'Why not?' I asked myself. 'What alienates him from the house? Will

he leave it again soon? Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom stayed here longer

than a fortnight at a time; and he has now been resident eight

weeks. If he does go, the change will be doleful. Suppose he should be

absent spring, summer, and autumn: how joyless sunshine and fine

days will seem!'

I hardly know whether I had slept or not after this musing; at

any rate, I started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and

lugubrious, which sounded, I thought, just above me. I wished I had

kept my candle burning: the night was drearily dark; my spirits were

depressed. I rose and sat up in bed, listening. The sound was hushed.

I tried again to sleep; but my heart beat anxiously: my inward

tranquillity was broken. The clock, far down in the hall, struck

two. Just then it seemed my chamber-door was touched; as if fingers

had swept the panels in groping a way along the dark gallery

outside. I said, 'Who is there?' Nothing answered. I was chilled

with fear.

All at once I remembered that it might be Pilot, who, when the

kitchen-door chanced to be left open, not unfrequently found his way

up to the threshold of Mr. Rochester's chamber: I had seen him lying

there myself in the mornings. The idea calmed me somewhat: I lay down.

Silence composes the nerves; and as an unbroken hush now reigned again

through the whole house, I began to feel the return of slumber. But it

was not fated that I should sleep that night. A dream had scarcely

approached my ear, when it fled affrighted, scared by a

marrow-freezing incident enough.

This was a demoniac laugh- low, suppressed, and deep- uttered, as

it seemed, at the very keyhole of my chamber door. The head of my

bed was near the door, and I thought at first the goblin-laugher stood

at my bedside- or rather, crouched by my pillow: but I rose, looked

round, and could see nothing; while, as I still gazed, the unnatural

sound was reiterated: and I knew it came from behind the panels. My

first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt; my next, again to cry

out, 'Who is there?'

Something gurgled and moaned. Ere long, steps retreated up the

gallery towards the third-storey staircase: a door had lately been

made to shut in that staircase; I heard it open and close, and all was

still.

'Was that Grace Poole? and is she possessed with a devil?'

thought I. Impossible now to remain longer by myself: I must go to

Mrs. Fairfax. I hurried on my frock and a shawl; I withdrew the bolt

and opened the door with a trembling hand. There was a candle

burning just outside, and on the matting in the gallery. I was

surprised at this circumstance: but still more was I amazed to

perceive the air quite dim, as if filled with smoke; and, while

looking to the right hand and left, to find whence these blue

wreaths issued, I became further aware of a strong smell of burning.

Something creaked: it was a door ajar; and that door was Mr.

Rochester's, and the smoke rushed in a cloud from thence. I thought no

more of Mrs. Fairfax; I thought no more of Grace Poole, or the

laugh: in an instant, I was within the chamber. Tongues of flame

darted round the bed: the curtains were on fire. In the midst of blaze

and vapour, Mr. Rochester lay stretched motionless, in deep sleep.

'Wake! wake!' I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and

turned: the smoke had stupefied him. Not a moment could be lost: the

very sheets were kindling, I rushed to his basin and ewer;

fortunately, one was wide and the other deep, and both were filled

with water. I heaved them up, deluged the bed and its occupant, flew

back to my own room, brought my own water-jug, baptized the couch

afresh, and, by God's aid, succeeded in extinguishing the flames which

were devouring it.

The hiss of the quenched element, the breakage of a pitcher which I

flung from my hand when I had emptied it, and, above all, the splash

of the shower-bath I had liberally bestowed, roused Mr. Rochester at

last. Though it was now dark, I knew he was awake; because I heard him

fulminating strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of

water.

'Is there a flood?' he cried.

No, sir,' I answered; 'but there has been a fire: get up, do; you

are quenched now; I will fetch you a candle.'

'In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?'

he demanded. 'What have you done with me, witch, sorceress? Who is

in the room besides you? Have you plotted to drown me?'

'I will fetch you a candle, sir; and, in Heaven's name, get up.

Somebody has plotted something: you cannot too soon find out who and

what it is.'

'There! I am up now; but at your peril you fetch a candle yet: wait

two minutes till I get into some dry garments, if any dry there be-

yes, here is my dressing-gown. Now run!'

I did run; I brought the candle which still remained in the

gallery. He took it from my hand, held it up, and surveyed the bed,

all blackened and scorched, the sheets drenched, the carpet round

swimming in water.

'What is it? and who did it?' he asked.

I briefly related to him what had transpired: the strange laugh I

had heard in the gallery; the step ascending to the third storey;

the smoke,- the smell of fire which had conducted me to his room; in

what state I had found matters there, and how I had deluged him with

all the water I could lay hands on.

He listened very gravely; his face, as I went on, expressed more

concern than astonishment; he did not immediately speak when I had

concluded.

'Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?' I asked.

'Mrs. Fairfax? No; what the deuce would you call her for? What

can she do? Let her sleep unmolested.'

'Then I will fetch Leah, and wake John and his wife.'

'Not at all: just be still. You have a shawl on. If you are not

warm enough, you may take my cloak yonder; wrap it about you, and

sit down in the arm-chair: there,- I will put it on. Now place your

feet on the stool, to keep them out of the wet. I am going to leave

you a few minutes. I shall take the candle. Remain where you are

till I return; be as still as a mouse. I must pay a visit to the

second storey. Don't move, remember, or call any one.'

He went: I watched the light withdraw. He passed up the gallery

very softly, unclosed the staircase door with as little noise as

possible, shut it after him, and the last ray vanished. I was left

in total darkness. I listened for some noise, but heard nothing. A

very long time elapsed. I grew weary: it was cold, in spite of the

cloak; and then I did not see the use of staying, as I was not to

rouse the house. I was on the point of risking Mr. Rochester's

displeasure by disobeying his orders, when the light once more gleamed

dimly on the gallery wall, and I heard his unshod feet tread the

matting. 'I hope it is he,' thought I, 'and not something worse.'

He re-entered, pale and very gloomy. 'I have found it all out,'

said he, setting his candle down on the washstand; 'it is as I

thought.'

'How, sir?'

He made no reply, but stood with his arms folded, looking on the

ground. At the end of a few minutes he inquired in rather a peculiar

tone-

'I forget whether you said you saw anything when you opened your

chamber door.'

'No, sir, only the candlestick on the ground.'

'But you heard an odd laugh? You have heard that laugh before, I

should think, or something like it?'

'Yes, sir: there is a woman who sews here, called Grace Poole,- she

laughs in that way. She is a singular person.'

'Just so. Grace Poole- you have guessed it. She is, as you say,

singular- very. Well, I shall reflect on the subject. Meantime, I am

glad that you are the only person, besides myself, acquainted with the

precise details of to-night's incident. You are no talking fool: say

nothing about it. I will account for this state of affairs'

(pointing to the bed): 'and now return to your own room. I shall do

very well on the sofa in the library for the rest of the night. It

is near four:- in two hours the servants will be up.'

'Good-night, then, sir,' said I, departing.

He seemed surprised- very inconsistently so, as he had just told me

to go.

'What!' he exclaimed, 'are you quitting me already, and in that

way?'

'You said I might go, sir.'

'But not without taking leave; not without a word or two of

acknowledgment and good-will: not, in short, in that brief, dry

fashion. Why, you have saved my life!- snatched me from a horrible and

excruciating death! and you walk past me as if we were mutual

strangers! At least shake hands.'

He held out his hand; I gave him mine: he took it first in one,

then in both his own.

'You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so

immense a debt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has being would

have been tolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an

obligation: but you: it is different;- I feel your benefits no burden,

Jane.'

He paused; gazed at me: words almost visible trembled on his lips,-

but his voice was checked.

'Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden,

obligation, in the case.'

'I knew,' he continued, you would do me good in some way, at some

time;- I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression

and smile did not'- (again he stopped)- 'did not' (he proceeded

hastily) 'strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing.

People talk of natural sympathies; I have heard of good genii: there

are grains of truth in the wildest fable. My cherished preserver,

good-night!'

Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look.

'I am glad I happened to be awake,' I said: and then I was going.

'What! you will go?'

'I am cold, sir.'

'Cold? Yes,- and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!' But he

still retained my hand, and I could not free it. I bethought myself of

an expedient.

'I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move, sir,' said I.

'Well, leave me': he relaxed his fingers, and I was gone.

I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning

dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of

trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond

its wild waters a shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah; and now and

then a freshening gale, wakened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly

towards the bourne: but I could not reach it, even in fancy- a

counteracting breeze blew off land, and continually drove me back.

Sense would resist delirium: judgment would warn passion. Too feverish

to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned.