“I mean the present gentleman, Mr. Edward’s father,” he explained. I breathed again: my blood resumed its flow. Fully assured by these words that Mr. Edward⁠— my Mr. Rochester (God bless him, wherever he was!)⁠—was at least alive: was, in short, “the present gentleman.” Gladdening words! It seemed I could hear all that was to come⁠—whatever the disclosures might be⁠—with comparative tranquillity. Since he was not in the grave, I could bear, I thought, to learn that he was at the Antipodes.

“Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now?” I asked, knowing, of course, what the answer would be, but yet desirous of deferring the direct question as to where he really was.