“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 of 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.
THIS IS THE END OF THE SECOND STAGE OF PIP’S EXPECTATIONS.
Chapter XL.
It was fortunate for me that I had to take precautions to ensure (so far as I could) the safety of my dreaded visitor;for, this thought pressing on me when I awoke,held other thoughts in a confused concourse at a distance.
The impossibility of keeping him concealed in the chambers was self-evident. It could not be done,and the attempt to do it would inevitably engender suspicion. True,I had no Avenger in my service now, but I was looked after by an inflammatory old female,assisted by an animated rag-bag whom she called her niece,and to keep a room secret from them would be to invite curiosity and exaggeration.They both had weak eyes, which I had long attributed to their chronically looking in at keyholes,and they were always at hand when not wanted;indeed that was their only reliable quality besides larceny.Not to get up a mystery with these people,I resolved to announce in the morning that my uncle had unexpectedly come from the country.
This course I decided on while I was yet groping about in the darkness for the means of getting a light.Not stumbling on the means after all, I was fain to go out to the adjacent Lodge and get the watchman there to come with his lantern.Now, in groping my way down the black staircase I fell over something,and that something was a man crouching in a corner.
As the man made no answer when I asked him what he did there, but eluded my touch in silence,I ran to the Lodge and urged the watchman to come quickly;telling him of the incident on the way back. The wind being as fierce as ever,we did not care to endanger the light in the lantern by rekindling the extinguished lamps on the staircase,but we examined the staircase from the bottom to the top and found no one there.It then occurred to me as possible that the man might have slipped into my rooms; so,lighting my candle at the watchman’s, and leaving him standing at the door,I examined them carefully, including the room in which my dreaded guest lay asleep. All was quiet,and assuredly no other man was in those chambers.
It troubled me that there should have been a lurker on the stairs,on that night of all nights in the year, and I asked the watchman,on the chance of eliciting some hopeful explanation as I handed him a dram at the door,whether he had admitted at his gate any gentleman who had perceptibly been dining out?Yes, he said; at different times of the night, three. One lived in Fountain Court,and the other two lived in the Lane, and he had seen them all go home. Again,the only other man who dwelt in the house of which my chambers formed a part had been in the country for some weeks,and he certainly had not returned in the night,because we had seen his door with his seal on it as we came upstairs.
“The night being so bad, sir,” said the watchman, as he gave me back my glass,“uncommon few have come in at my gate. Besides them three gentlemen that I have named,I don’t call to mind another since about eleven o’clock, when a stranger asked for you.”
“My uncle,” I muttered. “Yes.”
“You saw him, sir?”
“Yes. Oh yes.”
“Likewise the person with him?”
“Person with him!” I repeated.
“I judged the person to be with him,” returned the watchman. “The person stopped,when he stopped to make inquiry of me, and the person took this way when he took this way.”
“What sort of person?”
The watchman had not particularly noticed; he should say a working person;to the best of his belief, he had a dust-coloured kind of clothes on, under a dark coat.The watchman made more light of the matter than I did, and naturally;not having my reason for attaching weight to it.
When I had got rid of him, which I thought it well to do without prolonging explanations,my mind was much troubled by these two circumstances taken together.Whereas they were easy of innocent solution apart,—as, for instance,some diner out or diner at home, who had not gone near this watchman’s gate,might have strayed to my staircase and dropped asleep there,—and my nameless visitor might have brought some one with him to show him the way,—still, joined,they had an ugly look to one as prone to distrust and fear as the changes of a few hours had made me.
I lighted my fire, which burnt with a raw pale flare at that time of the morning,and fell into a doze before it. I seemed to have been dozing a whole night when the clocks struck six.As there was full an hour and a half between me and daylight, I dozed again; now,waking up uneasily, with prolix conversations about nothing, in my ears; now,making thunder of the wind in the chimney; at length,falling off into a profound sleep from which the daylight woke me with a start.
All this time I had never been able to consider my own situation, nor could I do so yet.I had not the power to attend to it. I was greatly dejected and distressed,but in an incoherent wholesale sort of way. As to forming any plan for the future,I could as soon have formed an elephant.When I opened the shutters and looked out at the wet wild morning, all of a leaden hue;when I walked from room to room; when I sat down again shivering, before the fire,waiting for my laundress to appear; I thought how miserable I was, but hardly knew why,or how long I had been so, or on what day of the week I made the reflection, or even who I was that made it.
At last, the old woman and the niece came in,—the latter with a head not easily distinguishable from her dusty broom,—and testified surprise at sight of me and the fire.To whom I imparted how my uncle had come in the night and was then asleep,and how the breakfast preparations were to be modified accordingly.Then I washed and dressed while they knocked the furniture about and made a dust; and so,in a sort of dream or sleep-waking, I found myself sitting by the fire again, waiting for—Him—to come to breakfast.
By and by, his door opened and he came out. I could not bring myself to bear the sight of him,and I thought he had a worse look by daylight.
“I do not even know,” said I, speaking low as he took his seat at the table,“by what name to call you. I have given out that you are my uncle.”
“That’s it, dear boy!Call me uncle.”
“You assumed some name, I suppose, on board ship?”
“Yes, dear boy. I took the name of Provis.”
“Do you mean to keep that name?”
“Why, yes, dear boy, it’s as good as another,—unless you’d like another.”
“What is your real name?” I asked him in a whisper.
“Magwitch,” he answered, in the same tone; “chrisen’d Abel.”
“What were you brought up to be?”
“A warmint, dear boy.”
He answered quite seriously, and used the word as if it denoted some profession.
“When you came into the Temple last night—” said I,pausing to wonder whether that could really have been last night, which seemed so long ago.
“Yes, dear boy?”
“When you came in at the gate and asked the watchman the way here, had you any one with you?”
“With me?No, dear boy.”
“But there was some one there?”
“I didn’t take particular notice,” he said, dubiously, “not knowing the ways of the place.But I think there _was_ a person, too, come in alonger me.”
“Are you known in London?”
“I hope not!” said he, giving his neck a jerk with his forefinger that made me turn hot and sick.
“Were you known in London, once?”
“Not over and above, dear boy. I was in the provinces mostly.”
“Were you—tried—in London?”
“Which time?” said he, with a sharp look.
“The last time.”
He nodded. “First knowed Mr. Jaggers that way. Jaggers was for me.”
It was on my lips to ask him what he was tried for, but he took up a knife, gave it a flourish,and with the words, “And what I done is worked out and paid for!” fell to at his breakfast.
He ate in a ravenous way that was very disagreeable, and all his actions were uncouth, noisy,and greedy. Some of his teeth had failed him since I saw him eat on the marshes,and as he turned his food in his mouth,and turned his head sideways to bring his strongest fangs to bear upon it,he looked terribly like a hungry old dog. If I had begun with any appetite,he would have taken it away, and I should have sat much as I did,—repelled from him by an insurmountable aversion, and gloomily looking at the cloth.
“I’m a heavy grubber, dear boy,” he said,as a polite kind of apology when he made an end of his meal, “but I always was.If it had been in my constitution to be a lighter grubber, I might ha’ got into lighter trouble.Similarly, I must have my smoke. When I was first hired out as shepherd t’other side the world,it’s my belief I should ha’ turned into a molloncolly-mad sheep myself, if I hadn’t a had my smoke. ”
As he said so, he got up from table, and putting his hand into the breast of the pea-coat he wore,brought out a short black pipe, and a handful of loose tobacco of the kind that is called Negro-head.Having filled his pipe, he put the surplus tobacco back again, as if his pocket were a drawer.Then, he took a live coal from the fire with the tongs, and lighted his pipe at it,and then turned round on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire,and went through his favourite action of holding out both his hands for mine.
“And this,” said he, dandling my hands up and down in his, as he puffed at his pipe,—“and this is the gentleman what I made!The real genuine One!It does me good fur to look at you, Pip. All I stip’late, is, to stand by and look at you, dear boy!”
I released my hands as soon as I could, and found that I was beginning slowly to settle down to the contemplation of my condition.What I was chained to, and how heavily, became intelligible to me, as I heard his hoarse voice,and sat looking up at his furrowed bald head with its iron grey hair at the sides.
“I mustn’t see my gentleman a footing it in the mire of the streets;there mustn’t be no mud on _his_ boots. My gentleman must have horses, Pip!Horses to ride, and horses to drive, and horses for his servant to ride and drive as well.Shall colonists have their horses (and blood’uns, if you please, good Lord!) and not my London gentleman?No, no. We’ll show ’em another pair of shoes than that, Pip; won’t us?”
He took out of his pocket a great thick pocket-book, bursting with papers, and tossed it on the table.
“There’s something worth spending in that there book, dear boy. It’s yourn. All I’ve got ain’t mine;it’s yourn. Don’t you be afeerd on it. There’s more where that come from.I’ve come to the old country fur to see my gentleman spend his money _like_ a gentleman.That’ll be _my_ pleasure. _My_ pleasure ’ull be fur to see him do it. And blast you all!” he wound up, looking round the room and snapping his fingers once with a loud snap,“blast you every one, from the judge in his wig, to the colonist a stirring up the dust,I’ll show a better gentleman than the whole kit on you put together!”
“Stop!” said I, almost in a frenzy of fear and dislike, “I want to speak to you.I want to know what is to be done. I want to know how you are to be kept out of danger,how long you are going to stay, what projects you have.”
“Look’ee here, Pip,” said he, laying his hand on my arm in a suddenly altered and subdued manner;“first of all, look’ee here. I forgot myself half a minute ago. What I said was low;that’s what it was; low. Look’ee here, Pip. Look over it. I ain’t a-going to be low.”
“First,” I resumed, half groaning, “what precautions can be taken against your being recognised and seized?”
“No, dear boy,” he said, in the same tone as before, “that don’t go first. Lowness goes first.I ain’t took so many year to make a gentleman, not without knowing what’s due to him. Look’ee here,Pip. I was low; that’s what I was; low. Look over it, dear boy.”
Some sense of the grimly-ludicrous moved me to a fretful laugh, as I replied,“I _have_ looked over it. In Heaven’s name, don’t harp upon it!”
“Yes, but look’ee here,” he persisted. “Dear boy, I ain’t come so fur, not fur to be low. Now, go on, dear boy. You was a saying—”
“How are you to be guarded from the danger you have incurred?”
“Well, dear boy, the danger ain’t so great. Without I was informed agen,the danger ain’t so much to signify. There’s Jaggers, and there’s Wemmick, and there’s you. Who else is there to inform?”
“Is there no chance person who might identify you in the street?” said I.
“Well,” he returned, “there ain’t many. Nor yet I don’t intend to advertise myself in the newspapers by the name of A.M.come back from Botany Bay; and years have rolled away, and who’s to gain by it?Still, look’ee here, Pip. If the danger had been fifty times as great, I should ha’ come to see you, mind you, just the same.”
“And how long do you remain?”
“How long?” said he, taking his black pipe from his mouth, and dropping his jaw as he stared at me.“I’m not a-going back. I’ve come for good.”
“Where are you to live?” said I. “What is to be done with you?Where will you be safe?”
“Dear boy,” he returned, “there’s disguising wigs can be bought for money, and there’s hair powder,and spectacles, and black clothes,—shorts and what not. Others has done it safe afore,and what others has done afore, others can do agen. As to the where and how of living, dear boy, give me your own opinions on it.”
“You take it smoothly now,” said I, “but you were very serious last night, when you swore it was Death.”
“And so I swear it is Death,” said he, putting his pipe back in his mouth, “and Death by the rope,in the open street not fur from this, and it’s serious that you should fully understand it to be so. What then, when that’s once done?Here I am. To go back now ’ud be as bad as to stand ground—worse. Besides, Pip, I’m here,because I’ve meant it by you, years and years. As to what I dare, I’m a old bird now,as has dared all manner of traps since first he was fledged,and I’m not afeerd to perch upon a scarecrow. If there’s Death hid inside of it, there is,and let him come out, and I’ll face him, and then I’ll believe in him and not afore.And now let me have a look at my gentleman agen.”
Once more, he took me by both hands and surveyed me with an air of admiring proprietorship:smoking with great complacency all the while.
It appeared to me that I could do no better than secure him some quiet lodging hard by,of which he might take possession when Herbert returned: whom I expected in two or three days.That the secret must be confided to Herbert as a matter of unavoidable necessity,even if I could have put the immense relief I should derive from sharing it with him out of the question,was plain to me. But it was by no means so plain to Mr.Provis (I resolved to call him by that name),who reserved his consent to Herbert’s participation until he should have seen him and formed a favourable judgment of his physiognomy.“And even then, dear boy,” said he, pulling a greasy little clasped black Testament out of his pocket, “we’ll have him on his oath.”
To state that my terrible patron carried this little black book about the world solely to swear people on in cases of emergency,would be to state what I never quite established; but this I can say,that I never knew him put it to any other use.The book itself had the appearance of having been stolen from some court of justice,and perhaps his knowledge of its antecedents, combined with his own experience in that wise,gave him a reliance on its powers as a sort of legal spell or charm.On this first occasion of his producing it,I recalled how he had made me swear fidelity in the churchyard long ago,and how he had described himself last night as always swearing to his resolutions in his solitude.
As he was at present dressed in a seafaring slop suit,in which he looked as if he had some parrots and cigars to dispose of,I next discussed with him what dress he should wear.He cherished an extraordinary belief in the virtues of “shorts” as a disguise,and had in his own mind sketched a dress for himself that would have made him something between a dean and a dentist.It was with considerable difficulty that I won him over to the assumption of a dress more like a prosperous farmer’s;and we arranged that he should cut his hair close, and wear a little powder. Lastly,as he had not yet been seen by the laundress or her niece,he was to keep himself out of their view until his change of dress was made.
It would seem a simple matter to decide on these precautions; but in my dazed,not to say distracted, state, it took so long,that I did not get out to further them until two or three in the afternoon.He was to remain shut up in the chambers while I was gone, and was on no account to open the door.
There being to my knowledge a respectable lodging-house in Essex Street,the back of which looked into the Temple, and was almost within hail of my windows,I first of all repaired to that house, and was so fortunate as to secure the second floor for my uncle,Mr. Provis. I then went from shop to shop,making such purchases as were necessary to the change in his appearance. This business transacted,I turned my face, on my own account, to Little Britain. Mr. Jaggers was at his desk, but,seeing me enter, got up immediately and stood before his fire.
“Now, Pip,” said he, “be careful.”
“I will, sir,” I returned. For, coming along I had thought well of what I was going to say.
“Don’t commit yourself,” said Mr. Jaggers, “and don’t commit any one. You understand—any one.Don’t tell me anything: I don’t want to know anything; I am not curious.”
Of course I saw that he knew the man was come.
“I merely want, Mr. Jaggers,” said I, “to assure myself that what I have been told is true.I have no hope of its being untrue, but at least I may verify it.”
Mr. Jaggers nodded. “But did you say ‘told’ or ‘informed’?” he asked me, with his head on one side, and not looking at me,but looking in a listening way at the floor. “Told would seem to imply verbal communication.You can’t have verbal communication with a man in New South Wales, you know.”
“I will say, informed, Mr. Jaggers.”
“Good.”
“I have been informed by a person named Abel Magwitch,that he is the benefactor so long unknown to me.”
“That is the man,” said Mr. Jaggers, “in New South Wales.”
“And only he?” said I.
“And only he,” said Mr. Jaggers.
“I am not so unreasonable, sir, as to think you at all responsible for my mistakes and wrong conclusions;but I always supposed it was Miss Havisham.”
“As you say, Pip,” returned Mr. Jaggers, turning his eyes upon me coolly,and taking a bite at his forefinger, “I am not at all responsible for that.”
“And yet it looked so like it, sir,” I pleaded with a downcast heart.
“Not a particle of evidence, Pip,” said Mr. Jaggers, shaking his head and gathering up his skirts.“Take nothing on its looks; take everything on evidence. There’s no better rule.”
“I have no more to say,” said I, with a sigh, after standing silent for a little while.“I have verified my information, and there’s an end.”
“And Magwitch—in New South Wales—having at last disclosed himself,” said Mr. Jaggers,“you will comprehend, Pip, how rigidly throughout my communication with you,I have always adhered to the strict line of fact.There has never been the least departure from the strict line of fact. You are quite aware of that?”
“Quite, sir.”