“I communicated to Magwitch—in New South Wales—when he first wrote to me—from New South Wales—the caution that he must not expect me ever to deviate from the strict line of fact. I also communicated to him another caution. He appeared to me to have obscurely hinted in his letter at some distant idea he had of seeing you in England here. I cautioned him that I must hear no more of that; that he was not at all likely to obtain a pardon; that he was expatriated for the term of his natural life; and that his presenting himself in this country would be an act of felony, rendering him liable to the extreme penalty of the law. I gave Magwitch that caution,” said Mr. Jaggers, looking hard at me; “I wrote it to New South Wales. He guided himself by it, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” said I.
“I have been informed by Wemmick,” pursued Mr. Jaggers,still looking hard at me,“that he has received a letter, under date Portsmouth,from a colonist of the name of Purvis, or—”
“Or Provis,” I suggested.
“Or Provis—thank you, Pip. Perhaps it _is_ Provis?Perhaps you know it’s Provis?”
“Yes,” said I.
“You know it’s Provis. A letter, under date Portsmouth,from a colonist of the name of Provis,asking for the particulars of your address,on behalf of Magwitch.Wemmick sent him the particulars, I understand,by return of post. Probably it is through Provis that you have received the explanation of Magwitch—in New South Wales?”
“It came through Provis,” I replied.
“Good day, Pip,” said Mr. Jaggers, offering his hand;“glad to have seen you.In writing by post to Magwitch—in New South Wales—or in communicating with him through Provis, have the goodness to mention that the particulars and vouchers of our long account shall be sent to you, together with the balance; for there is still a balance remaining. Good-day, Pip!”
We shook hands, and he looked hard at me as long as he could see me.I turned at the door,and he was still looking hard at me,while the two vile casts on the shelf seemed to be trying to get their eyelids open, and to force out of their swollen throats, “O, what a man he is!”
Wemmick was out, and though he had been at his desk he could have done nothing for me. I went straight back to the Temple, where I found the terrible Provis drinking rum and water and smoking negro-head, in safety.
Next day the clothes I had ordered all came home,and he put them on. Whatever he put on,became him less (it dismally seemed to me) than what he had worn before.To my thinking, there was something in him that made it hopeless to attempt to disguise him. The more I dressed him and the better I dressed him, the more he looked like the slouching fugitive on the marshes. This effect on my anxious fancy was partly referable, no doubt, to his old face and manner growing more familiar to me; but I believe too that he dragged one of his legs as if there were still a weight of iron on it, and that from head to foot there was Convict in the very grain of the man.
The influences of his solitary hut-life were upon him besides,and gave him a savage air that no dress could tame;added to these were the influences of his subsequent branded life among men,and, crowning all, his consciousness that he was dodging and hiding now.In all his ways of sitting and standing,and eating and drinking,—of brooding about in a high-shouldered reluctant style,—of taking out his great horn-handled jackknife and wiping it on his legs and cutting his food,—of lifting light glasses and cups to his lips, as if they were clumsy pannikins,—of chopping a wedge off his bread, and soaking up with it the last fragments of gravy round and round his plate, as if to make the most of an allowance, and then drying his finger-ends on it, and then swallowing it,—in these ways and a thousand other small nameless instances arising every minute in the day, there was Prisoner, Felon, Bondsman, plain as plain could be.
It had been his own idea to wear that touch of powder,and I had conceded the powder after overcoming the shorts.But I can compare the effect of it, when on,to nothing but the probable effect of rouge upon the dead;so awful was the manner in which everything in him that it was most desirable to repress, started through that thin layer of pretence, and seemed to come blazing out at the crown of his head. It was abandoned as soon as tried, and he wore his grizzled hair cut short.
Words cannot tell what a sense I had, at the same time,of the dreadful mystery that he was to me.When he fell asleep of an evening,with his knotted hands clenching the sides of the easy-chair,and his bald head tattooed with deep wrinkles falling forward on his breast,I would sit and look at him,wondering what he had done,and loading him with all the crimes in the Calendar,until the impulse was powerful on me to start up and fly from him.Every hour so increased my abhorrence of him,that I even think I might have yielded to this impulse in the first agonies of being so haunted, notwithstanding all he had done for me and the risk he ran, but for the knowledge that Herbert must soon come back. Once, I actually did start out of bed in the night, and begin to dress myself in my worst clothes, hurriedly intending to leave him there with everything else I possessed, and enlist for India as a private soldier.
I doubt if a ghost could have been more terrible to me,up in those lonely rooms in the long evenings and long nights,with the wind and the rain always rushing by.A ghost could not have been taken and hanged on my account,and the consideration that he could be,and the dread that he would be,were no small addition to my horrors.When he was not asleep,or playing a complicated kind of Patience with a ragged pack of cards of his own,—a game that I never saw before or since, and in which he recorded his winnings by sticking his jackknife into the table,—when he was not engaged in either of these pursuits, he would ask me to read to him,—“Foreign language, dear boy!” While I complied, he, not comprehending a single word,would stand before the fire surveying me with the air of an Exhibitor,and I would see him,between the fingers of the hand with which I shaded my face,appealing in dumb show to the furniture to take notice of my proficiency.The imaginary student pursued by the misshapen creature he had impiously made,was not more wretched than I,pursued by the creature who had made me,and recoiling from him with a stronger repulsion,the more he admired me and the fonder he was of me.
This is written of, I am sensible,as if it had lasted a year. It lasted about five days.Expecting Herbert all the time, I dared not go out,except when I took Provis for an airing after dark.At length, one evening when dinner was over and I had dropped into a slumber quite worn out,—for my nights had been agitated and my rest broken by fearful dreams,—I was roused by the welcome footstep on the staircase. Provis, who had been asleep too, staggered up at the noise I made, and in an instant I saw his jackknife shining in his hand.
“Quiet!It’s Herbert!” I said; and Herbert came bursting in,with the airy freshness of six hundred miles of France upon him.
“Handel, my dear fellow, how are you,and again how are you, and again how are you?I seem to have been gone a twelvemonth!Why, so I must have been,for you have grown quite thin and pale!Handel, my—Halloa!I beg your pardon.”
He was stopped in his running on and in his shaking hands with me,by seeing Provis. Provis,regarding him with a fixed attention,was slowly putting up his jackknife,and groping in another pocket for something else.
“Herbert, my dear friend,” said I,shutting the double doors,while Herbert stood staring and wondering,“something very strange has happened.This is—a visitor of mine.”