No: stillness returned: each murmur and movement ceased gradually,

and in about an hour Thornfield Hall was again as hushed as a

desert. It seemed that sleep and night had resumed their empire.

Meantime the moon declined: she was about to set. Not liking to

sit in the cold and darkness, I thought I would lie down on my bed,

dressed as I was. I left the window, and moved with little noise

across the carpet; as I stooped to take off my shoes, a cautious

hand tapped low at the door.

"Am I wanted?" I asked.

"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 again.

"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 fit."

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.




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