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; snowdrops, 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 around 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.'