Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte Deluxe Edition Chapter 9.

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 as under
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;
rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells, while its 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 puther 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."

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte Deluxe Edition Chapter 10.>