Not his ascendancy alone，however，held me in thrall at present. Of late it had been easy enough for me to look sad: a cankering evil sat in my heart and drained my happiness at its source- the evil of suspense.

perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Rochester，reader，amidst these changes of place and fortune. Not for a moment. His idea was still with me，because it was not a vapour sunshine could disperse，nor a sand-traced effigy storms could wash away; it was a name graven on a tablet，fated to last as long as the marble it inscribed. The craving to know what had bee of him followed me everywhere; when I was at Morton，I re-entered my cottage every evening to think of that; and now at Moor House，I sought my bedroom each night to brood over it.

In the course of my necessary correspondence with Mr. Briggs about the will，I had inquired if he knew anything of Mr. Rochester"s present residence and state of health; but，as St. John had conjectured，he was quite ignorant of all concerning him. I then wrote to Mrs. Fairfax，entreating information on the subject. I had calculated with certainty on this step answering my end: I felt sure it would elicit an early answer. I was astonished when a fortnight passed without reply; but when two months wore away，and day after day the post arrived and brought nothing for me，I fell a prey to the keenest anxiety.

I wrote again: there was a chance of my first letter having missed.