Chapter 09 (Jane Eyre (Full Cast))

01Chapter 9.

02But the privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood lessened.

03Spring drew on.

04She was indeed already come.

05The frosts of winter had ceased, its snows were melted, its cutting winds ameliorated.

06My wretched feet, flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp air of January, began to heal and subside under the gentler breathings of April.

07The nights and mornings, no longer by their Canadian temperature, froze the very blood in our veins.

08We could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden.

09Sometimes 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.

10Flowers peeped out amongst the leaves, snow-drops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden-eyed pansies.

11On Thursday afternoons, half-holidays, we now took walks, and found still sweeter flowers opening by the wayside, under the hedges.

12I 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.

13This 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.

14How 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 home till they blended with the frozen fog of the beck.

15That beck itself was then a torrent, turbid and curbless.

16It tore asunder the wood and sent a raving sound through the air, often thickened with wild rain or whirling sleet.

17And for the forest on its banks, that showed only ranks of skeletons.

18April advanced to May.

19A bright, serene May it was.

20Days of blue sky, placid sunshine, and soft western or southern gales filled up its duration.

21And now vegetation matured with vigor.

22Low wood shook loose its tresses.

23It became all green, all flowery.

24Its great elm, ash, and oak skeletons were restored to majestic life.

25Woodland plants sprang up profusely in its recesses.

26Unnumbered varieties of moss filled its hollows, and it made a strange ground sunshine out of the wealth of its wild primrose plants.

27I have seen their pale golds gleam in overshadowed spots like scatterings of the sweetest lustre.

28All this I enjoyed, often and fully, free, unwatched, and almost alone.

29For this unwonted liberty and pleasure there was a cause, to which it now becomes my task to advert.

30Have I not described a pleasant sight for a dwelling when I speak of it as bosomed in hill and wood, and rising from the verge of a stream?

31Assuredly pleasant enough, but whether healthy or not is another question.

32That forest dell where low wood 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.

33Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils to receive infection.

34Forty-five out of the eighty girls lay ill at one time.

35Classes were broken up, rules relaxed.

36The few who continued well were allowed almost unlimited licence, 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.

37Miss Temple's whole attention was absorbed by the patients.

38She lived in the sick-room, never quitting it except to snatch a few hours' rest at night.

39The 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.

40Many, already smitten, went home only to die.

41Some died at the school, and were buried quietly and quickly, the nature of the malady forbidding delay.

42While 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 in the pastilles, the drug in the pastilles striving vainly to overcome the effluvile of mortality, that bright May shone unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful woodland out of doors.

43Its garden, too, glowed with flowers.

44Holyhocks had sprung up tall as trees.

45Lilies had opened.

46Tulips and roses were in bloom.

47The borders of the little beds were gay with pink thrift and crimson double daisies.

48The sweetbriars gave out, morning and evening, their scent of spice and apples.

49And 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.

50But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of the scene and season.

51They let us ramble in the wood like gipsies from morning till night.

52We did what we liked, went where we liked.

53We lived better, too.

54Mr.

55Brocklehurst and his family never came near Lowood now.

56Household matters were not scrutinised into.

57The cross housekeeper was gone, driven away by the fear of infection.

58Her successor, who had been matron at the Lowton dispensary, unused to the ways of her new abode, provided with comparative liberality.

59Besides, there were fewer to feed.

60The sick could eat little.

61Our breakfast basins were better filled.

62When 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.

63Partly because she was witty and original, and partly because she had a manner which set me at my ease.

64Some years older than I she knew more of the world, and could tell me many things I liked to hear.

65With her my curiosity found gratification.

66To my faults, also, she gave ample indulgence, never imposing curb or rein on anything I said.

67She had a turn for narrative, I for analysis.

68She liked to inform, I to question, so we got on swimmingly together, driving much entertainment, if not much improvement, from our mutual intercourse.

69And where, meantime, was Helen Burns?

70Why did I not spend these sweet days of liberty with her?

71Had I forgotten her?

72Or was I so worthless as to have grown tired of her pure society?

73Surely the Mary Ann Wilson I have mentioned was inferior to my first acquaintance.

74She could only tell me amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I chose to indulge in.

75While, 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.

76True, reader, and I knew and felt this.

77And 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.

78How 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?

79But Helen was ill at present.

80For some weeks she had been removed from my sight, too, I knew not what room upstairs.

81She 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.

82I 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.

83But on these occasions I was not allowed to go and speak to her.

84I only saw her from the schoolroom window, and then not distinctly, for she was much wrapped up, and sat at a distance under the veranda.

85One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late with Mary Anne in the wood.

86We 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.

87When we got back it was after moonrise.

88A pony, which we knew to be the surgeon's, was standing at the garden door.

89Mary Anne remarked that she supposed some one must be very ill, as Mr.

90Bates had been sent for at that time of the evening.

91She went into the house.

92I 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.

93This done, I lingered yet a little longer.

94The flowers smelt so sweet as the dew fell.

95It was such a pleasant evening, so serene, so warm.

96The still glowing west promised so fairly another fine day on the morrow.

97The moon rose with such majesty in the grave east.

98I was noting these things, and enjoying them as a child might, when it entered my mind as it had never done before.

99How sad to be lying now on a sick-bed, and to be in danger of dying.

100This world is pleasant.

101It would be dreary to be called from it, and to have to go who knows where.

102I had no idea.

103I heard the front door open.

104Mr.

105Bates came out, and with him was a nurse.

106After she had seen him mount his horse and depart, she was about to close the door, but I ran up to her.

107How is Helen Burns?

108Very poorly, was the answer.

109Is it her Mr.

110Bates has been to see?

111Yes.

112And what does he say about her?

113He says she'll not be here long.

114This 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.

115I should not have suspected that it meant she was dying, but I knew instantly now.

116It 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.

117I 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.

118She is in Miss Temple's room, said the nurse.

119May I go up and speak to her?

120Oh, no, child, it is not likely.

121And now it is time for you to come in.

122You'll catch the fever if you stop out when the dew is falling.

123The nurse closed the front door.

124I went in by the side entrance, which led to the schoolroom.

125I was just in time.

126It was nine o'clock, and Miss Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed.

127It 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 wrapped 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.

128It 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.

129An 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.

130I dreaded being discovered and sent back, for I must see Helen.

131I must embrace her before she died.

132I must give her one last kiss, exchange with her one last word.

133Having 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.

134These I mounted, and then just opposite to me was Miss Temple's room.

135A light shone through the keyhole, and from under the door a profound stillness pervaded the vicinity.

136Coming near, I found the door slightly ajar, probably to admit some fresh air into the close abode of sickness.

137Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient impulses, soul and senses quivering with keen throes, I put it back and looked in.

138My eye sought Helen, and feared to find death.

139Close by Miss Temple's bed, and half covered with its white curtains, there stood a little crib.

140I saw the outline of her form under the clothes, but the face was hid by the hangings.

141The nurse I had spoken to in the garden sat in an easy-chair, asleep.

142An unsnuffed candle burnt dimly on the table.

143Miss Temple was not to be seen.

144I knew afterwards that she had been called to a delirious patient in the fever room.

145I advanced, and paused by the crib-side.

146My hand was on the curtain, but I preferred speaking before I withdrew it.

147I still recoiled at the dread of seeing a corpse.

148"'Helen,' I whispered softly, "'are you awake?' She stirred herself, put back the curtain, and I saw her face, pale, wasted, but quite composed.

149She looked so little changed that my fear was instantly dissipated.

150"'Can it be you, Jane?' she asked in her own gentle voice.

151"'Oh!' I thought.

152"'She is not going to die.

153They are mistaken.

154She could not speak and look so calmly if she were.' I got on to her crib and kissed her.

155Her forehead was cold, and her cheek both cold and thin, and so were her hand and wrist.

156But she smiled as of old.

157"'Why are you come here, Jane?

158It is past eleven o'clock.

159I had a strike so many minutes since.' "'I came to see you, Helen.

160I heard you were very ill, and I could not sleep till I had spoken to you.' "'It came to be my good-bye.

161Then you are just in time, probably.' "'Are you going somewhere, Helen?

162Are you going home?' "'Yes, to my long home, my last home.' "'No, no, Helen!' I stopped, distressed.

163While I tried to devour my tears, a fit of coughing seized Helen.

164It did not, however, wake the nurse.

165When it was over, she lay some minutes exhausted.

166Then she whispered, "'Jane, you are to feed it, bear.

167Lie down and cover yourself on my quilt.' I did so.

168She put her arm over me, and I nestled close to her.

169After a long silence, she resumed, still whispering, "'I am very happy, Jane.

170And when you hear that I am dead, you must be sure, and not grieve.

171There is nothing to grieve about.

172We all must die one day, and the illness which is removing me is not painful.

173It is gentle and gradual.

174My mind is at rest.

175I leave no one to regret me much.

176I have only a father, and he is lightly married, and will not miss me.

177By dying young, I shall escape great sufferings.

178I had not called these a challenge to make my move very well as well.

179I should have been particularly at fault.

180But where are you going to, Helen?

181Can you see?

182Do you know?

183I believe.

184I have faith.

185I am going to God.

186Where is God?

187What is God?

188My Maker and yours.

189Who will never destroy what he created?

190I will implicitly earn his power, and confide wholly in his goodness.

191I count the hours till that eventful want arrives.

192It shall restore me to him.

193Reveal him to me.

194You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as Heaven, and that our souls can get to it when we die?

195I am sure there is a future state.

196I believe God is good.

197I can restore my immortal part to him without any misgiving.

198God is my father.

199God is my friend.

200I love him.

201I believe he loves me.

202And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die?

203You will come to the same region of happiness.

204We receive our same mighty, universal parent.

205No doubt, dear Jane.

206Again I questioned, but this time only in thought.

207And I clasped my arms closer round Helen.

208She seemed dearer to me than ever.

209I felt as if I could not let her go.

210I lay with my face hidden on her neck.

211Presently, she said, in the sweetest tone, How comfortable I am.

212With that last bit of coughing, I stalled me a little.

213I feel as if I could sleep.

214But don't leave me, Jane.

215I like to have you near me.

216I'll stay with you, dear Helen.

217No one shall take me away.

218Are you warm, darling?

219Yes.

220Good night, Jane.

221Good night, Helen.

222She kissed me and I her, and we both soon slumbered.

223When I awoke, it was day.

224An unusual movement roused me.

225I looked up.

226I was in somebody's arms.

227The nurse held me.

228She was carrying me through the passage back to the dormitory.

229I was not reprimanded for leaving my bed.

230People had something else to think about.

231No explanation was afforded, then, to my many questions.

232But 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.

233My face against Helen Burns's shoulder, my arms round her neck.

234I was asleep.

235And Helen was dead.

236Her grave is in Brocklebridge Churchyard.

237For fifteen years after her death, it was only covered by a grassy mound.

238But now a grey marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name and the word Resurgum.

239End of chapter 9