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'What have you heard? What do you see?' asked St. John. I saw
nothing, but I heard a voice somewhere cry-
'Jane! Jane! Jane!'- nothing more.
'O God! what is it?' I gasped.
I might have said, 'Where is it?' for it did not seem in the
room- nor in the house- nor in the garden; it did not come out of
the air- nor from under the earth- nor from overhead. I had heard
it- where, or whence, for ever impossible to know! And it was the
voice of a human being- a known, loved, well-remembered voice- that of
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Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly,
eerily, urgently.
'I am coming!' I cried. 'Wait for me! Oh, I will come!' I flew to
the door and looked into the passage: it was dark. I ran out into
the garden: it was void.
'Where are you?' I exclaimed.
The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly back- 'Where
are you?' I listened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was
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