Then my own thoughts worried me.  What crime was this that lived incarnate in this sequestered mansion, and could neither be expelled nor subdued by the owner? —­ what mystery, that broke out now in fire and now in blood, at the deadest hours of night?  What creature was it, that, masked in an ordinary woman’s face and shape, uttered the voice, now of a mocking demon, and anon of a carrion-seeking bird of prey?

And this man I bent over —­ this commonplace, quiet stranger —­ how had he become involved in the web of horror? and why had the Fury flown at him?  What made him seek this quarter of the house at an untimely season, when he should have been asleep in bed?  I had heard Mr. Rochester assign him an apartment below —­ what brought him here!  And why, now, was he so tame under the violence or treachery done him?  Why did he so quietly submit to the concealment Mr. Rochester enforced?  Why did Mr. Rochester enforce this concealment?  His guest had been outraged, his own life on a former occasion had been hideously plotted against; and both attempts he smothered in secrecy and sank in oblivion!  Lastly, I saw Mr. Mason was submissive to Mr. Rochester; that the impetuous will of the latter held complete sway over the inertness of the former:  the few words which had passed between them assured me of this.  It was evident that in their former intercourse, the passive disposition of the one had been habitually influenced by the active energy of the other:  whence then had arisen Mr. Rochester’s dismay when he heard of Mr. Mason’s arrival?  Why had the mere name of this unresisting individual —­ whom his word now sufficed to control like a child —­ fallen on him, a few hours since, as a thunderbolt might fall on an oak?

Oh!  I could not forget his look and his paleness when he whispered:  “Jane, I have got a blow —­ I have got a blow, Jane.”  I could not forget how the arm had trembled which he rested on my shoulder:  and it was no light matter which could thus bow the resolute spirit and thrill the vigorous frame of Fairfax Rochester.

“When will he come?  When will he come?” I cried inwardly, as the night lingered and lingered —­ as my bleeding patient drooped, moaned, sickened:  and neither day nor aid arrived.  I had, again and again, held the water to Mason’s white lips; again and again offered him the stimulating salts:  my efforts seemed ineffectual:  either bodily or mental suffering, or loss of blood, or all three combined, were fast prostrating his strength.  He moaned so, and looked so weak, wild, and lost, I feared he was dying; and I might not even speak to him.

The candle, wasted at last, went out; as it expired, I perceived streaks of grey light edging the window curtains:  dawn was then approaching.  Presently I heard Pilot bark far below, out of his distant kennel in the courtyard:  hope revived.  Nor was it unwarranted:  in five minutes more the grating key, the yielding lock, warned me my watch was relieved.  It could not have lasted more than two hours:  many a week has seemed shorter.