My Mr. Rochester 1(21)

As the scene played, I caught Miss Temple watching me. She gave me a smile as beatific as Melanie’s. I wanted to hug her and tell her thank you. Thank you for not believing Bishop Brocklehurst. In my youthful self-centeredness, I believed Miss Temple chose the movie with me in mind.

I realize now she meant it as a kindness to the Bethany girls and a lesson for all of us. The story showed how passion can drive a good person to bad choices. Scarlett learned too late. When Rhett Butler left her and disappeared into the mist, the girls at the Bethany table broke down in tears.

I helped open the curtains, and as my eyes adjusted to the light I spotted a girl sprawled on the floor. “Miss Temple, help!” I cried. “Helen Burns is truly sick!”



The few who could go home did, and the dormitory was turned into an extended infirmary. Those without sign of illness were sent to Bethany House.

All too late. The measles had come to Lowood, and the only thing that could save anyone—vaccination—had either been done or rejected years ago.

I was sent to Bethany House with the asymptomatics, but I couldn’t stand to wait idle without knowing if Helen was all right. I slipped away from the others, determined to find out for myself.

“Jane Eyre, stop.” Miss Scatcherd stood sentry at the front door. “You can’t break the quarantine.”

“Please, Miss Scatcherd, let me go,” I said. “I’ve been vaccinated. I can help.”

Once more my uncle proved his worth to me. Despite Mrs. Reed’s aversion to the practice, he’d insisted everyone at Gateshead undertake a full course of vaccinations.

“Why am I not surprised?” Miss Scatcherd muttered under her breath. But she relented. “Go. Do what good you can.” As I crossed the threshold, her habitual hard expression softened somewhat and she grabbed my arm. “You’re a brave girl, Jane Eyre.”

I wasn’t brave. I was desperate to see Helen. After explaining to Miss Temple why I’d left quarantine, I went to the only friend I’d ever had.

“The doctor’s coming,” I said. A rash covered her face and throat. I placed a cool cloth on her forehead and pressed her hand to my cheek. She was burning up. “You’ll be fine.”

“I’m not afraid, Jane. I’m not like you, so eager for life.” Her voice was soft and small, barely there. “I’m ready.”

“Oh, Helen. Please don’t leave me.”

“I want to go. I want to be with my father in heaven.”

I couldn’t tell if she meant God or her actual father. “Do you really believe?” I said.

I’d called on my uncle in heaven to send his wrath down on Mrs. Reed. I’d warned her of my parents watching her cruelty from above. But my belief in heaven was more habitual than substantial. Unlike gravity, I’d never tested heaven as an operating force. Now I faced losing someone real to death, not an idea of someone out of a gifted memory.

“God wouldn’t destroy what he’s created,” Helen said. “There’s a home with him for all of us.”

“Will I see you again when I die?”

She didn’t answer. Our little bit of talk had worn her out, and she was asleep. I lay down beside her and held her in my arms. When I awoke hours later, she was gone.

The disease spread like fire through dry hay. More than half Lowood’s inmates followed Helen, their bodies already weak from the constant dragging down of near starvation. Several who survived went blind. Many of the Bethany girls miscarried. I thought of Bishop Brocklehurst’s words the day I met him: I buried a mother and her infant only yesterday. Would he show more feeling for these mothers?

He delivered a memorial sermon at Lowood Chapel. I was in the second pew behind Miss Temple who sat between Miss Scatcherd and Miss Miller.

It felt good to know Miss Temple was there. She was my ideal. After so much death and sorrow, I needed her to be a touchstone, brave, resolute, ultra competent, and ready to meet any foe with strength and grace. Her French braid hung loosely down her back, and her shoulders were hunched forward. Her head was bent, but not in prayer. She seemed defeated, and it broke my heart.

The bishop stood above us in the pulpit, hatless, his long thin hair spread like a shawl of hay sticks over his shoulders. An ornate white cravat sprouted at his throat and spilled over his black robe down to his waist.

“This scourge of your unfortunate schoolmates is a reminder of the inevitability of holy judgment.”

I expected no great consolation from the choker, but his want of compassion depressed me. He adjusted his cravat fondly, as if proud of its beauty, and cleared his throat.

“It is an exhortation from the powers above to aspire to a more righteous—”