"Barbara," said she, "can you not bring a little more bread and
butter? There is not enough for three."
Barbara went out: she returned soon "Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity."
Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after Mr.
Brocklehurst's own heart, made up of equal parts of whalebone and
iron.
"Oh, very well!" returned Miss Temple; "we must make it do, Barbara,
I suppose." And as the girl withdrew she added, smiling,
"Fortunately, I have it in my power to supply deficiencies for this
once."
Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed before
each of us a cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast,
she got up, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a parcel wrapped
in paper, disclosed presently to our eyes a good-sized seed-cake.
"I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you," said
she, "but as there is so little toast, you must have it now," and
she proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand.
We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the least
delight of the entertainment was the smile of gratification with
which our hostess regarded us, as we satisfied our famished
appetites on the delicate fare she liberally supplied.
Tea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us to the fire; we
sat one on each side of her, and now a conversation followed between
her and Helen, which it was indeed a privilege to be admitted to
hear.
Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air, of state in
her mien, of refined propriety in her language, which precluded
deviation into the ardent, the excited, the eager: something which
chastened the pleasure of those who looked on her and listened to
her, by a controlling sense of awe; and such was my feeling now:
but as to Helen Burns, I was struck with wonder.
The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kindness
of her beloved instructress, or, perhaps, more than all these,
something in her own unique mind, had roused her powers within her.
They woke, they kindled: first, they glowed in the bright tint of
her cheek, which till this hour I had never seen but pale and
bloodless; then they shone in the liquid lustre of her eyes, which
had suddenly acquired a beauty more singular than that of Miss
Temple's--a beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash, nor
pencilled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance. Then her
soul sat on her lips, and language flowed, from what source I cannot
tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart large enough, vigorous enough,
to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervid eloquence? Such
was the characteristic of Helen's discourse on that, to me,
memorable evening; her spirit seemed hastening to live within a very
brief span as much as many live during a protracted existence.