I felt cold and dismayed:  my worst fears then were probably true:  he had in all probability left England and rushed in reckless desperation to some former haunt on the Continent.  And what opiate for his severe sufferings —­ what object for his strong passions —­ had he sought there?  I dared not answer the question.  Oh, my poor master —­ once almost my husband —­ whom I had often called “my dear Edward!”

“He must have been a bad man,” observed Mr. Rivers.

“You don’t know him —­ don’t pronounce an opinion upon him,” I said, with warmth.

“Very well,” he answered quietly:  “and indeed my head is otherwise occupied than with him:  I have my tale to finish.  Since you won’t ask the governess’s name, I must tell it of my own accord.  Stay!  I have it here —­ it is always more satisfactory to see important points written down, fairly committed to black and white.”

And the pocket-book was again deliberately produced, opened, sought through; from one of its compartments was extracted a shabby slip of paper, hastily torn off:  I recognised in its texture and its stains of ultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, the ravished margin of the portrait-cover.  He got up, held 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.