Only, that you would not confound them with the others. They may be of the same blood, but, believe me, they are not of the same nature.


What do you want for them?


I am not so cunning, you see, as that I could hide from you, even if I desired, that I do want something. Miss Havisham, if you would spare the money to do my friend Herbert a lasting service in life, but which from the nature of the case must be done without his knowledge, I could show you how.


Why must it be done without his knowledge?


Because. I began the service myself, more than two years ago, without his knowledge, and I don’t want to be betrayed. Why I fail in my ability to finish it, I cannot explain. It is a part of the secret which is another person’s and not mine.


What else?


Estella, you know I love you. You know that I have loved you long and dearly. I should have said this sooner, but for my long mistake. It induced me to hope that Miss Havisham meant us for one another. While I thought you could not help yourself, as it were, I refrained from saying it. But I must say it now. I know. I know. I have no hope that I shall ever call you mine, Estella. I am ignorant what may become of me very soon, how poor I may be, or where I may go. Still, I love you. I have loved you ever since I first saw you in this house. It would have been cruel in Miss Havisham, horribly cruel, to practise on the susceptibility of a poor boy, and to torture me through all these years with a vain hope and an idle pursuit, if she had reflected on the gravity of what she did. But I think she did not. I think that, in the endurance of her own trial, she forgot mine, Estella.


that there are sentiments, fancies,—I don’t know how to call them,—which I am not able to comprehend. When you say you love me, I know what you mean, as a form of words; but nothing more. You address nothing in my breast, you touch nothing there. I don’t care for what you say at all. I have tried to warn you of this; now, have I not?


Yes.


Yes. But you would not be warned, for you thought I did not mean it. Now, did you not think so?


I thought and hoped you could not mean it. You, so young, untried, and beautiful, Estella! Surely it is not in Nature.


It is in my nature. It is in the nature formed within me. I make a great difference between you and all other people when I say so much. I can do no more.


Is it not true, that Bentley Drummle is in town here, and pursuing you?


It is quite true. Quite true.


You cannot love him, Estella!


What have I told you? Do you still think, in spite of it, that I do not mean what I say?


You would never marry him, Estella?


Why not tell you the truth? I am going to be married to him.


Estella, dearest Estella, do not let Miss Havisham lead you into this fatal step. Put me aside for ever,—you have done so, I well know,—but bestow yourself on some worthier person than Drummle. Miss Havisham gives you to him, as the greatest slight and injury that could be done to the many far better men who admire you, and to the few who truly love you. Among those few there may be one who loves you even as dearly, though he has not loved you as long, as I. Take him, and I can bear it better, for your sake!


I am going, to be married to him. The preparations for my marriage are making, and I shall be married soon. Why do you injuriously introduce the name of my mother by adoption? It is my own act.


Your own act, Estella, to fling yourself away upon a brute?


On whom should I fling myself away? Should I fling myself away upon the man who would the soonest feel (if people do feel such things) that I took nothing to him? There! It is done. I shall do well enough, and so will my husband. As to leading me into what you call this fatal step, Miss Havisham would have had me wait, and not marry yet; but I am tired of the life I have led, which has very few charms for me, and I am willing enough to change it. Say no more. We shall never understand each other.


Such a mean brute, such a stupid brute!


Don’t be afraid of my being a blessing to him. I shall not be that. Come! Here is my hand. Do we part on this, you visionary boy—or man?


O Estella! even if I remained in England and could hold my head up with the rest, how could I see you Drummle’s wife?


Nonsense, nonsense. This will pass in no time.


Never, Estella!


You will get me out of your thoughts in a week.


Out of my thoughts! You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since,—on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made are not more real, or more impossible to be displaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation, I associate you only with the good; and I will faithfully hold you to that always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me feel now what sharp distress I may. O God bless you, God forgive you!


I was not quite sure, sir, but I thought so. Here’s a note, sir. The messenger that brought it, said would you be so good as read it by my lantern?


PLEASE READ THIS, HERE.


DON’T GO HOME.


Halloa, Mr. Pip! You did come home, then?


Yes, but I didn’t go home.


That’s all right. I left a note for you at each of the Temple gates, on the chance. Which gate did you come to? I’ll go round to the others in the course of the day and destroy the notes, it’s a good rule never to leave documentary evidence if you can help it, because you don’t know when it may be put in. I’m going to take a liberty with you. Would you mind toasting this sausage for the Aged P.?


I said I should be delighted to do it.


Then you can go about your work, Mary Anne, which leaves us to ourselves, don’t you see, Mr. Pip? Now, Mr. Pip, you know, you and I understand one another. We are in our private and personal capacities, and we have been engaged in a confidential transaction before to-day. Official sentiments are one thing. We are extra official. I accidentally heard, yesterday morning, being in a certain place where I once took you,—even between you and me, it’s as well not to mention names when avoidable—


Much better not. I understand you.


I heard there by chance, yesterday morning, that a certain person not altogether of uncolonial pursuits, and not unpossessed of portable property,—I don’t know who it may really be,—we won’t name this person—


Not necessary,


—Had made some little stir in a certain part of the world where a good many people go, not always in gratification of their own inclinations, and not quite irrespective of the government expense— —By disappearing from such place, and being no more heard of thereabouts. From which, conjectures had been raised and theories formed. I also heard that you at your chambers in Garden Court, Temple, had been watched, and might be watched again.


By whom?


I wouldn’t go into that, it might clash with official responsibilities. I heard it, as I have in my time heard other curious things in the same place. I don’t tell it you on information received. I heard it. All right, ain’t you, Aged P.?


All right, John, my boy, all right!


This watching of me at my chambers (which I have once had reason to suspect), is inseparable from the person to whom you have adverted; is it?


I couldn’t undertake to say that, of my own knowledge. I mean, I couldn’t undertake to say it was at first. But it either is, or it will be, or it’s in great danger of being.


You have heard of a man of bad character, whose true name is Compeyson?


And him you found?


Not personally,


Well, sir! Mr. Herbert threw himself into the business with a will, and by nine o’clock last night he housed Tom, Jack, or Richard,—whichever it may be,—you and I don’t want to know,—quite successfully.


Time’s up, and I must be off. If you had nothing more pressing to do than to keep here till dark, that’s what I should advise. You look very much worried, and it would do you good to have a perfectly quiet day with the Aged,—he’ll be up presently,—and a little bit of—you remember the pig?


Of course,


Well; and a little bit of him. That sausage you toasted was his, and he was in all respects a first-rater. Do try him, if it is only for old acquaintance sake. Good-bye, Aged Parent!


All right, John; all right, my boy!


All is well, Handel, and he is quite satisfied, though eager to see you. My dear girl is with her father; and if you’ll wait till she comes down, I’ll make you known to her, and then we’ll go upstairs. That’s her father. I am afraid he is a sad old rascal, but I have never seen him. Don’t you smell rum? He is always at it.


At rum?


Yes, and you may suppose how mild it makes his gout. He persists, too, in keeping all the provisions upstairs in his room, and serving them out. He keeps them on shelves over his head, and will weigh them all. His room must be like a chandler’s shop. What else can be the consequence, if he will cut the cheese? A man with the gout in his right hand—and everywhere else—can’t expect to get through a Double Gloucester without hurting himself. To have Provis for an upper lodger is quite a godsend to Mrs. Whimple, for of course people in general won’t stand that noise. A curious place, Handel; isn’t it? Mrs. Whimple, is the best of housewives, and I really do not know what my Clara would do without her motherly help. For, Clara has no mother of her own, Handel, and no relation in the world but old Gruffandgrim.


Surely that’s not his name, Herbert?


No, no, that’s my name for him. His name is Mr. Barley. But what a blessing it is for the son of my father and mother to love a girl who has no relations, and who can never bother herself or anybody else about her family!


Look here, here’s poor Clara’s supper, served out every night. Here’s her allowance of bread, and here’s her slice of cheese, and here’s her rum,—which I drink. This is Mr. Barley’s breakfast for to-morrow, served out to be cooked. Two mutton-chops, three potatoes, some split peas, a little flour, two ounces of butter, a pinch of salt, and all this black pepper. It’s stewed up together, and taken hot, and it’s a nice thing for the gout, I should think!


Papa wants me, darling!


There is an unconscionable old shark for you! What do you suppose he wants now, Handel?


I don’t know. Something to drink?


That’s it! He keeps his grog ready mixed in a little tub on the table. Wait a moment, and you’ll hear Clara lift him up to take some. There he goes! Now, he’s drinking. Now, he’s down again on his back!


Ahoy! Bless your eyes, here’s old Bill Barley. Here’s old Bill Barley, bless your eyes. Here’s old Bill Barley on the flat of his back, by the Lord. Lying on the flat of his back like a drifting old dead flounder, here’s your old Bill Barley, bless your eyes. Ahoy! Bless you.


Ay, ay, dear boy! Jaggers knows.


Then, I have talked with Wemmick, and have come to tell you what caution he gave me and what advice.


We are both good watermen, Handel, and could take him down the river ourselves when the right time comes. No boat would then be hired for the purpose, and no boatmen; that would save at least a chance of suspicion, and any chance is worth saving. Never mind the season; don’t you think it might be a good thing if you began at once to keep a boat at the Temple stairs, and were in the habit of rowing up and down the river? You fall into that habit, and then who notices or minds? Do it twenty or fifty times, and there is nothing special in your doing it the twenty-first or fifty-first.


I don’t like to leave you here, though I cannot doubt your being safer here than near me. Good-bye!


Dear boy. I don’t know when we may meet again, and I don’t like good-bye. Say good-night!


Good-night! Herbert will go regularly between us, and when the time comes you may be certain I shall be ready. Good-night, good-night!


How do you do? I saw that you saw me.


Saw you, Mr. Pip! Yes, of course I saw you. But who else was there?


Who else?


It is the strangest thing, and yet I could swear to him. Whether I should have noticed him at first but for your being there. I can’t be positive; yet I think I should. Oh! He can’t be in sight. He went out before I went off. I saw him go. I had a ridiculous fancy that he must be with you, Mr. Pip, till I saw that you were quite unconscious of him, sitting behind you there like a ghost. I dare say you wonder at me, Mr. Pip; indeed, I see you do. But it is so very strange! You’ll hardly believe what I am going to tell you. I could hardly believe it myself, if you told me.


Indeed?


No, indeed. Mr. Pip, you remember in old times a certain Christmas Day, when you were quite a child, and I dined at Gargery’s, and some soldiers came to the door to get a pair of handcuffs mended?


I remember it very well.


And you remember that there was a chase after two convicts, and that we joined in it, and that Gargery took you on his back, and that I took the lead, and you kept up with me as well as you could?


I remember it all very well.


And you remember that we came up with the two in a ditch, and that there was a scuffle between them, and that one of them had been severely handled and much mauled about the face by the other?


I see it all before me.


And that the soldiers lighted torches, and put the two in the centre, and that we went on to see the last of them, over the black marshes, with the torchlight shining on their faces,—I am particular about that,—with the torchlight shining on their faces, when there was an outer ring of dark night all about us?


Yes. I remember all that.


Then, Mr. Pip, one of those two prisoners sat behind you tonight. I saw him over your shoulder.


Which of the two do you suppose you saw?


The one who had been mauled, and I’ll swear I saw him! The more I think of him, the more certain I am of him.


This is very curious! Very curious indeed!


As we are going in the same direction, Pip, we may walk together. Where are you bound for?


For the Temple, I think,


Don’t you know?


Well. I do not know, for I have not made up my mind.


You are going to dine? You don’t mind admitting that, I suppose?


No. I don’t mind admitting that.


And are not engaged?


I don’t mind admitting also that I am not engaged.


Then, come and dine with me. Wemmick’s coming.


Did you send that note of Miss Havisham’s to Mr. Pip, Wemmick?


No, sir, it was going by post, when you brought Mr. Pip into the office. Here it is.


It’s a note of two lines, Pip, sent up to me by Miss Havisham on account of her not being sure of your address. She tells me that she wants to see you on a little matter of business you mentioned to her. You’ll go down?


Yes,


When do you think of going down?


I have an impending engagement, that renders me rather uncertain of my time. At once, I think.


If Mr. Pip has the intention of going at once, he needn’t write an answer, you know.


So, Pip! Our friend the Spider, has played his cards. He has won the pool. Hah! He is a promising fellow—in his way—but he may not have it all his own way. The stronger will win in the end, but the stronger has to be found out first. If he should turn to, and beat her—


Surely, you do not seriously think that he is scoundrel enough for that, Mr. Jaggers?


I didn’t say so, Pip. I am putting a case. If he should turn to and beat her, he may possibly get the strength on his side; if it should be a question of intellect, he certainly will not. It would be chance work to give an opinion how a fellow of that sort will turn out in such circumstances, because it’s a toss-up between two results.


May I ask what they are?


A fellow like our friend the Spider, either beats or cringes. He may cringe and growl, or cringe and not growl; but he either beats or cringes. Ask Wemmick his opinion.


Either beats or cringes,


So here’s to Mrs. Bentley Drummle, and may the question of supremacy be settled to the lady’s satisfaction! To the satisfaction of the lady and the gentleman, it never will be. Now, Molly, Molly, Molly, Molly, how slow you are to-day! What’s the matter?


Nothing. Only the subject we were speaking of, was rather painful to me.


Well! that’s over! He’s a wonderful man, without his living likeness; but I feel that I have to screw myself up when I dine with him,—and I dine more comfortably unscrewed. Wouldn’t say it to anybody but yourself. I know that what is said between you and me goes no further.


Wemmick, do you remember telling me, before I first went to Mr. Jaggers’s private house, to notice that housekeeper?


Did I? Ah, I dare say I did. Deuce take me. I know I did. I find I am not quite unscrewed yet.


A wild beast tamed, you called her.


And what do you call her?


The same. How did Mr. Jaggers tame her, Wemmick?


That’s his secret. She has been with him many a long year.


I wish you would tell me her story. I feel a particular interest in being acquainted with it. You know that what is said between you and me goes no further.


Well! I don’t know her story,—that is, I don’t know all of it. But what I do know I’ll tell you. We are in our private and personal capacities, of course.


Of course.


A score or so of years ago, that woman was tried at the Old Bailey for murder, and was acquitted. She was a very handsome young woman, and I believe had some gypsy blood in her. Anyhow, it was hot enough when it was up, as you may suppose.


But she was acquitted.


Mr. Jaggers was for her, and worked the case in a way quite astonishing. It was a desperate case, and it was comparatively early days with him then, and he worked it to general admiration; in fact, it may almost be said to have made him. He worked it himself at the police-office, day after day for many days, contending against even a committal; and at the trial where he couldn’t work it himself, sat under counsel, and—every one knew—put in all the salt and pepper. The murdered person was a woman,—a woman a good ten years older, very much larger, and very much stronger. It was a case of jealousy. They both led tramping lives, and this woman in Gerrard Street here had been married very young, over the broomstick (as we say), to a tramping man, and was a perfect fury in point of jealousy. The murdered woman,—more a match for the man, certainly, in point of years—was found dead in a barn near Hounslow Heath. There had been a violent struggle, perhaps a fight. She was bruised and scratched and torn, and had been held by the throat, at last, and choked. Now, there was no reasonable evidence to implicate any person but this woman, and on the improbabilities of her having been able to do it Mr. Jaggers principally rested his case. You may be sure, that he never dwelt upon the strength of her hands then, though he sometimes does now. Well, sir!


To sum up, sir. Mr. Jaggers was altogether too many for the jury, and they gave in.


Has she been in his service ever since?


Yes; but not only that, she went into his service immediately after her acquittal, tamed as she is now. She has since been taught one thing and another in the way of her duties, but she was tamed from the beginning.


Do you remember the sex of the child?


Said to have been a girl.


You have nothing more to say to me to-night?


Nothing. I got your letter and destroyed it. Nothing.


Is it real?


It is I, Pip. Mr. Jaggers gave me your note yesterday, and I have lost no time.


Thank you. Thank you. I want to pursue that subject you mentioned to me when you were last here, and to show you that I am not all stone. But perhaps you can never believe, now, that there is anything human in my heart?


Do you break off, because you hate me too much to bear to speak to me?


No, no, how can you think so, Miss Havisham! I stopped because I thought you were not following what I said.


Perhaps I was not. Begin again, and let me look at something else. Stay! Now tell me. So! And how much money is wanting to complete the purchase?


Nine hundred pounds.


If I give you the money for this purpose, will you keep my secret as you have kept your own?


Quite as faithfully.


And your mind will be more at rest?


Much more at rest.


Are you very unhappy now?


I am far from happy, Miss Havisham; but I have other causes of disquiet than any you know of. They are the secrets I have mentioned.


It is noble in you to tell me that you have other causes of unhappiness. Is it true?


Too true.


Can I only serve you, Pip, by serving your friend? Regarding that as done, is there nothing I can do for you yourself?


Nothing. I thank you for the question. I thank you even more for the tone of the question. But there is nothing. You are still on friendly terms with Mr. Jaggers?


Quite. I dined with him yesterday. This is an authority to him to pay you that money, to lay out at your irresponsible discretion for your friend. I keep no money here; but if you would rather Mr. Jaggers knew nothing of the matter, I will send it to you.


Thank you, Miss Havisham; I have not the least objection to receiving it from him.


My name is on the first leaf. If you can ever write under my name, “I forgive her,” though ever so long after my broken heart is dust pray do it!


O Miss Havisham. I can do it now. There have been sore mistakes; and my life has been a blind and thankless one; and I want forgiveness and direction far too much, to be bitter with you.


O! What have I done! What have I done! What have I done!


If you mean, Miss Havisham, what have you done to injure me, let me answer. Very little. I should have loved her under any circumstances. Is she married?


Yes. What have I done! What have I done! What have I done!


Until you spoke to her the other day, and until I saw in you a looking-glass that showed me what I once felt myself, I did not know what I had done. What have I done! What have I done!


Miss Havisham, you may dismiss me from your mind and conscience. But Estella is a different case, and if you can ever undo any scrap of what you have done amiss in keeping a part of her right nature away from her, it will be better to do that than to bemoan the past through a hundred years.


Yes, yes, I know it. But, Pip—my dear! My dear! Believe this: when she first came to me, I meant to save her from misery like my own. At first, I meant no more.


Well, well! I hope so.


But as she grew, and promised to be very beautiful, I gradually did worse, and with my praises, and with my jewels, and with my teachings, and with this figure of myself always before her, a warning to back and point my lessons, I stole her heart away, and put ice in its place.


Better, to have left her a natural heart, even to be bruised or broken.


If you knew all my story, you would have some compassion for me and a better understanding of me.


Miss Havisham. I believe I may say that I do know your story, and have known it ever since I first left this neighbourhood. It has inspired me with great commiseration, and I hope I understand it and its influences. Does what has passed between us give me any excuse for asking you a question relative to Estella? Not as she is, but as she was when she first came here?


Go on.


Whose child was Estella?


You don’t know?


But Mr. Jaggers brought her here, or sent her here?


Brought her here.


Will you tell me how that came about?


I had been shut up in these rooms a long time (I don’t know how long; you know what time the clocks keep here), when I told him that I wanted a little girl to rear and love, and save from my fate. I had first seen him when I sent for him to lay this place waste for me; having read of him in the newspapers, before I and the world parted. He told me that he would look about him for such an orphan child. One night he brought her here asleep, and I called her Estella.


Might I ask her age then?


Two or three. She herself knows nothing, but that she was left an orphan and I adopted her.


What have I done! When she first came, I meant to save her from misery like mine. Take the pencil and write under my name, ‘I forgive her!’


Take the pencil and write under my name, ‘I forgive her.’


I sat with Provis last night, Handel, two good hours.


Where was Clara?


Dear little thing! She was up and down with Gruffandgrim all the evening. He was perpetually pegging at the floor the moment she left his sight. I doubt if he can hold out long, though. What with rum and pepper,—and pepper and rum,—I should think his pegging must be nearly over.


And then you will be married, Herbert?


How can I take care of the dear child otherwise?—Lay your arm out upon the back of the sofa, my dear boy, and I’ll sit down here, and get the bandage off so gradually that you shall not know when it comes. I was speaking of Provis. Do you know, Handel, he improves?


I said to you I thought he was softened when I last saw him.


So you did. And so he is. He was very communicative last night, and told me more of his life. You remember his breaking off here about some woman that he had had great trouble with.—Did I hurt you?


I had forgotten that, Herbert, but I remember it now you speak of it.


Well! He went into that part of his life, and a dark wild part it is. Shall I tell you? Or would it worry you just now? Tell me by all means. Every word. Your head is cool?


Quite. Tell me what Provis said, my dear Herbert.


It seems, —there’s a bandage off most charmingly, and now comes the cool one,—makes you shrink at first, my poor dear fellow, don’t it? but it will be comfortable presently,—it seems that the woman was a young woman, and a jealous woman, and a revengeful woman; revengeful, Handel, to the last degree.


To what last degree?


Murder.—Does it strike too cold on that sensitive place?


I don’t feel it. How did she murder? Whom did she murder?


Why, the deed may not have merited quite so terrible a name, but, she was tried for it, and Mr. Jaggers defended her, and the reputation of that defence first made his name known to Provis. It was another and a stronger woman who was the victim, and there had been a struggle—in a barn. Who began it, or how fair it was, or how unfair, may be doubtful; but how it ended is certainly not doubtful, for the victim was found throttled.


Was the woman brought in guilty?


No; she was acquitted.—My poor Handel, I hurt you!


It is impossible to be gentler, Herbert. Yes? What else?


This acquitted young woman and Provis had a little child; a little child of whom Provis was exceedingly fond. On the evening of the very night when the object of her jealousy was strangled as I tell you, the young woman presented herself before Provis for one moment, and swore that she would destroy the child (which was in her possession), and he should never see it again; then she vanished. There’s the worst arm comfortably in the sling once more, and now there remains but the right hand, which is a far easier job. I can do it better by this light than by a stronger, for my hand is steadiest when I don’t see the poor blistered patches too distinctly. You don’t think your breathing is affected, my dear boy? You seem to breathe quickly.


Perhaps I do, Herbert. Did the woman keep her oath?


There comes the darkest part of Provis’s life. She did.


That is, he says she did.


Why, of course, my dear boy. He says it all. I have no other information.


No, to be sure.


Now, whether, he had used the child’s mother ill, or whether he had used the child’s mother well, Provis doesn’t say; but she had shared some four or five years of the wretched life he described to us at this fireside, and he seems to have felt pity for her, and forbearance towards her. Therefore, fearing he should be called upon to depose about this destroyed child, and so be the cause of her death, he hid himself (much as he grieved for the child), kept himself dark, as he says, out of the way and out of the trial, and was only vaguely talked of as a certain man called Abel, out of whom the jealousy arose. After the acquittal she disappeared, and thus he lost the child and the child’s mother.


I want to ask—


A moment, my dear boy, and I have done. That evil genius, Compeyson, the worst of scoundrels among many scoundrels, knowing of his keeping out of the way at that time and of his reasons for doing so, of course afterwards held the knowledge over his head as a means of keeping him poorer and working him harder. It was clear last night that this barbed the point of Provis’s animosity.


I want to know, and particularly, Herbert, whether he told you when this happened?


Particularly? Let me remember, then, what he said as to that. His expression was, ‘a round score o’ year ago, and a’most directly after I 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, can you see me best by the light of the window, or the light of the fire?


By the firelight,


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. You are rather excited, but you are quite yourself.


I am sorry, Pip, that we do nothing for you. Miss Havisham was good enough to ask me, whether she could do nothing for me, and I told her No.


Everybody should know his own business. I should not have told her No, if I had been you, but every man ought to know his own business best.


Every man’s business,


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? 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.


Mother? Yes?


And so have you, sir. And you have seen her still more recently.


Yes?


Perhaps I know more of Estella’s history than even you do. I know her father too.


So! You know the young lady’s father, Pip?


Yes, and his name is Provis—from New South Wales.


And on what evidence, Pip, does Provis make this claim?


He does not make it, and has never made it, and has no knowledge or belief that his daughter is in existence.


What item was it you were at, Wemmick, when Mr. Pip came in?


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!


What’s all this? You with an old father, and you with pleasant and playful ways?


If I don’t bring ’em here, what does it matter?


Pip, this man must be the most cunning impostor in all London.


Not a bit of it. I think you’re another.


You with a pleasant home?


Since it don’t interfere with business, 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.


Pip, 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. Now, Pip, 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 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.


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.


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 himself very carefully.


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. Now, Wemmick, what item was it you were at when Mr. Pip came in?


What are you about? What do you come snivelling here for?


I didn’t go to do it, Mr. Wemmick.


You did. 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,


His what? Say that again!


Now look here my man. Get out of this office. I’ll have no feelings here. Get out.


It serves you right. Get out.


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.


I have thought it over again and again, 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?


I have seen Startop, and he was more than ready to join.


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.


Do you know the young man?


Know him! Ever since he was—no height at all.


Does he ever come back to this neighbourhood?


Ay, he comes back, 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. Mr. Pumblechook.


Is he ungrateful to no one else?


No doubt he would be, if he could, but he can’t. And why? Because Pumblechook done everything for him.


Does Pumblechook say so?


Say so! 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. Your appetite’s been touched like by your accident. Try a tenderer bit.


No, thank you. I can eat no more. Please take it away.


Is there any one here? Is there any one here?


Now,


I’ve got you!


What is this? Who is it? Help, help, help!


And now,


call out again, and I’ll make short work of you!


Now. I’ve got you.


Unbind me. Let me go!


Ah! I’ll let you go. I’ll let you go to the moon, I’ll let you go to the stars. All in good time.


Why have you lured me here?


Don’t you know?


Why have you set upon me in the dark?


Because I mean to do it all myself. One keeps a secret better than two. O you enemy, you enemy! Do you know this? Do you know where you saw it afore? Speak, wolf!


Yes,


You cost me that place. You did. Speak!


What else could I do?


You did that, and that would be enough, without more. How dared you to come betwixt me and a young woman I liked?


When did I?


When didn’t you? It was you as always give Old Orlick a bad name to her.


You gave it to yourself; you gained it for yourself. I could have done you no harm, if you had done yourself none.


You’re a liar. And you’ll take any pains, and spend any money, to drive me out of this country, will you? Now, I’ll tell you a piece of information. It was never so well worth your while to get me out of this country as it is to-night. Ah! If it was all your money twenty times told, to the last brass farden!


What are you going to do to me?


I’m a-going. I’m a-going to have your life! You was always in Old Orlick’s way since ever you was a child. You goes out of his way this present night. He’ll have no more on you. You’re dead. More than that. I won’t have a rag of you, I won’t have a bone of you, left on earth. I’ll put your body in the kiln,—I’d carry two such to it, on my shoulders—and, let people suppose what they may of you, they shall never know nothing.


Now, wolf, afore I kill you like any other beast,—which is wot I mean to do and wot I have tied you up for,—I’ll have a good look at you and a good goad at you. O you enemy!


Wolf! Old Orlick’s a-going to tell you somethink. It was you as did for your shrew sister.


It was you, villain,


I tell you it was your doing,—I tell you it was done through you. I come upon her from behind, as I come upon you to-night. I giv’ it her! I left her for dead, and if there had been a limekiln as nigh her as there is now nigh you, she shouldn’t have come to life again. But it warn’t Old Orlick as did it; it was you. You was favoured, and he was bullied and beat. Old Orlick bullied and beat, eh? Now you pays for it. You done it; now you pays for it.


Wolf, I’ll tell you something more. It was Old Orlick as you tumbled over on your stairs that night. And why was Old Orlick there? I’ll tell you something more, wolf. You and her have pretty well hunted me out of this country, so far as getting a easy living in it goes, and I’ve took up with new companions, and new masters. Some of ’em writes my letters when I wants ’em wrote,—do you mind?—writes my letters, wolf! They writes fifty hands; they’re not like sneaking you, as writes but one. I’ve had a firm mind and a firm will to have your life, since you was down here at your sister’s burying. I han’t seen a way to get you safe, and I’ve looked arter you to know your ins and outs. For, says Old Orlick to himself, ‘Somehow or another I’ll have him!’ What! When I looks for you, I finds your uncle Provis, eh? You and her have pretty well hunted me out of this country, so far as getting a easy living in it goes, and I’ve took up with new companions, and new masters. Some of ’em writes my letters when I wants ’em wrote,—do you mind?—writes my letters, wolf! They writes fifty hands; they’re not like sneaking you, as writes but one. I’ve had a firm mind and a firm will to have your life, since you was down here at your sister’s burying. I han’t seen a way to get you safe, and I’ve looked arter you to know your ins and outs. For, says Old Orlick to himself, ‘Somehow or another I’ll have him!’ What! When I looks for you, I finds your uncle Provis, eh? You with a uncle too! Why, I know’d you at Gargery’s when you was so small a wolf that I could have took your weazen betwixt this finger and thumb and chucked you away dead (as I’d thoughts o’ doing, odd times, when I see you loitering amongst the pollards on a Sunday), and you hadn’t found no uncles then. No, not you! But when Old Orlick come for to hear that your uncle Provis had most like wore the leg-iron wot Old Orlick had picked up, filed asunder, on these meshes ever so many year ago, and wot he kep by him till he dropped your sister with it, like a bullock, as he means to drop you—hey?—when he come for to hear that—hey? Ah! the burnt child dreads the fire! Old Orlick knowed you was burnt, Old Orlick knowed you was smuggling your uncle Provis away, Old Orlick’s a match for you and know’d you’d come to-night! Now I’ll tell you something more, wolf, and this ends it. There’s them that’s as good a match for your uncle Provis as Old Orlick has been for you. Let him ’ware them, when he’s lost his nevvy! Let him ’ware them, when no man can’t find a rag of his dear relation’s clothes, nor yet a bone of his body. There’s them that can’t and that won’t have Magwitch,—yes, I know the name!—alive in the same land with them, and that’s had such sure information of him when he was alive in another land, as that he couldn’t and shouldn’t leave it unbeknown and put them in danger. P’raps it’s them that writes fifty hands, and that’s not like sneaking you as writes but one. ’Ware Compeyson, Magwitch, and the gallows!


I think he’s all right! but ain’t he just pale though!


Herbert! Great Heaven!


Softly. Gently, Handel. Don’t be too eager.


And our old comrade, Startop!


Remember what he is going to assist us in, and be calm.


The time has not gone by, Herbert, has it? What night is to-night? How long have I been here?


The time has not gone by. It is still Monday night.


Thank God!


And you have all to-morrow, Tuesday, to rest in. But you can’t help groaning, my dear Handel. What hurt have you got? Can you stand?


Yes, yes. I can walk. I have no hurt but in this throbbing arm.


Now it has come, and I am turning delirious!


When it turns at nine o’clock, look out for us, and stand ready, you over there at Mill Pond Bank!


Is he there?


Not yet.


Right! He was not to come down till he saw us. Can you see his signal?


Not well from here; but I think I see it.—Now I see him! Pull both. Easy, Herbert. Oars!


Dear boy! Faithful dear boy, well done. Thankye, thankye!


If you knowed, dear boy, what it is to sit here alonger my dear boy and have my smoke, arter having been day by day betwixt four walls, you’d envy me. But you don’t know what it is.


I think I know the delights of freedom,


Ah. But you don’t know it equal to me. You must have been under lock and key, dear boy, to know it equal to me,—but I ain’t a-going to be low. You see, dear boy, when I was over yonder, t’other side the world, I was always a looking to this side; and it come flat to be there, for all I was a growing rich. Everybody knowed Magwitch, and Magwitch could come, and Magwitch could go, and nobody’s head would be troubled about him. They ain’t so easy concerning me here, dear boy,—wouldn’t be, leastwise, if they knowed where I was.


If all goes well, you will be perfectly free and safe again within a few hours.


Well. I hope so.


And think so?


Ay, I s’pose I think so, dear boy. We’d be puzzled to be more quiet and easy-going than we are at present. But—it’s a flowing so soft and pleasant through the water, p’raps, as makes me think it—I was a thinking through my smoke just then, that we can no more see to the bottom of the next few hours than we can see to the bottom of this river what I catches hold of. Nor yet we can’t no more hold their tide than I can hold this. And it’s run through my fingers and gone, you see!


But for your face I should think you were a little despondent,


Not a bit on it, dear boy! It comes of flowing on so quiet, and of that there rippling at the boat’s head making a sort of a Sunday tune. Maybe I’m a growing a trifle old besides. Do you, dear boy?


What was that ripple?


Is that a boat yonder?


such as they were,


took up too. They must ha’ thought better on’t for some reason or another, and gone down.


A four-oared galley, did you say?


A four, and two sitters.


Did they come ashore here?


They put in with a stone two-gallon jar for some beer. I’d ha’ been glad to pison the beer myself, or put some rattling physic in it.


Why?


I know why,


He thinks, he thinks they was, what they wasn’t.


I knows what I thinks,


You thinks Custom ’Us, Jack?


I do,


Then you’re wrong, Jack.


AM I!


Why, what do you make out that they done with their buttons then, Jack?


Done with their buttons? Chucked ’em overboard. Swallered ’em. Sowed ’em, to come up small salad. Done with their buttons!


Don’t be cheeky, Jack,


A Custom ’Us officer knows what to do with his Buttons, when they comes betwixt him and his own light. A four and two sitters don’t go hanging and hovering, up with one tide and down with another, and both with and against another, without there being Custom ’Us at the bottom of it.


Trust to me, dear boy,


Hamburg,


You have a returned Transport there. That’s the man, wrapped in the cloak. His name is Abel Magwitch, otherwise Provis. I apprehend that man, and call upon him to surrender, and you to assist.


Dear boy. I’m quite content to take my chance. I’ve seen my boy, and he can be a gentleman without me. Lookee here, dear boy. It’s best as a gentleman should not be knowed to belong to me now. Only come to see me as if you come by chance alonger Wemmick. Sit where I can see you when I am swore to, for the last o’ many times, and I don’t ask no more.


I will never stir from your side, when I am suffered to be near you. Please God, I will be as true to you as you have been to me!


My dear Handel, I fear I shall soon have to leave you. We shall lose a fine opportunity if I put off going to Cairo, and I am very much afraid I must go, Handel, when you most need me.


Herbert, I shall always need you, because I shall always love you; but my need is no greater now than at another time.


You will be so lonely.


I have not leisure to think of that. You know that I am always with him to the full extent of the time allowed, and that I should be with him all day long, if I could. And when I come away from him, you know that my thoughts are with him.


My dear fellow, let the near prospect of our separation—for, it is very near—be my justification for troubling you about yourself. Have you thought of your future?


No, for I have been afraid to think of any future.


But yours cannot be dismissed; indeed, my dear dear Handel, it must not be dismissed. I wish you would enter on it now, as far as a few friendly words go, with me.


I will,


In this branch house of ours, Handel, we must have a—


A clerk.


A clerk. And I hope it is not at all unlikely that he may expand (as a clerk of your acquaintance has expanded) into a partner. Now, Handel,—in short, my dear boy, will you come to me? Clara and I have talked about it again and again, and the dear little thing begged me only this evening, with tears in her eyes, to say to you that, if you will live with us when we come together, she will do her best to make you happy, and to convince her husband’s friend that he is her friend too. We should get on so well, Handel!


But if you thought, Herbert, that you could, without doing any injury to your business, leave the question open for a little while—


For any while. Six months, a year!


Not so long as that. Two or three months at most. And Clara?


The dear little thing, holds dutifully to her father as long as he lasts; but he won’t last long. Mrs. Whimple confides to me that he is certainly going.


Not to say an unfeeling thing, he cannot do better than go.


I am afraid that must be admitted, and then I shall come back for the dear little thing, and the dear little thing and I will walk quietly into the nearest church. Remember! The blessed darling comes of no family, my dear Handel, and never looked into the red book, and hasn’t a notion about her grandpapa. What a fortune for the son of my mother!


The late Compeyson, had by little and little got at the bottom of half of the regular business now transacted; and it was from the talk of some of his people in trouble (some of his people being always in trouble) that I heard what I did. I kept my ears open, seeming to have them shut, until I heard that he was absent, and I thought that would be the best time for making the attempt. I can only suppose now, that it was a part of his policy, as a very clever man, habitually to deceive his own instruments. You don’t blame me, I hope, Mr. Pip? I am sure I tried to serve you, with all my heart.


I am as sure of that, Wemmick, as you can be, and I thank you most earnestly for all your interest and friendship.


Thank you, thank you very much. It’s a bad job, and I assure you I haven’t been so cut up for a long time. What I look at is the sacrifice of so much portable property. Dear me!


What I think of, Wemmick, is the poor owner of the property.


Yes, to be sure. Of course, there can be no objection to your being sorry for him, and I’d put down a five-pound note myself to get him out of it. But what I look at is this. The late Compeyson having been beforehand with him in intelligence of his return, and being so determined to bring him to book, I do not think he could have been saved. Whereas, the portable property certainly could have been saved. That’s the difference between the property and the owner, don’t you see? What do you think of my meaning to take a holiday on Monday, Mr. Pip?


Why, I suppose you have not done such a thing these twelve months.


These twelve years, more likely. Yes. I’m going to take a holiday. More than that; I’m going to take a walk. More than that; I’m going to ask you to take a walk with me. I know your engagements, and I know you are out of sorts, Mr. Pip. But if you could oblige me, I should take it as a kindness. It ain’t a long walk, and it’s an early one. Say it might occupy you (including breakfast on the walk) from eight to twelve. Couldn’t you stretch a point and manage it?


I could manage it,—would manage it,—


Why, we are not going fishing!


No, but I like to walk with one. Halloa! Here’s a church! Let’s go in! Halloa! Here’s a couple of pair of gloves! Let’s put ’em on! Halloa! Here’s Miss Skiffins! Let’s have a wedding.


Halloa! Here’s a ring!


Who giveth this woman to be married to this man? WHO giveth this woman to be married to this man?


Now Aged P. you know; who giveth?


All right, John, all right, my boy!


Now, Mr. Pip, let me ask you whether anybody would suppose this to be a wedding-party!


Provided by contract, you know; don’t be afraid of it! Thankee! She’s such a manager of fowls, you have no idea. You shall have some eggs, and judge for yourself. I say, Mr. Pip! This is altogether a Walworth sentiment, please.


I understand. Not to be mentioned in Little Britain,


After what you let out the other day, Mr. Jaggers may as well not know of it. He might think my brain was softening, or something of the kind.


My Lord, I have received my sentence of Death from the Almighty, but I bow to yours,


Dear boy. I thought you was late. But I knowed you couldn’t be that.


It is just the time. I waited for it at the gate.


You always waits at the gate; don’t you, dear boy?


Yes. Not to lose a moment of the time.


Thank’ee dear boy, thank’ee. God bless you! You’ve never deserted me, dear boy. And what’s the best of all, you’ve been more comfortable alonger me, since I was under a dark cloud, than when the sun shone. That’s best of all.


Are you in much pain to-day?


I don’t complain of none, dear boy.


You never do complain.


You needn’t go yet.


Might I speak to him, if he can hear me? Dear Magwitch, I must tell you now, at last. You understand what I say? You had a child once, whom you loved and lost. She lived, and found powerful friends. She is living now. She is a lady and very beautiful. And I love her!


O Lord, be merciful to him a sinner!


What do you want? I don’t know you.


Well, sir, this is a matter that you’ll soon arrange, I dare say, but you’re arrested.


What is the debt?


Hundred and twenty-three pound, fifteen, six. Jeweller’s account, I think.


What is to be done?


You had better come to my house. I keep a very nice house.


You see my state. I would come with you if I could; but indeed I am quite unable. If you take me from here, I think I shall die by the way.


Is it Joe?


Which it air, old chap.


O Joe, you break my heart! Look angry at me, Joe. Strike me, Joe. Tell me of my ingratitude. Don’t be so good to me!


Which dear old Pip, old chap, you and me was ever friends. And when you’re well enough to go out for a ride—what larks!


O God bless him! O God bless this gentle Christian man! How long, dear Joe?


Which you meantersay, Pip, how long have your illness lasted, dear old chap?


Yes, Joe.


It’s the end of May, Pip. To-morrow is the first of June.


And have you been here all that time, dear Joe?


Pretty nigh, old chap. For, as I says to Biddy when the news of your being ill were brought by letter, which it were brought by the post, and being formerly single he is now married though underpaid for a deal of walking and shoe-leather, but wealth were not a object on his part, and marriage were the great wish of his hart—


It is so delightful to hear you, Joe! But I interrupt you in what you said to Biddy.


Which it were, that how you might be amongst strangers, and that how you and me having been ever friends, a wisit at such a moment might not prove unacceptabobble. And Biddy, her word were, ‘Go to him, without loss of time.’ That, were the word of Biddy. ‘Go to him,’ Biddy say, ‘without loss of time.’ In short, I shouldn’t greatly deceive you, if I represented to you that the word of that young woman were, ‘without a minute’s loss of time.’


Is she dead, Joe?


Why you see, old chap. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, for that’s a deal to say; but she ain’t—


Living, Joe?


That’s nigher where it is, she ain’t living.


Did she linger long, Joe?


Arter you was took ill, pretty much about what you might call (if you was put to it) a week,


Dear Joe, have you heard what becomes of her property?


Well, old chap, it do appear that she had settled the most of it, which I meantersay tied it up, on Miss Estella. But she had wrote out a little coddleshell in her own hand a day or two afore the accident, leaving a cool four thousand to Mr. Matthew Pocket. And why, do you suppose, above all things, Pip, she left that cool four thousand unto him? ‘Because of Pip’s account of him, the said Matthew.’ I am told by Biddy, that air the writing, ‘account of him the said Matthew.’ And a cool four thousand, Pip! Miss Sarah, she have twenty-five pound perannium fur to buy pills, on account of being bilious. Miss Georgiana, she have twenty pound down. Mrs.—what’s the name of them wild beasts with humps, old chap?


Camels?


Mrs. Camels, she have five pound fur to buy rushlights to put her in spirits when she wake up in the night. And now, you ain’t that strong yet, old chap, that you can take in more nor one additional shovelful to-day. Old Orlick he’s been a bustin’ open a dwelling-ouse.


Whose?


Not, I grant you, but what his manners is given to blusterous, still, a Englishman’s ouse is his Castle, and castles must not be busted ’cept when done in war time. And wotsume’er the failings on his part, he were a corn and seedsman in his hart.


Is it Pumblechook’s house that has been broken into, then?


That’s it, Pip, and they took his till, and they took his cash-box, and they drinked his wine, and they partook of his wittles, and they slapped his face, and they pulled his nose, and they tied him up to his bedpust, and they giv’ him a dozen, and they stuffed his mouth full of flowering annuals to prewent his crying out. But he knowed Orlick, and Orlick’s in the county jail.


Which I do assure you, Pip. I found her a tapping the spare bed, like a cask of beer, and drawing off the feathers in a bucket, for sale. Which she would have tapped yourn next, and draw’d it off with you a laying on it, and was then a carrying away the coals gradiwally in the soup-tureen and wegetable-dishes, and the wine and spirits in your Wellington boots.


Have you heard, Joe, who my patron was?


I heerd, as it were not Miss Havisham, old chap.


Did you hear who it was, Joe?


Well! I heerd as it were a person what sent the person what giv’ you the bank-notes at the Jolly Bargemen, Pip.


So it was.


Astonishing!


Did you hear that he was dead, Joe?


Which? Him as sent the bank-notes, Pip?


Yes.


I think, as I did hear tell that how he were something or another in a general way in that direction.


Did you hear anything of his circumstances, Joe?


Not partickler, Pip.


If you would like to hear, Joe—


Lookee here, old chap. Ever the best of friends; ain’t us, Pip? Wery good, then, that’s all right; that’s agreed upon. Then why go into subjects, old chap, which as betwixt two sech must be for ever onnecessary? There’s subjects enough as betwixt two sech, without onnecessary ones. Lord! To think of your poor sister and her Rampages! And don’t you remember Tickler?


I do indeed, Joe.


I done what I could to keep you and Tickler in sunders, but my power were not always fully equal to my inclinations. For when your poor sister had a mind to drop into you, it were not so much, that she dropped into me too, if I put myself in opposition to her, but that she dropped into you always heavier for it. I noticed that. It ain’t a grab at a man’s whisker, not yet a shake or two of a man (to which your sister was quite welcome), that ’ud put a man off from getting a little child out of punishment. But when that little child is dropped into heavier for that grab of whisker or shaking, then that man naterally up and says to himself, ‘Where is the good as you are a-doing? I grant you I see the ’arm,’ says the man, ‘but I don’t see the good. I call upon you, sir, therefore, to pint out the good.’


The man says?


The man says. Is he right, that man?


Dear Joe, he is always right.


then abide by your words. If he’s always right (which in general he’s more likely wrong), he’s right when he says this: Supposing ever you kep any little matter to yourself, when you was a little child, you kep it mostly because you know’d as J. Gargery’s power to part you and Tickler in sunders were not fully equal to his inclinations. Theerfore, think no more of it as betwixt two sech, and do not let us pass remarks upon onnecessary subjects. Biddy giv’ herself a deal o’ trouble with me afore I left (for I am almost awful dull), as I should view it in this light, and, viewing it in this light, as I should so put it. Both of which, being done, now this to you a true friend, say. Namely. You mustn’t go a overdoing on it, but you must have your supper and your wine and water, and you must be put betwixt the sheets.


See, Joe! I can walk quite strongly. Now, you shall see me walk back by myself.


Which do not overdo it, Pip, but I shall be happy fur to see you able, sir.


I feel thankful that I have been ill, Joe,


Dear old Pip, old chap, you’re a’most come round, sir.


It has been a memorable time for me, Joe.


Likeways for myself, sir,


We have had a time together, Joe, that I can never forget. There were days once, I know, that I did for a while forget; but I never shall forget these.


Pip, there has been larks. And, dear sir, what have been betwixt us—have been.


Yes, dear Joe, quite.


And are always a getting stronger, old chap?


Yes, dear Joe, steadily.


Good night!


Not wishful to intrude I have departured fur you are well again dear Pip and will do better without P.S. Ever the best of friends.


Young man, I am sorry to see you brought low. But what else could be expected! what else could be expected! William, put a muffin on table. And has it come to this! Has it come to this! William, put the salt on. In happier times, I think you took sugar? And did you take milk? You did. Sugar and milk. William, bring a watercress.


Thank you, but I don’t eat watercresses.


You don’t eat ’em. Little more than skin and bone! And yet when he went from here (I may say with my blessing), and I spread afore him my humble store, like the Bee, he was as plump as a Peach! Hah! And air you a-going to Joseph?


In heaven’s name, what does it matter to you where I am going? Leave that teapot alone.


Yes, young man. I will leave that teapot alone. You are right, young man. For once you are right. I forgit myself when I take such an interest in your breakfast, as to wish your frame, exhausted by the debilitating effects of prodigygality, to be stimilated by the ’olesome nourishment of your forefathers. And yet, this is him as I ever sported with in his days of happy infancy! Tell me not it cannot be; I tell you this is him! This is him, as I have rode in my shay-cart. This is him as I have seen brought up by hand. This is him untoe the sister of which I was uncle by marriage, as her name was Georgiana M’ria from her own mother, let him deny it if he can! Young man, you air a-going to Joseph. What does it matter to me, you ask me, where you air a-going? I say to you, Sir, you air a-going to Joseph. Now. I will tell you what to say to Joseph. Here is Squires of the Boar present, known and respected in this town, and here is William, which his father’s name was Potkins if I do not deceive myself.


You do not, sir,


In their presence, I will tell you, young man, what to say to Joseph. Says you, “Joseph, I have this day seen my earliest benefactor and the founder of my fortun’s. I will name no names, Joseph, but so they are pleased to call him up town, and I have seen that man.”


I swear I don’t see him here,


Say that likewise. Says you, ‘Joseph, I have seen that man, and that man bears you no malice and bears me no malice. He knows your character, Joseph, and is well acquainted with your pig-headedness and ignorance; and he knows my character, Joseph, and he knows my want of gratitoode. Yes, Joseph,’ says you, ‘he knows my total deficiency of common human gratitoode. He knows it, Joseph, as none can. You do not know it, Joseph, having no call to know it, but that man do.’ Says you, ‘Joseph, he gave me a little message, which I will now repeat. It was that, in my being brought low, he saw the finger of Providence. He knowed that finger when he saw Joseph, and he saw it plain. It pinted out this writing, Joseph. Reward of ingratitoode to his earliest benefactor, and founder of fortun’s. But that man said he did not repent of what he had done, Joseph. Not at all. It was right to do it, it was kind to do it, it was benevolent to do it, and he would do it again.’


It’s pity, that the man did not say what he had done and would do again.


Squires of the Boar! and William! I have no objections to your mentioning, either up town or down town, if such should be your wishes, that it was right to do it, kind to do it, benevolent to do it, and that I would do it again.


But, it was only the pleasanter to turn to Biddy and to Joe, whose great forbearance shone more brightly than before, if that could be, contrasted with this brazen pretender.


It’s my wedding-day! and I am married to Joe!


Which he warn’t strong enough, my dear, fur to be surprised,


I ought to have thought of it, dear Joe, but I was too happy.


Dear Biddy, you have the best husband in the whole world, and if you could have seen him by my bed you would have—But no, you couldn’t love him better than you do.


No, I couldn’t indeed,


And, dear Joe, you have the best wife in the whole world, and she will make you as happy as even you deserve to be, you dear, good, noble Joe! And Joe and Biddy both, as you have been to church to-day, and are in charity and love with all mankind, receive my humble thanks for all you have done for me, and all I have so ill repaid! And when I say that I am going away within the hour, for I am soon going abroad, and that I shall never rest until I have worked for the money with which you have kept me out of prison, and have sent it to you, don’t think, dear Joe and Biddy, that if I could repay it a thousand times over, I suppose I could cancel a farthing of the debt I owe you, or that I would do so if I could! But I must say more. Dear Joe, I hope you will have children to love, and that some little fellow will sit in this chimney-corner of a winter night, who may remind you of another little fellow gone out of it for ever. Don’t tell him, Joe, that I was thankless; don’t tell him, Biddy, that I was ungenerous and unjust; only tell him that I honoured you both, because you were both so good and true, and that, as your child, I said it would be natural to him to grow up a much better man than I did.


I ain’t a-going, to tell him nothink o’ that natur, Pip. Nor Biddy ain’t. Nor yet no one ain’t.


And now, though I know you have already done it in your own kind hearts, pray tell me, both, that you forgive me! Pray let me hear you say the words, that I may carry the sound of them away with me, and then I shall be able to believe that you can trust me, and think better of me, in the time to come!


O dear old Pip, old chap. God knows as I forgive you, if I have anythink to forgive!


Amen! And God knows I do!


Now let me go up and look at my old little room, and rest there a few minutes by myself. And then, when I have eaten and drunk with you, go with me as far as the finger-post, dear Joe and Biddy, before we say good-bye!


We giv’ him the name of Pip for your sake, dear old chap, and we hoped he might grow a little bit like you, and we think he do.


Biddy, you must give Pip to me one of these days; or lend him, at all events.


No, no. You must marry.


So Herbert and Clara say, but I don’t think I shall, Biddy. I have so settled down in their home, that it’s not at all likely. I am already quite an old bachelor.


Dear Pip, you are sure you don’t fret for her?


O no,—I think not, Biddy.


Tell me as an old, old friend. Have you quite forgotten her?


My dear Biddy, I have forgotten nothing in my life that ever had a foremost place there, and little that ever had any place there. But that poor dream, as I once used to call it, has all gone by, Biddy,—all gone by!


Estella!


I am greatly changed. I wonder you know me.


After so many years, it is strange that we should thus meet again, Estella, here where our first meeting was! Do you often come back?


I have never been here since.


Nor I.


I have very often hoped and intended to come back, but have been prevented by many circumstances. Poor, poor old place! Were you wondering, as you walked along, how it came to be left in this condition?


Yes, Estella.


The ground belongs to me. It is the only possession I have not relinquished. Everything else has gone from me, little by little, but I have kept this. It was the subject of the only determined resistance I made in all the wretched years.


Is it to be built on?


At last, it is. I came here to take leave of it before its change. And you, you live abroad still?


Still.


And do well, I am sure?


I work pretty hard for a sufficient living, and therefore—yes, I do well.


I have often thought of you,


Have you?


Of late, very often. There was a long hard time when I kept far from me the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth. But since my duty has not been incompatible with the admission of that remembrance, I have given it a place in my heart.


You have always held your place in my heart,


I little thought, that I should take leave of you in taking leave of this spot. I am very glad to do so.


Glad to part again, Estella? To me, parting is a painful thing. To me, the remembrance of our last parting has been ever mournful and painful.


But you said to me, 'God bless you, God forgive you!' And if you could say that to me then, you will not hesitate to say that to me now,—now, when suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but—I hope—into a better shape. Be as considerate and good to me as you were, and tell me we are friends.


We are friends,


And will continue friends apart,