Chapter 9
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But the privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood lessened. Spring drew on: she was indeed already e; 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 uhe gentler breathings of April; the nights and ms no longer by their adian temperature froze the very blood in our veins; we could now ehe play-hour passed in the garden: sometimes on a sunny day it begao be pleasant and genial, and a greenness grew over those brown beds, which, freshening daily, suggested the thought that Hope traversed them at night, a each m 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, uhe 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 arden: this pleasure sisted in prospect of noble summits girdling a great hill-hollow, ri verdure and shadow; in a bright beck, full of dark stones and sparkling eddies. How different had this se looked when I viewed it laid out beh the iron sky of winter, stiffened in frost, shrouded with snow!— when mists as chill as death wao 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 asuhe wood, a a raving sound through the air, often thied with wild rain or whirling sleet; and for the forest on its banks, that showed only ranks of skeletons.
April advao 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-sunshi 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 bees 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, quiing with the quiing 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 ed colds had predisposed most of the pupils to receive iion: forty-five out of the eighty girls lay ill at oime. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The few who tinued well were allowed almost unlimited lise; because the medical attendant insisted on the y of frequent exercise to keep them ih: 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 si, never quitting it except to snatch a few hours’ rest at night. The teachers were fully occupied with pag up and making other necessary preparations for the departure of those girls who were fortunate enough to have friends aions able and willing to remove them from the seat of tagion. Many, already smitte 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 bee an inhabitant of Lowood, ah 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 overe the effluvia of mortality, that bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills aiful woodland out of doors. Its garden, too, glowed with flowers: hollyhocks had sprung up tall as trees, lilies had opeulips and roses were in bloom; the borders of the little beds were gay with pink thrift and crimson double daisies; the sweetbriars gave out, m and evening, their st of spid 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 tinued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of the se and season; they let us ramble in the wood, like gipsies, from m 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 iion; her successor, who had been matron at the Lowton Dispensary, uo the ways of her new abode, provided with parative 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 aplished barefoot. The stone was just broad enough to aodate, fortably, anirl a that time my chosen rade—one Mary Ann Wilson; a shrewd, observant personage, whose society I took pleasure in, partly because she was witty and inal, 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 indulgenever 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 mutertai, 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 fotten 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 rad pu gossip I chose to indulge in; while, if I have spoken truth of Helen, she was qualified to give those who ehe privilege of her verse a taste of far higher things.
True, reader; and I knew ahis: and though I am a defective being, with many faults and few redeeming points, yet I ired of Helen Burns; nor ever ceased to cherish for her a se of attat, 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 roubled? 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 plaint was ption, not typhus: and by ption I, in my ignorance, uood something mild, which time and care would be sure to alleviate.
I was firmed in this idea by the fact of her once or twiing 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 ed up, and<s></s> sat at a distander 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 swihat fed on the mast in the wood. Whe back, it was after moonrise: a pony, which we ko 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 bee for at that time of the evening. She went into the house; I stayed behind a few mio 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 m. This done, I lingered yet a little lohe flowers smelt so sweet as the dew fell; it was such a pleasant evening, so serene, so warm; the still glowi 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 ear effort to prehend what had been infused into it ing heaven and hell; and for the first time it recoiled, baffled; and for the first time glang 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 vat depth; and it shuddered at the thought of t, and plunging amid that chaos. While p this ne<bdi>99lｉｂ?</bdi>w 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 a, 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 b<big>9９ｌib?</big>een to see?”
“Yes.”
“And what does he say about her?”
“He says she’ll not be here long.”
This phrase, uttered in my hearierday, would have only veyed 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 prehension 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 y 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 e 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 panions were all t in profound repose—rose softly, put on my frock over my night-dress, and, without shoes, crept from the apartment, a off i 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 mooering 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 he fever room: and I passed its door quickly, fearful lest the nurse who sat up all night should hear me. I dreaded being discovered a back; for I must see Helen,—I must embrace her before she died,—I must give her one last kiss, exge with her one last word.
Having desded a staircase, traversed a portion of the house below, and succeeded in opening and shutting, without wo doors, I reached another flight of steps; these I mounted, and then just opposite to me was Miss Temple’s room. A light shohrough the keyhole and from uhe door; a profound stillness pervaded the viity. ing near, I found the door slightly ajar; probably to admit some fresh air into the close abode of siess. Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient impulses—soul and senses quivering with keen throes—I put it bad looked in. My eye sought Helen, and feared to fih.
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 uhe 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 dle burnt dimly oable. Miss Temple was not to be seen: I knew afterwards that she had been called to a delirious patient in the fever-room. I advahen 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 posed: she looked so little ged that my fear was instantly dissipated.
“ it be you, Jane?” she asked, in her owle 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 e here, Ja 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.９９lｉb??”
“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 led 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 oret 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 tinually at fault.”
“But where are you going to, Helen? 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 fide wholly in His goodness: I t 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 get to it when we die?”
“I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good; I 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 e 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 fortable 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, ah 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 carryihrough 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 learhat Miss Temple, ourning to her own room at dawn, had found me laid itle 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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