"The owner of Thornfield," she responded quietly. "Did you not
know he was called Rochester?"
Of course I did not -- I had never heard of him before; but the
old lady seemed to regard his existence as a universally understood
fact, with which everybody must be acquainted by instinct.
"I thought," I continued, "Thornfield belonged to you."
"To me? Bless you, child; what an idea! To me! I am only the
housekeeper -- the manager. To be sure I am distantly related to
the Rochesters by the mother's side, or at least my husband was;
he was a clergyman, incumbent of Hay -- that little village yonder
on the hill -- and that church near the gates was his. The present
Mr. Rochester's mother was a Fairfax, and second cousin to my
husband: but I never presume on the connection -- in fact, it is
nothing to me; I consider myself quite in the light of an ordinary
housekeeper: my employer is always civil, and I expect nothing
more."
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