it close to my eyes: and I read, traced in Indian ink, in my own handwriting, the words 'JANE EYRE'- the work doubtless of some moment of abstraction.
'Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:' he said, 'the advertisements demanded a Jane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliott.- I confess I had my suspicions, but it was only yesterday afternoon they were at once resolved into certainty. You own the name and renounce the alias?'
'Yes- yes; but where is Mr. Briggs? He perhaps knows more of Mr. Rochester than you do.'
'Briggs is in London. I should doubt his knowing anything at all about Mr. Rochester; it is not in Mr. Rochester he is interested.
Meantime, you forget essential points in pursuing trifles: you do not inquire why Mr. Briggs sought after you- what he wanted with you.'
'Well, what did he want?'
'Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr. Eyre of Madeira, is dead; that he has left you all his property, and that you are now rich- merely that- nothing more.'
'I!- rich?'
'Yes, you, rich- quite an heiress.'
Silence succeeded.
'You must prove your identity of course,' resumed St. John presently: 'a step which will offer no difficulties; you can then enter on immediate possession. Your fortune is vested in the English funds; Briggs has the will and the necessary documents.'
Here was a new card turned up! It is a fine thing, reader, to be lifted in a moment from indigence to wealth- a very fine thing; but not a matter one can comprehend or consequently enjoy, all at once.
And then there are other chances in life far more thrilling and rapture-giving: this is solid, an affair of the actual world, nothing ideal about it: all its associations are solid and sober, and its manifestations are the same. One does not jump, and spring, and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune; one begins to consider responsibilities, and to ponder business; on a base of steady satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we contain ourselves, and brood over our bliss with a solemn brow.
Besides, the w
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