The letter ended there, except for some words conveying Mrs. Fairfax’s best wishes for my well-being. I put the letter down and was assailed by all manner of thoughts. That Mr. Rochester had deceived me was still not in question. Whether I might have some sympathy with a man who was tied to a mad woman through no fault of his own was a matter for thought. I know that I myself could not have suffered to live out a lie. But what of the future? With his wife’s death Mr. Rochester was free to marry again. But what woman would willingly marry a blind man, and a man who had deceived her?
Two weeks went by, during which I never for a moment ceased to turn such questions round in my head. One evening I felt that I heard a voice in the distance calling to me. “Oh, Jane, Jane,” it seemed to say, “c
