the best, how indefinite and unsatisfactory, only
to know so vaguely what they are!"  In saying
this, I relieved my mind of what had always
been there, more or less, though no doubt most
since yesterday.

"Now, Handel," Herbert replied, in his gay
hopeful way, "it seems to me that in the
despondency of the tender passion, we are looking
into our gift-horse's mouth with a magnifying
glass. Likewise, it seems to me that
concentrating our attention on that examination, we
altogether overlook one of the best points of the
animal. Didn't you tell me that your guardian,
Mr. Jaggers, told you in the beginning, that you
were not 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.

"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,
"it's 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 there ever 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.