TURNING from the Temple gate as soon as I had read the warning,
I made the best of my way to Fleet-street, and there got a late hackney chariot
and drove to the Hummums in Covent Garden. In those times a bed was always to be
got there at any hour of the night, and the chamberlain, letting me in at his
ready wicket, lighted the candle next in order on his shelf, and showed me
straight into the bedroom next in order on his list. It was a sort of vault on
the ground floor at the back, with a despotic monster of a four-post bedstead in
it, straddling over the whole place, putting one of his arbitrary legs into the
fire-place and another into the doorway, and squeezing the wretched little
washing-stand in quite a Divinely Righteous manner.
As I had asked for a night-light, the chamberlain had brought me in, before
he left me, the good old constitutional rush-light of those virtuous days - an
object like the ghost of a walking-cane, which instantly broke its back if it
were touched, which nothing could ever be lighted at, and which was placed in
solitary confinement at the bottom of a high tin tower, perforated with round
holes that made a staringly wide-awake pattern on the walls. When I had got into
bed, and lay there footsore, weary, and wretched, I found that I could no more
close my own eyes than I could close the eyes of this foolish Argus. And thus,
in the gloom and death of the night, we stared at one another.
What a doleful night! How anxious, how dismal, how long!There was an
inhospitable smell in the room, of cold soot and hot dust; and, as I looked up
into the corners of the tester over my head, I thought what a number of
blue-bottle flies from the butchers', and earwigs from the market, and grubs
from the country, must be holding on up there, lying by for next summer. This
led me to speculate whether any of them ever tumbled down, and then I fancied
that I felt light falls on my face - disagreeable turn of thought, suggesting
other and more objectionable approaches up my back. When I had lain awake a
little while, those extraordinary voices with which silence teems, began to make
themselves audible. The closet whispered, the fireplace sighed, the little
washing-stand ticked, and one guitar-string played occasionally in the chest of
drawers. At about the same time, the eyes on the wall acquired a new expression,
and in every one of those staring rounds I saw written,DON'T GO HOME.
Whatever night-fancies and night-noises crowded on me, they never warded off
thisDON'T GO HOME. It plaited itself into whatever I thought of, as a bodily
pain would have done. Not long before, I had read in the newspapers, how a
gentleman unknown had come to the Hummums in the night, and had gone to bed, and
had destroyed himself, and had been found in the morning weltering in blood. It
came into my head that he must have occupied this very vault of mine, and I got
out of bed to assure myself that there were no red marks about; then opened the
door to look out into the passages, and cheer myself with the companionship of a
distant light, near which I knew the chamberlain to be dozing. But all this
time, why I was not to go home, and what had happened at home, and when I should
go home, and whether Provis was safe at home, were questions occupying my mind
so busily, that one might have supposed there could be no more room in it for
any other theme. Even when I thought of Estella, and how we had parted that day
for ever, and when I recalled all the circumstances of our parting, and all her
looks and tones, and the action of her fingers while she knitted - even then I
was pursuing, here and there and everywhere, the caution Don't go home. When at
last I dozed, in sheer exhaustion of mind and body, it became a vast shadowy
verb which I had to conjugate. Imperative mood, present tense: Do not thou go
home, let him not go home, let us not go home, do not ye or you go home, let not
them go home. Then, potentially: I may not and I cannot go home; and I might
not, could not, would not, and should not go home; until I felt that I was going
distracted, and rolled over on the pillow, and looked at the staring rounds upon
the wall again.
I had left directions that I was to be called at seven; for it was plain that
I must see Wemmick before seeing any one else, and equally plain that this was a
case in which his Walworth sentiments, only, could be taken. It was a relief to
get out of the room where the night had been so miserable, and I needed no
second knocking at the door to startle me from my uneasy bed.
The Castle battlements arose upon my view at eight o'clock. The little
servant happening to be entering the fortress with two hot rolls, I passed
through the postern and crossed the drawbridge, in her company, and so came
without announcement into the presence of Wemmick as he was making tea for
himself and the Aged. An open door afforded a perspective view of the Aged in
bed.
`Halloa, Mr Pip!' said Wemmick. `You did come home, then?'
`Yes,' I returned; `but I didn't go home.'
`That's all right,' said he, rubbing his hands. `I left a note for you at
each of the Temple gates, on the chance. Which gate did you come to?'
I told him.
`I'll go round to the others in the course of the day and destroy the notes,'
said Wemmick; `it's a good rule never to leave documentary evidence of you can
help it, because you don't know when it may be put in. I'm going to take a
liberty with you. - Would you mind toasting this sausage for the Aged P.?'
I said I should be delighted to do it.
`Then you can go about your work, Mary Anne,' said Wemmick to the little
servant; `which leaves us to ourselves, don't you see, Mr Pip?' he added,
winking, as she disappeared.
I thanked him for his friendship and caution, and our discourse proceeded in
a low tone, while I toasted the Aged's sausage and he buttered the crumb of the
Aged's roll.
`Now, Mr Pip, you know,' said Wemmick, `you and I understand one another. We
are in our private and personal capacities, and we have been engaged in a
confidential transaction before today. Official sentiments are one thing. We are
extra official.'
I cordially assented. I was so very nervous, that I had already lighted the
Aged's sausage like a torch, and been obliged to blow it out.
`I accidentally heard, yesterday morning,' said Wemmick, `being in a certain
place where I once took you - even between you and me, it's as well not to
mention names when avoidable--'
`Much better not,' said I. `I understand you.'
`I heard there by chance, yesterday morning,' said Wemmick, `that a certain
person not altogether of uncolonial pursuits, and not unpossessed of portable
property - I don't know who it may really be - we won't name this person--'
`Not necessary,' said I.
` - had made some little stir in a certain part of the world where a good
many people go, not always in gratification of their own inclinations, and not
quite irrespective of the government expense--'
In watching his face, I made quite a firework of the Aged's sausage, and
greatly discomposed both my own attention and Wemmick's; for which I apologized.
` - by disappearing from such place, and being no more heard of thereabouts.
From which,' said Wemmick, `conjectures had been raised and theories formed. I
also heard that you at your chambers in Garden-court, Temple, had been watched,
and might be watched again.'
`By whom?' said I.
`I wouldn't go into that,' said Wemmick, evasively, `it might clash with
official responsibilities. I heard it, as I have in my time heard other curious
things in the same place. I don't tell it you on information received. I heard
it.'
He took the toasting-fork and sausage from me as he spoke, and set forth the
Aged's breakfast neatly on a little tray. Previous to placing it before him, he
went into the Aged's room with a clean white cloth, and tied the same under the
old gentleman's chin, and propped him up, and put his nightcap on one side, and
gave him quite a rakish air. Then, he placed his breakfast before him with great
care, and said, `All right, ain't you, Aged P.?' To which the cheerful Aged
replied, `All right, John, my boy, all right!' As there seemed to be a tacit
understanding that the Aged was not in a presentable state, and was therefore to
be considered invisible, I made a pretence of being in complete ignorance of
these proceedings.
`This watching of me at my chambers (which I have once had reason to
suspect),' I said to Wemmick when he came back, `is inseparable from the person
to whom you have adverted; is it?'
Wemmick looked very serious. `I couldn't undertake to say that, of my own
knowledge. I mean, I couldn't undertake to say it was at first. But it either
is, or it will be, or it's in great danger of being.'
As I saw that he was restrained by fealty to Little Britain from saying as
much as he could, and as I knew with thankfulness to him how far out of his way
he went to say what he did, I could not press him. But I told him, after a
little meditation over the fire, that I would like to ask him a question,
subject to his answering or not answering, as he deemed right, and sure that his
course would be right. He paused in his breakfast, and crossing his arms, and
pinching his shirt-sleeves (his notion of indoor comfort was to sit without any
coat), he nodded to me once, to put my question.
`You have heard of a man of bad character, whose true name is Compeyson?'
He answered with one other nod.
`Is he living?'
One other nod.
`Is he in London?'
He gave me one other nod, compressed the post-office exceedingly, gave me one
last nod, and went on with his breakfast.
`Now,' said Wemmick, `questioning being over;' which he emphasized and
repeated for my guidance; `I come to what I did, after hearing what I heard. I
went to Garden-court to find you; not finding you, I went to Clarriker's to find
Mr Herbert.'
`And him you found?' said I, with great anxiety.
`And him I found. Without mentioning any names or going into any details, I
gave him to understand that if he was aware of anybody - Tom, Jack, or Richard -
being about the chambers, or about the immediate neighbourhood, he had better
get Tom, Jack, or Richard, out of the way while you were out of the way.'
`He would be greatly puzzled what to do?'
`He was puzzled what to do; not the less, because I gave him my opinion that
it was not safe to try to get Tom, Jack, or Richard, too far out of the way at
present. Mr Pip, I'll tell you something. Under existing circumstances there is
no place like a great city when you are once in it. Don't break cover too soon.
Lie close. Wait till things slacken, before you try the open, even for foreign
air.'
I thanked him for his valuable advice, and asked him what Herbert had done?
`Mr Herbert,' said Wemmick, `after being all of a heap for half an hour,
struck out a plan. He mentioned to me as a secret, that he is courting a young
lady who has, as no doubt you are aware, a bedridden Pa. Which Pa, having been
in the Purser line of life, lies a-bed in a bow-window where he can see the
ships sail up and down the river. You are acquainted with the young lady, most
probably?'
`Not personally,' said I.
The truth was, that she had objected to me as an expensive companion who did
Herbert no good, and that, when Herbert had first proposed to present me to her,
she had received the proposal with such very moderate warmth, that Herbert had
felt himself obliged to confide the state of the case to me, with a view to the
lapse of a little time before I made her acquaintance. When I had begun to
advance Herbert's prospects by Stealth, I had been able to bear this with
cheerful philosophy; he and his affianced, for their part, had naturally not
been very anxious to introduce a third person into their interviews; and thus,
although I was assured that I had risen in Clara's esteem, and although the
young lady and I had long regularly interchanged messages and remembrances by
Herbert, I had never seen her. However, I did not trouble Wemmick with these
particulars.
`The house with the bow-window,' said Wemmick, `being by the river-side, down
the Pool there between Limehouse and Greenwich, and being kept, it seems, by a
very respectable widow who has a furnished upper floor to let, Mr Herbert put it
to me, what did I think of that as a temporary tenement for Tom, Jack, or
Richard? Now, I thought very well of it, for three reasons I'll give you. That
is to say. Firstly. It's altogether out of all your beats, and is well away from
the usual heap of streets great and small. Secondly. Without going near it
yourself, you could always hear of the safety of Tom, Jack, or Richard, through
Mr Herbert. Thirdly. After a while and when it might be prudent, if you should
want to slip Tom, Jack, or Richard, on board a foreign packet-boat, there he is
- ready.'
Much comforted by these considerations, I thanked Wemmick again and again,
and begged him to proceed.
`Well, sir! Mr Herbert threw himself into the business with a will, and by
nine o'clock last night he housed Tom, Jack, or Richard - whichever it may be -
you and I don't want to know - quite successfully. At the old lodgings it was
understood that he was summoned to Dover, and in fact he was taken down the
Dover road and cornered out of it. Now, another great advantage of all this, is,
that it was done without you, and when, if any one was concerning himself about
your movements, you must be known to be ever so many miles off and quite
otherwise engaged. This diverts suspicion and confuses it; and for the same
reason I recommended that even if you came back last night, you should not go
home. It brings in more confusion, and you want confusion.'
Wemmick, having finished his breakfast, here looked at his watch, and began
to get his coat on.
`And now, Mr Pip,' said he, with his hands still in the sleeves, `I have
probably done the most I can do; but if I can ever do more - from a Walworth
point of view, and in a strictly private and personal capacity - I shall be glad
to do it. Here's the address. There can be no harm in your going here to-night
and seeing for yourself that all is well with Tom, Jack, or Richard, before you
go home - which is another reason for your not going home last night. But after
you have gone home, don't go back here. You are very welcome, I am sure, Mr
Pip;' his hands were now out of his sleeves, and I was shaking them; `and let me
finally impress one important point upon you.' He laid his hands upon my
shoulders, and added in a solemn whisper: `Avail yourself of this evening to lay
hold of his portable property. You don't know what may happen to him. Don't let
anything happen to the portable property.'
Quite despairing of making my mind clear to Wemmick on this point, I forbore
to try.
`Time's up,' said Wemmick, `and I must be off. If you had nothing more
pressing to do than to keep here till dark, that's what I should advise. You
look very much worried, and it would do you good to have a perfectly quiet day
with the Aged - he'll be up presently - and a little bit of - you remember the
pig?'
`Of course,' said I.
`Well; and a little bit of him. That sausage you toasted was his, and he was
in all respects a first-rater. Do try him, if it is only for old acquaintance
sake. Good-bye, Aged Parent!' in a cheery shout.
`All right, John; all right, my boy!' piped the old man from within.
I soon fell asleep before Wemmick's fire, and the Aged and I enjoyed one
another's society by falling asleep before it more or less all day. We had loin
of pork for dinner, and greens grown on the estate, and I nodded at the Aged
with a good intention whenever I failed to do it drowsily. When it was quite
dark, I left the Aged preparing the fire for toast; and I inferred from the
number of teacups, as well as from his glances at the two little doors in the
wall, that Miss Skiffins was expected.
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