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You will think me superstitious-some superstition I have in my
blood, and always had: nevertheless, this is true-true at least it is
that I heard what I now relate.

‘As I exclaimed “Jane! Jane! Jane!” a voice-I cannot tell whence the
voice came, but I know whose voice it was-replied, “I am coming:
wait for me;” and a moment after, went whispering on the wind
the words-“Where are you?” ‘I’ll tell you, if I can, the idea, the
picture these words opened to my mind: yet it is difficult to
express what I want to express. Ferndean is buried, as you see, in a
heavy wood, where sound falls dull, and dies unreverberating.
“Where are you?” seemed spoken amongst mountains; for I heard
a hill-sent echo repeat the words. Cooler and fresher at the moment
the gale seemed to visit my brow: I could have deemed that in
some wild, lone scene, I and Jane were meeting. In spirit, I believe
we must have met. You no doubt were, at that hour, in unconscious
sleep, Jane: perhaps your soul wandered from its cell to comfort
mine; for those were your accents-as certain as I live-they were
yours!’ Reader, it was on Monday night-near midnight-that I too
had received the mysterious summons: those were the very words
by which I replied to it. I listened to Mr. Rochester’s narrative, but
made no disclosure in return. The coincidence struck me as too
awful and inexplicable to be communicated or discussed.

If I told anything, my tale would be such as must necessarily make
a profound impression on the mind of my hearer: and that mind,
yet from its sufferings too prone to gloom, needed not the deeper
shade of the supernatural. I kept these things then, and pondered
them in my heart.

‘You cannot now wonder,’ continued my master, ‘that when you
rose upon me so unexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in
believing you any other than a mere voice and vision, something
that would melt to silence and annihilation, as the midnight
whisper and mountain echo had melted before. Now, I thank God!
I know it to be otherwise. Yes, I thank God!’ He put me off his
knee, rose, and reverently lifting his hat from his brow, and
bending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in mute devotion.
Only the last words of the worship were audible.

‘I thank my Maker, that, in the midst of judgment, he has
remembered mercy.

I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead
henceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto!’ Then he
stretched his hand out to be led. I took that dear hand, held it a
moment to my lips, then let it pass round my shoulder: being so
much lower of stature than he, I served both for his prop and
guide. We entered the wood, and wended homeward.
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