The next day commenced as before, getting up and dressing by rushlight, but this morning we were obliged to dispense with the ceremony of washing because the water in the pitchers was frozen. A change had taken place in the weather the preceding evening and a keen north-east wind, whistling through the crevices of our bedroom windows all night long, had made us shiver in our beds and turned the contents of the ewers to ice.
In the course of the day I was enrolled a member of the fourth class and regular tasks and occupations were assigned me. Hitherto, I had only been a spectator of the proceedings at Lowood, but I was now to become an actor therein. Being little accustomed to learn by heart, the lessons appeared to me both long and difficult. I was glad when at about three o’clock in the afternoon, Miss Smith put into my hands a border of muslin two yards long, together with needle, thimble, &c., and sent me to sit in a quiet corner of the schoolroom with directions to hem the same.
At that hour most of the others were sewing likewise, but one class still stood around Miss Scatcherd’s chair reading. As all was quiet, the subject of their lessons could be heard, together with the manner in which each girl acquitted herself. It was English history and among the readers I observed my acquaintance of the day before. At the commencement of the lesson, her place had been at the top of the class, but for some error of pronunciation or some inattention to stops, she was suddenly sent to the very bottom. Even in that obscure position, Miss Scatcherd continued to make her an object of constant notice. She was continually addressing to her such phrases as the following: “Burns” (such it seems was her name: the girls here were all called by their surnames, as boys are elsewhere), “Burns, you are standing on the side of your shoe; turn your toes out immediately.”—”Burns, you poke your chin most unpleasantly; draw it in.”—”Burns, I insist on your holding your head up; I will not have you before me in that attitude,” &c.
A chapter having been read through twice, the books were closed and the girls examined. The lesson had comprised part of the reign of Charles I., and there were sundry questions about tonnage, poundage, and ship-money. Most of them appeared unable to answer, but every little difficulty was solved instantly when it reached Burns. Her memory seemed to have retained the substance of the whole lesson and she was ready with answers on every point. I kept expecting that Miss Scatcherd would praise her attention, but instead of that she suddenly cried out, “You dirty, disagreeable girl! You never cleaned your nails this morning!”
Burns made no answer and I wondered at her silence.
Miss Scatcherd delivered an order which I did not catch and Burns immediately left the class. Going into the small inner room where the books were kept, she returned in half a minute carrying in her hand a bundle of twigs tied together at one end. This ominous tool she presented to Miss Scatcherd with a respectful curtsey. Then she quietly, and without being told, unloosed her pinafore. The teacher instantly and sharply inflicted on her neck a dozen strokes with the bunch of twigs.
I flinched with each blow.
Not a tear rose to Burns’s eye and not a feature of her pensive face altered its ordinary expression.
“Hardened girl!” exclaimed Miss Scatcherd, “nothing can correct you of your slatternly habits. Carry the rod away.”
Burns obeyed. I looked at her narrowly as she emerged from the book-closet, but her cheeks were dry of tears.
That evening, I wandered as usual among the forms and tables and laughing groups without a companion, yet not feeling lonely. When I passed the windows, I now and then lifted a blind, and looked out, seeing falling snow. It was already forming against the lower panes and, putting my ear close to the window, I could distinguish from the gleeful tumult within the disconsolate moan of the wind outside.
Jumping over forms, and creeping under tables, I made my way to one of the fire-places where, kneeling by the high wire fender, I found Burns, absorbed, silent, and abstracted from all around her.
“What is your name besides Burns?” I asked.
She looked at me in surprise. “Helen,” she said.
“You must wish to leave Lowood?” I took up a seat beside her.
“No! Why should I? I was sent to Lowood to get an education.”
“But Miss Scatcherd is so cruel to you!” “Cruel? Not at all! She is severe because she dislikes my faults.”
I gazed at her, truly shocked. “If I were in your place I should dislike her,” I said. “If she struck me with that rod, I should break it under her nose.”
I thought I saw her cheeks flush but it may have been the firelight. “I do not mind,” she said.
“You do not mind the flogging?” I repeated, aghast.
Involuntarily I saw her hand reach up to her neck and lightly touch the wound. She winced, but I thought I saw the corner of her mouth tug upwards, almost in a wry smile.
“It is not so bad,” she said. I thought about the long, hard twigs, bundled together at one end and the sharp whistle as they sliced the air and bit into flesh.
“It must hurt.”
“Not if you think of other things,” Helen whispered.
Suddenly I was reminded of my fight with John Reed, when he had attacked me and I had imagined it was the fervent embraces of my dark-eyed lover. It was my turn to hide my flushed cheeks in the amber glow from the firelight. I wondered how it would feel to have my dark-eyed lover treat me so. I shivered. Once John had tugged my hair sharply in our love making and I had yelped, but the stabbing pain had been followed by an undertone of delicious heat. I wondered whether this was what Helen meant. Though I hated John still with a vengeance, in this desolate, lonely place, I missed a tender touch.
“You say you have faults, Helen, what are they?” I asked to change the subject. “To me you seem very good.”
“Then learn from me not to judge by appearances. I am, as Miss Scatcherd said, slatternly. This is very provoking to Miss Scatcherd, who is naturally neat, punctual, and particular.”
“And cross and cruel,” I added, but Helen Burns would not admit my addition.
“Love your enemies. Bless them that curse you,” she said. “Do good to them that hate you and despitefully use you.”
I sighed. “Then I should love Mrs. Reed, which I cannot do and I should bless her son John, which is impossible!”
In her turn, Helen asked me to explain, and I proceeded forthwith to pour out the tale of my sufferings and resentments (of course refraining from speaking of my relationship with John).
Helen heard me patiently to the end. I expected she would then make a remark, but she said nothing.
“Well,” I asked impatiently, “is not Mrs. Reed a hardhearted, bad woman?”
“She has been unkind to you because she dislikes your cast of character, as Miss Scatcherd does mine, but how minutely you remember all she has done and said to you! What a singularly deep impression her injustice seems to have made on your heart! You would be happier if you tried to forget her severity, together with the passionate emotions it excited.”
A monitor presently came over at that moment and exclaimed in a strong Cumberland accent, “Helen Burns, if you don’t go and put your drawer in order and fold up your work this minute, I’ll tell Miss Scatcherd to come and look at it!”
Helen sighed and getting up, obeyed the monitor without reply as without delay.