Great Expectations, Charles Dickens [top 10 best books of all time txt] 📗

endowed with expectations only? And

even if he had not told you so,—though that is a very large If, I

grant,—could you believe that of all men in London, Mr. Jaggers is

the man to hold his present relations towards you unless he were

sure of his ground?”

I said I could not deny that this was a strong point. I said it

(people often do so, in such cases) like a rather reluctant

concession to truth and justice;—as if I wanted to deny it!

“I should think it was a strong point,” said Herbert, “and I should

think you would be puzzled to imagine a stronger; as to the rest,

you must bide your guardian’s time, and he must bide his client’s

time. You’ll be one-and-twenty before you know where you are, and

then perhaps you’ll get some further enlightenment. At all events,

you’ll be nearer getting it, for it must come at last.”

“What a hopeful disposition you have!” said I, gratefully admiring

his cheery ways.

“I ought to have,” said Herbert, “for I have not much else. I must

acknowledge, by the by, that the good sense of what I have just

said is not my own, but my father’s. The only remark I ever heard

him make on your story, was the final one, “The thing is settled

and done, or Mr. Jaggers would not be in it.” And now before I say

anything more about my father, or my father’s son, and repay

confidence with confidence, I want to make myself seriously

disagreeable to you for a moment,—positively repulsive.”

“You won’t succeed,” said I.

“O yes I shall!” said he. “One, two, three, and now I am in for

it. Handel, my good fellow;”—though he spoke in this light tone, he

was very much in earnest,—“I have been thinking since we have been

talking with our feet on this fender, that Estella surely cannot be

a condition of your inheritance, if she was never referred to by

your guardian. Am I right in so understanding what you have told

me, as that he never referred to her, directly or indirectly, in

any way? Never even hinted, for instance, that your patron might

have views as to your marriage ultimately?”

“Never.”

“Now, Handel, I am quite free from the flavor of sour grapes, upon

my soul and honor! Not being bound to her, can you not detach

yourself from her?—I told you I should be disagreeable.”

I turned my head aside, for, with a rush and a sweep, like the old

marsh winds coming up from the sea, a feeling like that which had

subdued me on the morning when I left the forge, when the mists

were solemnly rising, and when I laid my hand upon the village

finger-post, smote upon my heart again. There was silence between

us for a little while.

“Yes; but my dear Handel,” Herbert went on, as if we had been

talking, instead of silent, “its having been so strongly rooted in

the breast of a boy whom nature and circumstances made so romantic,

renders it very serious. Think of her bringing-up, and think of

Miss Havisham. Think of what she is herself (now I am repulsive and

you abominate me). This may lead to miserable things.”

“I know it, Herbert,” said I, with my head still turned away, “but

I can’t help it.”

“You can’t detach yourself?”

“No. Impossible!”

“You can’t try, Handel?”

“No. Impossible!”

“Well!” said Herbert, getting up with a lively shake as if he had

been asleep, and stirring the fire, “now I’ll endeavor to make

myself agreeable again!”

So he went round the room and shook the curtains out, put the

chairs in their places, tidied the books and so forth that were

lying about, looked into the hall, peeped into the letter-box, shut

the door, and came back to his chair by the fire: where he sat

down, nursing his left leg in both arms.

“I was going to say a word or two, Handel, concerning my father and

my father’s son. I am afraid it is scarcely necessary for my

father’s son to remark that my father’s establishment is not

particularly brilliant in its housekeeping.”

“There is always plenty, Herbert,” said I, to say something

encouraging.

“O yes! and so the dustman says, I believe, with the strongest

approval, and so does the marine-store shop in the back street.

Gravely, Handel, for the subject is grave enough, you know how it

is as well as I do. I suppose there was a time once when my father

had not given matters up; but if ever there was, the time is gone.

May I ask you if you have ever had an opportunity of remarking,

down in your part of the country, that the children of not exactly

suitable marriages are always most particularly anxious to be

married?”

This was such a singular question, that I asked him in return, “Is

it so?”

“I don’t know,” said Herbert, “that’s what I want to know. Because

it is decidedly the case with us. My poor sister Charlotte, who was

next me and died before she was fourteen, was a striking example.

Little Jane is the same. In her desire to be matrimonially

established, you might suppose her to have passed her short

existence in the perpetual contemplation of domestic bliss. Little

Alick in a frock has already made arrangements for his union with a

suitable young person at Kew. And indeed, I think we are all

engaged, except the baby.”

“Then you are?” said I.

“I am,” said Herbert; “but it’s a secret.”

I assured him of my keeping the secret, and begged to be favored

with further particulars. He had spoken so sensibly and feelingly

of my weakness that I wanted to know something about his strength.

“May I ask the name?” I said.

“Name of Clara,” said Herbert.

“Live in London?”

“Yes. perhaps I ought to mention,” said Herbert, who had become

curiously crestfallen and meek, since we entered on the interesting

theme, “that she is rather below my mother’s nonsensical family

notions. Her father had to do with the victualling of

passenger-ships. I think he was a species of purser.”

“What is he now?” said I.

“He’s an invalid now,” replied Herbert.

“Living on—?”

“On the first floor,” said Herbert. Which was not at all what I

meant, for I had intended my question to apply to his means. “I

have never seen him, for he has always kept his room overhead,

since I have known Clara. But I have heard him constantly. He makes

tremendous rows,—roars, and pegs at the floor with some frightful

instrument.” In looking at me and then laughing heartily, Herbert

for the time recovered his usual lively manner.

“Don’t you expect to see him?” said I.

“O yes, I constantly expect to see him,” returned Herbert,

“because I never hear him, without expecting him to come tumbling

through the ceiling. But I don’t know how long the rafters may

hold.”

When he had once more laughed heartily, he became meek again, and

told me that the moment he began to realize Capital, it was his

intention to marry this young lady. He added as a self-evident

proposition, engendering low spirits, “But you can’t marry, you

know, while you’re looking about you.”

As we contemplated the fire, and as I thought what a difficult

vision to realize this same Capital sometimes was, I put my hands

in my pockets. A folded piece of paper in one of them attracting my

attention, I opened it and found it to be the play-bill I had

received from Joe, relative to the celebrated provincial amateur of

Roscian renown. “And bless my heart,” I involuntarily added aloud,

“it’s tonight!”

This changed the subject in an instant, and made us hurriedly

resolve to go to the play. So, when I had pledged myself to comfort

and abet Herbert in the affair of his heart by all practicable and

impracticable means, and when Herbert had told me that his

affianced already knew me by reputation and that I should be

presented to her, and when we had warmly shaken hands upon our

mutual confidence, we blew out our candles, made up our fire,

locked our door, and issued forth in quest of Mr. Wopsle and

Denmark.