II.—­The Mystery of the Third Floor

One night, I hardly know whether I had been sleeping or musing, I started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and lugubrious.  It ceased, but my heart beat anxiously; my inward tranquillity was broken.  The clock, far down in the hall, struck two.  Just then my chamber-door was touched as if fingers swept the panels groping a way along the dark gallery outside.  I was chilled with fear.  Then I remembered that it might be Pilot, and the idea calmed me.  But it was fated I should not sleep that night, for at the very keyhole of my chamber, as it seemed, a demoniac laugh was uttered.  My first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt, my next to cry:  “Who is there?” Ere long steps retreated up the gallery towards the third floor staircase, and then all was still.

“Was it Grace Poole?” thought I. I hurried on my frock, and with a trembling hand opened the door.  There, burning outside, left on the matting of the gallery, was a candle; and the air was filled with smoke, which rushed in a cloud from Mr. Rochester’s room.  In an instant I was within the chamber.  Tongues of fire darted round the bed; the curtains were on fire, and in the midst lay Mr. Rochester, in deep sleep.  I shook him, but he seemed stupefied.  Then I rushed to his basin and ewer, and deluged the bed with water.  He woke with the cry:  “Is there a flood?  What is it?”

I briefly related what had transpired.  He was now in his dressing-gown, and, warning me to stay where I was and call no one, he added:  “I must pay a visit to the third floor.”  A long time elapsed ere he returned, pale and gloomy.

“I have found it all out,” said he; “it is as I thought.  You are no talking fool.  Say nothing about it.”

He held out his hand as we parted.  I gave him mine; he took it in both his own.

“You have saved my life.  I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt.  I feel your benefits no burden, Jane.”

Strange energy was in his voice.

Till morning I was tossed on a buoyant, but unquiet sea.  In the morning I heard the servants exclaim how providential that master thought of the water-jug when he had left the candle alight; and passing the room, I saw, sewing rings on the new curtains, no other than—­Grace Poole.

Company now came to the hall, including the beautiful Miss Ingram, whom rumour associated with Mr. Rochester, as I heard from Mrs. Fairfax.

One day Mr. Rochester had been called away from home, and on his return, as I was the first inmate of the house to meet him, I remarked:  “Oh, are you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived since you left this morning?”

“A stranger! no; I expected no one; did he give his name?”

“His name is Mason, sir, and he comes from the West Indies.”

Mr. Rochester was standing near me, and as I spoke he gave my wrist a convulsive grip, while a spasm caught his breath, and he turned whiter than ashes.