but the privations, or rather the hardships, of lowood 1. 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, 2 and 3 to 4 by the sharp air of january, began to heal and 5 under the gentler breathings of april; the nights and mornings no longer by their canadian temperature froze the very blood in our 6; we could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden: sometimes on a sunny day it began even to be pleasant and 7, 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 8 which the horizon only bounded, lay all outside the high and spike-guarded walls of our garden: this pleasure consisted in 9 of noble summits girdling a great hill-hollow, rich in verdure and shadow; in a bright beck, full of dark stones and sparkling 10. how different had this scene looked when i viewed it laid out beneath the iron sky of winter, 11 in frost, 12 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 13, 14 and curbless: it tore 16 the wood, and sent a 17 sound through the air, often thickened with wild rain or whirling 18; and for the forest on its banks, that showed only ranks of skeletons.
april advanced to may: a bright 19 may it was; days of blue sky, 20 sunshine, and soft western or southern 21 filled up its duration. and now vegetation matured with 22; lowood shook loose its tresses; it became all green, all flowery; its great elm, ash, and oak skeletons were restored to 23 life; woodland plants sprang up 24 in its 25; unnumbered varieties of 26 filled its hollows, and it made a strange ground-sunshine out of the wealth of its wild 27 plants: i have seen their pale gold gleam in overshadowed spots like scatterings of the sweetest 28. all this i enjoyed often and 29, free, unwatched, and almost alone: for this unwonted liberty and pleasure there was a cause, to which it now becomes my task to 30.
have i not described a pleasant site for a 31, when i speak of it as 32 in hill and wood, and rising from the 33 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 34; which, quickening with the quickening spring, crept into the 35 36, 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 37 38; 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 39. many, already 40, went home only to die: some died at the school, and were buried quietly and quickly, the nature of the 41 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 42 and 43 double daisies; the sweetbriars gave out, morning and evening, their 44 of spice and apples; and these 45 treasures were all useless for most of the 46 of lowood, except to furnish now and then a handful of herbs and blossoms to put in a 47.
but i, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of the scene and season; they let us 48 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 49 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 50, 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 51.
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 52 through the water; a 53 i 54 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 55 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 56 15 or 57 on anything i said. she had a turn for 58, i for analysis; she liked to inform, i to question; so we got on swimmingly together, 59 much entertainment, if not much improvement, from our 60 61.
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 pare society? surely the mary arm wilson i have mentioned was inferior to my first acquaintance: she could only tell me amusing stories, and 62 any racy and 63 gossip i chose to indulge in; while, if i have spoken truth of helen, she was 64 to give those who enjoyed the privilege of her 65 a taste of far higher things.
true, reader; and i knew and felt this: and though i am a 66 being, with many faults and few 67 points, yet i never tired of helen burns; nor ever ceased to cherish for her a sentiment of 68, as strong, tender, and respectful as any that ever 69 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 70 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 71.
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 72 of half-wild swine that fed on the mast in the wood. when we got back, it was after moonrise: a 73, which we knew to be the surgeon's, was 74 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 75 if i left them till the morning. this done, i lingered yet a little longer: the flowers 76 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 77 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 78 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 79, baffled; and for the first time glancing behind, on each side, and before it, it saw all round an unfathomed 80: it felt the one point where it stood--the present; all the rest was formless cloud and vacant depth; and it 81 at the thought of 82, and 83 amid that 84. 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 85 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 87 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 88 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 89 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 90 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 86 of seeing a 91.
"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, 92. while i tried to 93 my tears, a fit of coughing seized helen; it did not, however, wake the nurse; when it was over, she lay some minutes 94; 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 95 and yours, who will never destroy what he created. i rely 96 on his power, and 97 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 98 part to him without any 99. 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 100, 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 way."
"are you warm, darling?"
"yes."
"good-night, jane."
"good-night, helen."
she kissed me, and i her, and we both soon 101.
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 102 103; but now a grey marble tablet marks the spot, 104 with her name, and the word "resurgam."
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