Chapter VIII

Before the half-hour ended, five o’clock struck; school was finished, and all were gone into the refectory to tea. I now dared to descend: I went into a corner and sat down on the floor. Now I wept: Helen Burns was not here. I had wanted to be so good at Lowood: to make so many friends, to earn respect and win affection. Already I had made visible progress; but now, here I lay again crushed and trodden on; and could I ever rise?

“Never,” I thought; and I wished to die. Some one approached: I started up – again Helen Burns was near me; she brought my coffee and bread.

“Come, eat something,” she said; but I put both away from me. I continued to weep aloud. Helen sat down on the ground near me, and remained silent. 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: he is little liked here. Had he treated you as an especial favourite, you would have found enemies, all around you.”

I was silent; Helen had calmed me.

Resting my head on her shoulder, I put my arms round her waist; she drew me to her, and we stayed silent. In the moonlight we saw the approaching figure, which we at once recognized 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 mounted a staircase before we reached Miss Temple’s room; it contained a good fire, and looked cheerful.

“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.”

I told her all the story of my sad childhood. In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd who came to see me after the fit: for I never forgot the frightful episode of the red-room.

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 supports your statement, you shall be publicly cleared; to me, Jane, you are clear now.”

She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side, she addressed 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. She looked sad a few minutes, then 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. “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.”

“Oh, very well!” returned Miss Temple; “we must make it do^[25], Barbara, I suppose.”

She got up, unlocked a drawer, and took from it a good-sized seed-cake.

Tea over and the tray removed, she again called 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 listen to.

They discussed things I had never heard of; nations and times past; countries far away; secrets of nature discovered or guessed at: they spoke of books: how many they had read! What stores of knowledge they possessed!

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; her eye followed Helen to the door; for her she breathed a sad sigh; for her she wiped a tear from her cheek.

About a week after, Miss Temple, who had written to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer: what he said supported my account. Miss Temple, having assembled the whole school, announced that inquiry had been made into the charges against Jane Eyre, and that she was most happy to declare her completely cleared from every blame. The teachers then shook hands with me and kissed me, and a pleasant murmur ran through my companions.

From that hour I set to work again: I worked hard, and my success was proportionate to my efforts; my memory 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 take up French and drawing.

I would not now have exchanged Lowood with its hardships for Gateshead with its luxuries.

Chapter IX

Spring came: the frosts of winter had ceased; its snows had melted. The play-hour passed in the garden began even to be pleasant. Flowers grew amongst the leaves; snow-drops, crocuses, and golden-eyed pansies.

Nature looked beautiful but whether it was healthy or not is another question.

That foggy forest-dell, where Lowood lay, caused fog-bred epidemics, which got into the Orphan Asylum, spreading typhus through its crowded schoolroom and dormitory, and, before May arrived, transformed the seminary into an hospital.

Semi-starvation and neglected colds had contributed to the spread of 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 given almost unlimited freedom, because the doctor insisted on frequent exercise to keep them in health. Miss Temple’s whole attention was taken 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 take them. Many, already sick, went home only to die: some died at the school, and were buried quietly and quickly.

But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of the season; they let us walk 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. 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, they 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 dined with pleasure.

And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend these sweet days of liberty with her? Had I forgotten her?

Helen was ill at present: for some weeks she had been removed to some room upstairs. She was not, I was told, in the hospital portion of the house; for her illness was consumption, not typhus: and by consumption I, in my ignorance, understood something mild, which time and care would be sure to heal.

I only saw her once or twice from the schoolroom window; she was much wrapped up, and sat at a distance under the verandah; on these occasions, I was not allowed to go and speak to her.

One evening, at the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late in the wood. When I got back, it was after moonrise: a pony, which I knew to be the surgeon’s, was standing at the garden door. I thought that some one must be very ill, as Mr. Bates had been sent for at that time of the evening. I stayed out a few minutes to plant in my garden a handful of roots I had dug up in the forest. This done, I stayed there a little longer: the flowers smelt so sweet as the dew fell; it was such a pleasant evening, so serene, so warm; I was noting these things and enjoying them, 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?”

I heard the front door open; Mr. Bates came out, and with him was a nurse. He mounted his horse and departed, and the nurse was about to close the door when 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, if heard yesterday, would have only meant that she would be removed to Northumberland, to her own home. I should not have suspected that it meant she was dying; but I knew instantly now!

I experienced a shock of horror, 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.”

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, when I – not having been able to fall asleep – rose softly, put on my frock over my night-dress, and, without shoes, crept from the dormitory, looking for 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 moon helped me to find it without difficulty. 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.

Opposite to me was Miss Temple’s room. A light shone through the keyhole and from under the door. Coming near, I found the door slightly ajar; I looked in. My eye sought Helen, and feared to find death.

Close by Miss Temple’s bed, there stood a little bed; I saw the outline of a form under the clothes. Miss Temple was not to be seen:

“Helen!” I whispered softly, “are you awake?”

She stirred herself, and I saw her face, pale: she looked so little changed that my fear instantly disappeared.

“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 kissed her: her forehead was cold, and so were her hand and wrist; but she smiled as of old^[26].

“Why have you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o’clock: I heard it strike some minutes ago.”

“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. A fit of coughing seized Helen; 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 not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We all must die one day, and the illness which is removing me is not painful. 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.”

“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.”

“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. 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; no doubt, dear Jane.”

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 fell asleep.

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 back to the dormitory. I was not scolded for leaving my bed; people had something else to think about; no explanation was given 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 bed; 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: a grey marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word “Resurgam^[27].”