"If I could only get myself to fall in love with you - you don't

mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?"

"Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me."

"If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for

me."

"But you never will, you see," said Biddy.

It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would

have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore

observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and

she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and

yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on

the point.

When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment,

and get over a stile near a sluice gate. There started up, from the

gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his

stagnant way), Old Orlick.

"Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?"

"Where should we be going, but home?"

"Well then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!"

This penalty of being jiggered was a favourite supposititious case

of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware

of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront

mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I

was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me

personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook.

Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a

whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like

him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but

we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information

with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after

us at a little distance.

Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in

that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to

give any account, I asked her why she did not like him.

"Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after

us, "because I - I am afraid he likes me."

"Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked, indignantly.

"No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told

me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye."

However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not

doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed

upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an

outrage on myself.

"But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly.

"No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I

don't approve of it."

"Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to

you."

"Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of

you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent."

I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever

circumstances were favourable to his dancing at Biddy, got before

him, to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's

establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I

should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and

reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know

thereafter.

And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I

complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and

seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than

Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was

born, had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient

means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide

conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge,

was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners

with Joe and to keep company with Biddy - when all in a moment some

confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me,

like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again.