some, my cast-off mistress:  I now inform you that she is my wife, whom I married fifteen years ago—­Bertha Mason by name; sister of this resolute personage who is now, with his quivering limbs and white cheeks, showing you what a stout heart men may bear.  Cheer up, Dick! never fear me!  I’d almost as soon strike a woman as you.  Bertha Mason is mad; and she came of a mad family—­idiots and maniacs through three generations!  Her mother, the Creole, was both a mad-woman and a drunkard!—­as I found out after I had wed the daughter; for they were silent on family secrets before.  Bertha, like a dutiful child, copied her parent in both points.  I had a charming partner—­pure, wise, modest; you can fancy I was a happy man.  I went through rich scenes!  Oh! my experience has been heavenly, if you only knew it!  But I owe you no further explanation.  Briggs, Wood, Mason, I invite you all to come up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole’s patient, and my wife!  You shall see what sort of a being I was cheated into espousing, and judge whether or not I had a right to break the compact, and seek sympathy with something at least human.  This girl,” he continued, looking at me, “knew no more than you, Wood, of the disgusting secret:  she thought all was fair and legal, and never dreamed that she was going to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad, and imbruted partner!  Come, all of you, follow.”

Still holding me fast, he left the church:  the three gentlemen came after.  At the front door of the hall we found the carriage.

“Take it back to the coach-house, John,” said Mr. Rochester, coolly:  “it will not be wanted to-day.”

At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax, Adele, Sophie, Leah, advanced to meet and greet us.

“To the right-about—­every soul!” cried the master:  “away with your congratulations!  Who wants them?  Not I! they are fifteen years too late!”

He passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my hand, and still beckoning the gentlemen to follow him; which they did.  We mounted the first staircase, passed up the gallery, proceeded to the third story:  the low black door, opened by Mr. Rochester’s master-key, admitted us to the tapestried room, with its great bed and its pictorial cabinet.

“You know this place, Mason,” said our guide; “she bit and stabbed you here.”

He lifted the hangings from the wall, uncovering the second door; this too he opened.  In a room without a window there burned a fire, guarded by a high and strong fender, and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a chain.  Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently cooking something in a saucepan.  In the deep shade, at the further end of the room, a figure ran backward and forward.  What it was, whether beast or human being, one could not at first sight tell; it groveled, seemingly, on all fours; it snatched and growled like some strange wild animal; but it was covered with clothing; and a quantity of dark grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face.