"Just tell me this," said I, "and since you know so much, you surely
can tell it me--what of Mr. Rochester? How and where is he? What
is he doing? Is he well?"
"I am ignorant of all concerning Mr. Rochester: the letter never
mentions him but to narrate the fraudulent and illegal attempt I
have adverted to. You should rather ask the name of the governess--
the nature of the event which requires her appearance."
"Did no one go to Thornfield Hall, then? Did no one see Mr.
Rochester?"
"I suppose not."
"But they wrote to him?"
"Of course."
"And what did he say? Who has his letters?"
"Mr. Briggs intimates that the answer to his application was not
from Mr. Rochester, but from a lady: it is signed 'Alice Fairfax.'"
I felt cold and dismayed: my worst fears then were probably true:
he had in all probability left England and rushed in reckless
desperation to some former haunt on the Continent. And what opiate
for his severe sufferings--what object for his strong passions--had
he sought there? I dared not answer the question. Oh, my poor
master--once almost my husband--whom I had often called "my dear
Edward!"
"He must have been a bad man," observed Mr. Rivers.
"You don't know him--don't pronounce an opinion upon him," I said,
with warmth.
"Very well," he answered quietly: "and indeed my head is otherwise
occupied than with him: I have my tale to finish. Since you won't
ask the governess's name, I must tell it of my own accord. Stay! I
have it here--it is always more satisfactory to see important points
written down, fairly committed to black and white."
And the pocket-book was again deliberately produced, opened, sought
through; from one of its compartments was extracted a shabby slip of
paper, hastily torn off: I recognised in its texture and its stains
of ultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, the ravished margin of
the portrait-cover. He got up, held it close to my eyes: and I
read, traced in Indian ink, in my own handwriting, the words "JANE
EYRE"--the work doubtless of some moment of abstraction.
"Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:" he said, "the advertisements
demanded a Jane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliott.--I confess I had my
suspicions, but it was only yesterday afternoon they were at once
resolved into certainty. You own the name and renounce the alias?"
"Yes--yes; but where is Mr. Briggs? He perhaps knows more of Mr.
Rochester than you do."