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, 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 pare society? Surely
the Mary Arm 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
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."
"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?"
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."
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 way."
"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."
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