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 Temples 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 Temples 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 oclock: 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 dont leave me, Jane; I like to have you near me.
Ill 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 somebodys 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 Burnss 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.