A Tale of Two Cities and Great Expectations (Penguin) - Charles Dickens [360]
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 the 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 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, I had thought well of what I was going to say coming along.
“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 an end.”
“And Magwitch—in New South Wales—having at last disclosed himself,” said Mr. Jaggers, “you will comprehend, Pip, how rigidly thoughout 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