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 About a year after Mrs. Brontë’s death, an elder sister, as I have before mentioned, came from Penzance to superintend her brother-in-law’s household, and look after his children.  Miss Branwell was, I believe, a kindly1 and conscientious2 woman, with a good deal of character, but with the somewhat narrow ideas natural to one who had spent nearly all her life in the same place.  She had strong prejudices, and soon took a distaste to Yorkshire.  From Penzance, where plants which we in the north call greenhouse flowers grow in great profusion3, and without any shelter even in the winter, and where the soft warm climate allows the inhabitants, if so disposed, to live pretty constantly in the open air, it was a great change for a lady considerably4 past forty to come and take up her abode5 in a place where neither flowers nor vegetables would flourish, and where a tree of even moderate dimensions might be hunted for far and wide; where the snow lay long and late on the moors6, stretching bleakly7 and barely far up from the dwelling8 which was henceforward to be her home; and where often, on autumnal or winter nights, the four winds of heaven seemed to meet and rage together, tearing round the house as if they were wild beasts striving to find an entrance.  She missed the small round of cheerful, social visiting perpetually going on in a country town; she missed the friends she had known from her childhood, some of whom had been her parents’ friends before they were hers; she disliked many of the customs of the place, and particularly dreaded10 the cold damp arising from the flag floors in the passages and parlours of Haworth Parsonage.  The stairs, too, I believe, are made of stone; and no wonder, when stone quarries11 are near, and trees are far to seek.  I have heard that Miss Branwell always went about the house in pattens, clicking up and down the stairs, from her dread9 of catching12 cold.  For the same reason, in the latter years of her life, she passed nearly all her time, and took most of her meals, in her bedroom.  The children respected her, and had that sort of affection for her which is generated by esteem13; but I do not think they ever freely loved her.  It was a severe trial for any one at her time of life to change neighbourhood and habitation so entirely14 as she did; and the greater her merit.  
I do not know whether Miss Branwell taught her nieces anything besides sewing, and the household arts in which Charlotte afterwards was such an adept15.  Their regular lessons were said to their father; and they were always in the habit of picking up an immense amount of miscellaneous information for themselves.  But a year or so before this time, a school had been begun in the North of England for the daughters of clergymen.  The place was Cowan Bridge, a small hamlet on the coach-road between Leeds and Kendal, and thus easy of access from Haworth, as the coach ran daily, and one of its stages was at Keighley.  The yearly expense for each pupil (according to the entrance-rules given in the Report for 1842, and I believe they had not been increased since the establishment of the schools in 1823) was as follows:
“Rule 11.  The terms for clothing, lodging16, boarding, and educating, are 14l. a year; half to be paid in advance, when the pupils are sent; and also 1l. entrance-money, for the use of books, &c.  The system of education comprehends history, geography, the use of the globes, grammar, writing and arithmetic, all kinds of needlework, and the nicer kinds of household work—such as getting up fine linen17, ironing, &c.  If accomplishments18 are required, an additional charge of 3l. a year is made for music or drawing, each.”
Rule 3rd requests that the friends will state the line of education desired in the case of every pupil, having a regard to her future prospects21.
Rule 4th states the clothing and toilette articles which a girl is expected to bring with her; and thus concludes: “The pupils all appear in the same dress.  They wear plain straw cottage bonnets23; in summer white frocks on Sundays, and nankeen on other days; in winter, purple stuff frocks, and purple cloth cloaks.  For the sake of uniformity, therefore, they are required to bring 3l. in lieu of frocks, pelisse, bonnet22, tippet, and frills; making the whole sum which each pupil brings with her to the school—
7l. half-year in advance.
1l. entrance for books.
1l. entrance for clothes.
The 8th rule is,—“All letters and parcels are inspected by the superintendent24;” but this is a very prevalent regulation in all young ladies’ schools, where I think it is generally understood that the schoolmistress may exercise this privilege, although it is certainly unwise in her to insist too frequently upon it.
There is nothing at all remarkable25 in any of the other regulations, a copy of which was doubtless in Mr. Brontë’s hands when he formed the determination to send his daughters to Cowan Bridge School; and he accordingly took Maria and Elizabeth thither26 in July, 1824.
I now come to a part of my subject which I find great difficulty in treating, because the evidence relating to it on each side is so conflicting that it seems almost impossible to arrive at the truth.  Miss Brontë more than once said to me, that she should not have written what she did of Lowood in “Jane Eyre,” if she had thought the place would have been so immediately identified with Cowan Bridge, although there was not a word in her account of the institution but what was true at the time when she knew it; she also said that she had not considered it necessary, in a work of fiction, to state every particular with the impartiality27 that might be required in a court of justice, nor to seek out motives28, and make allowances for human failings, as she might have done, if dispassionately analysing the conduct of those who had the superintendence of the institution.  I believe she herself would have been glad of an opportunity to correct the over-strong impression which was made upon the public mind by her vivid picture, though even she, suffering her whole life long, both in heart and body, from the consequences of what happened there, might have been apt, to the last, to take her deep belief in facts for the facts themselves—her conception of truth for the absolute truth.
In some of the notices of the previous editions of this work, it is assumed that I derived30 the greater part of my information with regard to her sojourn31 at Cowan Bridge from Charlotte Brontë herself.  I never heard her speak of the place but once, and that was on the second day of my acquaintance with her.  A little child on that occasion expressed some reluctance32 to finish eating his piece of bread at dinner; and she, stooping down, and addressing him in a low voice, told him how thankful she should have been at his age for a piece of bread; and when we—though I am not sure if I myself spoke33—asked her some question as to the occasion she alluded35 to, she replied with reserve and hesitation36, evidently shying away from what she imagined might lead to too much conversation on one of her books.  She spoke of the oat-cake at Cowan Bridge (the clap-bread of Westmorland) as being different to the leaven-raised oat-cake of Yorkshire, and of her childish distaste for it.  Some one present made an allusion37 to a similar childish dislike in the true tale of “The terrible knitters o’ Dent” given in Southey’s “Common-place Book:” and she smiled faintly, but said that the mere38 difference in food was not all: that the food itself was spoilt by the dirty carelessness of the cook, so that she and her sisters disliked their meals exceedingly; and she named her relief and gladness when the doctor condemned39 the meat, and spoke of having seen him spit it out.  These are all the details I ever heard from her.  She so avoided particularizing, that I think Mr. Carus Wilson’s name never passed between us.
I do not doubt the general accuracy of my informants,—of those who have given, and solemnly repeated, the details that follow,—but it is only just to Miss Brontë to say that I have stated above pretty nearly all that I ever heard on the subject from her.
A clergyman, living near Kirby Lonsdale, the Reverend William Carus Wilson, was the prime mover in the establishment of this school.  He was an energetic man, sparing no labour for the accomplishment19 of his ends.  He saw that it was an extremely difficult task for clergymen with limited incomes to provide for the education of their children; and he devised a scheme, by which a certain sum was raised annually40 by subscription41, to complete the amount required to furnish a solid and sufficient English education, for which the parent’s payment of 14l. a year would not have been sufficient.  Indeed, that made by the parents was considered to be exclusively appropriated to the expenses of lodging and boarding, and the education provided for by the subscriptions42.  Twelve trustees were appointed; Mr. Wilson being not only a trustee, but the treasurer43 and secretary; in fact, taking most of the business arrangements upon himself; a responsibility which appropriately fell to him, as he lived nearer the school than any one else who was interested in it.  So his character for prudence44 and judgment45 was to a certain degree implicated46 in the success or failure of Cowan Bridge School; and the working of it was for many years the great object and interest of his life.  But he was apparently47 unacquainted with the prime element in good administration—seeking out thoroughly48 competent persons to fill each department, and then making them responsible for, and judging them by, the result, without perpetual interference with the details.
So great was the amount of good which Mr. Wilson did, by his constant, unwearied superintendence, that I cannot help feeling sorry that, in his old age and declining health, the errors which he was believed to have committed, should have been brought up against him in a form which received such wonderful force from the touch of Miss Brontë’s great genius.  No doubt whatever can be entertained of the deep interest which he felt in the success of the school.  As I write, I have before me his last words on giving up the secretaryship in 1850: he speaks of the “withdrawal, from declining health, of an eye, which, at all events, has loved to watch over the schools with an honest and anxious interest;”—and again he adds, “that he resigns, therefore, with a desire to be thankful for all that God has been pleased to accomplish through his instrumentality (the infirmities and unworthinesses of which he deeply feels and deplores).”
Cowan Bridge is a cluster of some six or seven cottages, gathered together at both ends of a bridge, over which the high road from Leeds to Kendal crosses a little stream, called the Leck.  This high road is nearly disused now; but formerly50, when the buyers from the West Riding manufacturing districts had frequent occasion to go up into the North to purchase the wool of the Westmorland and Cumberland farmers, it was doubtless much travelled; and perhaps the hamlet of Cowan Bridge had a more prosperous look than it bears at present.  It is prettily51 situated52; just where the Leck-fells swoop53 into the plain; and by the course of the beck alder-trees and willows54 and hazel bushes grow.  The current of the stream is interrupted by broken pieces of grey rock; and the waters flow over a bed of large round white pebbles55, which a flood heaves up and moves on either side out of its impetuous way till in some parts they almost form a wall.  By the side of the little, shallow, sparkling, vigorous Leck, run long pasture fields, of the fine short grass common in high land; for though Cowan Bridge is situated on a plain, it is a plain from which there is many a fall and long descent before you and the Leck reach the valley of the Lune.  I can hardly understand how the school there came to be so unhealthy, the air all round about was so sweet and thyme-scented, when I visited it last summer.  But at this day, every one knows that the site of a building intended for numbers should be chosen with far greater care than that of a private dwelling, from the tendency to illness, both infectious and otherwise, produced by the congregation of people in close proximity56.
The house is still remaining that formed part of that occupied by the school.  It is a long, bow-windowed cottage, now divided into two dwellings57.  It stands facing the Leck, between which and it intervenes a space, about seventy yards deep, that was once the school garden.  This original house was an old dwelling of the Picard family, which they had inhabited for two generations.  They sold it for school purposes, and an additional building was erected58, running at right angles from the older part.  This new part was devoted59 expressly to schoolrooms, dormitories, &c.; and after the school was removed to Casterton, it was used for a bobbin-mill connected with the stream, where wooden reels were made out of the alders60, which grow profusely61 in such ground as that surrounding Cowan Bridge.  This mill is now destroyed.  The present cottage was, at the time of which I write, occupied by the teachers’ rooms, the dinner-room and kitchens, and some smaller bedrooms.  On going into this building, I found one part, that nearest to the high road, converted into a poor kind of public-house, then to let, and having all the squalid appearance of a deserted62 place, which rendered it difficult to judge what it would look like when neatly63 kept up, the broken panes64 replaced in the windows, and the rough-cast (now cracked and discoloured) made white and whole.  The other end forms a cottage, with the low ceilings and stone floors of a hundred years ago; the windows do not open freely and widely; and the passage upstairs, leading to the bedrooms, is narrow and tortuous65: altogether, smells would linger about the house, and damp cling to it.  But sanitary66 matters were little understood thirty years ago; and it was a great thing to get a roomy building close to the high road, and not too far from the habitation of Mr. Wilson, the originator of the educational scheme.  There was much need of such an institution; numbers of ill-paid clergymen hailed the prospect20 with joy, and eagerly put down the names of their children as pupils when the establishment should be ready to receive them.  Mr. Wilson was, no doubt, pleased by the impatience67 with which the realisation of his idea was anticipated, and opened the school with less than a hundred pounds in hand, and with pupils, the number of whom varies according to different accounts; Mr. W. W. Carus Wilson, the son of the founder68, giving it as seventy; while Mr. Shepheard, the son-in-law, states it to have been only sixteen.
Mr. Wilson felt, most probably, that the responsibility of the whole plan rested upon him.  The payment made by the parents was barely enough for food and lodging; the subscriptions did not flow very freely into an untried scheme; and great economy was necessary in all the domestic arrangements.  He determined69 to enforce this by frequent personal inspection70; carried perhaps to an unnecessary extent, and leading occasionally to a meddling71 with little matters, which had sometimes the effect of producing irritation72 of feeling.  Yet, although there was economy in providing for the household, there does not appear to have been any parsimony73.  The meat, flour, milk, &c., were contracted for, but were of very fair quality; and the dietary, which has been shown to me in manuscript, was neither bad nor unwholesome; nor, on the whole, was it wanting in variety.  Oatmeal porridge for breakfast; a piece of oat-cake for those who required luncheon75; baked and boiled beef, and mutton, potato-pie, and plain homely76 puddings of different kinds for dinner.  At five o’clock, bread and milk for the younger ones; and one piece of bread (this was the only time at which the food was limited) for the elder pupils, who sat up till a later meal of the same description.
Mr. Wilson himself ordered in the food, and was anxious that it should be of good quality.  But the cook, who had much of his confidence, and against whom for a long time no one durst utter a complaint, was careless, dirty, and wasteful77.  To some children oatmeal porridge is distasteful, and consequently unwholesome, even when properly made; at Cowan Bridge School it was too often sent up, not merely burnt, but with offensive fragments of other substances discoverable in it.  The beef, that should have been carefully salted before it was dressed, had often become tainted79 from neglect; and girls, who were school-fellows with the Brontës, during the reign80 of the cook of whom I am speaking, tell me that the house seemed to be pervaded81, morning, noon, and night, by the odour of rancid fat that steamed out of the oven in which much of their food was prepared.  There was the same carelessness in making the puddings; one of those ordered was rice boiled in water, and eaten with a sauce of treacle82 and sugar; but it was often uneatable, because the water had been taken out of the rain tub, and was strongly impregnated with the dust lodging on the roof, whence it had trickled83 down into the old wooden cask, which also added its own flavour to that of the original rain water.  The milk, too, was often “bingy,” to use a country expression for a kind of taint78 that is far worse than sourness, and suggests the idea that it is caused by want of cleanliness about the milk pans, rather than by the heat of the weather.  On Saturdays, a kind of pie, or mixture of potatoes and meat, was served up, which was made of all the fragments accumulated during the week.  Scraps84 of meat from a dirty and disorderly larder85, could never be very appetizing; and, I believe, that this dinner was more loathed86 than any in the early days of Cowan Bridge School.  One may fancy how repulsive87 such fare would be to children whose appetites were small, and who had been accustomed to food, far simpler perhaps, but prepared with a delicate cleanliness that made it both tempting88 and wholesome74.  At many a meal the little Brontës went without food, although craving89 with hunger.  They were not strong when they came, having only just recovered from a complication of measles90 and hooping-cough: indeed, I suspect they had scarcely recovered; for there was some consultation91 on the part of the school authorities whether Maria and Elizabeth should be received or not, in July 1824.  Mr. Brontë came again, in the September of that year, bringing with him Charlotte and Emily to be admitted as pupils.
It appears strange that Mr. Wilson should not have been informed by the teachers of the way in which the food was served up; but we must remember that the cook had been known for some time to the Wilson family, while the teachers were brought together for an entirely different work—that of education.  They were expressly given to understand that such was their department; the buying in and management of the provisions rested with Mr. Wilson and the cook.  The teachers would, of course, be unwilling92 to lay any complaints on the subject before him.
There was another trial of health common to all the girls.  The path from Cowan Bridge to Tunstall Church, where Mr. Wilson preached, and where they all attended on the Sunday, is more than two miles in length, and goes sweeping93 along the rise and fall of the unsheltered country, in a way to make it a fresh and exhilarating walk in summer, but a bitter cold one in winter, especially to children like the delicate little Brontës, whose thin blood flowed languidly in consequence of their feeble appetites rejecting the food prepared for them, and thus inducing a half-starved condition.  The church was not warmed, there being no means for this purpose.  It stands in the midst of fields, and the damp mist must have gathered round the walls, and crept in at the windows.  The girls took their cold dinner with them, and ate it between the services, in a chamber94 over the entrance, opening out of the former galleries.  The arrangements for this day were peculiarly trying to delicate children, particularly to those who were spiritless and longing96 for home, as poor Maria Brontë must have been; for her ill health was increasing, and the old cough, the remains97 of the hooping-cough, lingered about her.
She was far superior in mind to any of her play-fellows and companions, and was lonely amongst them from that very cause; and yet she had faults so annoying that she was in constant disgrace with her teachers, and an object of merciless dislike to one of them, who is depicted98 as “Miss Scatcherd” in “Jane Eyre,” and whose real name I will be merciful enough not to disclose.  I need hardly say, that Helen Burns is as exact a transcript99 of Maria Brontë as Charlotte’s wonderful power of reproducing character could give.  Her heart, to the latest day on which we met, still beat with unavailing indignation at the worrying and the cruelty to which her gentle, patient, dying sister had been subjected by this woman.  Not a word of that part of “Jane Eyre” but is a literal repetition of scenes between the pupil and the teacher.  Those who had been pupils at the same time knew who must have written the book from the force with which Helen Burns’ sufferings are described.  They had, before that, recognised the description of the sweet dignity and benevolence100 of Miss Temple as only a just tribute to the merits of one whom all that knew her appear to hold in honour; but when Miss Scatcherd was held up to opprobrium101 they also recognised in the writer of “Jane Eyre” an unconsciously avenging102 sister of the sufferer.
One of their fellow-pupils, among other statements even worse, gives me the following:—The dormitory in which Maria slept was a long room, holding a row of narrow little beds on each side, occupied by the pupils; and at the end of this dormitory there was a small bed-chamber opening out of it, appropriated to the use of Miss Scatcherd.  Maria’s bed stood nearest to the door of this room.  One morning, after she had become so seriously unwell as to have had a blister103 applied104 to her side (the sore from which was not perfectly105 healed), when the getting-up bell was heard, poor Maria moaned out that she was so ill, so very ill, she wished she might stop in bed; and some of the girls urged her to do so, and said they would explain it all to Miss Temple, the superintendent.  But Miss Scatcherd was close at hand, and her anger would have to be faced before Miss Temple’s kind thoughtfulness could interfere49; so the sick child began to dress, shivering with cold, as, without leaving her bed, she slowly put on her black worsted stockings over her thin white legs (my informant spoke as if she saw it yet, and her whole face flushed out undying indignation).  Just then Miss Scatcherd issued from her room, and, without asking for a word of explanation from the sick and frightened girl, she took her by the arm, on the side to which the blister had been applied, and by one vigorous movement whirled her out into the middle of the floor, abusing her all the time for dirty and untidy habits.  There she left her.  My informant says, Maria hardly spoke, except to beg some of the more indignant girls to be calm; but, in slow, trembling movements, with many a pause, she went down-stairs at last,—and was punished for being late.
Any one may fancy how such an event as this would rankle106 in Charlotte’s mind.  I only wonder that she did not remonstrate107 against her father’s decision to send her and Emily back to Cowan Bridge, after Maria’s and Elizabeth’s deaths.  But frequently children are unconscious of the effect which some of their simple revelations would have in altering the opinions entertained by their friends of the persons placed around them.  Besides, Charlotte’s earnest vigorous mind saw, at an unusually early age, the immense importance of education, as furnishing her with tools which she had the strength and the will to wield108, and she would be aware that the Cowan Bridge education was, in many points, the best that her father could provide for her.
Before Maria Brontë’s death, that low fever broke out, in the spring of 1825, which is spoken of in “Jane Eyre.”  Mr. Wilson was extremely alarmed at the first symptoms of this.  He went to a kind motherly woman, who had had some connection with the school—as laundress, I believe—and asked her to come and tell him what was the matter with them.  She made herself ready, and drove with him in his gig.  When she entered the schoolroom, she saw from twelve to fifteen girls lying about; some resting their aching heads on the table, others on the ground; all heavy-eyed, flushed, indifferent, and weary, with pains in every limb.  Some peculiar95 odour, she says, made her recognise that they were sickening for “the fever;” and she told Mr. Wilson so, and that she could not stay there for fear of conveying the infection to her own children; but he half commanded, and half entreated109 her to remain and nurse them; and finally mounted his gig and drove away, while she was still urging that she must return to her own house, and to her domestic duties, for which she had provided no substitute.  However, when she was left in this unceremonious manner, she determined to make the best of it; and a most efficient nurse she proved: although, as she says, it was a dreary110 time.
Mr. Wilson supplied everything ordered by the doctors, of the best quality and in the most liberal manner; the invalids111 were attended by Dr. Batty, a very clever surgeon in Kirby, who had had the medical superintendence of the establishment from the beginning, and who afterwards became Mr. Wilson’s brother-in-law.  I have heard from two witnesses besides Charlotte Brontë, that Dr. Batty condemned the preparation of the food by the expressive112 action of spitting out a portion of it.  He himself, it is but fair to say, does not remember this circumstance, nor does he speak of the fever itself as either alarming or dangerous.  About forty of the girls suffered from this, but none of them died at Cowan Bridge; though one died at her own home, sinking under the state of health which followed it.  None of the Brontës had the fever.  But the same causes, which affected113 the health of the other pupils through typhus, told more slowly, but not less surely, upon their constitutions.  The principal of these causes was the food.
The bad management of the cook was chiefly to be blamed for this; she was dismissed, and the woman who had been forced against her will to serve as head nurse, took the place of housekeeper114; and henceforward the food was so well prepared that no one could ever reasonably complain of it.  Of course it cannot be expected that a new institution, comprising domestic and educational arrangements for nearly a hundred persons, should work quite smoothly115 at the beginning.
All this occurred during the first two years of the establishment, and in estimating its effect upon the character of Charlotte Brontë, we must remember that she was a sensitive thoughtful child, capable of reflecting deeply, if not of analyzing116 truly; and peculiarly susceptible117, as are all delicate and sickly children, to painful impressions.  What the healthy suffer from but momentarily and then forget, those who are ailing29 brood over involuntarily and remember long,—perhaps with no resentment118, but simply as a piece of suffering that has been stamped into their very life.  The pictures, ideas, and conceptions of character received into the mind of the child of eight years old, were destined119 to be reproduced in fiery120 words a quarter of a century afterwards.  She saw but one side of Mr. Wilson’s character; and many of those who knew him at that time assure me of the fidelity121 with which this is represented, while at the same time they regret that the delineation122 should have obliterated123, as it were, nearly all that was noble or conscientious.  And that there were grand and fine qualities in Mr. Wilson, I have received abundant evidence.  Indeed for several weeks past I have received letters almost daily, bearing on the subject of this chapter; some vague, some definite; many full of love and admiration124 for Mr. Wilson, some as full of dislike and indignation; few containing positive facts.  After giving careful consideration to this mass of conflicting evidence, I have made such alterations125 and omissions126 in this chapter as seem to me to be required.  It is but just to state that the major part of the testimony127 with which I have been favoured from old pupils is in high praise of Mr. Wilson.  Among the letters that I have read, there is one whose evidence ought to be highly respected.  It is from the husband of “Miss Temple.”  She died in 1856, but he, a clergyman, thus wrote in reply to a letter addressed to him on the subject by one of Mr. Wilson’s friends:—“Often have I heard my late dear wife speak of her sojourn at Cowan Bridge; always in terms of admiration of Mr. Carus Wilson, his parental128 love to his pupils, and their love for him; of the food and general treatment, in terms of approval.  I have heard her allude34 to an unfortunate cook, who used at times to spoil the porridge, but who, she said, was soon dismissed.”
The recollections left of the four Brontë sisters at this period of their lives, on the minds of those who associated with them, are not very distinct.  Wild, strong hearts, and powerful minds, were hidden under an enforced propriety129 and regularity130 of demeanour and expression, just as their faces had been concealed131 by their father, under his stiff, unchanging mask.  Maria was delicate, unusually clever and thoughtful for her age, gentle, and untidy.  Of her frequent disgrace from this last fault—of her sufferings, so patiently borne—I have already spoken.  The only glimpse we get of Elizabeth, through the few years of her short life, is contained in a letter which I have received from “Miss Temple.”  “The second, Elizabeth, is the only one of the family of whom I have a vivid recollection, from her meeting with a somewhat alarming accident, in consequence of which I had her for some days and nights in my bedroom, not only for the sake of greater quiet, but that I might watch over her myself.  Her head was severely132 cut, but she bore all the consequent suffering with exemplary patience, and by it won much upon my esteem.  Of the two younger ones (if two there were) I have very slight recollections, save that one, a darling child, under five years of age, was quite the pet nursling of the school.”  This last would be Emily.  Charlotte was considered the most talkative of the sisters—a “bright, clever, little child.”  Her great friend was a certain “Mellany Hane” (so Mr. Brontë spells the name), whose brother paid for her schooling133, and who had no remarkable talent except for music, which her brother’s circumstances forbade her to cultivate.  She was “a hungry, good-natured, ordinary girl;” older than Charlotte, and ever ready to protect her from any petty tyranny or encroachments on the part of the elder girls.  Charlotte always remembered her with affection and gratitude134.
I have quoted the word “bright” in the account of Charlotte.  I suspect that this year of 1825 was the last time it could ever be applied to her.  In the spring of it, Maria became so rapidly worse that Mr. Brontë was sent for.  He had not previously135 been aware of her illness, and the condition in which he found her was a terrible shock to him.  He took her home by the Leeds coach, the girls crowding out into the road to follow her with their eyes over the bridge, past the cottages, and then out of sight for ever.  She died a very few days after her arrival at home.  Perhaps the news of her death falling suddenly into the life of which her patient existence had formed a part, only a little week or so before, made those who remained at Cowan Bridge look with more anxiety on Elizabeth’s symptoms, which also turned out to be consumptive.  She was sent home in charge of a confidential136 servant of the establishment; and she, too, died in the early summer of that year.  Charlotte was thus suddenly called into the responsibilities of eldest137 sister in a motherless family.  She remembered how anxiously her dear sister Maria had striven, in her grave earnest way, to be a tender helper and a counsellor to them all; and the duties that now fell upon her seemed almost like a legacy138 from the gentle little sufferer so lately dead.
Both Charlotte and Emily returned to school after the Midsummer holidays in this fatal year.  But before the next winter it was thought desirable to advise their removal, as it was evident that the damp situation of the house at Cowan Bridge did not suit their health. 

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