Chapter 29

Betimes in the morning I was up and out.  It was too early yet to go to Miss Havisham’s, so I loitered into the country on Miss Havisham’s side of town — which was not Joe’s side; I could go there to-morrow — thinking about my patroness, and painting brilliant pictures of her plans for me.

She had adopted Estella, she had as good as adopted me, and it could not fail to be her intention to bring us together.  She reserved it for me to restore the desolate house, admit the sunshine into the dark rooms, set the clocks a-going and the cold hearths a-blazing, tear down the cobwebs, destroy the vermin — in short, do all the shining deeds of the young Knight of romance, and marry the Princess.  I had stopped to look at the house as I passed; and its seared red brick walls, blocked windows, and strong green ivy clasping even the stacks of chimneys with its twigs and tendons, as if with sinewy old arms, had made up a rich attractive mystery, of which I was the hero.  Estella was the inspiration of it, and the heart of it, of course.  But, though she had taken such strong possession of me, though my fancy and my hope were so set upon her, though her influence on my boyish life and character had been all-powerful, I did not, even that romantic morning, invest her with any attributes save those she possessed.  I mention this in this place, of a fixed purpose, because it is the clue by which I am to be followed into my poor labyrinth.  According to my experience, the conventional notion of a lover cannot be always true.  The unqualified truth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her simply because I found her irresistible.  Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.  Once for all; I loved her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence in restraining me, than if I had devoutly believed her to be human perfection.

I so shaped out my walk as to arrive at the gate at my old time.  When I had rung at the bell with an unsteady hand, I turned my back upon the gate, while I tried to get my breath and keep the beating of my heart moderately quiet.  I heard the side door open, and steps come across the court-yard; but I pretended not to hear, even when the gate swung on its rusty hinges.

Being at last touched on the shoulder, I started and turned.  I started much more naturally then, to find myself confronted by a man in a sober grey dress.  The last man I should have expected to see in that place of porter at Miss Havisham’s door.

“Orlick!”

“Ah, young master, there’s more changes than yours.  But come in, come in.  It’s opposed to my orders to hold the gate open.”

I entered and he swung it, and locked it, and took the key out.  “Yes!” said he, facing round, after doggedly preceding me a few steps towards the house.  “Here I am!”