“Whose child was Estella?”

She shook her head.

“You don’t know?”

She shook her head again.

“But Mr. Jaggers brought her here, or sent her here?”

“Brought her here.”

“Will you tell me how that came about?”

She answered in a low whisper and with caution:  “I had been shut up in these rooms a long time (I don’t know how long; you know what time the clocks keep here), when I told him that I wanted a little girl to rear and love, and save from my fate.  I had first seen him when I sent for him to lay this place waste for me; having read of him in the newspapers, before I and the world parted.  He told me that he would look about him for such an orphan child.  One night he brought her here asleep, and I called her Estella.”

“Might I ask her age then?”

“Two or three.  She herself knows nothing, but that she was left an orphan and I adopted her.”

So convinced I was of that woman’s being her mother, that I wanted no evidence to establish the fact in my own mind.  But, to any mind, I thought, the connection here was clear and straight.

What more could I hope to do by prolonging the interview?  I had succeeded on behalf of Herbert, Miss Havisham had told me all she knew of Estella, I had said and done what I could to ease her mind.  No matter with what other words we parted; we parted.

Twilight was closing in when I went down stairs into the natural air.  I called to the woman who had opened the gate when I entered, that I would not trouble her just yet, but would walk round the place before leaving.  For, I had a presentiment that I should never be there again, and I felt that the dying light was suited to my last view of it.

By the wilderness of casks that I had walked on long ago, and on which the rain of years had fallen since, rotting them in many places, and leaving miniature swamps and pools of water upon those that stood on end, I made my way to the ruined garden.  I went all round it; round by the corner where Herbert and I had fought our battle; round by the paths where Estella and I had walked.  So cold, so lonely, so dreary all!

Taking the brewery on my way back, I raised the rusty latch of a little door at the garden end of it, and walked through.  I was going out at the opposite door — not easy to open now, for the damp wood had started and swelled, and the hinges were yielding, and the threshold was encumbered with a growth of fungus — when I turned my head to look back.  A childish association revived with wonderful force in the moment of the slight action, and I fancied that I saw Miss Havisham hanging to the beam.  So strong was the impression, that I stood under the beam shuddering from head to foot before I knew it was a fancy — though to be sure I was there in an instant.