XXV

The month of courtship had wasted: its very last hours were being numbered. There was no putting off the day that advanced⁠—the bridal day; and all preparations for its arrival were complete. I , at least, had nothing more to do: there were my trunks, packed, locked, corded, ranged in a row along the wall of my little chamber; tomorrow, at this time, they would be far on their road to London: and so should I ( D.V. )⁠—or rather, not I, but one Jane Rochester, a person whom as yet I knew not. The cards of address alone remained to nail on: they lay, four little squares, in the drawer. Mr. Rochester had himself written the direction, “ Mrs. Rochester, ⸻ Hotel, London,” on each: I could not persuade myself to affix them, or to have them affixed. Mrs. Rochester! She did not exist: she would not be born till tomorrow, some time after eight o’clock a.m.