“It serves you right,” said Wemmick, “Get
out.”
So the unfortunate Mike very humbly withdrew, and
Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick appeared to have re-established
their good understanding, and went to work again with
an air of refreshment upon them as if they had just
had lunch.
From Little Britain, I went, with my cheque in my
pocket, to Miss Skiffins’s brother, the accountant;
and Miss Skiffins’s brother, the accountant,
going straight to Clarriker’s and bringing Clarriker
to me, I had the great satisfaction of concluding that
arrangement. It was the only good thing I had
done, and the only completed thing I had done, since
I was first apprised of my great expectations.
Clarriker informing me on that occasion that the affairs
of the House were steadily progressing, that he would
now be able to establish a small branch-house in the
East which was much wanted for the extension of the
business, and that Herbert in his new partnership
capacity would go out and take charge of it, I found
that I must have prepared for a separation from my
friend, even though my own affairs had been more settled.
And now indeed I felt as if my last anchor were loosening
its hold, and I should soon be driving with the winds
and waves.
But, there was recompense in the joy with which Herbert
would come home of a night and tell me of these changes,
little imagining that he told me no news, and would
sketch airy pictures of himself conducting Clara Barley
to the land of the Arabian Nights, and of me going
out to join them (with a caravan of camels, I believe),
and of our all going up the Nile and seeing wonders.
Without being sanguine as to my own part in these
bright plans, I felt that Herbert’s way was
clearing fast, and that old Bill Barley had but to
stick to his pepper and rum, and his daughter would
soon be happily provided for.
We had now got into the month of March. My left
arm, though it presented no bad symptoms, took in
the natural course so long to heal that I was still
unable to get a coat on. My right arm was tolerably
restored; — disfigured, but fairly serviceable.
On a Monday morning, when Herbert and I were at breakfast,
I received the following letter from Wemmick by the
post.
“Walworth. Burn this as soon as read.
Early in the week, or say Wednesday, you might do
what you know of, if you felt disposed to try it.
Now burn.”
When I had shown this to Herbert and had put it in
the fire — but not before we had both got it
by heart — we considered what to do. For,
of course my being disabled could now be no longer
kept out of view.
“I have thought it over, again and again,”
said Herbert, “and I think I know a better course
than taking a Thames waterman. Take Startop.
A good fellow, a skilled hand, fond of us, and enthusiastic
and honourable.”
I had thought of him, more than once.
