CHAPTER VIII

Ere the half-hour ended, five o’clock struck; school was dismissed, and all
were gone into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to descend: it was deep
dusk; I retired into a corner and sat down on the floor. The spell by which I
had been so far supported began to dissolve; reaction took place, and soon, so
overwhelming was the grief that seized me, I sank prostrate with my face to the
ground. Now I wept: Helen Burns was not here; nothing sustained me; left to
myself I abandoned myself, and my tears watered the boards. I had meant to be
so good, and to do so much at Lowood: to make so many friends, to earn respect
and win affection. Already I had made visible progress: that very morning I had
reached the head of my class; Miss Miller had praised me warmly; Miss Temple
had smiled approbation; she had promised to teach me drawing, and to let me
learn French, if I continued to make similar improvement two months longer: and
then I was well received by my fellow-pupils; treated as an equal by those of
my own age, and not molested by any; now, here I lay again crushed and trodden
on; and could I ever rise more?

“Never,” I thought; and ardently I wished to die. While sobbing out this wish
in broken accents, some one approached: I started up—again Helen Burns was near
me; the fading fires just showed her coming up the long, vacant room; she
brought my coffee and bread.

“Come, eat something,” she said; but I put both away from me, feeling as if a
drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition. Helen regarded
me, probably with surprise: I could not now abate my agitation, though I tried
hard; I continued to weep aloud. She sat down on the ground near me, embraced
her knees with her arms, and rested her head upon them; in that attitude she
remained silent as an Indian. I was the first who spoke—

“Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be a liar?”

“Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who have heard you called
so, and the world contains hundreds of millions.”

“But what have I to do with millions? The eighty I know despise me.”

“Jane, you are mistaken: probably not one in the school either despises or
dislikes you: many, I am sure, pity you much.”

“How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said?”

“Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god: nor is he even a great and admired man: he is
little liked here; he never took steps to make himself liked. Had he treated
you as an especial favourite, you would have found enemies, declared or covert,
all around you; as it is, the greater number would offer you sympathy if they
dared. Teachers and pupils may look coldly on you for a day or two, but
friendly feelings are concealed in their hearts; and if you persevere in doing
well, these feelings will ere long appear so much the more evidently for their
temporary suppression. Besides, Jane”—she paused.

“Well, Helen?” said I, putting my hand into hers: she chafed my fingers gently
to warm them, and went on—

“If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own conscience
approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends.”

“No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is not enough: if others
don’t love me I would rather die than live—I cannot bear to be solitary and
hated, Helen. Look here; to gain some real affection from you, or Miss Temple,
or any other whom I truly love, I would willingly submit to have the bone of my
arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or to stand behind a kicking horse, and
let it dash its hoof at my chest—”

“Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are too
impulsive, too vehement; the sovereign hand that created your frame, and put
life into it, has provided you with other resources than your feeble self, or
than creatures feeble as you. Besides this earth, and besides the race of men,
there is an invisible world and a kingdom of spirits: that world is round us,
for it is everywhere; and those spirits watch us, for they are commissioned to
guard us; and if we were dying in pain and shame, if scorn smote us on all
sides, and hatred crushed us, angels see our tortures, recognise our innocence
(if innocent we be: as I know you are of this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst has
weakly and pompously repeated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed; for I read a
sincere nature in your ardent eyes and on your clear front), and God waits only
the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why, then,
should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is so soon over, and
death is so certain an entrance to happiness—to glory?”

I was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquillity she imparted there
was an alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the impression of woe as she
spoke, but I could not tell whence it came; and when, having done speaking, she
breathed a little fast and coughed a short cough, I momentarily forgot my own
sorrows to yield to a vague concern for her.

Resting my head on Helen’s shoulder, I put my arms round her waist; she drew me
to her, and we reposed in silence. We had not sat long thus, when another
person came in. Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a rising wind, had
left the moon bare; and her light, streaming in through a window near, shone
full both on us and on the approaching figure, which we at once recognised as
Miss Temple.

“I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre,” said she; “I want you in my room;
and as Helen Burns is with you, she may come too.”

We went; following the superintendent’s guidance, we had to thread some
intricate passages, and mount a staircase before we reached her apartment; it
contained a good fire, and looked cheerful. Miss Temple told Helen Burns to be
seated in a low arm-chair on one side of the hearth, and herself taking
another, she called me to her side.

“Is it all over?” she asked, looking down at my face. “Have you cried your
grief away?”

“I am afraid I never shall do that.”

“Why?”

“Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma’am, and everybody else, will
now think me wicked.”

“We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child. Continue to act as
a good girl, and you will satisfy us.”

“Shall I, Miss Temple?”

“You will,” said she, passing her arm round me. “And now tell me who is the
lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress?”

“Mrs. Reed, my uncle’s wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to her care.”

“Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?”

“No, ma’am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle, as I have often heard
the servants say, got her to promise before he died that she would always keep
me.”

“Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a criminal is
accused, he is always allowed to speak in his own defence. You have been
charged with falsehood; defend yourself to me as well as you can. Say whatever
your memory suggests is true; but add nothing and exaggerate nothing.”

I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most moderate—most
correct; and, having reflected a few minutes in order to arrange coherently
what I had to say, I told her all the story of my sad childhood. Exhausted by
emotion, my language was more subdued than it generally was when it developed
that sad theme; and mindful of Helen’s warnings against the indulgence of
resentment, I infused into the narrative far less of gall and wormwood than
ordinary. Thus restrained and simplified, it sounded more credible: I felt as I
went on that Miss Temple fully believed me.

In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come to see me
after the fit: for I never forgot the, to me, frightful episode of the
red-room: in detailing which, my excitement was sure, in some degree, to break
bounds; for nothing could soften in my recollection the spasm of agony which
clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my wild supplication for pardon, and
locked me a second time in the dark and haunted chamber.

I had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence; she then
said—

“I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply agrees with
your statement, you shall be publicly cleared from every imputation; to me,
Jane, you are clear now.”

She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I was well contented to
stand, for I derived a child’s pleasure from the contemplation of her face, her
dress, her one or two ornaments, her white forehead, her clustered and shining
curls, and beaming dark eyes), she proceeded to address Helen Burns.

“How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day?”

“Not quite so much, I think, ma’am.”

“And the pain in your chest?”

“It is a little better.”

Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse; then she returned to
her own seat: as she resumed it, I heard her sigh low. She was pensive a few
minutes, then rousing herself, she said cheerfully—

“But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such.” She rang her
bell.

“Barbara,” she said to the servant who answered it, “I have not yet had tea;
bring the tray and place cups for these two young ladies.”

And a tray was soon brought. How pretty, to my eyes, did the china cups and
bright teapot look, placed on the little round table near the fire! How
fragrant was the steam of the beverage, and the scent of the toast! of which,
however, I, to my dismay (for I was beginning to be hungry) discerned only a
very small portion: Miss Temple discerned it too.

“Barbara,” said she, “can you not bring a little more bread and butter? There
is not enough for three.”

Barbara went out: she returned soon—

“Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity.”

Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after Mr.
Brocklehurst’s own heart, made up of equal parts of whalebone and iron.

“Oh, very well!” returned Miss Temple; “we must make it do, Barbara, I
suppose.” And as the girl withdrew she added, smiling, “Fortunately, I have it
in my power to supply deficiencies for this once.”

Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed before each of us
a cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast, she got up, unlocked
a drawer, and taking from it a parcel wrapped in paper, disclosed presently to
our eyes a good-sized seed-cake.

“I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you,” said she, “but as
there is so little toast, you must have it now,” and she proceeded to cut
slices with a generous hand.

We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the least delight of
the entertainment was the smile of gratification with which our hostess
regarded us, as we satisfied our famished appetites on the delicate fare she
liberally supplied.

Tea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us to the fire; we sat one on
each side of her, and now a conversation followed between her and Helen, which
it was indeed a privilege to be admitted to hear.

Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air, of state in her mien,
of refined propriety in her language, which precluded deviation into the
ardent, the excited, the eager: something which chastened the pleasure of those
who looked on her and listened to her, by a controlling sense of awe; and such
was my feeling now: but as to Helen Burns, I was struck with wonder.

The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kindness of her
beloved instructress, or, perhaps, more than all these, something in her own
unique mind, had roused her powers within her. They woke, they kindled: first,
they glowed in the bright tint of her cheek, which till this hour I had never
seen but pale and bloodless; then they shone in the liquid lustre of her eyes,
which had suddenly acquired a beauty more singular than that of Miss Temple’s—a
beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of
meaning, of movement, of radiance. Then her soul sat on her lips, and language
flowed, from what source I cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart large
enough, vigorous enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervid
eloquence? Such was the characteristic of Helen’s discourse on that, to me,
memorable evening; her spirit seemed hastening to live within a very brief span
as much as many live during a protracted existence.

They conversed of things I had never heard of; of nations and times past; of
countries far away; of secrets of nature discovered or guessed at: they spoke
of books: how many they had read! What stores of knowledge they possessed! Then
they seemed so familiar with French names and French authors: but my amazement
reached its climax when Miss Temple asked Helen if she sometimes snatched a
moment to recall the Latin her father had taught her, and taking a book from a
shelf, bade her read and construe a page of Virgil; and Helen obeyed, my organ
of veneration expanding at every sounding line. She had scarcely finished ere
the bell announced bedtime! no delay could be admitted; Miss Temple embraced us
both, saying, as she drew us to her heart—

“God bless you, my children!”

Helen she held a little longer than me: she let her go more reluctantly; it was
Helen her eye followed to the door; it was for her she a second time breathed a
sad sigh; for her she wiped a tear from her cheek.

On reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss Scatcherd: she was
examining drawers; she had just pulled out Helen Burns’s, and when we entered
Helen was greeted with a sharp reprimand, and told that to-morrow she should
have half-a-dozen of untidily folded articles pinned to her shoulder.

“My things were indeed in shameful disorder,” murmured Helen to me, in a low
voice: “I intended to have arranged them, but I forgot.”

Next morning, Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece of
pasteboard the word “Slattern,” and bound it like a phylactery round Helen’s
large, mild, intelligent, and benign-looking forehead. She wore it till
evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as a deserved punishment. The
moment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after afternoon school, I ran to Helen, tore it
off, and thrust it into the fire: the fury of which she was incapable had been
burning in my soul all day, and tears, hot and large, had continually been
scalding my cheek; for the spectacle of her sad resignation gave me an
intolerable pain at the heart.

About a week subsequently to the incidents above narrated, Miss Temple, who had
written to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer: it appeared that what he said went
to corroborate my account. Miss Temple, having assembled the whole school,
announced that inquiry had been made into the charges alleged against Jane
Eyre, and that she was most happy to be able to pronounce her completely
cleared from every imputation. The teachers then shook hands with me and kissed
me, and a murmur of pleasure ran through the ranks of my companions.

Thus relieved of a grievous load, I from that hour set to work afresh, resolved
to pioneer my way through every difficulty: I toiled hard, and my success was
proportionate to my efforts; my memory, not naturally tenacious, improved with
practice; exercise sharpened my wits; in a few weeks I was promoted to a higher
class; in less than two months I was allowed to commence French and drawing. I
learned the first two tenses of the verb Etre, and sketched my first
cottage (whose walls, by-the-bye, outrivalled in slope those of the leaning
tower of Pisa), on the same day. That night, on going to bed, I forgot to
prepare in imagination the Barmecide supper of hot roast potatoes, or white
bread and new milk, with which I was wont to amuse my inward cravings: I
feasted instead on the spectacle of ideal drawings, which I saw in the dark;
all the work of my own hands: freely pencilled houses and trees, picturesque
rocks and ruins, Cuyp-like groups of cattle, sweet paintings of butterflies
hovering over unblown roses, of birds picking at ripe cherries, of wren’s nests
enclosing pearl-like eggs, wreathed about with young ivy sprays. I examined,
too, in thought, the possibility of my ever being able to translate currently a
certain little French story which Madame Pierrot had that day shown me; nor was
that problem solved to my satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep.
Etre
Well has Solomon said—“Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a
stalled ox and hatred therewith.”

I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its privations for Gateshead and
its daily luxuries.

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 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 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 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.”