“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.