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Twenty years ago, a poor curatenever mind his name at this momentfell in love with a rich mans daughter; she fell in love with him, and married him, against the advice of all her friends, who consequently disowned her immediately after the wedding. Before two years passed, the rash pair were both dead, and laid quietly side by side under one slab. (I have seen their grave; it formed part of the pavement of a huge churchyard surrounding the grim, soot-black old cathedral of an overgrown manufacturing town in shire.) They left a daughter, which, at its very birth, Charity received in her lapcold as that of the snow-drift I almost stuck fast in to-night. Charity carried the friendless thing to the house of its rich maternal relations; it was reared by an aunt-in-law, called (I come to names now) Mrs. Reed of Gateshead. You startdid you hear a noise? I daresay it is only a rat scrambling along the rafters of the adjoining schoolroom: it was a barn before I had it repaired and altered, and barns are generally haunted by rats.To proceed. Mrs. Reed kept the orphan ten years: whether it was happy or not with her, I cannot say, never having been told; but at the end of that time she transferred it to a place you knowbeing no other than Lowood School, where you so long resided yourself. It seems her career there was very honourable: from a pupil, she became a teacher, like yourselfreally it strikes me there are parallel points in her history and yoursshe left it to be a governess: there, again, your fates were analogous; she undertook the education of the ward of a certain Mr. Rochester. Mr. Rivers! I interrupted. I can guess your feelings, he said, but restrain them for a while: I have nearly finished; hear me to the end. Of Mr. Rochesters character I know nothing, but the one fact that he professed to offer honourable marriage to this young girl, and that at the very altar she discovered he had a wife yet alive, though a lunatic. What his subsequent conduct and proposals were is a matter of pure conjecture; but when an event transpired which rendered inquiry after the governess necessary, it was discovered she was goneno one could tell when, where, or how. She had left Thornfield Hall in 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 mewhat 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 sufferingswhat object for his strong passionshad he sought there? I dared not answer the question. Oh, my poor masteronce almost my husbandwhom I had often called my dear Edward! |
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