"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.