"Did you?" Not in my time, I thought: you are a stranger to me.

     "I was the late Mr. Rochester's butler," he added.

     The late! I seem to have received, with full force, the blow I had been trying to evade.

     "The late!" I gasped. "Is he dead?"

     "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.