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the night; every research after her course had been vain: the
country had been scoured far and wide; no vestige of information could
be gathered respecting her. Yet that she should be found is become a
matter of serious urgency: advertisements have been put in all the
papers; I myself have received a letter from one Mr. Briggs, a
solicitor, communicating the details I have just imparted. Is it not
an odd tale?'
'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 vermilion, 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.'
'Briggs is in London. I should doubt his knowing anything at all