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<- Previous | Table of Contents | Next -> Digital Library - Digital Library-Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte


‘Are you up?’ asked the voice I expected to hear, viz., my master’s.
‘Yes, sir.’ ‘And dressed?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Come out, then, quietly.’ I obeyed.
Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light.

‘I want you,’ he said: ‘come this way: take your time, and make no
noise.’ My slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as
softly as a cat. He glided up the gallery and up the stairs, and
stopped in the dark, low corridor of the fateful third storey: I had
followed and stood at his side.

‘Have you a sponge in your room?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Have you any salts-volatile salts?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Go back and
fetch both.’ I returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the
salts in my drawer, and once more retraced my steps. He still
waited; he held a key in his hand: approaching one of the small,
black doors, he put it in the lock; he paused, and addressed me

‘You don’t turn sick at the sight of blood?’ ‘I think I shall not: I
have never been tried yet.’ I felt a thrill while I answered him; but
no coldness, and no faintness.

‘Just give me your hand,’ he said: ‘it will not do to risk a fainting

I put my fingers into his. ‘Warm and steady,’ was his remark: he
turned the key and opened the door.

I saw a room I remembered to have seen before, the day Mrs.
Fairfax showed me over the house: it was hung with tapestry; but
the tapestry was now looped up in one part, and there was a door
apparent, which had then been concealed. This door was open; a
light shone out of the room within: I heard thence a snarling,
snatching sound, almost like a dog quarrelling. Mr. Rochester,
putting down his candle, said to me, ‘Wait a minute,’ and he went
forward to the inner apartment.

A shout of laughter greeted his entrance; noisy at first, and
terminating in Grace Poole’s own goblin ha! ha! She then was
there. He made some sort of arrangement without speaking,
though I heard a low voice address him: he came out and closed
the door behind him.

‘Here, Jane!’ he said; and I walked round to the other side of a
large bed, which with its drawn curtains concealed a considerable
portion of the chamber.

An easy-chair was near the bed-head: a man sat in it, dressed with
the exception of his coat; he was still; his head leant back; his eyes
were closed. Mr. Rochester held the candle over him; I recognised
in his pale and seemingly lifeless face-the stranger, Mason: I saw
too that his linen on one side and one arm, was almost soaked in
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