“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 AD ⸻ (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