But the privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood lessened. Spring drew on: she
was indeed already come; the frosts of winter had ceased; its snows were melted, its
cutting winds ameliorated. My wretched feet, flayed and swollen to lameness by the
sharp air of January, began to heal and subside under the gentler breathings of April; the
nights and mornings no longer by their Canadian temperature froze the very blood in
our veins; we could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden: sometimes on a
sunny day it began even to be pleasant and genial, and a greenness grew over those
brown beds, which, freshening daily, suggested the thought that Hope traversed them at
night, and left each morning brighter traces of her steps. Flowers peeped out amongst
the leaves; snow-drops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden-eyed pansies. On
Thursday afternoons (half-holidays) we now took walks, and found still sweeter flowers
opening by the wayside, under the hedges.
I discovered, too, that a great pleasure, an enjoyment which the horizon only bounded,
lay all outside the high and spike-guarded walls of our garden: this pleasure consisted in
prospect of noble summits girdling a great hill-hollow, rich in verdure and shadow; in a
bright beck, full of dark stones and sparkling eddies. How different had this scene
looked when I viewed it laid out beneath the iron sky of winter, stiffened in frost,
shrouded with snow!—when mists as chill as death wandered to the impulse of east
winds along those purple peaks, and rolled down “ing” and holm till they blended with
the frozen fog of the beck! That beck itself was then a torrent, turbid and curbless: it
tore asunder the wood, and sent a raving sound through the air, often thickened with
wild rain or whirling sleet; and for the forest on its banks, that showed only ranks of
skeletons.
April advanced to May: a bright serene May it was; days of blue sky, placid sunshine,
and soft western or southern gales filled up its duration. And now vegetation matured
with vigour; Lowood shook loose its tresses; it became all green, all flowery; its great
elm, ash, and oak skeletons were restored to majestic life; woodland plants sprang up
profusely in its recesses; unnumbered varieties of moss filled its hollows, and it made a
strange ground-sunshine out of the wealth of its wild primrose plants: I have seen their
pale gold gleam in overshadowed spots like scatterings of the sweetest lustre. All this I
enjoyed often and fully, free, unwatched, and almost alone: for this unwonted liberty
and pleasure there was a cause, to which it now becomes my task to advert.
Have I not described a pleasant site for a dwelling, when I speak of it as bosomed in hill
and wood, and rising from the verge of a stream? Assuredly, pleasant enough: but
whether healthy or not is another question.
That forest-dell, where Lowood lay, was the cradle of fog and fog-bred pestilence;
which, quickening with the quickening spring, crept into the Orphan Asylum, breathed
typhus through its crowded schoolroom and dormitory, and, ere May arrived,
transformed the seminary into an hospital.
Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils to receive
infection: forty-five out of the eighty girls lay ill at one time. Classes were broken up,
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rules relaxed. The few who continued well were allowed almost unlimited license;
because the medical attendant insisted on the necessity of frequent exercise to keep
them in health: and had it been otherwise, no one had leisure to watch or restrain them.
Miss Temple’s whole attention was absorbed by the patients: she lived in the sick-room,
never quitting it except to snatch a few hours’ rest at night. The teachers were fully
occupied with packing up and making other necessary preparations for the departure of
those girls who were fortunate enough to have friends and relations able and willing to
remove them from the seat of contagion. Many, already smitten, went home only to die:
some died at the school, and were buried quietly and quickly, the nature of the malady
forbidding delay.
While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death its frequent visitor;
while there was gloom and fear within its walls; while its rooms and passages steamed
with hospital smells, the drug and the pastille striving vainly to overcome the effluvia of
mortality, that bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful woodland
out of doors. Its garden, too, glowed with flowers: hollyhocks had sprung up tall as
trees, lilies had opened, tulips and roses were in bloom; the borders of the little beds
were gay with pink thrift and crimson double daisies; the sweetbriars gave out, morning
and evening, their scent of spice and apples; and these fragrant treasures were all
useless for most of the inmates of Lowood, except to furnish now and then a handful of
herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin.
But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of the scene and
season; they let us ramble in the wood, like gipsies, from morning till night; we did what
we liked, went where we liked: we lived better too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family
never came near Lowood now: household matters were not scrutinised into; the cross
housekeeper was gone, driven away by the fear of infection; her successor, who had
been matron at the Lowton Dispensary, unused to the ways of her new abode, provided
with comparative liberality. Besides, there were fewer to feed; the sick could eat little;
our breakfast-basins were better filled; when there was no time to prepare a regular
dinner, which often happened, she would give us a large piece of cold pie, or a thick slice
of bread and cheese, and this we carried away with us to the wood, where we each
chose the spot we liked best, and dined sumptuously.
My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone, rising white and dry from the very
middle of the beck, and only to be got at by wading through the water; a feat I
accomplished barefoot. The stone was just broad enough to accommodate, comfortably,
another girl and me, at that time my chosen comrade—one Mary Ann Wilson; a shrewd,
observant personage, whose society I took pleasure in, partly because she was witty and
original, and partly because she had a manner which set me at my ease. Some years
older than I, she knew more of the world, and could tell me many things I liked to hear:
with her my curiosity found gratification: to my faults also she gave ample indulgence,
never imposing curb or rein on anything I said. She had a turn for narrative, I for
analysis; she liked to inform, I to question; so we got on swimmingly together, deriving
much entertainment, if not much improvement, from our mutual intercourse.
And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend these sweet days of
liberty with her? Had I forgotten her? or was I so worthless as to have grown tired of
her pure society? Surely the Mary Ann Wilson I have mentioned was inferior to my first
acquaintance: she could only tell me amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy and
pungent gossip I chose to indulge in; while, if I have spoken truth of Helen, she was
59
qualified to give those who enjoyed the privilege of her converse a taste of far higher
things.
True, reader; and I knew and felt this: and though I am a defective being, with many
faults and few redeeming points, yet I never tired of Helen Burns; nor ever ceased to
cherish for her a sentiment of attachment, as strong, tender, and respectful as any that
ever animated my heart. How could it be otherwise, when Helen, at all times and under
all circumstances, evinced for me a quiet and faithful friendship, which ill-humour never
soured, nor irritation never troubled? But Helen was ill at present: for some weeks she
had been removed from my sight to I knew not what room upstairs. She was not, I was
told, in the hospital portion of the house with the fever patients; for her complaint was
consumption, not typhus: and by consumption I, in my ignorance, understood
something mild, which time and care would be sure to alleviate.
I was confirmed in this idea by the fact of her once or twice coming downstairs on very
warm sunny afternoons, and being taken by Miss Temple into the garden; but, on these
occasions, I was not allowed to go and speak to her; I only saw her from the schoolroom
window, and then not distinctly; for she was much wrapped up, and sat at a distance
under the verandah.
One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late with Mary Ann in the
wood; we had, as usual, separated ourselves from 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 the wood. When
we got back, it was after moonrise: a pony, which we knew to be the surgeon’s, was
standing at the garden door. Mary Ann remarked that she supposed some one must be
very ill, as Mr. Bates had been 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 roots I had dug
up in the forest, and which I feared would wither if I left 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 pleasant evening, so serene, so warm; the still glowing west promised so fairly another
fine day on the morrow; the moon rose with such majesty in the grave east. I was noting
these things and enjoying them as a child might, 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 of dying! This world is
pleasant—it would be dreary to be called from it, and to have to go who knows where?”
And then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend what had been infused
into it concerning heaven and hell; and for the first time it recoiled, baffled; and for the
first time glancing behind, on each side, and before it, it saw all round an unfathomed
gulf: it felt the one point where it stood—the present; all the rest was formless cloud
and vacant depth; and it shuddered at the thought of tottering, and plunging amid that
chaos. While pondering this new idea, I heard the front door open; Mr. Bates came out,
and with him was a nurse. After she had seen him mount his horse and depart, she was
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.”
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“And what does he say about her?”
“He says she’ll not be here long.”
This phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, would have only conveyed the notion that
she was about to be removed to Northumberland, to her own home. I should not have
suspected that it meant she was dying; but I knew instantly now! It opened clear on my
comprehension that Helen Burns was numbering her last days in this world, and that
she was going to be taken to the region of spirits, if such region there were. I
experienced a shock of horror, then a strong thrill of grief, then a desire—a necessity to
see her; and I asked in what 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 come in; 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 entrance which led to the
schoolroom: I was just in time; it was nine o’clock, and Miss Miller was calling the pupils
to go to bed.
It might be two hours later, probably near eleven, when I—not having been able to fall
asleep, and deeming, from the perfect silence of the dormitory, that my companions
were all wrapt in profound repose—rose softly, put on my frock over my night-dress,
and, without shoes, crept from the apartment, and set off in quest of Miss Temple’s
room. 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 at passage windows, enabled me to
find it without difficulty. An odour of camphor 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 all night should hear me. I dreaded being discovered and sent back; for I must see
Helen,—I must embrace her before she died,—I must give her one last kiss, exchange
with her one last word.
Having descended a staircase, traversed a portion of the house below, and succeeded in
opening and shutting, without noise, two doors, I reached another flight of steps; these I
mounted, and then just opposite to me was Miss Temple’s room. A light shone through
the keyhole and from under the door; a profound stillness pervaded the vicinity. Coming
near, I found the door slightly ajar; probably to admit some fresh air into the close
abode of sickness. Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient impulses—soul and
senses quivering with 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 white curtains, there stood a little
crib. I saw the outline of a form under the clothes, but the face was hid by the hangings:
the nurse I had spoken to in the garden sat in an easy-chair asleep; an unsnuffed candle
burnt dimly on the table. Miss Temple was not to be seen: I knew afterwards that she
had been called to a delirious patient in the fever-room. I advanced; then paused by the
crib side: my hand was on the curtain, but I preferred speaking before I withdrew it. I
still recoiled at the dread of seeing a corpse.
“Helen!” I whispered softly, “are you awake?”
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She stirred herself, put back the curtain, and I saw her face, pale, wasted, but quite
composed: she looked so little changed that my fear 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: she could not speak and look
so calmly if she were.”
I got on to her crib and kissed her: her forehead was cold, and her cheek both cold and
thin, and so were her hand and wrist; but she smiled as of old.
“Why are you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o’clock: I heard it strike some minutes
since.”
“I came to see you, Helen: I heard you were very ill, and I could not 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 devour my tears, a fit of coughing
seized Helen; it did not, however, wake the nurse; when it was over, she lay some
minutes exhausted; then she whispered—
“Jane, your little feet are bare; lie down and cover yourself with 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, you must be sure and not
grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We all must die one day, and the illness which is
removing me is not painful; it is gentle and gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave no one 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 the world: 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 rely implicitly on His
power, and confide wholly in His goodness: I count the hours till that eventful one
arrives which shall restore me to Him, 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 can resign my immortal part to
Him without any misgiving. God is my father; 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 by the same mighty,
universal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane.”
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Again I questioned, but this time only in thought. “Where is that region? Does it exist?”
And I clasped my arms closer round Helen; she seemed 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 the
sweetest tone—
“How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me a little; I feel as if I could
sleep: but don’t leave me, Jane; I like to 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 looked up; I was in
somebody’s arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying me through the passage back to
the dormitory. I was not reprimanded for leaving my bed; people had something else to
think about; no explanation was afforded then to my many questions; but a day or two
afterwards I learned that Miss Temple, on returning to her own room at dawn, had
found me laid in the little crib; my face against Helen Burns’s shoulder, my arms round
her neck. I was asleep, and Helen was—dead.
Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: for fifteen years after her death it was only
covered by a grassy mound; but now a grey marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with
her name, and the word “Resurgam.”
