บทที่ บทที่ 47 · Some weeks passed without bringing any change. We waited for Wemmick,

. Some weeks passed without bringing any change. We waited for Wemmick,

and he made no sign. If I had never known him out of Little Britain,

and had never enjoyed the privilege of being on a familiar footing at

the Castle, I might have doubted him; not so for a moment, knowing him

as I did.

My worldly affairs began to wear a gloomy appearance, and I was pressed

for money by more than one creditor. Even I myself began to know the

want of money (I mean of ready money in my own pocket), and to relieve

it by converting some easily spared articles of jewelery into cash. But

I had quite determined that it would be a heartless fraud to take more

money from my patron in the existing state of my uncertain thoughts and

plans. Therefore, I had sent him the unopened pocket-book by Herbert,

to hold in his own keeping, and I felt a kind of satisfaction—whether

it was a false kind or a true, I hardly know—in not having profited by

his generosity since his revelation of himself.

As the time wore on, an impression settled heavily upon me that Estella

was married. Fearful of having it confirmed, though it was all but a

conviction, I avoided the newspapers, and begged Herbert (to whom I had

confided the circumstances of our last interview) never to speak of her

to me. Why I hoarded up this last wretched little rag of the robe of

hope that was rent and given to the winds, how do I know? Why did you

who read this, commit that not dissimilar inconsistency of your own

last year, last month, last week?

It was an unhappy life that I lived; and its one dominant anxiety,

towering over all its other anxieties, like a high mountain above a

range of mountains, never disappeared from my view. Still, no new cause

for fear arose. Let me start from my bed as I would, with the terror

fresh upon me that he was discovered; let me sit listening, as I would

with dread, for Herbert’s returning step at night, lest it should be

fleeter than ordinary, and winged with evil news,—for all that, and

much more to like purpose, the round of things went on. Condemned to

inaction and a state of constant restlessness and suspense, I rowed

about in my boat, and waited, waited, waited, as I best could.

There were states of the tide when, having been down the river, I could

not get back through the eddy-chafed arches and starlings of old London

Bridge; then, I left my boat at a wharf near the Custom House, to be

brought up afterwards to the Temple stairs. I was not averse to doing

this, as it served to make me and my boat a commoner incident among the

water-side people there. From this slight occasion sprang two meetings

that I have now to tell of.

One afternoon, late in the month of February, I came ashore at the

wharf at dusk. I had pulled down as far as Greenwich with the ebb tide,

and had turned with the tide. It had been a fine bright day, but had

become foggy as the sun dropped, and I had had to feel my way back

among the shipping, pretty carefully. Both in going and returning, I

had seen the signal in his window, All well.

As it was a raw evening, and I was cold, I thought I would comfort

myself with dinner at once; and as I had hours of dejection and

solitude before me if I went home to the Temple, I thought I would

afterwards go to the play. The theatre where Mr. Wopsle had achieved

his questionable triumph was in that water-side neighbourhood (it is

nowhere now), and to that theatre I resolved to go. I was aware that

Mr. Wopsle had not succeeded in reviving the Drama, but, on the

contrary, had rather partaken of its decline. He had been ominously

heard of, through the play-bills, as a faithful Black, in connection

with a little girl of noble birth, and a monkey. And Herbert had seen

him as a predatory Tartar of comic propensities, with a face like a red

brick, and an outrageous hat all over bells.

I dined at what Herbert and I used to call a geographical chop-house,

where there were maps of the world in porter-pot rims on every

half-yard of the tablecloths, and charts of gravy on every one of the

knives,—to this day there is scarcely a single chop-house within the

Lord Mayor’s dominions which is not geographical,—and wore out the time

in dozing over crumbs, staring at gas, and baking in a hot blast of

dinners. By and by, I roused myself, and went to the play.

There, I found a virtuous boatswain in His Majesty’s service,—a most

excellent man, though I could have wished his trousers not quite so

tight in some places, and not quite so loose in others,—who knocked all

the little men’s hats over their eyes, though he was very generous and

brave, and who wouldn’t hear of anybody’s paying taxes, though he was

very patriotic. He had a bag of money in his pocket, like a pudding in

the cloth, and on that property married a young person in

bed-furniture, with great rejoicings; the whole population of

Portsmouth (nine in number at the last census) turning out on the beach

to rub their own hands and shake everybody else’s, and sing “Fill,

fill!” A certain dark-complexioned Swab, however, who wouldn’t fill, or

do anything else that was proposed to him, and whose heart was openly

stated (by the boatswain) to be as black as his figure-head, proposed

to two other Swabs to get all mankind into difficulties; which was so

effectually done (the Swab family having considerable political

influence) that it took half the evening to set things right, and then

it was only brought about through an honest little grocer with a white

hat, black gaiters, and red nose, getting into a clock, with a

gridiron, and listening, and coming out, and knocking everybody down

from behind with the gridiron whom he couldn’t confute with what he had

overheard. This led to Mr. Wopsle’s (who had never been heard of

before) coming in with a star and garter on, as a plenipotentiary of

great power direct from the Admiralty, to say that the Swabs were all

to go to prison on the spot, and that he had brought the boatswain down

the Union Jack, as a slight acknowledgment of his public services. The

boatswain, unmanned for the first time, respectfully dried his eyes on

the Jack, and then cheering up, and addressing Mr. Wopsle as Your

Honour, solicited permission to take him by the fin. Mr. Wopsle,

conceding his fin with a gracious dignity, was immediately shoved into

a dusty corner, while everybody danced a hornpipe; and from that

corner, surveying the public with a discontented eye, became aware of

me.

The second piece was the last new grand comic Christmas pantomime, in

the first scene of which, it pained me to suspect that I detected Mr.

Wopsle with red worsted legs under a highly magnified phosphoric

countenance and a shock of red curtain-fringe for his hair, engaged in

the manufacture of thunderbolts in a mine, and displaying great

cowardice when his gigantic master came home (very hoarse) to dinner.

But he presently presented himself under worthier circumstances; for,

the Genius of Youthful Love being in want of assistance,—on account of

the parental brutality of an ignorant farmer who opposed the choice of

his daughter’s heart, by purposely falling upon the object, in a

flour-sack, out of the first-floor window,—summoned a sententious

Enchanter; and he, coming up from the antipodes rather unsteadily,

after an apparently violent journey, proved to be Mr. Wopsle in a

high-crowned hat, with a necromantic work in one volume under his arm.

The business of this enchanter on earth being principally to be talked

at, sung at, butted at, danced at, and flashed at with fires of various

colours, he had a good deal of time on his hands. And I observed, with

great surprise, that he devoted it to staring in my direction as if he

were lost in amazement.

There was something so remarkable in the increasing glare of Mr.

Wopsle’s eye, and he seemed to be turning so many things over in his

mind and to grow so confused, that I could not make it out. I sat

thinking of it long after he had ascended to the clouds in a large

watch-case, and still I could not make it out. I was still thinking of

it when I came out of the theatre an hour afterwards, and found him

waiting for me near the door.

“How do you do?” said I, shaking hands with him as we turned down the

street together. “I saw that you saw me.”

“Saw you, Mr. Pip!” he returned. “Yes, of course I saw you. But who

else was there?”

“Who else?”

“It is the strangest thing,” said Mr. Wopsle, drifting into his lost

look again; “and yet I could swear to him.”

Becoming alarmed, I entreated Mr. Wopsle to explain his meaning.

“Whether I should have noticed him at first but for your being there,”

said Mr. Wopsle, going on in the same lost way, “I can’t be positive;

yet I think I should.”

Involuntarily I looked round me, as I was accustomed to look round me

when I went home; for these mysterious words gave me a chill.

“Oh! He can’t be in sight,” said Mr. Wopsle. “He went out before I went

off. I saw him go.”

Having the reason that I had for being suspicious, I even suspected

this poor actor. I mistrusted a design to entrap me into some

admission. Therefore I glanced at him as we walked on together, but

said nothing.

“I had a ridiculous fancy that he must be with you, Mr. Pip, till I saw

that you were quite unconscious of him, sitting behind you there like a

ghost.”

My former chill crept over me again, but I was resolved not to speak

yet, for it was quite consistent with his words that he might be set on

to induce me to connect these references with Provis. Of course, I was

perfectly sure and safe that Provis had not been there.

“I dare say you wonder at me, Mr. Pip; indeed, I see you do. But it is

so very strange! You’ll hardly believe what I am going to tell you. I

could hardly believe it myself, if you told me.”

“Indeed?” said I.

“No, indeed. Mr. Pip, you remember in old times a certain Christmas

Day, when you were quite a child, and I dined at Gargery’s, and some

soldiers came to the door to get a pair of handcuffs mended?”

“I remember it very well.”

“And you remember that there was a chase after two convicts, and that

we joined in it, and that Gargery took you on his back, and that I took

the lead, and you kept up with me as well as you could?”

“I remember it all very well.” Better than he thought,—except the last

clause.

“And you remember that we came up with the two in a ditch, and that

there was a scuffle between them, and that one of them had been

severely handled and much mauled about the face by the other?”

“I see it all before me.”

“And that the soldiers lighted torches, and put the two in the centre,

and that we went on to see the last of them, over the black marshes,

with the torchlight shining on their faces,—I am particular about

that,—with the torchlight shining on their faces, when there was an

outer ring of dark night all about us?”

“Yes,” said I. “I remember all that.”

“Then, Mr. Pip, one of those two prisoners sat behind you tonight. I

saw him over your shoulder.”

“Steady!” I thought. I asked him then, “Which of the two do you suppose

you saw?”

“The one who had been mauled,” he answered readily, “and I’ll swear I

saw him! The more I think of him, the more certain I am of him.”

“This is very curious!” said I, with the best assumption I could put on

of its being nothing more to me. “Very curious indeed!”

I cannot exaggerate the enhanced disquiet into which this conversation

threw me, or the special and peculiar terror I felt at Compeyson’s

having been behind me “like a ghost.” For if he had ever been out of my

thoughts for a few moments together since the hiding had begun, it was

in those very moments when he was closest to me; and to think that I

should be so unconscious and off my guard after all my care was as if I

had shut an avenue of a hundred doors to keep him out, and then had

found him at my elbow. I could not doubt, either, that he was there,

because I was there, and that, however slight an appearance of danger

there might be about us, danger was always near and active.

I put such questions to Mr. Wopsle as, When did the man come in? He

could not tell me that; he saw me, and over my shoulder he saw the man.

It was not until he had seen him for some time that he began to

identify him; but he had from the first vaguely associated him with me,

and known him as somehow belonging to me in the old village time. How

was he dressed? Prosperously, but not noticeably otherwise; he thought,

in black. Was his face at all disfigured? No, he believed not. I

believed not too, for, although in my brooding state I had taken no

especial notice of the people behind me, I thought it likely that a

face at all disfigured would have attracted my attention.

When Mr. Wopsle had imparted to me all that he could recall or I

extract, and when I had treated him to a little appropriate

refreshment, after the fatigues of the evening, we parted. It was

between twelve and one o’clock when I reached the Temple, and the gates

were shut. No one was near me when I went in and went home.

Herbert had come in, and we held a very serious council by the fire.

But there was nothing to be done, saving to communicate to Wemmick what

I had that night found out, and to remind him that we waited for his

hint. As I thought that I might compromise him if I went too often to

the Castle, I made this communication by letter. I wrote it before I

went to bed, and went out and posted it; and again no one was near me.

Herbert and I agreed that we could do nothing else but be very

cautious. And we were very cautious indeed,—more cautious than before,

if that were possible,—and I for my part never went near Chinks’s

Basin, except when I rowed by, and then I only looked at Mill Pond Bank

as I looked at anything else.