feat I accomplished barefoot. The stonewas just broad enough to accommodate, comfortably, another girl andme, at that time my chosen comrade- one Mary Ann Wilson; a shrewd,observant personage, whose society I took pleasure in, partlybecause she was witty and original, and partly because she had amanner which set me at my ease. Some years older than I, she knew moreof the world, and could tell me many things I liked to hear: withher my curiosity found gratification: to my faults also she gave ampleindulgence, never imposing curb or rein on anything I said. She hada turn for narrative, I for analysis; she liked to inform, I toquestion; so we got on swimmingly together, deriving muchentertainment, if not much improvement, from our mutual intercourse.
And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend thesesweet days of liberty with her? Had I forgotten her? or was I soworthless as to have grown tired of her pure society? Surely theMary Ann Wilson I have mentioned was inferior to my firstacquaintance: she could only tell me amusing stories, andreciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I chose to indulge in;while, if I have spoken truth of Helen, she was qualified to givethose who enjoyed the privilege of her converse a taste of farhigher things.
True, reader; and I knew and felt this: and though I am a defectivebeing, with many faults and few redeeming points, yet I never tired ofHelen Burns; nor ever ceased to cherish for her a sentiment ofattachment, as strong, tender, and respectful as any that everanimated my heart. How could it be otherwise, when Helen, at all timesand under all circumstances, evinced for me a quiet and faithfulfriendship, which ill-humour never soured, nor irritation nevertroubled? But Helen was ill at present: for some weeks she had beenremoved from my sight to I knew not what room upstairs. She was not, Iwas told, in the hospital portion of the house with the feverpatients; for her complaint was consumption, not typhus: and byconsumption I, in my ignorance, understood something mild, whichtime and care would be sure to alleviate.
I was confirmed in this idea by the fact of her once or twicecoming downstairs on very warm sunny afternoons, and being taken byMiss Temple into the garden; but, on these occasions, I was notallowed to go and speak to her; I only saw her from the schoolroomwindow, and then not distinctly; for she was much wrapped up, andsat at a distance under the verandah.
One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very latewith Mary Ann in the wood; we had, as usual, separated ourselvesfrom the others, and had wandered far; so far that we lost our way,and had to ask it at a lonely cottage, where a man and woman lived,who looked after a herd of half-wild swine that fed on the mast in thewood. When we got back, it was after moonrise: a pony, which we knewto be the surgeon's, was standing at the garden door. Mary Annremarked that she supposed some one must be very ill, as Mr. Bates hadbeen sent for at that time of the evening. She went into the house;I stayed behind a few minutes to plant in my garden a handful of rootsI had dug up in the forest, and which I feared would wither if Ileft them till the morning. This done, I lingered yet a little longer:the flowers smelt so sweet as the dew fell; it was such a pleasantevening, so serene, so warm; the still glowing west promised so fairlyanother fine day on the morrow; the moon rose with such majesty in thegrave east. I was noting these things and enjoying them as a childmight, when it entered my mind as it had never done before:-
'How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and to be in danger ofdying! This world is pleasant- it would be dreary to be called fromit, and to have to go who knows where?'
And then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend whathad been infused into it concerning heaven and hell; and for the firsttime it recoiled, baffled; and for the first time glancing behind,on each side, and before it, it saw all round an unfathomed gulf: itfelt the one point where it stood- the present; all the rest wasformless cloud and vacant depth; and it shuddered at the thought oftottering, and plunging amid that chaos. While pondering this newidea, I heard the front door open; Mr. Bates came out, and with himwas a nurse. After she had seen him mount his horse and depart, shewas about to close the door, but I ran up to her.
'How is Helen Burns?'
'Very poorly,' was the answer.
'Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see?'
'Yes.'
'And what does he say about her?'
'He says she'll not be here long.'
This phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, would have onlyconveyed the notion that she was about to be removed toNorthumberland, to her own home. I should not have suspected that itmeant she was dying; but I knew instantly now! It opened clear on mycomprehension that Helen Burns was numbering her last days in thisworld, and that she was going to be taken to the region of spirits, ifsuch region there were. I experienced a shock of horror, then a strongthrill of grief, then a desire- a necessity to see her; and I asked inwhat room she lay.
'She is in Miss Temple's room,' said the nurse.
'May I go up and speak to her?'
'Oh no, child! It is not likely; and now it is time for you to comein; you'll catch the fever if you stop out when the dew is falling.'
The nurse closed the front door; I went in by the side entrancewhich led to the schoolroom: I was just in time; it was nineo'clock, and Miss Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed.
It might be two hours later, probably near eleven, when I- nothaving been able to fall asleep, and deeming, from the perfect silenceof the dormitory, that my companions were all wrapt in profoundrepose- rose softly, put on my frock over my night-dress, and, withoutshoes, crept from the apartment, and set off in quest of Miss Temple'sroom. It was quite at the other end of the house; but I knew my way;and the light of the unclouded summer moon, entering here and there atpassage windows, enabled me to find it without difficulty. An odour ofcamphor and burnt vinegar warned me when I came near the fever room:and I passed its door quickly, fearful lest the nurse who sat up allnight should hear me. I dreaded being discovered and sent back; forI must see Helen,- I must embrace her before she died,- I must giveher one last kiss, exchange with her one last word.
Having descended a staircase, traversed a portion of the housebelow, and succeeded in opening and shutting, without noise, twodoors, I reached another flight of steps; these I mounted, and thenjust opposite to me was Miss Temple's room. A light shone throughthe keyhole and from under the door; a profound stillness pervaded thevicinity. Coming near, I found the door slightly ajar; probably toadmit some fresh air into the close abode of sickness. Indisposed tohesitate, and full of impatient impulses- soul and senses quiveringwith keen throes- I put it back and looked in. My eye sought Helen,and feared to find death.
Close by Miss Temple's bed, and half covered with its whitecurtains, there stood a little crib. I saw the outline of a form underthe clothes, but the face was hid by the hangings: the nurse I hadspoken to in the garden sat in an easy-chair asleep; an unsnuffedcandle burnt dimly on the table. Miss Temple was not to be seen: Iknew afterwards that she had been called to a delirious patient in thefever-room. I advanced; then paused by the crib side: my hand was onthe curtain, but I preferred speaking before I withdrew it. I stillrecoiled at the dread of seeing a corpse.
'Helen!' I whispered softly, 'are you awake?'
She stirred herself, put back the curtain, and I saw her face,pale, wasted, but quite composed: she looked so little changed that myfear was instantly dissipated.
'Can it be you, Jane?' she asked, in her own gentle voice.
'Oh!' I thought, 'she is not going to die; they are mistaken: shecould not speak and look so calmly if she were.'
I got on to her crib and kissed her: her forehead was cold, and hercheek both cold and thin, and so were her hand and wrist; but shesmiled as of old.
'Why are you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o'clock: I heard itstrike some minutes since.'
'I came to see you, Helen: I heard you were very ill, and I couldnot sleep till I had spoken to you.'
'You came to bid me good-bye, then: you are just in time probably.'
'Are you going somewhere, Helen? Are you going home?'
'Yes; to my long home- my last home.'
'No, no, Helen!' I stopped, distressed. While I tried to devourmy tears, a fit of coughing seized Helen; it did not, however, wakethe nurse; when it was over, she lay some minutes exhausted; thenshe whispered-
'Jane, your little feet are bare; lie down and cover yourselfwith my quilt.'
I did so: she put her arm over me, and I nestled close to her.After a long silence, she resumed, still whispering-
'I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead, youmust be sure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. Weall must die one day, and the illness which is removing me is notpainful; it is gentle and gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave noone to regret me much: I have only a father; and he is lately married,and will not miss me. By dying young, I shall escape great sufferings.I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in theworld: I should have been continually at fault.'
'But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you know?'
'I believe; I have faith: I am going to God.'
'Where is God? What is God?'
'My Maker and yours, who will never destroy what He created. I relyimplicitly on His power, and confide wholly in His goodness: I countthe hours till that eventful one arrives which shall restore me toHim, reveal Him to me.'
'You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as heaven,and that our souls can get to it when we die?'
'I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good; I canresign my immortal part to Him without any misgiving. God is myfather; God is my friend: I love Him; I believe He loves me.'
'And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die?'
'You will come to the same region of happiness: be received bythe same mighty, universal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane.'
Again I questioned, but this time only in thought. 'Where is thatregion? Does it exist?' And I clasped my arms closer around Helen; sheseemed dearer to me than ever; I felt as if I could not let her go;I lay with my face hidden on her neck. Presently she said, in thesweetest tone-
'How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me alittle; I feel as if I could sleep: but don't leave me, Jane; I liketo have you near me.'
'I'll stay with you, dear Helen: no one shall take me away.'
'Are you warm, darling?'
'Yes.'
'Good-night, Jane.'
'Good-night, Helen.'
She kissed me, and I her, and we both soon slumbered.
When I awoke it was day: an unusual movement roused me; I lookedup; I was in somebody's arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying methrough the passage back to the dormitory. I was not reprimanded forleaving my bed; people had something else to think about; noexplanation was afforded then to my many questions; but a day or twoafterwards I learned that Miss Temple, on returning to her own room atdawn, had found me laid in the little crib; my face against HelenBurns's shoulder, my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and Helen was-dead.
Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: for fifteen years afterher death it was only covered by a grassy mound; but now a grey marbletablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word'Resurgam.'
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CHAPTER X--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
HITHERTO I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificantexistence: to the first ten years of my life I have given almost asmany chapters. But this is not to be a regular autobiography: I amonly bound to invoke Memory where I know her responses will possesssome degree of interest; therefore I now pass a space of eight yearsalmost in silence: a few lines only are necessary to keep up the linksof connection.
When the typhus fever had fulfilled its mission of devastation atLowood, it gradually disappeared from thence; but not till itsvirulence and the number of its victims had drawn public attentionon the school. Inquiry was made into the origin of the scourge, and bydegrees various facts came out which excited public indignation in ahigh degree. The unhealthy nature of the site; the quantity andquality of the children's food; the brackish, fetid water used inits preparation; the pupils' wretched clothing and accommodations- allthese things were discovered, and the discovery produced a resultmortifying to Mr. Brocklehurst, but beneficial to the institution.
Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the county subscribedlargely for the erection of a more convenient building in a bettersituation; new regulations were made; improvements in diet andclothing introduced; the funds of the school were intrusted to themanagement of a committee. Mr. Brocklehurst, who, from his wealthand family connections, could not be overlooked, still retained thepost of treasurer; but he was aided in the discharge of his dutiesby gentlemen of rather more enlarged and sympathising minds: hisoffice of inspector, too, was shared by those who knew how tocombine reason with strictness, comfort with economy, compassionwith uprightness. The school, thus improved, became in time a trulyuseful and noble institution. I remained an inmate of its walls, afterits regeneration, for eight years: six as pupil, and two as teacher;and in both capacities I bear my testimony to its value andimportance.
