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Charles Dickens 34 page

him just then, lest Mr. Jaggers’s sharpness should detect

that there had been some communication unknown to him

between us.

‘And on what evidence, Pip,’ asked Mr. Jaggers, very cool-

ly, as he paused with his handkerchief half way to his nose,

‘does Provis make this claim?’

‘He does not make it,’ said I, ‘and has never made it, and

has no knowledge or belief that his daughter is in exis-

tence.’

For once, the powerful pocket-handkerchief failed. My

reply was so unexpected that Mr. Jaggers put the handker-

chief back into his pocket without completing the usual

performance, folded his arms, and looked with stern atten-

tion at me, though with an immovable face.

Then I told him all I knew, and how I knew it; with the

one reservation that I left him to infer that I knew from

Miss Havisham what I in fact knew from Wemmick. I was

very careful indeed as to that. Nor, did I look towards Wem-

mick until I had finished all I had to tell, and had been for

some time silently meeting Mr. Jaggers’s look. When I did

at last turn my eyes in Wemmick’s direction, I found that

he had unposted his pen, and was intent upon the table be-

fore him.

‘Hah!’ said Mr. Jaggers at last, as he moved towards the

papers on the table, ‘ - What item was it you were at, Wem-

mick, when Mr. Pip came in?’

But I could not submit to be thrown off in that way, and I

made a passionate, almost an indignant, appeal to him to be

Great Expectations

more frank and manly with me. I reminded him of the false

hopes into which I had lapsed, the length of time they had

lasted, and the discovery I had made: and I hinted at the

danger that weighed upon my spirits. I represented myself

as being surely worthy of some little confidence from him,

in return for the confidence I had just now imparted. I said

that I did not blame him, or suspect him, or mistrust him,

but I wanted assurance of the truth from him. And if he

asked me why I wanted it and why I thought I had any right

to it, I would tell him, little as he cared for such poor dreams,

that I had loved Estella dearly and long, and that, although

I had lost her and must live a bereaved life, whatever con-

cerned her was still nearer and dearer to me than anything

else in the world. And seeing that Mr. Jaggers stood quite

still and silent, and apparently quite obdurate, under this

appeal, I turned to Wemmick, and said, ‘Wemmick, I know

you to be a man with a gentle heart. I have seen your pleas-

ant home, and your old father, and all the innocent cheerful

playful ways with which you refresh your business life. And

I entreat you to say a word for me to Mr. Jaggers, and to rep-

resent to him that, all circumstances considered, he ought

to be more open with me!’

I have never seen two men look more oddly at one anoth-

er than Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick did after this apostrophe.

At first, a misgiving crossed me that Wemmick would be

instantly dismissed from his employment; but, it melted

as I saw Mr. Jaggers relax into something like a smile, and



Wemmick become bolder.

‘What’s all this?’ said Mr. Jaggers. ‘You with an old father,

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and you with pleasant and playful ways?’

‘Well!’ returned Wemmick. ‘If I don’t bring ‘em here,

what does it matter?’

‘Pip,’ said Mr. Jaggers, laying his hand upon my arm, and

smiling openly, ‘this man must be the most cunning impos-

tor in all London.’

‘Not a bit of it,’ returned Wemmick, growing bolder and

bolder. ‘I think you’re another.’

Again they exchanged their former odd looks, each ap-

parently still distrustful that the other was taking him in.

‘You with a pleasant home?’ said Mr. Jaggers.

‘Since it don’t interfere with business,’ returned Wem-

mick, ‘let it be so. Now, I look at you, sir, I shouldn’t wonder

if you might be planning and contriving to have a pleasant

home of your own, one of these days, when you’re tired of

all this work.’

Mr. Jaggers nodded his head retrospectively two or three

times, and actually drew a sigh. ‘Pip,’ said he, ‘we won’t talk

about ‘poor dreams;’ you know more about such things

than I, having much fresher experience of that kind. But

now, about this other matter. I’ll put a case to you. Mind! I

admit nothing.’

He waited for me to declare that I quite understood that

he expressly said that he admitted nothing.

‘Now, Pip,’ said Mr. Jaggers, ‘put this case. Put the case

that a woman, under such circumstances as you have

mentioned, held her child concealed, and was obliged to

communicate the fact to her legal adviser, on his represent-

ing to her that he must know, with an eye to the latitude

 

Great Expectations

of his defence, how the fact stood about that child. Put the

case that at the same time he held a trust to find a child for

an eccentric rich lady to adopt and bring up.’

‘I follow you, sir.’

‘Put the case that he lived in an atmosphere of evil, and

that all he saw of children, was, their being generated in

great numbers for certain destruction. Put the case that he

often saw children solemnly tried at a criminal bar, where

they were held up to be seen; put the case that he habitually

knew of their being imprisoned, whipped, transported, ne-

glected, cast out, qualified in all ways for the hangman, and

growing up to be hanged. Put the case that pretty nigh all

the children he saw in his daily business life, he had reason

to look upon as so much spawn, to develop into the fish that

were to come to his net - to be prosecuted, defended, for-

sworn, made orphans, bedevilled somehow.’

‘I follow you, sir.’

‘Put the case, Pip, that here was one pretty little child out

of the heap, who could be saved; whom the father believed

dead, and dared make no stir about; as to whom, over the

mother, the legal adviser had this power: ‘I know what you

did, and how you did it. You came so and so, this was your

manner of attack and this the manner of resistance, you

went so and so, you did such and such things to divert sus-

picion. I have tracked you through it all, and I tell it you all.

Part with the child, unless it should be necessary to produce

it to clear you, and then it shall be produced. Give the child

into my hands, and I will do my best to bring you off. If you

are saved, your child is saved too; if you are lost, your child

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is still saved.’ Put the case that this was done, and that the

woman was cleared.’

‘I understand you perfectly.’

‘But that I make no admissions?’

‘That you make no admissions.’ And Wemmick repeated,

‘No admissions.’

‘Put the case, Pip, that passion and the terror of death

had a little shaken the woman’s intellect, and that when she

was set at liberty, she was scared out of the ways of the world

and went to him to be sheltered. Put the case that he took

her in, and that he kept down the old wild violent nature

whenever he saw an inkling of its breaking out, by asserting

his power over her in the old way. Do you comprehend the

imaginary case?’

‘Quite.’

‘Put the case that the child grew up, and was married for

money. That the mother was still living. That the father was

still living. That the mother and father unknown to one an-

other, were dwelling within so many miles, furlongs, yards

if you like, of one another. That the secret was still a secret,

except that you had got wind of it. Put that last case to your-

self very carefully.’

‘I do.’

‘I ask Wemmick to put it to himself very carefully.’

And Wemmick said, ‘I do.’

‘For whose sake would you reveal the secret? For the

father’s? I think he would not be much the better for the

mother. For the mother’s? I think if she had done such a

deed she would be safer where she was. For the daughter’s?

 

Great Expectations

I think it would hardly serve her, to establish her parent-

age for the information of her husband, and to drag her

back to disgrace, after an escape of twenty years, pretty se-

cure to last for life. But, add the case that you had loved her,

Pip, and had made her the subject of those ‘poor dreams’

which have, at one time or another, been in the heads of

more men than you think likely, then I tell you that you

had better - and would much sooner when you had thought

well of it - chop off that bandaged left hand of yours with

your bandaged right hand, and then pass the chopper on to

Wemmick there, to cut that off, too.’

I looked at Wemmick, whose face was very grave. He

gravely touched his lips with his forefinger. I did the same.

Mr. Jaggers did the same. ‘Now, Wemmick,’ said the lat-

ter then, resuming his usual manner, ‘what item was it you

were at, when Mr. Pip came in?’

Standing by for a little, while they were at work, I ob-

served that the odd looks they had cast at one another were

repeated several times: with this difference now, that each

of them seemed suspicious, not to say conscious, of having

shown himself in a weak and unprofessional light to the

other. For this reason, I suppose, they were now inflexible

with one another; Mr. Jaggers being highly dictatorial, and

Wemmick obstinately justifying himself whenever there

was the smallest point in abeyance for a moment. I had nev-

er seen them on such ill terms; for generally they got on very

well indeed together.

But, they were both happily relieved by the opportune

appearance of Mike, the client with the fur cap and the hab-

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it of wiping his nose on his sleeve, whom I had seen on the

very first day of my appearance within those walls. This in-

dividual, who, either in his own person or in that of some

member of his family, seemed to be always in trouble (which

in that place meant Newgate), called to announce that his

eldest daughter was taken up on suspicion of shop-lifting.

As he imparted this melancholy circumstance to Wemmick,

Mr. Jaggers standing magisterially before the fire and tak-

ing no share in the proceedings, Mike’s eye happened to

twinkle with a tear.

‘What are you about?’ demanded Wemmick, with the ut-

most indignation. ‘What do you come snivelling here for?’

‘I didn’t go to do it, Mr. Wemmick.’

‘You did,’ said Wemmick. ‘How dare you? You’re not in a

fit state to come here, if you can’t come here without splut-

tering like a bad pen. What do you mean by it?’

‘A man can’t help his feelings, Mr. Wemmick,’ pleaded

Mike.

‘His what?’ demanded Wemmick, quite savagely. ‘Say

that again!’

‘Now, look here my man,’ said Mr. Jaggers, advancing a

step, and pointing to the door. ‘Get out of this office. I’ll

have no feelings here. Get out.’

‘It serves you right,’ said Wemmick, ‘Get out.’

So the unfortunate Mike very humbly withdrew, and Mr.

Jaggers and Wemmick appeared to have re-established their

good understanding, and went to work again with an air of

refreshment upon them as if they had just had lunch.

 

Great Expectations

Chapter 52

From Little Britain, I went, with my cheque in my pocket,

to Miss Skiffins’s brother, the accountant; and Miss Skif-

fins’s brother, the accountant, going straight to Clarriker’s

and bringing Clarriker to me, I had the great satisfaction of

concluding that arrangement. It was the only good thing I

had done, and the only completed thing I had done, since I

was first apprised of my great expectations.

Clarriker informing me on that occasion that the affairs

of the House were steadily progressing, that he would now

be able to establish a small branch-house in the East which

was much wanted for the extension of the business, and that

Herbert in his new partnership capacity would go out and

take charge of it, I found that I must have prepared for a

separation from my friend, even though my own affairs had

been more settled. And now indeed I felt as if my last an-

chor were loosening its hold, and I should soon be driving

with the winds and waves.

But, there was recompense in the joy with which Herbert

would come home of a night and tell me of these changes,

little imagining that he told me no news, and would sketch

airy pictures of himself conducting Clara Barley to the land

of the Arabian Nights, and of me going out to join them

(with a caravan of camels, I believe), and of our all going up

the Nile and seeing wonders. Without being sanguine as to

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my own part in these bright plans, I felt that Herbert’s way

was clearing fast, and that old Bill Barley had but to stick to

his pepper and rum, and his daughter would soon be hap-

pily provided for.

We had now got into the month of March. My left arm,

though it presented no bad symptoms, took in the natural

course so long to heal that I was still unable to get a coat on.

My right arm was tolerably restored; - disfigured, but fairly

serviceable.

On a Monday morning, when Herbert and I were at

breakfast, I received the following letter from Wemmick by

the post.

‘Walworth. Burn this as soon as read. Early in the week,

or say Wednesday, you might do what you know of, if you

felt disposed to try it. Now burn.’

When I had shown this to Herbert and had put it in the

fire - but not before we had both got it by heart - we consid-

ered what to do. For, of course my being disabled could now

be no longer kept out of view.

‘I have thought it over, again and again,’ said Herbert,

‘and I think I know a better course than taking a Thames

waterman. Take Startop. A good fellow, a skilled hand, fond

of us, and enthusiastic and honourable.’

I had thought of him, more than once.

‘But how much would you tell him, Herbert?’

‘It is necessary to tell him very little. Let him suppose it a

mere freak, but a secret one, until the morning comes: then

let him know that there is urgent reason for your getting

Provis aboard and away. You go with him?’

 

Great Expectations

‘No doubt.’

‘Where?’

It had seemed to me, in the many anxious considerations

I had given the point, almost indifferent what port we made

for - Hamburg, Rotterdam, Antwerp - the place signified

little, so that he was got out of England. Any foreign steam-

er that fell in our way and would take us up, would do. I

had always proposed to myself to get him well down the

river in the boat; certainly well beyond Gravesend, which

was a critical place for search or inquiry if suspicion were

afoot. As foreign steamers would leave London at about the

time of high-water, our plan would be to get down the river

by a previous ebb-tide, and lie by in some quiet spot until

we could pull off to one. The time when one would be due

where we lay, wherever that might be, could be calculated

pretty nearly, if we made inquiries beforehand.

Herbert assented to all this, and we went out immediately

after breakfast to pursue our investigations. We found that

a steamer for Hamburg was likely to suit our purpose best,

and we directed our thoughts chiefly to that vessel. But we

noted down what other foreign steamers would leave Lon-

don with the same tide, and we satisfied ourselves that we

knew the build and colour of each. We then separated for a

few hours; I, to get at once such passports as were necessary;

Herbert, to see Startop at his lodgings. We both did what we

had to do without any hindrance, and when we met again

at one o’clock reported it done. I, for my part, was prepared

with passports; Herbert had seen Startop, and he was more

than ready to join.

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Those two should pull a pair of oars, we settled, and I

would steer; our charge would be sitter, and keep quiet; as

speed was not our object, we should make way enough. We

arranged that Herbert should not come home to dinner be-

fore going to Mill Pond Bank that evening; that he should

not go there at all, to-morrow evening, Tuesday; that he

should prepare Provis to come down to some Stairs hard

by the house, on Wednesday, when he saw us approach, and

not sooner; that all the arrangements with him should be

concluded that Monday night; and that he should be com-

municated with no more in any way, until we took him on

board.

These precautions well understood by both of us, I went

home.

On opening the outer door of our chambers with my key,

I found a letter in the box, directed to me; a very dirty let-

ter, though not ill-written. It had been delivered by hand (of

course since I left home), and its contents were these:

‘If you are not afraid to come to the old marshes to-night

or tomorrow night at Nine, and to come to the little sluice-

house by the limekiln, you had better come. If you want

information regarding your uncle Provis, you had much

better come and tell no one and lose no time. You must

come alone. Bring this with you.’

I had had load enough upon my mind before the receipt

of this strange letter. What to do now, I could not tell. And

the worst was, that I must decide quickly, or I should miss

the afternoon coach, which would take me down in time for

to-night. To-morrow night I could not think of going, for it

Great Expectations

would be too close upon the time of the flight. And again,

for anything I knew, the proffered information might have

some important bearing on the flight itself.

If I had had ample time for consideration, I believe I

should still have gone. Having hardly any time for consider-

ation - my watch showing me that the coach started within

half an hour - I resolved to go. I should certainly not have

gone, but for the reference to my Uncle Provis; that, coming

on Wemmick’s letter and the morning’s busy preparation,

turned the scale.

It is so difficult to become clearly possessed of the con-

tents of almost any letter, in a violent hurry, that I had to

read this mysterious epistle again, twice, before its injunc-

tion to me to be secret got mechanically into my mind.

Yielding to it in the same mechanical kind of way, I left a

note in pencil for Herbert, telling him that as I should be

so soon going away, I knew not for how long, I had decided

to hurry down and back, to ascertain for myself how Miss

Havisham was faring. I had then barely time to get my great-

coat, lock up the chambers, and make for the coach-office

by the short by-ways. If I had taken a hackney-chariot and

gone by the streets, I should have missed my aim; going as I

did, I caught the coach just as it came out of the yard. I was

the only inside passenger, jolting away knee-deep in straw,

when I came to myself.

For, I really had not been myself since the receipt of the

letter; it had so bewildered me ensuing on the hurry of the

morning. The morning hurry and flutter had been great, for,

long and anxiously as I had waited for Wemmick, his hint

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had come like a surprise at last. And now, I began to wonder

at myself for being in the coach, and to doubt whether I had

sufficient reason for being there, and to consider whether I

should get out presently and go back, and to argue against

ever heeding an anonymous communication, and, in short,

to pass through all those phases of contradiction and in-

decision to which I suppose very few hurried people are

strangers. Still, the reference to Provis by name, mastered

everything. I reasoned as I had reasoned already without

knowing it - if that be reasoning - in case any harm should

befall him through my not going, how could I ever forgive

myself!

It was dark before we got down, and the journey seemed

long and dreary to me who could see little of it inside, and

who could not go outside in my disabled state. Avoiding the

Blue Boar, I put up at an inn of minor reputation down the

town, and ordered some dinner. While it was preparing, I

went to Satis House and inquired for Miss Havisham; she

was still very ill, though considered something better.

My inn had once been a part of an ancient ecclesiastical

house, and I dined in a little octagonal common-room, like

a font. As I was not able to cut my dinner, the old landlord

with a shining bald head did it for me. This bringing us into

conversation, he was so good as to entertain me with my

own story - of course with the popular feature that Pum-

blechook was my earliest benefactor and the founder of my

fortunes.

‘Do you know the young man?’ said I.

‘Know him!’ repeated the landlord. ‘Ever since he was -

 

Great Expectations

no height at all.’

‘Does he ever come back to this neighbourhood?’

‘Ay, he comes back,’ said the landlord, ‘to his great friends,

now and again, and gives the cold shoulder to the man that

made him.’

‘What man is that?’

‘Him that I speak of,’ said the landlord. ‘Mr. Pum-

blechook.’

‘Is he ungrateful to no one else?’

‘No doubt he would be, if he could,’ returned the land-

lord, ‘but he can’t. And why? Because Pumblechook done

everything for him.’

‘Does Pumblechook say so?’

‘Say so!’ replied the landlord. ‘He han’t no call to say so.’

‘But does he say so?’

‘It would turn a man’s blood to white wine winegar to

hear him tell of it, sir,’ said the landlord.

I thought, ‘Yet Joe, dear Joe, you never tell of it. Long-

suffering and loving Joe, you never complain. Nor you,

sweet-tempered Biddy!’

‘Your appetite’s been touched like, by your accident,’ said

the landlord, glancing at the bandaged arm under my coat.

‘Try a tenderer bit.’

‘No thank you,’ I replied, turning from the table to brood

over the fire. ‘I can eat no more. Please take it away.’

I had never been struck at so keenly, for my thankless-

ness to Joe, as through the brazen impostor Pumblechook.

The falser he, the truer Joe; the meaner he, the nobler Joe.

My heart was deeply and most deservedly humbled as I

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mused over the fire for an hour or more. The striking of the

clock aroused me, but not from my dejection or remorse,

and I got up and had my coat fastened round my neck, and

went out. I had previously sought in my pockets for the let-

ter, that I might refer to it again, but I could not find it, and

was uneasy to think that it must have been dropped in the

straw of the coach. I knew very well, however, that the ap-

pointed place was the little sluice-house by the limekiln on

the marshes, and the hour nine. Towards the marshes I now

went straight, having no time to spare.

 

Great Expectations

Chapter 53

It was a dark night, though the full moon rose as I left the

enclosed lands, and passed out upon the marshes. Be-

yond their dark line there was a ribbon of clear sky, hardly

broad enough to hold the red large moon. In a few minutes

she had ascended out of that clear field, in among the piled

mountains of cloud.

There was a melancholy wind, and the marshes were very

dismal. A stranger would have found them insupportable,

and even to me they were so oppressive that I hesitated, half

inclined to go back. But, I knew them well, and could have

found my way on a far darker night, and had no excuse for

returning, being there. So, having come there against my

inclination, I went on against it.

The direction that I took, was not that in which my old

home lay, nor that in which we had pursued the convicts.

My back was turned towards the distant Hulks as I walked

on, and, though I could see the old lights away on the spits

of sand, I saw them over my shoulder. I knew the limekiln

as well as I knew the old Battery, but they were miles apart;

so that if a light had been burning at each point that night,

there would have been a long strip of the blank horizon be-

tween the two bright specks.

At first, I had to shut some gates after me, and now and

then to stand still while the cattle that were lying in the

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banked-up pathway, arose and blundered down among the

grass and reeds. But after a little while, I seemed to have the

whole flats to myself.

It was another half-hour before I drew near to the kiln.

The lime was burning with a sluggish stifling smell, but the

fires were made up and left, and no workmen were visible.

Hard by, was a small stone-quarry. It lay directly in my way,

and had been worked that day, as I saw by the tools and bar-

rows that were lying about.

Coming up again to the marsh level out of this excava-

tion - for the rude path lay through it - I saw a light in the

old sluice-house. I quickened my pace, and knocked at the

door with my hand. Waiting for some reply, I looked about

me, noticing how the sluice was abandoned and broken,

and how the house - of wood with a tiled roof - would not

be proof against the weather much longer, if it were so even

now, and how the mud and ooze were coated with lime, and

how the choking vapour of the kiln crept in a ghostly way

towards me. Still there was no answer, and I knocked again.

No answer still, and I tried the latch.

It rose under my hand, and the door yielded. Looking

in, I saw a lighted candle on a table, a bench, and a mattress

on a truckle bedstead. As there was a loft above, I called, ‘Is

there any one here?’ but no voice answered. Then, I looked

at my watch, and, finding that it was past nine, called again,

‘Is there any one here?’ There being still no answer, I went

out at the door, irresolute what to do.

It was beginning to rain fast. Seeing nothing save what

I had seen already, I turned back into the house, and stood

 

Great Expectations

just within the shelter of the doorway, looking out into the

night. While I was considering that some one must have

been there lately and must soon be coming back, or the can-

dle would not be burning, it came into my head to look if the

wick were long. I turned round to do so, and had taken up

the candle in my hand, when it was extinguished by some

violent shock, and the next thing I comprehended, was, that

I had been caught in a strong running noose, thrown over

my head from behind.

‘Now,’ said a suppressed voice with an oath, ‘I’ve got

you!’

‘What is this?’ I cried, struggling. ‘Who is it? Help, help,

help!’

Not only were my arms pulled close to my sides, but the

pressure on my bad arm caused me exquisite pain. Some-

times, a strong man’s hand, sometimes a strong man’s

breast, was set against my mouth to deaden my cries, and

with a hot breath always close to me, I struggled ineffectu-

ally in the dark, while I was fastened tight to the wall. ‘And


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