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 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.