"Who are you?" he asked of the intruder.

"My name is Briggs, a solicitor of--Street, London."

"And you would thrust on me a wife?"

"I would remind you of your lady's existence, sir, which the law

recognises, if you do not."

"Favour me with an account of her--with her name, her parentage, her

place of abode."

"Certainly." Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and

read out in a sort of official, nasal voice:"'I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October A.D.--(a date

of fifteen years back), Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield

Hall, in the county of -, and of Ferndean Manor, in -shire, England,

was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas

Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at--church,

Spanish Town, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in

the register of that church--a copy of it is now in my possession.

Signed, Richard Mason.'"

"That--if a genuine document--may prove I have been married, but it

does not prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still

living."

"She was living three months ago," returned the lawyer.

"How do you know?"

"I have a witness to the fact, whose testimony even you, sir, will

scarcely controvert."

"Produce him--or go to hell."

"I will produce him first--he is on the spot. Mr. Mason, have the

goodness to step forward."

Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth; he experienced,

too, a sort of strong convulsive quiver; near to him as I was, I

felt the spasmodic movement of fury or despair run through his

frame. The second stranger, who had hitherto lingered in the

background, now drew near; a pale face looked over the solicitor's

shoulder--yes, it was Mason himself. Mr. Rochester turned and

glared at him. His eye, as I have often said, was a black eye: it

had now a tawny, nay, a bloody light in its gloom; and his face

flushed--olive cheek and hueless forehead received a glow as from

spreading, ascending heart-fire: and he stirred, lifted his strong

arm--he could have struck Mason, dashed him on the church-floor,

shocked by ruthless blow the breath from his body--but Mason shrank

away, and cried faintly, "Good God!" Contempt fell cool on Mr.

Rochester--his passion died as if a blight had shrivelled it up: he

only asked--"What have YOU to say?"

An inaudible reply escaped Mason's white lips.




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