Charles Dickens 37 page

For now, my repugnance to him had all melted away,

and in the hunted wounded shackled creature who held

my hand in his, I only saw a man who had meant to be my

benefactor, and who had felt affectionately, gratefully, and

generously, towards me with great constancy through a se-

ries of years. I only saw in him a much better man than I

had been to Joe.

His breathing became more difficult and painful as the

night drew on, and often he could not repress a groan. I

tried to rest him on the arm I could use, in any easy posi-

Great Expectations

tion; but, it was dreadful to think that I could not be sorry at

heart for his being badly hurt, since it was unquestionably

best that he should die. That there were, still living, people

enough who were able and willing to identify him, I could

not doubt. That he would be leniently treated, I could not

hope. He who had been presented in the worst light at his

trial, who had since broken prison and had been tried again,

who had returned from transportation under a life sentence,

and who had occasioned the death of the man who was the

cause of his arrest.

As we returned towards the setting sun we had yesterday

left behind us, and as the stream of our hopes seemed all

running back, I told him how grieved I was to think that he

had come home for my sake.

‘Dear boy,’ he answered, ‘I’m quite content to take my

chance. I’ve seen my boy, and he can be a gentleman with-

out me.’

No. I had thought about that, while we had been there

side by side. No. Apart from any inclinations of my own, I

understood Wemmick’s hint now. I foresaw that, being con-

victed, his possessions would be forfeited to the Crown.

‘Lookee here, dear boy,’ said he ‘It’s best as a gentleman

should not be knowed to belong to me now. Only come

to see me as if you come by chance alonger Wemmick. Sit

where I can see you when I am swore to, for the last o’ many

times, and I don’t ask no more.’

‘I will never stir from your side,’ said I, ‘when I am suf-

fered to be near you. Please God, I will be as true to you, as

you have been to me!’

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I felt his hand tremble as it held mine, and he turned his

face away as he lay in the bottom of the boat, and I heard

that old sound in his throat - softened now, like all the rest

of him. It was a good thing that he had touched this point,

for it put into my mind what I might not otherwise have

thought of until too late: That he need never know how his

hopes of enriching me had perished.

Great Expectations

Chapter 55

He was taken to the Police Court next day, and would

have been immediately committed for trial, but that

it was necessary to send down for an old officer of the pris-

on-ship from which he had once escaped, to speak to his

identity. Nobody doubted it; but, Compeyson, who had

meant to depose to it, was tumbling on the tides, dead, and

it happened that there was not at that time any prison offi-

cer in London who could give the required evidence. I had

gone direct to Mr. Jaggers at his private house, on my ar-

rival over night, to retain his assistance, and Mr. Jaggers on

the prisoner’s behalf would admit nothing. It was the sole

resource, for he told me that the case must be over in five

minutes when the witness was there, and that no power on

earth could prevent its going against us.

I imparted to Mr. Jaggers my design of keeping him in

ignorance of the fate of his wealth. Mr. Jaggers was queru-

lous and angry with me for having ‘let it slip through my

fingers,’ and said we must memorialize by-and-by, and try

at all events for some of it. But, he did not conceal from me

that although there might be many cases in which the for-

feiture would not be exacted, there were no circumstances

in this case to make it one of them. I understood that, very

well. I was not related to the outlaw, or connected with him

by any recognizable tie; he had put his hand to no writing or

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settlement in my favour before his apprehension, and to do

so now would be idle. I had no claim, and I finally resolved,

and ever afterwards abided by the resolution, that my heart

should never be sickened with the hopeless task of attempt-

ing to establish one.

There appeared to be reason for supposing that the

drowned informer had hoped for a reward out of this

forfeiture, and had obtained some accurate knowledge

of Magwitch’s affairs. When his body was found, many

miles from the scene of his death, and so horribly disfig-

ured that he was only recognizable by the contents of his

pockets, notes were still legible, folded in a case he carried.

Among these, were the name of a banking-house in New

South Wales where a sum of money was, and the designa-

tion of certain lands of considerable value. Both these heads

of information were in a list that Magwitch, while in prison,

gave to Mr. Jaggers, of the possessions he supposed I should

inherit. His ignorance, poor fellow, at last served him; he

never mistrusted but that my inheritance was quite safe,

with Mr. Jaggers’s aid.

After three days’ delay, during which the crown prose-

cution stood over for the production of the witness from

the prison-ship, the witness came, and completed the easy

case. He was committed to take his trial at the next Sessions,

which would come on in a month.

It was at this dark time of my life that Herbert returned

home one evening, a good deal cast down, and said:

‘My dear Handel, I fear I shall soon have to leave you.’

His partner having prepared me for that, I was less sur-

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prised than he thought.

‘We shall lose a fine opportunity if I put off going to Cai-

ro, and I am very much afraid I must go, Handel, when you

most need me.’

‘Herbert, I shall always need you, because I shall always

love you; but my need is no greater now, than at another

time.’

‘You will be so lonely.’

‘I have not leisure to think of that,’ said I. ‘You know that

I am always with him to the full extent of the time allowed,

and that I should be with him all day long, if I could. And

when I come away from him, you know that my thoughts

are with him.’

The dreadful condition to which he was brought, was so

appalling to both of us, that we could not refer to it in plain-

er words.

‘My dear fellow,’ said Herbert, ‘let the near prospect of

our separation - for, it is very near - be my justification for

troubling you about yourself. Have you thought of your fu-

ture?’

‘No, for I have been afraid to think of any future.’

‘But yours cannot be dismissed; indeed, my dear dear

Handel, it must not be dismissed. I wish you would enter on

it now, as far as a few friendly words go, with me.’

‘I will,’ said I.

‘In this branch house of ours, Handel, we must have a—‘

I saw that his delicacy was avoiding the right word, so I

said, ‘A clerk.’

‘A clerk. And I hope it is not at all unlikely that he may

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expand (as a clerk of your acquaintance has expanded) into

a partner. Now, Handel - in short, my dear boy, will you

come to me?’

There was something charmingly cordial and engaging

in the manner in which after saying ‘Now, Handel,’ as if it

were the grave beginning of a portentous business exordi-

um, he had suddenly given up that tone, stretched out his

honest hand, and spoken like a schoolboy.

‘Clara and I have talked about it again and again,’ Her-

bert pursued, ‘and the dear little thing begged me only this

evening, with tears in her eyes, to say to you that if you will

live with us when we come together, she will do her best to

make you happy, and to convince her husband’s friend that

he is her friend too. We should get on so well, Handel!’

I thanked her heartily, and I thanked him heartily, but

said I could not yet make sure of joining him as he so kindly

offered. Firstly, my mind was too preoccupied to be able to

take in the subject clearly. Secondly - Yes! Secondly, there

was a vague something lingering in my thoughts that will

come out very near the end of this slight narrative.

‘But if you thought, Herbert, that you could, without do-

ing any injury to your business, leave the question open for

a little while—‘

‘For any while,’ cried Herbert. ‘Six months, a year!’

‘Not so long as that,’ said I. ‘Two or three months at

most.’

Herbert was highly delighted when we shook hands on

this arrangement, and said he could now take courage to

tell me that he believed he must go away at the end of the

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week.

‘And Clara?’ said I.

‘The dear little thing,’ returned Herbert, ‘holds dutifully

to her father as long as he lasts; but he won’t last long. Mrs.

Whimple confides to me that he is certainly going.’

‘Not to say an unfeeling thing,’ said I, ‘he cannot do bet-

ter than go.’

‘I am afraid that must be admitted,’ said Herbert: ‘and

then I shall come back for the dear little thing, and the dear

little thing and I will walk quietly into the nearest church.

Remember! The blessed darling comes of no family, my

dear Handel, and never looked into the red book, and hasn’t

a notion about her grandpapa. What a fortune for the son

of my mother!’

On the Saturday in that same week, I took my leave of

Herbert - full of bright hope, but sad and sorry to leave me

- as he sat on one of the seaport mail coaches. I went into a

coffee-house to write a little note to Clara, telling her he had

gone off, sending his love to her over and over again, and

then went to my lonely home - if it deserved the name, for it

was now no home to me, and I had no home anywhere.

On the stairs I encountered Wemmick, who was coming

down, after an unsuccessful application of his knuckles to

my door. I had not seen him alone, since the disastrous is-

sue of the attempted flight; and he had come, in his private

and personal capacity, to say a few words of explanation in

reference to that failure.

‘The late Compeyson,’ said Wemmick, ‘had by little and

little got at the bottom of half of the regular business now

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transacted, and it was from the talk of some of his people

in trouble (some of his people being always in trouble) that

I heard what I did. I kept my ears open, seeming to have

them shut, until I heard that he was absent, and I thought

that would be the best time for making the attempt. I can

only suppose now, that it was a part of his policy, as a very

clever man, habitually to deceive his own instruments. You

don’t blame me, I hope, Mr. Pip? I am sure I tried to serve

you, with all my heart.’

‘I am as sure of that, Wemmick, as you can be, and I thank

you most earnestly for all your interest and friendship.’

‘Thank you, thank you very much. It’s a bad job,’ said

Wemmick, scratching his head, ‘and I assure you I haven’t

been so cut up for a long time. What I look at, is the sacrifice

of so much portable property. Dear me!’

‘What I think of, Wemmick, is the poor owner of the

property.’

‘Yes, to be sure,’ said Wemmick. ‘Of course there can be

no objection to your being sorry for him, and I’d put down

a five-pound note myself to get him out of it. But what I look

at, is this. The late Compeyson having been beforehand

with him in intelligence of his return, and being so deter-

mined to bring him to book, I do not think he could have

been saved. Whereas, the portable property certainly could

have been saved. That’s the difference between the property

and the owner, don’t you see?’

I invited Wemmick to come up-stairs, and refresh him-

self with a glass of grog before walking to Walworth. He

accepted the invitation. While he was drinking his mod-

Great Expectations

erate allowance, he said, with nothing to lead up to it, and

after having appeared rather fidgety:

‘What do you think of my meaning to take a holiday on

Monday, Mr. Pip?’

‘Why, I suppose you have not done such a thing these

twelve months.’

‘These twelve years, more likely,’ said Wemmick. ‘Yes.

I’m going to take a holiday. More than that; I’m going to

take a walk. More than that; I’m going to ask you to take a

walk with me.’

I was about to excuse myself, as being but a bad compan-

ion just then, when Wemmick anticipated me.

‘I know your engagements,’ said he, ‘and I know you are

out of sorts, Mr. Pip. But if you could oblige me, I should

take it as a kindness. It ain’t a long walk, and it’s an early

one. Say it might occupy you (including breakfast on the

walk) from eight to twelve. Couldn’t you stretch a point and

manage it?’

He had done so much for me at various times, that this

was very little to do for him. I said I could manage it - would

manage it - and he was so very much pleased by my acqui-

escence, that I was pleased too. At his particular request, I

appointed to call for him at the Castle at half-past eight on

Monday morning, and so we parted for the time.

Punctual to my appointment, I rang at the Castle gate

on the Monday morning, and was received by Wemmick

himself: who struck me as looking tighter than usual, and

having a sleeker hat on. Within, there were two glasses of

rum-and-milk prepared, and two biscuits. The Aged must

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have been stirring with the lark, for, glancing into the per-

spective of his bedroom, I observed that his bed was empty.

When we had fortified ourselves with the rum-and-milk

and biscuits, and were going out for the walk with that

training preparation on us, I was considerably surprised

to see Wemmick take up a fishing-rod, and put it over his

shoulder. ‘Why, we are not going fishing!’ said I. ‘No,’ re-

turned Wemmick, ‘but I like to walk with one.’

I thought this odd; however, I said nothing, and we set

off. We went towards Camberwell Green, and when we were

thereabouts, Wemmick said suddenly:

‘Halloa! Here’s a church!’

There was nothing very surprising in that; but a gain, I

was rather surprised, when he said, as if he were animated

by a brilliant idea:

‘Let’s go in!’

We went in, Wemmick leaving his fishing-rod in the

porch, and looked all round. In the mean time, Wemmick

was diving into his coat-pockets, and getting something out

of paper there.

‘Halloa!’ said he. ‘Here’s a couple of pair of gloves! Let’s

put ‘em on!’

As the gloves were white kid gloves, and as the post-of-

fice was widened to its utmost extent, I now began to have

my strong suspicions. They were strengthened into certain-

ty when I beheld the Aged enter at a side door, escorting a

lady.

‘Halloa!’ said Wemmick. ‘Here’s Miss Skiffins! Let’s have

a wedding.’

Great Expectations

That discreet damsel was attired as usual, except that she

was now engaged in substituting for her green kid gloves, a

pair of white. The Aged was likewise occupied in preparing

a similar sacrifice for the altar of Hymen. The old gentle-

man, however, experienced so much difficulty in getting

his gloves on, that Wemmick found it necessary to put him

with his back against a pillar, and then to get behind the

pillar himself and pull away at them, while I for my part

held the old gentleman round the waist, that he might pres-

ent and equal and safe resistance. By dint of this ingenious

Scheme, his gloves were got on to perfection.

The clerk and clergyman then appearing, we were ranged

in order at those fatal rails. True to his notion of seeming to

do it all without preparation, I heard Wemmick say to him-

self as he took something out of his waistcoat-pocket before

the service began, ‘Halloa! Here’s a ring!’

I acted in the capacity of backer, or best-man, to the

bridegroom; while a little limp pew opener in a soft bon-

net like a baby’s, made a feint of being the bosom friend of

Miss Skiffins. The responsibility of giving the lady away, de-

volved upon the Aged, which led to the clergyman’s being

unintentionally scandalized, and it happened thus. When

he said, ‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’

the old gentlemen, not in the least knowing what point of

the ceremony we had arrived at, stood most amiably beam-

ing at the ten commandments. Upon which, the clergyman

said again, ‘WHO giveth this woman to be married to this

man?’ The old gentleman being still in a state of most es-

timable unconsciousness, the bridegroom cried out in his

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accustomed voice, ‘Now Aged P. you know; who giveth?’ To

which the Aged replied with great briskness, before saying

that he gave, ‘All right, John, all right, my boy!’ And the

clergyman came to so gloomy a pause upon it, that I had

doubts for the moment whether we should get completely

married that day.

It was completely done, however, and when we were go-

ing out of church, Wemmick took the cover off the font, and

put his white gloves in it, and put the cover on again. Mrs.

Wemmick, more heedful of the future, put her white gloves

in her pocket and assumed her green. ‘Now, Mr. Pip,’ said

Wemmick, triumphantly shouldering the fishing-rod as we

came out, ‘let me ask you whether anybody would suppose

this to be a wedding-party!’

Breakfast had been ordered at a pleasant little tavern, a

mile or so away upon the rising ground beyond the Green,

and there was a bagatelle board in the room, in case we

should desire to unbend our minds after the solemnity. It

was pleasant to observe that Mrs. Wemmick no longer un-

wound Wemmick’s arm when it adapted itself to her figure,

but sat in a high-backed chair against the wall, like a vio-

loncello in its case, and submitted to be embraced as that

melodious instrument might have done.

We had an excellent breakfast, and when any one de-

clined anything on table, Wemmick said, ‘Provided by

contract, you know; don’t be afraid of it!’ I drank to the new

couple, drank to the Aged, drank to the Castle, saluted the

bride at parting, and made myself as agreeable as I could.

Wemmick came down to the door with me, and I again

Great Expectations

shook hands with him, and wished him joy.

‘Thankee!’ said Wemmick, rubbing his hands. ‘She’s such

a manager of fowls, you have no idea. You shall have some

eggs, and judge for yourself. I say, Mr. Pip!’ calling me back,

and speaking low. ‘This is altogether a Walworth sentiment,

please.’

‘I understand. Not to be mentioned in Little Britain,’ said

I. Wemmick nodded. ‘After what you let out the other day,

Mr. Jaggers may as well not know of it. He might think my

brain was softening, or something of the kind.’

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Chapter 56

He lay in prison very ill, during the whole interval be-

tween his committal for trial, and the coming round

of the Sessions. He had broken two ribs, they had wounded

one of his lungs, and he breathed with great pain and dif-

ficulty, which increased daily. It was a consequence of his

hurt, that he spoke so low as to be scarcely audible; there-

fore, he spoke very little. But, he was ever ready to listen to

me, and it became the first duty of my life to say to him, and

read to him, what I knew he ought to hear.

Being far too ill to remain in the common prison, he was

removed, after the first day or so, into the infirmary. This

gave me opportunities of being with him that I could not

otherwise have had. And but for his illness he would have

been put in irons, for he was regarded as a determined pris-

on-breaker, and I know not what else.

Although I saw him every day, it was for only a short

time; hence, the regularly recurring spaces of our sepa-

ration were long enough to record on his face any slight

changes that occurred in his physical state. I do not recol-

lect that I once saw any change in it for the better; he wasted,

and became slowly weaker and worse, day by day, from the

day when the prison door closed upon him.

The kind of submission or resignation that he showed,

was that of a man who was tired out. I sometimes derived

Great Expectations

an impression, from his manner or from a whispered word

or two which escaped him, that he pondered over the ques-

tion whether he might have been a better man under better

circumstances. But, he never justified himself by a hint

tending that way, or tried to bend the past out of its eternal

shape.

It happened on two or three occasions in my presence,

that his desperate reputation was alluded to by one or other

of the people in attendance on him. A smile crossed his face

then, and he turned his eyes on me with a trustful look, as

if he were confident that I had seen some small redeeming

touch in him, even so long ago as when I was a little child.

As to all the rest, he was humble and contrite, and I never

knew him complain.

When the Sessions came round, Mr. Jaggers caused an

application to be made for the postponement of his trial un-

til the following Sessions. It was obviously made with the

assurance that he could not live so long, and was refused.

The trial came on at once, and, when he was put to the bar,

he was seated in a chair. No objection was made to my get-

ting close to the dock, on the outside of it, and holding the

hand that he stretched forth to me.

The trial was very short and very clear. Such things as

could be said for him, were said - how he had taken to in-

dustrious habits, and had thriven lawfully and reputably.

But, nothing could unsay the fact that he had returned, and

was there in presence of the Judge and Jury. It was impos-

sible to try him for that, and do otherwise than find him

guilty.

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At that time, it was the custom (as I learnt from my ter-

rible experience of that Sessions) to devote a concluding day

to the passing of Sentences, and to make a finishing effect

with the Sentence of Death. But for the indelible picture that

my remembrance now holds before me, I could scarcely be-

lieve, even as I write these words, that I saw two-and-thirty

men and women put before the Judge to receive that sen-

tence together. Foremost among the two-and-thirty, was he;

seated, that he might get breath enough to keep life in him.

The whole scene starts out again in the vivid colours of the

moment, down to the drops of April rain on the windows of

the court, glittering in the rays of April sun. Penned in the

dock, as I again stood outside it at the corner with his hand

in mine, were the two-and-thirty men and women; some

defiant, some stricken with terror, some sobbing and weep-

ing, some covering their faces, some staring gloomily about.

There had been shrieks from among the women convicts,

but they had been stilled, a hush had succeeded. The sheriffs

with their great chains and nosegays, other civic gewgaws

and monsters, criers, ushers, a great gallery full of people - a

large theatrical audience - looked on, as the two-and-thirty

and the Judge were solemnly confronted. Then, the Judge

addressed them. Among the wretched creatures before him

whom he must single out for special address, was one who

almost from his infancy had been an offender against the

laws; who, after repeated imprisonments and punishments,

had been at length sentenced to exile for a term of years;

and who, under circumstances of great violence and daring

had made his escape and been re-sentenced to exile for life.

Great Expectations

That miserable man would seem for a time to have become

convinced of his errors, when far removed from the scenes

of his old offences, and to have lived a peaceable and honest

life. But in a fatal moment, yielding to those propensities

and passions, the indulgence of which had so long rendered

him a scourge to society, he had quitted his haven of rest

and repentance, and had come back to the country where he

was proscribed. Being here presently denounced, he had for

a time succeeded in evading the officers of Justice, but be-

ing at length seized while in the act of flight, he had resisted

them, and had - he best knew whether by express design, or

in the blindness of his hardihood - caused the death of his

denouncer, to whom his whole career was known. The ap-

pointed punishment for his return to the land that had cast

him out, being Death, and his case being this aggravated

case, he must prepare himself to Die.

The sun was striking in at the great windows of the court,

through the glittering drops of rain upon the glass, and it

made a broad shaft of light between the two-and-thirty and

the Judge, linking both together, and perhaps reminding

some among the audience, how both were passing on, with

absolute equality, to the greater Judgment that knoweth all

things and cannot err. Rising for a moment, a distinct speck

of face in this way of light, the prisoner said, ‘My Lord, I

have received my sentence of Death from the Almighty, but

I bow to yours,’ and sat down again. There was some hush-

ing, and the Judge went on with what he had to say to the

rest. Then, they were all formally doomed, and some of them

were supported out, and some of them sauntered out with

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a haggard look of bravery, and a few nodded to the gallery,

and two or three shook hands, and others went out chew-

ing the fragments of herb they had taken from the sweet

herbs lying about. He went last of all, because of having to

be helped from his chair and to go very slowly; and he held

my hand while all the others were removed, and while the

audience got up (putting their dresses right, as they might

at church or elsewhere) and pointed down at this criminal

or at that, and most of all at him and me.

I earnestly hoped and prayed that he might die before

the Recorder’s Report was made, but, in the dread of his

lingering on, I began that night to write out a petition to

the Home Secretary of State, setting forth my knowledge of

him, and how it was that he had come back for my sake. I

wrote it as fervently and pathetically as I could, and when I

had finished it and sent it in, I wrote out other petitions to

such men in authority as I hoped were the most merciful,

and drew up one to the Crown itself. For several days and

nights after he was sentenced I took no rest except when I

fell asleep in my chair, but was wholly absorbed in these ap-

peals. And after I had sent them in, I could not keep away

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