Great Expectations
took up wi’ Compeyson.’ How old were you when you came upon him in the
little churchyard?”
“I think in my seventh year.”
“Ay. It had happened some three or four years then, he said, and you
brought into his mind the little girl so tragically lost, who would
have been about your age.”
“Herbert,” said I, after a short silence, in a hurried way, “can you
see me best by the light of the window, or the light of the fire?”
“By the firelight,” answered Herbert, coming close again.
“Look at me.”
“I do look at you, my dear boy.”
“Touch me.”
“I do touch you, my dear boy.”
“You are not afraid that I am in any fever, or that my head is much
disordered by the accident of last night?”
“N-no, my dear boy,” said Herbert, after taking time to examine me.
“You are rather excited, but you are quite yourself.”
“I know I am quite myself. And the man we have in hiding down the
river, is Estella’s Father.”
Chapter LI.
What purpose I had in view when I was hot on tracing out and proving
Estella’s parentage, I cannot say. It will presently be seen that the
question was not before me in a distinct shape until it was put before
me by a wiser head than my own.
But when Herbert and I had held our momentous conversation, I was
seized with a feverish conviction that I ought to hunt the matter
down,—that I ought not to let it rest, but that I ought to see Mr.
Jaggers, and come at the bare truth. I really do not know whether I
felt that I did this for Estella’s sake, or whether I was glad to
transfer to the man in whose preservation I was so much concerned some
rays of the romantic interest that had so long surrounded me. Perhaps
the latter possibility may be the nearer to the truth.
Any way, I could scarcely be withheld from going out to Gerrard Street
that night. Herbert’s representations that, if I did, I should probably
be laid up and stricken useless, when our fugitive’s safety would
depend upon me, alone restrained my impatience. On the understanding,
again and again reiterated, that, come what would, I was to go to Mr.
Jaggers to-morrow, I at length submitted to keep quiet, and to have my
hurts looked after, and to stay at home. Early next morning we went out
together, and at the corner of Giltspur Street by Smithfield, I left
Herbert to go his way into the City, and took my way to Little Britain.
There were periodical occasions when Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick went over
the office accounts, and checked off the vouchers, and put all things
straight. On these occasions, Wemmick took his books and papers into
Mr. Jaggers’s room, and one of the upstairs clerks came down into the
outer office. Finding such clerk on Wemmick’s post that morning, I knew
what was going on; but I was not sorry to have Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick
together, as Wemmick would then hear for himself that I said nothing to
compromise him.
My appearance, with my arm bandaged and my coat loose over my
shoulders, favoured my object. Although I had sent Mr. Jaggers a brief
account of the accident as soon as I had arrived in town, yet I had to
give him all the details now; and the speciality of the occasion caused
our talk to be less dry and hard, and less strictly regulated by the
rules of evidence, than it had been before. While I described the
disaster, Mr. Jaggers stood, according to his wont, before the fire.
Wemmick leaned back in his chair, staring at me, with his hands in the
pockets of his trousers, and his pen put horizontally into the post.
The two brutal casts, always inseparable in my mind from the official
proceedings, seemed to be congestively considering whether they didn’t
smell fire at the present moment.
My narrative finished, and their questions exhausted, I then produced
Miss Havisham’s authority to receive the nine hundred pounds for
Herbert. Mr. Jaggers’s eyes retired a little deeper into his head when
I handed him the tablets, but he presently handed them over to Wemmick,
with instructions to draw the check for his signature. While that was
in course of being done, I looked on at Wemmick as he wrote, and Mr.
Jaggers, poising and swaying himself on his well-polished boots, looked
on at me. “I am sorry, Pip,” said he, as I put the check in my pocket,
when he had signed it, “that we do nothing for _you_.”
“Miss Havisham was good enough to ask me,” I returned, “whether she
could do nothing for me, and I told her No.”
“Everybody should know his own business,” said Mr. Jaggers. And I saw
Wemmick’s lips form the words “portable property.”
“I should _not_ have told her No, if I had been you,” said Mr Jaggers;
“but every man ought to know his own business best.”
“Every man’s business,” said Wemmick, rather reproachfully towards me,
“is portable property.”
As I thought the time was now come for pursuing the theme I had at
heart, I said, turning on Mr. Jaggers:—
“I did ask something of Miss Havisham, however, sir. I asked her to
give me some information relative to her adopted daughter, and she gave
me all she possessed.”
“Did she?” said Mr. Jaggers, bending forward to look at his boots and
then straightening himself. “Hah! I don’t think I should have done so,
if I had been Miss Havisham. But _she_ ought to know her own business
best.”
“I know more of the history of Miss Havisham’s adopted child than Miss
Havisham herself does, sir. I know her mother.”
Mr. Jaggers looked at me inquiringly, and repeated “Mother?”
“I have seen her mother within these three days.”
“Yes?” said Mr. Jaggers.
“And so have you, sir. And you have seen her still more recently.”
“Yes?” said Mr. Jaggers.
“Perhaps I know more of Estella’s history than even you do,” said I. “I
know her father too.”
A certain stop that Mr. Jaggers came to in his manner—he was too
self-possessed to change his manner, but he could not help its being
brought to an indefinably attentive stop—assured me that he did not
know who her father was. This I had strongly suspected from Provis’s
account (as Herbert had repeated it) of his having kept himself dark;
which I pieced on to the fact that he himself was not Mr. Jaggers’s
client until some four years later, and when he could have no reason
for claiming his identity. But, I could not be sure of this
unconsciousness on Mr. Jaggers’s part before, though I was quite sure
of it now.
“So! You know the young lady’s father, Pip?” said Mr. Jaggers.
“Yes,” I replied, “and his name is Provis—from New South Wales.”
Even Mr. Jaggers started when I said those words. It was the slightest
start that could escape a man, the most carefully repressed and the
sooner checked, but he did start, though he made it a part of the
action of taking out his pocket-handkerchief. How Wemmick received the
announcement I am unable to say; for I was afraid to look at 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 coolly, 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 existence.”
For once, the powerful pocket-handkerchief failed. My reply was so
unexpected, that Mr. Jaggers put the handkerchief back into his pocket
without completing the usual performance, folded his arms, and looked
with stern attention 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 Wemmick 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 before him.
“Hah!” said Mr. Jaggers at last, as he moved towards the papers on the
table. “What item was it you were at, Wemmick, 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 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 concerned 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 pleasant 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
represent 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 another 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, 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 impostor 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 apparently 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 Wemmick, “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 representing to her that he must know, with an eye to
the latitude 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