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Chapter 9


CHAPTER IX


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."


Charlotte Bronte