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.
M 2
