GREAT EXPECTATIONS
PART 20
Chapter XXXIX
I was
three-and-twenty years of age. Not another word had I heard to enlighten me on
the subject of my expectations, and my twenty-third birthday was a week gone.
We had left Barnard's Inn more than a year, and lived in the Temple. Our
chambers were in Garden-court, down by the river.
Mr.
Pocket and I had for some time parted company as to our original relations,
though we continued on the best terms. Notwithstanding my inability to settle
to anything,—which I hope arose out of the restless and incomplete tenure on
which I held my means,—I had a taste for reading, and read regularly so many
hours a day. That matter of Herbert's was still progressing, and everything
with me was as I have brought it down to the close of the last preceding
chapter.
Business
had taken Herbert on a journey to Marseilles. I was alone, and had a dull sense
of being alone. Dispirited and anxious, long hoping that to-morrow or next week
would clear my way, and long disappointed, I sadly missed the cheerful face and
ready response of my friend.
It was
wretched weather; stormy and wet, stormy and wet; and mud, mud, mud, deep in
all the streets. Day after day, a vast heavy veil had been driving over London
from the East, and it drove still, as if in the East there were an Eternity of
cloud and wind. So furious had been the gusts, that high buildings in town had
had the lead stripped off their roofs; and in the country, trees had been torn
up, and sails of windmills carried away; and gloomy accounts had come in from
the coast, of shipwreck and death. Violent blasts of rain had accompanied these
rages of wind, and the day just closed as I sat down to read had been the worst
of all.
Alterations
have been made in that part of the Temple since that time, and it has not now
so lonely a character as it had then, nor is it so exposed to the river. We
lived at the top of the last house, and the wind rushing up the river shook the
house that night, like discharges of cannon, or breakings of a sea. When the
rain came with it and dashed against the windows, I thought, raising my eyes to
them as they rocked, that I might have fancied myself in a storm-beaten
lighthouse. Occasionally, the smoke came rolling down the chimney as though it
could not bear to go out into such a night; and when I set the doors open and
looked down the staircase, the staircase lamps were blown out; and when I
shaded my face with my hands and looked through the black windows (opening them
ever so little was out of the question in the teeth of such wind and rain), I
saw that the lamps in the court were blown out, and that the lamps on the
bridges and the shore were shuddering, and that the coal-fires in barges on the
river were being carried away before the wind like red-hot splashes in the
rain.
I read
with my watch upon the table, purposing to close my book at eleven o'clock. As
I shut it, Saint Paul's, and all the many church-clocks in the City—some
leading, some accompanying, some following—struck that hour. The sound was
curiously flawed by the wind; and I was listening, and thinking how the wind
assailed and tore it, when I heard a footstep on the stair.
What
nervous folly made me start, and awfully connect it with the footstep of my
dead sister, matters not. It was past in a moment, and I listened again, and
heard the footstep stumble in coming on. Remembering then, that the
staircase-lights were blown out, I took up my reading-lamp and went out to the
stair-head. Whoever was below had stopped on seeing my lamp, for all was quiet.
"There
is some one down there, is there not?" I called out, looking down.
"Yes,"
said a voice from the darkness beneath.
"What
floor do you want?"
"The
top. Mr. Pip."
"That
is my name.—There is nothing the matter?"
"Nothing
the matter," returned the voice. And the man came on.
I stood
with my lamp held out over the stair-rail, and he came slowly within its light.
It was a shaded lamp, to shine upon a book, and its circle of light was very
contracted; so that he was in it for a mere instant, and then out of it. In the
instant, I had seen a face that was strange to me, looking up with an
incomprehensible air of being touched and pleased by the sight of me.
Moving
the lamp as the man moved, I made out that he was substantially dressed, but
roughly, like a voyager by sea. That he had long iron-gray hair. That his age
was about sixty. That he was a muscular man, strong on his legs, and that he
was browned and hardened by exposure to weather. As he ascended the last stair
or two, and the light of my lamp included us both, I saw, with a stupid kind of
amazement, that he was holding out both his hands to me.
"Pray
what is your business?" I asked him.
"My
business?" he repeated, pausing. "Ah! Yes. I will explain my
business, by your leave."
"Do
you wish to come in?"
"Yes,"
he replied; "I wish to come in, master."
I had
asked him the question inhospitably enough, for I resented the sort of bright
and gratified recognition that still shone in his face. I resented it, because
it seemed to imply that he expected me to respond to it. But I took him into the
room I had just left, and, having set the lamp on the table, asked him as
civilly as I could to explain himself.
He looked
about him with the strangest air,—an air of wondering pleasure, as if he had
some part in the things he admired,—and he pulled off a rough outer coat, and
his hat. Then, I saw that his head was furrowed and bald, and that the long
iron-gray hair grew only on its sides. But, I saw nothing that in the least
explained him. On the contrary, I saw him next moment, once more holding out both
his hands to me.
"What
do you mean?" said I, half suspecting him to be mad.
He
stopped in his looking at me, and slowly rubbed his right hand over his head.
"It's disapinting to a man," he said, in a coarse broken voice,
"arter having looked for'ard so distant, and come so fur; but you're not
to blame for that,—neither on us is to blame for that. I'll speak in half a
minute. Give me half a minute, please."
He sat
down on a chair that stood before the fire, and covered his forehead with his
large brown veinous hands. I looked at him attentively then, and recoiled a
little from him; but I did not know him.
"There's
no one nigh," said he, looking over his shoulder; "is there?"
"Why
do you, a stranger coming into my rooms at this time of the night, ask that
question?" said I.
"You're
a game one," he returned, shaking his head at me with a deliberate
affection, at once most unintelligible and most exasperating; "I'm glad
you've grow'd up, a game one! But don't catch hold of me. You'd be sorry
arterwards to have done it."
I
relinquished the intention he had detected, for I knew him! Even yet I could
not recall a single feature, but I knew him! If the wind and the rain had
driven away the intervening years, had scattered all the intervening objects,
had swept us to the churchyard where we first stood face to face on such
different levels, I could not have known my convict more distinctly than I knew
him now as he sat in the chair before the fire. No need to take a file from his
pocket and show it to me; no need to take the handkerchief from his neck and
twist it round his head; no need to hug himself with both his arms, and take a
shivering turn across the room, looking back at me for recognition. I knew him
before he gave me one of those aids, though, a moment before, I had not been
conscious of remotely suspecting his identity.
He came
back to where I stood, and again held out both his hands. Not knowing what to
do,—for, in my astonishment I had lost my self-possession,—I reluctantly gave
him my hands. He grasped them heartily, raised them to his lips, kissed them,
and still held them.
"You
acted noble, my boy," said he. "Noble, Pip! And I have never forgot
it!"
At a
change in his manner as if he were even going to embrace me, I laid a hand upon
his breast and put him away.
"Stay!"
said I. "Keep off! If you are grateful to me for what I did when I was a
little child, I hope you have shown your gratitude by mending your way of life.
If you have come here to thank me, it was not necessary. Still, however you
have found me out, there must be something good in the feeling that has brought
you here, and I will not repulse you; but surely you must understand
that—I—"
My
attention was so attracted by the singularity of his fixed look at me, that the
words died away on my tongue.
"You
was a saying," he observed, when we had confronted one another in silence,
"that surely I must understand. What, surely must I understand?"
"That
I cannot wish to renew that chance intercourse with you of long ago, under
these different circumstances. I am glad to believe you have repented and
recovered yourself. I am glad to tell you so. I am glad that, thinking I
deserve to be thanked, you have come to thank me. But our ways are different
ways, none the less. You are wet, and you look weary. Will you drink something
before you go?"
He had
replaced his neckerchief loosely, and had stood, keenly observant of me, biting
a long end of it. "I think," he answered, still with the end at his
mouth and still observant of me, "that I will drink (I thank you) afore I go."
There was
a tray ready on a side-table. I brought it to the table near the fire, and
asked him what he would have? He touched one of the bottles without looking at
it or speaking, and I made him some hot rum and water. I tried to keep my hand
steady while I did so, but his look at me as he leaned back in his chair with
the long draggled end of his neckerchief between his teeth—evidently
forgotten—made my hand very difficult to master. When at last I put the glass
to him, I saw with amazement that his eyes were full of tears.
Up to
this time I had remained standing, not to disguise that I wished him gone. But
I was softened by the softened aspect of the man, and felt a touch of reproach.
"I hope," said I, hurriedly putting something into a glass for myself,
and drawing a chair to the table, "that you will not think I spoke harshly
to you just now. I had no intention of doing it, and I am sorry for it if I
did. I wish you well and happy!"
As I put
my glass to my lips, he glanced with surprise at the end of his neckerchief,
dropping from his mouth when he opened it, and stretched out his hand. I gave
him mine, and then he drank, and drew his sleeve across his eyes and forehead.
"How
are you living?" I asked him.
"I've
been a sheep-farmer, stock-breeder, other trades besides, away in the new
world," said he; "many a thousand mile of stormy water off from
this."
"I
hope you have done well?"
"I've
done wonderfully well. There's others went out alonger me as has done well too,
but no man has done nigh as well as me. I'm famous for it."
"I
am glad to hear it."
"I
hope to hear you say so, my dear boy."
Without
stopping to try to understand those words or the tone in which they were
spoken, I turned off to a point that had just come into my mind.
"Have
you ever seen a messenger you once sent to me," I inquired, "since he
undertook that trust?"
"Never
set eyes upon him. I warn't likely to it."
"He
came faithfully, and he brought me the two one-pound notes. I was a poor boy
then, as you know, and to a poor boy they were a little fortune. But, like you,
I have done well since, and you must let me pay them back. You can put them to
some other poor boy's use." I took out my purse.
He
watched me as I laid my purse upon the table and opened it, and he watched me
as I separated two one-pound notes from its contents. They were clean and new,
and I spread them out and handed them over to him. Still watching me, he laid
them one upon the other, folded them long-wise, gave them a twist, set fire to
them at the lamp, and dropped the ashes into the tray.
"May
I make so bold," he said then, with a smile that was like a frown, and
with a frown that was like a smile, "as ask you how you have done well,
since you and me was out on them lone shivering marshes?"
"How?"
"Ah!"
He
emptied his glass, got up, and stood at the side of the fire, with his heavy
brown hand on the mantel-shelf. He put a foot up to the bars, to dry and warm
it, and the wet boot began to steam; but, he neither looked at it, nor at the
fire, but steadily looked at me. It was only now that I began to tremble.
When my
lips had parted, and had shaped some words that were without sound, I forced
myself to tell him (though I could not do it distinctly), that I had been
chosen to succeed to some property.
"Might
a mere warmint ask what property?" said he.
I
faltered, "I don't know."
"Might
a mere warmint ask whose property?" said he.
I
faltered again, "I don't know."
"Could
I make a guess, I wonder," said the Convict, "at your income since
you come of age! As to the first figure now. Five?"
With my
heart beating like a heavy hammer of disordered action, I rose out of my chair,
and stood with my hand upon the back of it, looking wildly at him.
"Concerning
a guardian," he went on. "There ought to have been some guardian, or
such-like, whiles you was a minor. Some lawyer, maybe. As to the first letter
of that lawyer's name now. Would it be J?"
All the
truth of my position came flashing on me; and its disappointments, dangers,
disgraces, consequences of all kinds, rushed in in such a multitude that I was
borne down by them and had to struggle for every breath I drew.
"Put
it," he resumed, "as the employer of that lawyer whose name begun
with a J, and might be Jaggers,—put it as he had come over sea to Portsmouth,
and had landed there, and had wanted to come on to you. 'However, you have
found me out,' you says just now. Well! However, did I find you out? Why, I
wrote from Portsmouth to a person in London, for particulars of your address.
That person's name? Why, Wemmick."
I could
not have spoken one word, though it had been to save my life. I stood, with a
hand on the chair-back and a hand on my breast, where I seemed to be
suffocating,—I stood so, looking wildly at him, until I grasped at the chair,
when the room began to surge and turn. He caught me, drew me to the sofa, put
me up against the cushions, and bent on one knee before me, bringing the face
that I now well remembered, and that I shuddered at, very near to mine.
"Yes,
Pip, dear boy, I've made a gentleman on you! It's me wot has done it! I swore
that time, sure as ever I earned a guinea, that guinea should go to you. I
swore arterwards, sure as ever I spec'lated and got rich, you should get rich.
I lived rough, that you should live smooth; I worked hard, that you should be
above work. What odds, dear boy? Do I tell it, fur you to feel a obligation?
Not a bit. I tell it, fur you to know as that there hunted dunghill dog wot you
kep life in, got his head so high that he could make a gentleman,—and, Pip,
you're him!"
The
abhorrence in which I held the man, the dread I had of him, the repugnance with
which I shrank from him, could not have been exceeded if he had been some
terrible beast.
"Look'ee
here, Pip. I'm your second father. You're my son,—more to me nor any son. I've
put away money, only for you to spend. When I was a hired-out shepherd in a
solitary hut, not seeing no faces but faces of sheep till I half forgot wot
men's and women's faces wos like, I see yourn. I drops my knife many a time in
that hut when I was a-eating my dinner or my supper, and I says, 'Here's the
boy again, a looking at me whiles I eats and drinks!' I see you there a many
times, as plain as ever I see you on them misty marshes. 'Lord strike me dead!'
I says each time,—and I goes out in the air to say it under the open
heavens,—'but wot, if I gets liberty and money, I'll make that boy a
gentleman!' And I done it. Why, look at you, dear boy! Look at these here
lodgings o'yourn, fit for a lord! A lord? Ah! You shall show money with lords
for wagers, and beat 'em!"
In his
heat and triumph, and in his knowledge that I had been nearly fainting, he did
not remark on my reception of all this. It was the one grain of relief I had.
"Look'ee
here!" he went on, taking my watch out of my pocket, and turning towards
him a ring on my finger, while I recoiled from his touch as if he had been a
snake, "a gold 'un and a beauty: that's a gentleman's, I hope! A diamond
all set round with rubies; that's a gentleman's, I hope! Look at your linen;
fine and beautiful! Look at your clothes; better ain't to be got! And your
books too," turning his eyes round the room, "mounting up, on their
shelves, by hundreds! And you read 'em; don't you? I see you'd been a reading
of 'em when I come in. Ha, ha, ha! You shall read 'em to me, dear boy! And if
they're in foreign languages wot I don't understand, I shall be just as proud
as if I did."
Again he
took both my hands and put them to his lips, while my blood ran cold within me.
"Don't
you mind talking, Pip," said he, after again drawing his sleeve over his
eyes and forehead, as the click came in his throat which I well remembered,—and
he was all the more horrible to me that he was so much in earnest; "you
can't do better nor keep quiet, dear boy. You ain't looked slowly forward to
this as I have; you wosn't prepared for this as I wos. But didn't you never
think it might be me?"
"O
no, no, no," I returned, "Never, never!"
"Well,
you see it wos me, and single-handed. Never a soul in it but my own self and Mr.
Jaggers."
"Was
there no one else?" I asked.
"No,"
said he, with a glance of surprise: "who else should there be? And, dear
boy, how good looking you have growed! There's bright eyes somewheres—eh? Isn't
there bright eyes somewheres, wot you love the thoughts on?"
O
Estella, Estella!
"They
shall be yourn, dear boy, if money can buy 'em. Not that a gentleman like you,
so well set up as you, can't win 'em off of his own game; but money shall back
you! Let me finish wot I was a telling you, dear boy. From that there hut and
that there hiring-out, I got money left me by my master (which died, and had
been the same as me), and got my liberty and went for myself. In every single
thing I went for, I went for you. 'Lord strike a blight upon it,' I says,
wotever it was I went for, 'if it ain't for him!' It all prospered wonderful.
As I giv' you to understand just now, I'm famous for it. It was the money left
me, and the gains of the first few year wot I sent home to Mr. Jaggers—all for
you—when he first come arter you, agreeable to my letter."
O that he
had never come! That he had left me at the forge,—far from contented, yet, by
comparison happy!
"And
then, dear boy, it was a recompense to me, look'ee here, to know in secret that
I was making a gentleman. The blood horses of them colonists might fling up the
dust over me as I was walking; what do I say? I says to myself, 'I'm making a
better gentleman nor ever you'll be!' When one of 'em says to another, 'He was
a convict, a few year ago, and is a ignorant common fellow now, for all he's
lucky,' what do I say? I says to myself, 'If I ain't a gentleman, nor yet ain't
got no learning, I'm the owner of such. All on you owns stock and land; which
on you owns a brought-up London gentleman?' This way I kep myself a going. And
this way I held steady afore my mind that I would for certain come one day and
see my boy, and make myself known to him, on his own ground."
He laid
his hand on my shoulder. I shuddered at the thought that for anything I knew,
his hand might be stained with blood.
"It
warn't easy, Pip, for me to leave them parts, nor yet it warn't safe. But I
held to it, and the harder it was, the stronger I held, for I was determined,
and my mind firm made up. At last I done it. Dear boy, I done it!"
I tried
to collect my thoughts, but I was stunned. Throughout, I had seemed to myself
to attend more to the wind and the rain than to him; even now, I could not
separate his voice from those voices, though those were loud and his was
silent.
"Where
will you put me?" he asked, presently. "I must be put somewheres,
dear boy."
"To
sleep?" said I.
"Yes.
And to sleep long and sound," he answered; "for I've been sea-tossed
and sea-washed, months and months."
"My
friend and companion," said I, rising from the sofa, "is absent; you
must have his room."
"He
won't come back to-morrow; will he?"
"No,"
said I, answering almost mechanically, in spite of my utmost efforts; "not
to-morrow."
"Because,
look'ee here, dear boy," he said, dropping his voice, and laying a long
finger on my breast in an impressive manner, "caution is necessary."
"How
do you mean? Caution?"
"By
G——, it's Death!"
"What's
death?"
"I
was sent for life. It's death to come back. There's been overmuch coming back
of late years, and I should of a certainty be hanged if took."
Nothing
was needed but this; the wretched man, after loading wretched me with his gold
and silver chains for years, had risked his life to come to me, and I held it
there in my keeping! If I had loved him instead of abhorring him; if I had been
attracted to him by the strongest admiration and affection, instead of
shrinking from him with the strongest repugnance; it could have been no worse.
On the contrary, it would have been better, for his preservation would then
have naturally and tenderly addressed my heart.
My first
care was to close the shutters, so that no light might be seen from without,
and then to close and make fast the doors. While I did so, he stood at the
table drinking rum and eating biscuit; and when I saw him thus engaged, I saw
my convict on the marshes at his meal again. It almost seemed to me as if he
must stoop down presently, to file at his leg.
When I
had gone into Herbert's room, and had shut off any other communication between
it and the staircase than through the room in which our conversation had been
held, I asked him if he would go to bed? He said yes, but asked me for some of
my "gentleman's linen" to put on in the morning. I brought it out,
and laid it ready for him, and my blood again ran cold when he again took me by
both hands to give me good night.
I got
away from him, without knowing how I did it, and mended the fire in the room
where we had been together, and sat down by it, afraid to go to bed. For an
hour or more, I remained too stunned to think; and it was not until I began to
think, that I began fully to know how wrecked I was, and how the ship in which
I had sailed was gone to pieces.
Miss
Havisham's intentions towards me, all a mere dream; Estella not designed for
me; I only suffered in Satis House as a convenience, a sting for the greedy
relations, a model with a mechanical heart to practise on when no other
practice was at hand; those were the first smarts I had. But, sharpest and
deepest pain of all,—it was for the convict, guilty of I knew not what crimes,
and liable to be taken out of those rooms where I sat thinking, and hanged at
the Old Bailey door, that I had deserted Joe.
I would
not have gone back to Joe now, I would not have gone back to Biddy now, for any
consideration; simply, I suppose, because my sense of my own worthless conduct
to them was greater than every consideration. No wisdom on earth could have
given me the comfort that I should have derived from their simplicity and
fidelity; but I could never, never, undo what I had done.
In every
rage of wind and rush of rain, I heard pursuers. Twice, I could have sworn
there was a knocking and whispering at the outer door. With these fears upon
me, I began either to imagine or recall that I had had mysterious warnings of
this man's approach. That, for weeks gone by, I had passed faces in the streets
which I had thought like his. That these likenesses had grown more numerous, as
he, coming over the sea, had drawn nearer. That his wicked spirit had somehow
sent these messengers to mine, and that now on this stormy night he was as good
as his word, and with me.
Crowding
up with these reflections came the reflection that I had seen him with my
childish eyes to be a desperately violent man; that I had heard that other
convict reiterate that he had tried to murder him; that I had seen him down in
the ditch tearing and fighting like a wild beast. Out of such remembrances I
brought into the light of the fire a half-formed terror that it might not be
safe to be shut up there with him in the dead of the wild solitary night. This
dilated until it filled the room, and impelled me to take a candle and go in
and look at my dreadful burden.
He had
rolled a handkerchief round his head, and his face was set and lowering in his
sleep. But he was asleep, and quietly too, though he had a pistol lying on the
pillow. Assured of this, I softly removed the key to the outside of his door,
and turned it on him before I again sat down by the fire. Gradually I slipped
from the chair and lay on the floor. When I awoke without having parted in my
sleep with the perception of my wretchedness, the clocks of the Eastward
churches were striking five, the candles were wasted out, the fire was dead,
and the wind and rain intensified the thick black darkness.
To be continued net week with the Third Stage
