I had forgotten to close my curtain, so the full moon woke me. As I stretched out my arm toward the curtain, a scream split the night.
What a cry! It came from the third floor, and my heart stood still as I heard a fierce struggle in the room above my own.
"Help! Help!" a half-smothered voice called above me. "Rochester! Come!" the voice cried while the staggering and stamping went on wildly.
A door opened on my floor, and then someone rushed along the corridor. Another foot stamped on the floor above, and something fell. At last there was silence.
I threw on my robe, and though horror shook my limbs, went out into the darkened corridor, where all the guests were gathering and speaking at once.
"Who's hurt?"
"Are there robbers?"
"Where's Mr. Rochester?"
"Here I am!" Mr. Rochester descended the stairs from the third floor, carrying a candle.
Blanche Ingram ran to him and seized his arm. "What awful event has taken place?"
"A servant had a nightmare," he replied. "It's nothing. You must all return to your rooms now."
I went back to my room, but I didn't sleep. Instead I dressed carefully and sat on the edge of my bed, waiting for I knew not what. At last someone tapped on my door.
"Are you awake?" Mr. Rochester asked softly.
I opened my door, and there he stood with a candle.
"Do you have a sponge and some smelling salts?" he whispered.
I nodded and fetched them from my room. He beckoned me to follow him upstairs. Outside a door he paused and said, "Do you turn sick at the sight of blood?"
"I don't think so, but I haven't been tested."
"Give me your hand because we can't risk a fainting fit."
I put my fingers in his. "Warm and steady," he remarked.
Inside the room a tapestry had been looped up on one side to reveal a door to another room beyond. I heard a snarling, dog-like sound coming from within.
"Wait here," said Mr. Rochester as he went into the inner room. A shout of laughter greeted his entrance, followed by Grace Poole's goblin-like, "Ha-ha!" Then I heard a low voice address him.
Soon Mr. Rochester came out and closed the door behind him. He directed me to the other side of some closed curtains, which concealed a large bed. A man sat in a chair next to the bed. His eyes were closed, but I recognized the pale and seemingly lifeless face of Mason. I saw too that one sleeve and one side of his shirt were almost soaked in blood.
"Hold the candle," Mr. Rochester directed me as he began to sponge Mason's wounds.
"Am I in immediate danger?" murmured Mason.
"It's a mere scratch, Richard. I'll fetch a doctor for you, and you'll be on your way by morning."
Mr. Rochester explained that he might be gone for an hour or two and that I was to sponge Mason's wounds. If the man felt faint, I was to put a glass of water to his lips and the smelling salts to his nose.
"You're not to speak to each other," warned Mr. Rochester. "Do you understand? No conversation."
And so he left the room and locked the door, and I was alone with Mason.
How had this quiet stranger become involved in this web of horror? Why was he up here when I'd clearly heard Mr. Rochester assign him a room below?
The night seemed to last forever. Sometimes I feared that Mason was dying, and I wasn't even allowed to speak to him! At last I heard Pilot barking outside, and Mr. Rochester returned with the doctor.
"Now, good fellow, how are you?" asked Dr. Carter.
"She tried to kill me," Mason replied weakly.
"What's this?" said Dr. Carter, examining the wound in Mason's shoulder. "This wasn't done with a knife."
"She bit me when Rochester got the knife away from her. It was frightful." Mason shuddered.
"I told you to be on your guard when you went near her," said Mr. Rochester. "You should have waited until tomorrow and had me with you. Hurry, Carter. The sun will soon rise, and I must get him away from here."
Mr. Rochester ordered me to go downstairs and fetch a clean shirt and Mason's cloak. Then, with the assistance of Dr. Carter, Mason walked downstairs and out to a waiting coach. Dr. Carter climbed in after him.
Mason looked out the window and addressed Mr. Rochester. "Let her be taken care of. Let her be treated tenderly. Let her . . ." He stopped, overcome by tears.
"I do my best," said Mr. Rochester. As the coach rolled away, he added, "I wish there were an end to this! Come walk with me, Jane."
In the garden he gathered a rose, the first of the season, and offered it to me.
"Thank you, sir," I said. Then I asked, "Will Grace Poole still live here?"
"Oh yes! Now put her out of your thoughts."
But I had more questions. "Is the danger that you feared last night gone now?"
"I cannot vouch for that until Mason is out of England, and not even then. He wouldn't knowingly hurt me, but with one careless word he might deprive me of happiness."
We came to an arbor, and he urged me to sit next to him. "Suppose that long ago a man committed not a crime, but an error. Now he meets someone whose good and bright qualities he has sought for twenty years. Would it be all right for him to attach himself to her?"
He looked eagerly at me, but I didn't know how to answer him. While around us the birds were singing and the leaves rustling, I stayed silent.
Then abruptly his tone changed. "You've noticed my tender feelings toward Miss Ingram. Do you think she'd regenerate me if I married her?"
I didn't respond.
"Jane, you're quite pale from the night's excitement. Are you angry that I disturbed your sleep?"
"No, sir."
"Then perhaps you'll sit up with me the night before I'm married because I know I won't be able to sleep."
"Yes, sir," I answered. "I'd like to be useful whenever I can."
"Oh, look! Two of our guests are at the stables. Go quickly so they don't see you."
As I went one way and he went another, I heard him saying cheerfully to the men, "Mason was up before you all today. I rose at four to see him off."