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-bye, 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.

"Oh 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 flavour of sour grapes, upon

my soul and honour! 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 endeavour 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.

"Oh 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.