"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."
"Yes, you, rich -- quite an heiress."
"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.