Great Expectations
he habitually knew of their being imprisoned, whipped, transported,
neglected, 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, forsworn, 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,
you did such and such things to divert suspicion. 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 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 intellects, 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 another, 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 yourself very carefully.”
“I do.”
“I ask Wemmick to put it to _him_self 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? I think it would hardly serve her to establish her
parentage for the information of her husband, and to drag her back to
disgrace, after an escape of twenty years, pretty secure 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 latter 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 observed 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 never 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 habit of wiping his nose on
his sleeve, whom I had seen on the very first day of my appearance
within those walls. This individual, 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 shoplifting. As he imparted this
melancholy circumstance to Wemmick, Mr. Jaggers standing magisterially
before the fire and taking no share in the proceedings, Mike’s eye
happened to twinkle with a tear.
“What are you about?” demanded Wemmick, with the utmost 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 spluttering 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.
Chapter LII.
From Little Britain I went, with my check in my pocket, to Miss
Skiffins’s brother, the accountant; and Miss Skiffins’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 anchor 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 my own part in
those 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 happily 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 considered 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?”
“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 out of England. Any
foreign steamer 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 London 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.
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 before 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 communicated 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 letter, 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 to-morrow
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 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 consideration,—my watch showing
me that the coach started within half an hour,—I resolved to go. I