“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 nightdress, 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’.
Chapter Ten
Hitherto I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant existence, to the first ten years of my life I have given almost as many chapters. But this is not to be a regular autobiography. I am only bound to invoke Memory where I know her responses will possess some degree of interest. Therefore I now pass a space of eight years almost in silence, a few lines only are necessary to keep up the links of connection.
When the typhus fever had fulfilled its mission of devastation at Lowood, it gradually disappeared from thence, but not till its virulence and the number of its victims had drawn public attention on the school. Inquiry was made into the origin of
the scourge, and by degrees various facts came out which excited public indignation in a high degree. The unhealthy nature of the site, the quantity and quality of the children’s food, the brackish, fetid water used in its preparation, the pupils’ wretched clothing and accommodations—all these things were discovered, and the discovery produced a result mortifying to Mr Brocklehurst, but beneficial to the institution.
Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the county subscribed largely for the erection of a more convenient building in a better situation. New regulations were made, improvements in diet and clothing introduced, the funds of the school were intrusted to the management of a committee. Mr Brocklehurst, who, from his wealth and family connections, could not be overlooked, still retained the post of treasurer, but he was aided in the discharge of his duties by gentlemen of rather more enlarged and sympathising minds, his office of inspector, too, was shared by those who knew how to combine reason with strictness, comfort with economy, compassion with uprightness. The school, thus improved, became in time a truly useful and noble institution. I remained an inmate of its walls, after its regeneration, for eight years, six as pupil, and two as teacher and in both capacities I bear my testimony to its value and importance.
During these eight years my life was uniform, but not unhappy, because it was not inactive. I had the means of an excellent education placed within my reach, a fondness for some of my studies, and a desire to excel in all, together with a great delight in pleasing my teachers, especially such as I loved, urged me on, I availed myself fully of the advantages offered me. In time I rose to be the first girl of the first class, then I was invested with the office of teacher, which I discharged with zeal for two years, but at the end of that time I altered.
Miss Temple, through all changes, had thus far continued superintendent of the seminary. To her instruction I owed the best part of my acquirements, her friendship and society had been my continual solace. She had stood me in the stead of mother, governess, and, latterly, companion. At this period she married, removed with her husband—a clergyman, an excellent man, almost worthy of such a wife—to a distant county, and consequently was lost to me.
From the day she left I was no longer the same, with her was gone every settled feeling, every association that had made Lowood in some degree a home to me. I had imbibed from her something of her nature and much of her habits, more harmonious thoughts, what seemed better regulated feelings had become the inmates of my mind. I had given in allegiance to duty and order. I was quiet, I believed I was content, to the eyes of others, usually even to my own, I appeared a disciplined and subdued character.
But destiny, in the shape of the Rev. Mr Nasmyth, came between me and Miss Temple. I saw her in her travelling dress step into a post-chaise, shortly after the marriage ceremony. I watched the chaise mount the hill and disappear beyond its brow and then retired to my own room, and there spent in solitude the greatest part of the half-holiday granted in honour of the occasion.
I walked about the chamber most of the time. I imagined myself only to be regretting my loss, and thinking how to repair it, but when my reflections were concluded, and I looked up and found that the afternoon was gone, and evening far advanced, another discovery dawned on me, namely, that in the interval I had undergone a transforming process. That my mind had put off all it had borrowed of Miss Temple—or rather that she had taken with her the serene atmosphere I had been breathing in her vicinity—and that now I was left in my natural element, and beginning to feel the stirring of old emotions. It did not seem as if a prop were withdrawn, but rather as if a motive were gone. It was not the power to be tranquil which had failed me, but the reason for tranquillity was no more. My world had for some years been in Lowood, my experience had been of its rules and systems, now I remembered that the real world was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fears, of sensations and excitements, awaited those who had courage to go forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life amidst its perils. I vowed to drink all the draughts from the cup of life. I wanted to experience everything the world—though my view of it had been limited—had to offer!
I went to my window, threw it open, and looked out. There were the two wings of the building. There was the garden; there were the skirts of Lowood; there was the hilly horizon. My eye passed all other objects to rest on those most remote, the blue peaks; it was those I longed to surmount; all within their boundary of rock and heath seemed prison-ground, exile limits. I traced the white road winding round the base of one mountain, and vanishing in a gorge between two. How I longed to follow it farther! I recalled the time when I had travelled that very road in a coach. I remembered descending that hill at twilight; an age seemed to have elapsed since the day which brought me first to Lowood, and I had never quitted it since. My vacations had all been spent at school, Mrs Reed had never sent for me to Gateshead. Neither she nor any of her family had ever been to visit me. I had had no communication by letter or message with the outer world. School rules, school duties, school habits and notions, and voices, and faces, and phrases, and costumes, and preferences, and antipathies—such was what I knew of existence. And now I felt that it was not enough. I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desired liberty, for liberty I gasped, for liberty I uttered a prayer. It seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and framed a humbler supplication, for change, stimulus, that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space. “Then,” I cried, half desperate, “grant me at least a new servitude!”
Here a bell, ringing the hour of supper, called me downstairs.
I was not free to resume the interrupted chain of my reflections till bedtime, even then a teacher who occupied the same room with me kept me from the subject to which I longed to recur, by a prolonged effusion of small talk. How I wished sleep would silence her. It seemed as if, could I but go back to the idea which had last entered my mind as I stood at the window, some inventive suggestion would rise for my relief.
Miss Gryce snored at last. She was a heavy Welshwoman, and till now her habitual nasal strains had never been regarded by me in any other light than as a nuisance. Tonight I hailed the first deep notes with satisfaction. I was debarrassed of interruption, my half-effaced thought instantly revived.
A new servitude! There is something in that, I soliloquised—mentally, be it understood. I did not talk aloud—I know there is, because it does not sound too sweet; it is not like such words as Liberty, Excitement, Enjoyment, delightful sounds truly, but no more than sounds for me and so hollow and fleeting that it is mere waste of time to listen to them. But Servitude! That must be matter of fact. Anyone may serve, I have served here eight years—now all I want is to serve elsewhere. Can I not get so much of my own will? Is not the thing feasible? Yes—yes—the end is not so difficult, if I had only a brain active enough to ferret out the means of attaining it.
I sat up in bed by way of arousing this said brain, it was a chilly night. I covered my shoulders with a shawl, and then I proceeded to think again with all my might.
“What do I want? A new place, in a new house, amongst new faces, under new circumstances. How do people do to get a new place? They apply to friends, I suppose. I have no friends. There are many others who have no friends, who must look about for themselves and be their own helpers and what is their resource?”
I could not tell, nothing answered me. I then ordered my brain to find a response, and quickly. It worked and worked faster. I felt the pulses throb in my head and temples, but for nearly an hour it worked in chaos and no result came of its efforts. Feverish with vain labour, I got up and took a turn in the room, undrew the curtain, noted a star or two, shivered with cold, and again crept to bed.
A kind fairy, in my absence, had surely dropped the required suggestion on my pillow, for as I lay down, it came quietly and naturally to my mind. “Those who want situations advertise, you must advertise in the—Yorkshire Herald.”
How? I know nothing about
advertising.
Replies rose smooth and prompt now, “You must enclose the advertisement and the money to pay for it under a cover directed to the editor of the Herald. You must put it, the first opportunity you have, into the post at Lowton. Answers must be addressed to J.E., at the post office there. You can go and enquire in about a week after you send your letter, if any are come, and act accordingly.”
This scheme I went over twice, thrice. It was then digested in my mind, I had it in a clear practical form. I felt satisfied, and fell asleep.
With earliest day, I was up, I had my advertisement written, enclosed, and directed before the bell rang to rouse the school. It ran thus—
A young lady accustomed to tuition—had I not been a teacher two years?—is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family where the children are under fourteen—I thought that as I was barely eighteen, it would not do to undertake the guidance of pupils nearer my own age. She is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good English education, together with French, Drawing, and Music—in those days, reader, this now narrow catalogue of accomplishments, would have been held tolerably comprehensive. Address, J.E., Post office, Lowton, —Yorkshire.
This document remained locked in my drawer all day. After tea, I asked leave of the new superintendent to go to Lowton, in order to perform some small commissions for myself and one or two of my fellow teachers; permission was readily granted, I went. It was a walk of two miles, and the evening was wet, but the days were still long. I visited a shop or two, slipped the letter into the post office, and came back through heavy rain, with streaming garments, but with a relieved heart.
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