Charles Dickens 29 page

her, take it away!’ And then he catched hold of us, and kep

on a-talking to her, and answering of her, till I half believed

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I see her myself.

‘Compeyson’s wife, being used to him, giv him some li-

quor to get the horrors off, and by-and-by he quieted. ‘Oh,

she’s gone! Has her keeper been for her?’ he says. ‘Yes,’ says

Compeyson’s wife. ‘Did you tell him to lock her and bar her

in?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And to take that ugly thing away from her?’ ‘Yes,

yes, all right.’ ‘You’re a good creetur,’ he says, ‘don’t leave me,

whatever you do, and thank you!’

‘He rested pretty quiet till it might want a few minutes

of five, and then he starts up with a scream, and screams

out, ‘Here she is! She’s got the shroud again. She’s unfold-

ing it. She’s coming out of the corner. She’s coming to the

bed. Hold me, both on you - one of each side - don’t let her

touch me with it. Hah! she missed me that time. Don’t let

her throw it over my shoulders. Don’t let her lift me up to

get it round me. She’s lifting me up. Keep me down!’ Then

he lifted himself up hard, and was dead.

‘Compeyson took it easy as a good riddance for both

sides. Him and me was soon busy, and first he swore me

(being ever artful) on my own book - this here little black

book, dear boy, what I swore your comrade on.

‘Not to go into the things that Compeyson planned, and

I done - which ‘ud take a week - I’ll simply say to you, dear

boy, and Pip’s comrade, that that man got me into such nets

as made me his black slave. I was always in debt to him, al-

ways under his thumb, always a-working, always a-getting

into danger. He was younger than me, but he’d got craft,

and he’d got learning, and he overmatched me five hundred

times told and no mercy. My Missis as I had the hard time

Great Expectations

wi’ - Stop though! I ain’t brought her in—‘

He looked about him in a confused way, as if he had lost

his place in the book of his remembrance; and he turned his

face to the fire, and spread his hands broader on his knees,

and lifted them off and put them on again.

‘There ain’t no need to go into it,’ he said, looking round

once more. ‘The time wi’ Compeyson was a’most as hard a

time as ever I had; that said, all’s said. Did I tell you as I was

tried, alone, for misdemeanour, while with Compeyson?’

I answered, No.

‘Well!’ he said, ‘I was, and got convicted. As to took up on

suspicion, that was twice or three times in the four or five

year that it lasted; but evidence was wanting. At last, me and

Compeyson was both committed for felony - on a charge

of putting stolen notes in circulation - and there was other

charges behind. Compeyson says to me, ‘Separate defences,

no communication,’ and that was all. And I was so miser-

able poor, that I sold all the clothes I had, except what hung

on my back, afore I could get Jaggers.

‘When we was put in the dock, I noticed first of all what

a gentleman Compeyson looked, wi’ his curly hair and his

black clothes and his white pocket-handkercher, and what

a common sort of a wretch I looked. When the prosecu-

tion opened and the evidence was put short, aforehand, I

noticed how heavy it all bore on me, and how light on him.

When the evidence was giv in the box, I noticed how it

was always me that had come for’ard, and could be swore

to, how it was always me that the money had been paid to,

how it was always me that had seemed to work the thing

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and get the profit. But, when the defence come on, then I

see the plan plainer; for, says the counsellor for Compey-

son, ‘My lord and gentlemen, here you has afore you, side

by side, two persons as your eyes can separate wide; one,

the younger, well brought up, who will be spoke to as such;

one, the elder, ill brought up, who will be spoke to as such;

one, the younger, seldom if ever seen in these here transac-

tions, and only suspected; t’other, the elder, always seen in

‘em and always wi’his guilt brought home. Can you doubt, if

there is but one in it, which is the one, and, if there is two in

it, which is much the worst one?’ And such-like. And when

it come to character, warn’t it Compeyson as had been to

the school, and warn’t it his schoolfellows as was in this po-

sition and in that, and warn’t it him as had been know’d by

witnesses in such clubs and societies, and nowt to his dis-

advantage? And warn’t it me as had been tried afore, and as

had been know’d up hill and down dale in Bridewells and

Lock-Ups? And when it come to speech-making, warn’t it

Compeyson as could speak to ‘em wi’ his face dropping ev-

ery now and then into his white pocket-handkercher - ah!

and wi’ verses in his speech, too - and warn’t it me as could

only say, ‘Gentlemen, this man at my side is a most precious

rascal’? And when the verdict come, warn’t it Compeyson

as was recommended to mercy on account of good char-

acter and bad company, and giving up all the information

he could agen me, and warn’t it me as got never a word but

Guilty? And when I says to Compeyson, ‘Once out of this

court, I’ll smash that face of yourn!’ ain’t it Compeyson as

prays the Judge to be protected, and gets two turnkeys stood

Great Expectations

betwixt us? And when we’re sentenced, ain’t it him as gets

seven year, and me fourteen, and ain’t it him as the Judge is

sorry for, because he might a done so well, and ain’t it me as

the Judge perceives to be a old offender of wiolent passion,

likely to come to worse?’

He had worked himself into a state of great excitement,

but he checked it, took two or three short breaths, swal-

lowed as often, and stretching out his hand towards me said,

in a reassuring manner, ‘I ain’t a-going to be low, dear boy!’

He had so heated himself that he took out his hand-

kerchief and wiped his face and head and neck and hands,

before he could go on.

‘I had said to Compeyson that I’d smash that face of his,

and I swore Lord smash mine! to do it. We was in the same

prison-ship, but I couldn’t get at him for long, though I

tried. At last I come behind him and hit him on the cheek

to turn him round and get a smashing one at him, when I

was seen and seized. The black-hole of that ship warn’t a

strong one, to a judge of black-holes that could swim and

dive. I escaped to the shore, and I was a hiding among the

graves there, envying them as was in ‘em and all over, when

I first see my boy!’

He regarded me with a look of affection that made him

almost abhorrent to me again, though I had felt great pity

for him.

‘By my boy, I was giv to understand as Compeyson was

out on them marshes too. Upon my soul, I half believe he

escaped in his terror, to get quit of me, not knowing it was

me as had got ashore. I hunted him down. I smashed his

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face. ‘And now,’ says I ‘as the worst thing I can do, caring

nothing for myself, I’ll drag you back.’ And I’d have swum

off, towing him by the hair, if it had come to that, and I’d a

got him aboard without the soldiers.

‘Of course he’d much the best of it to the last - his char-

acter was so good. He had escaped when he was made

half-wild by me and my murderous intentions; and his pun-

ishment was light. I was put in irons, brought to trial again,

and sent for life. I didn’t stop for life, dear boy and Pip’s

comrade, being here.’

‘He wiped himself again, as he had done before, and

then slowly took his tangle of tobacco from his pocket, and

plucked his pipe from his button-hole, and slowly filled it,

and began to smoke.

‘Is he dead?’ I asked, after a silence.

‘Is who dead, dear boy?’

‘Compeyson.’

‘He hopes I am, if he’s alive, you may be sure,’ with a

fierce look. ‘I never heerd no more of him.’

Herbert had been writing with his pencil in the cover

of a book. He softly pushed the book over to me, as Provis

stood smoking with his eyes on the fire, and I read in it:

‘Young Havisham’s name was Arthur. Compeyson is the

man who professed to be Miss Havisham’s lover.’

I shut the book and nodded slightly to Herbert, and put

the book by; but we neither of us said anything, and both

looked at Provis as he stood smoking by the fire.

Great Expectations

Chapter 43

Why should I pause to ask how much of my shrinking

from Provis might be traced to Estella? Why should

I loiter on my road, to compare the state of mind in which

I had tried to rid myself of the stain of the prison before

meeting her at the coach-office, with the state of mind in

which I now reflected on the abyss between Estella in her

pride and beauty, and the returned transport whom I har-

boured? The road would be none the smoother for it, the

end would be none the better for it, he would not be helped,

nor I extenuated.

A new fear had been engendered in my mind by his nar-

rative; or rather, his narrative had given form and purpose

to the fear that was already there. If Compeyson were alive

and should discover his return, I could hardly doubt the

consequence. That, Compeyson stood in mortal fear of him,

neither of the two could know much better than I; and that,

any such man as that man had been described to be, would

hesitate to release himself for good from a dreaded enemy

by the safe means of becoming an informer, was scarcely to

be imagined.

Never had I breathed, and never would I breathe - or so I

resolved - a word of Estella to Provis. But, I said to Herbert

that before I could go abroad, I must see both Estella and

Miss Havisham. This was when we were left alone on the

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night of the day when Provis told us his story. I resolved to

go out to Richmond next day, and I went.

On my presenting myself at Mrs. Brandley’s, Estella’s

maid was called to tell that Estella had gone into the coun-

try. Where? To Satis House, as usual. Not as usual, I said,

for she had never yet gone there without me; when was she

coming back? There was an air of reservation in the answer

which increased my perplexity, and the answer was, that

her maid believed she was only coming back at all for a lit-

tle while. I could make nothing of this, except that it was

meant that I should make nothing of it, and I went home

again in complete discomfiture.

Another night-consultation with Herbert after Provis

was gone home (I always took him home, and always looked

well about me), led us to the conclusion that nothing should

be said about going abroad until I came back from Miss

Havisham’s. In the meantime, Herbert and I were to con-

sider separately what it would be best to say; whether we

should devise any pretence of being afraid that he was un-

der suspicious observation; or whether I, who had never yet

been abroad, should propose an expedition. We both knew

that I had but to propose anything, and he would consent.

We agreed that his remaining many days in his present haz-

ard was not to be thought of.

Next day, I had the meanness to feign that I was under

a binding promise to go down to Joe; but I was capable of

almost any meanness towards Joe or his name. Provis was

to be strictly careful while I was gone, and Herbert was to

take the charge of him that I had taken. I was to be absent

Great Expectations

only one night, and, on my return, the gratification of his

impatience for my starting as a gentleman on a greater scale,

was to be begun. It occurred to me then, and as I afterwards

found to Herbert also, that he might be best got away across

the water, on that pretence - as, to make purchases, or the

like.Having thus cleared the way for my expedition to Miss

Havisham’s, I set off by the early morning coach before it

was yet light, and was out on the open country-road when

the day came creeping on, halting and whimpering and

shivering, and wrapped in patches of cloud and rags of mist,

like a beggar. When we drove up to the Blue Boar after a

drizzly ride, whom should I see come out under the gate-

way, toothpick in hand, to look at the coach, but Bentley

Drummle!

As he pretended not to see me, I pretended not to see

him. It was a very lame pretence on both sides; the lamer,

because we both went into the coffee-room, where he had

just finished his breakfast, and where I ordered mine. It was

poisonous to me to see him in the town, for I very well knew

why he had come there.

Pretending to read a smeary newspaper long out of date,

which had nothing half so legible in its local news, as the

foreign matter of coffee, pickles, fish-sauces, gravy, melted

butter, and wine, with which it was sprinkled all over, as

if it had taken the measles in a highly irregular form, I sat

at my table while he stood before the fire. By degrees it be-

came an enormous injury to me that he stood before the

fire, and I got up, determined to have my share of it. I had

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to put my hand behind his legs for the poker when I went

up to the fire-place to stir the fire, but still pretended not to

know him.

‘Is this a cut?’ said Mr. Drummle.

‘Oh!’ said I, poker in hand; ‘it’s you, is it? How do you do?

I was wondering who it was, who kept the fire off.’

With that, I poked tremendously, and having done so,

planted myself side by side with Mr. Drummle, my shoul-

ders squared and my back to the fire.

‘You have just come down?’ said Mr. Drummle, edging

me a little away with his shoulder.

‘Yes,’ said I, edging him a little away with my shoulder.

‘Beastly place,’ said Drummle. - ‘Your part of the coun-

try, I think?’

‘Yes,’ I assented. ‘I am told it’s very like your Shropshire.’

‘Not in the least like it,’ said Drummle.

Here Mr. Drummle looked at his boots, and I looked at

mine, and then Mr. Drummle looked at my boots, and I

looked at his.

‘Have you been here long?’ I asked, determined not to

yield an inch of the fire.

‘Long enough to be tired of it,’ returned Drummle, pre-

tending to yawn, but equally determined.

‘Do you stay here long?’

‘Can’t say,’ answered Mr. Drummle. ‘Do you?’

‘Can’t say,’ said I.

I felt here, through a tingling in my blood, that if Mr.

Drummle’s shoulder had claimed another hair’s breadth

of room, I should have jerked him into the window; equal-

Great Expectations

ly, that if my own shoulder had urged a similar claim, Mr.

Drummle would have jerked me into the nearest box. He

whistled a little. So did I.

‘Large tract of marshes about here, I believe?’ said Drum-

mle.

‘Yes. What of that?’ said I.

Mr. Drummle looked at me, and then at my boots, and

then said, ‘Oh!’ and laughed.

‘Are you amused, Mr. Drummle?’

‘No,’ said he, ‘not particularly. I am going out for a ride in

the saddle. I mean to explore those marshes for amusement.

Out-of-the-way villages there, they tell me. Curious little

public-houses - and smithies - and that. Waiter!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is that horse of mine ready?’

‘Brought round to the door, sir.’

‘I say. Look here, you sir. The lady won’t ride to-day; the

weather won’t do.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘And I don’t dine, because I’m going to dine at the lady’s.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Then, Drummle glanced at me, with an insolent triumph

on his great-jowled face that cut me to the heart, dull as he

was, and so exasperated me, that I felt inclined to take him

in my arms (as the robber in the story-book is said to have

taken the old lady), and seat him on the fire.

One thing was manifest to both of us, and that was, that

until relief came, neither of us could relinquish the fire.

There we stood, well squared up before it, shoulder to shoul-

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der and foot to foot, with our hands behind us, not budging

an inch. The horse was visible outside in the drizzle at the

door, my breakfast was put on the table, Drummle’s was

cleared away, the waiter invited me to begin, I nodded, we

both stood our ground.

‘Have you been to the Grove since?’ said Drummle.

‘No,’ said I, ‘I had quite enough of the Finches the last

time I was there.’

‘Was that when we had a difference of opinion?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, very shortly.

‘Come, come! They let you off easily enough,’ sneered

Drummle. ‘You shouldn’t have lost your temper.’

‘Mr. Drummle,’ said I, ‘you are not competent to give ad-

vice on that subject. When I lose my temper (not that I admit

having done so on that occasion), I don’t throw glasses.’

‘I do,’ said Drummle.

After glancing at him once or twice, in an increased state

of smouldering ferocity, I said:

‘Mr. Drummle, I did not seek this conversation, and I

don’t think it an agreeable one.’

‘I am sure it’s not,’ said he, superciliously over his shoul-

der; ‘I don’t think anything about it.’

‘And therefore,’ I went on, ‘with your leave, I will suggest

that we hold no kind of communication in future.’

‘Quite my opinion,’ said Drummle, ‘and what I should

have suggested myself, or done - more likely - without sug-

gesting. But don’t lose your temper. Haven’t you lost enough

without that?’

‘What do you mean, sir?’

Great Expectations

‘Wai-ter!,’ said Drummle, by way of answering me.

The waiter reappeared.

‘Look here, you sir. You quite understand that the young

lady don’t ride to-day, and that I dine at the young lady’s?’

‘Quite so, sir!’

When the waiter had felt my fast cooling tea-pot with the

palm of his hand, and had looked imploringly at me, and

had gone out, Drummle, careful not to move the shoulder

next me, took a cigar from his pocket and bit the end off, but

showed no sign of stirring. Choking and boiling as I was, I

felt that we could not go a word further, without introduc-

ing Estella’s name, which I could not endure to hear him

utter; and therefore I looked stonily at the opposite wall, as

if there were no one present, and forced myself to silence.

How long we might have remained in this ridiculous po-

sition it is impossible to say, but for the incursion of three

thriving farmers - led on by the waiter, I think - who came

into the coffee-room unbuttoning their great-coats and

rubbing their hands, and before whom, as they charged at

the fire, we were obliged to give way.

I saw him through the window, seizing his horse’s mane,

and mounting in his blundering brutal manner, and sidling

and backing away. I thought he was gone, when he came

back, calling for a light for the cigar in his mouth, which

he had forgotten. A man in a dustcoloured dress appeared

with what was wanted - I could not have said from where:

whether from the inn yard, or the street, or where not - and

as Drummle leaned down from the saddle and lighted his

cigar and laughed, with a jerk of his head towards the cof-

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fee-room windows, the slouching shoulders and ragged hair

of this man, whose back was towards me, reminded me of

Orlick.

Too heavily out of sorts to care much at the time whether

it were he or no, or after all to touch the breakfast, I washed

the weather and the journey from my face and hands, and

went out to the memorable old house that it would have

been so much the better for me never to have entered, never

to have seen.

Great Expectations

Chapter 44

In the room where the dressing-table stood, and where the

wax candles burnt on the wall, I found Miss Havisham

and Estella; Miss Havisham seated on a settee near the fire,

and Estella on a cushion at her feet. Estella was knitting,

and Miss Havisham was looking on. They both raised their

eyes as I went in, and both saw an alteration in me. I derived

that, from the look they interchanged.

‘And what wind,’ said Miss Havisham, ‘blows you here,

Pip?’

Though she looked steadily at me, I saw that she was

rather confused. Estella, pausing a moment in her knitting

with her eyes upon me, and then going on, I fancied that I

read in the action of her fingers, as plainly as if she had told

me in the dumb alphabet, that she perceived I had discov-

ered my real benefactor.

‘Miss Havisham,’ said I, ‘I went to Richmond yesterday,

to speak to Estella; and finding that some wind had blown

her here, I followed.’

Miss Havisham motioning to me for the third or fourth

time to sit down, I took the chair by the dressing-table,

which I had often seen her occupy. With all that ruin at my

feet and about me, it seemed a natural place for me, that

day.‘What I had to say to Estella, Miss Havisham, I will say

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before you, presently - in a few moments. It will not sur-

prise you, it will not displease you. I am as unhappy as you

can ever have meant me to be.’

Miss Havisham continued to look steadily at me. I could

see in the action of Estella’s fingers as they worked, that she

attended to what I said: but she did not look up.

‘I have found out who my patron is. It is not a fortunate

discovery, and is not likely ever to enrich me in reputation,

station, fortune, anything. There are reasons why I must say

no more of that. It is not my secret, but another’s.’

As I was silent for a while, looking at Estella and consid-

ering how to go on, Miss Havisham repeated, ‘It is not your

secret, but another’s. Well?’

‘When you first caused me to be brought here, Miss Hav-

isham; when I belonged to the village over yonder, that I

wish I had never left; I suppose I did really come here, as any

other chance boy might have come - as a kind of servant, to

gratify a want or a whim, and to be paid for it?’

‘Ay, Pip,’ replied Miss Havisham, steadily nodding her

head; ‘you did.’

‘And that Mr. Jaggers—‘

‘Mr. Jaggers,’ said Miss Havisham, taking me up in a firm

tone, ‘had nothing to do with it, and knew nothing of it. His

being my lawyer, and his being the lawyer of your patron, is

a coincidence. He holds the same relation towards numbers

of people, and it might easily arise. Be that as it may, it did

arise, and was not brought about by any one.’

Any one might have seen in her haggard face that there

was no suppression or evasion so far.

Great Expectations

‘But when I fell into the mistake I have so long remained

in, at least you led me on?’ said I.

‘Yes,’ she returned, again nodding, steadily, ‘I let you go

on.’‘Was that kind?’

‘Who am I,’ cried Miss Havisham, striking her stick

upon the floor and flashing into wrath so suddenly that Es-

tella glanced up at her in surprise, ‘who am I, for God’s sake,

that I should be kind?’

It was a weak complaint to have made, and I had not

meant to make it. I told her so, as she sat brooding after this

outburst.

‘Well, well, well!’ she said. ‘What else?’

‘I was liberally paid for my old attendance here,’ I said,

to soothe her, ‘in being apprenticed, and I have asked

these questions only for my own information. What fol-

lows has another (and I hope more disinterested) purpose.

In humouring my mistake, Miss Havisham, you punished

- practised on - perhaps you will supply whatever term ex-

presses your intention, without offence - your self-seeking

relations?’

‘I did. Why, they would have it so! So would you. What

has been my history, that I should be at the pains of entreat-

ing either them, or you, not to have it so! You made your

own snares. I never made them.’

Waiting until she was quiet again - for this, too, flashed

out of her in a wild and sudden way - I went on.

‘I have been thrown among one family of your relations,

Miss Havisham, and have been constantly among them

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since I went to London. I know them to have been as hon-

estly under my delusion as I myself. And I should be false

and base if I did not tell you, whether it is acceptable to you

or no, and whether you are inclined to give credence to it or

no, that you deeply wrong both Mr. Matthew Pocket and

his son Herbert, if you suppose them to be otherwise than

generous, upright, open, and incapable of anything design-

ing or mean.’

‘They are your friends,’ said Miss Havisham.

‘They made themselves my friends,’ said I, ‘when they

supposed me to have superseded them; and when Sarah

Pocket, Miss Georgiana, and Mistress Camilla, were not

my friends, I think.’

This contrasting of them with the rest seemed, I was glad

to see, to do them good with her. She looked at me keenly

for a little while, and then said quietly:

‘What do you want for them?’

‘Only,’ said I, ‘that you would not confound them with

the others. They may be of the same blood, but, believe me,

they are not of the same nature.’

Still looking at me keenly, Miss Havisham repeated:

‘What do you want for them?’

‘I am not so cunning, you see,’ I said, in answer, conscious

that I reddened a little, ‘as that I could hide from you, even if

I desired, that I do want something. Miss Havisham, if you

would spare the money to do my friend Herbert a lasting

service in life, but which from the nature of the case must

be done without his knowledge, I could show you how.’

‘Why must it be done without his knowledge?’ she asked,

Great Expectations

settling her hands upon her stick, that she might regard me

the more attentively.

‘Because,’ said I, ‘I began the service myself, more than

two years ago, without his knowledge, and I don’t want to

be betrayed. Why I fail in my ability to finish it, I cannot

explain. It is a part of the secret which is another person’s

and not mine.’

She gradually withdrew her eyes from me, and turned

them on the fire. After watching it for what appeared in the

silence and by the light of the slowly wasting candles to be

a long time, she was roused by the collapse of some of the

red coals, and looked towards me again - at first, vacant-

ly - then, with a gradually concentrating attention. All this

time, Estella knitted on. When Miss Havisham had fixed

her attention on me, she said, speaking as if there had been

no lapse in our dialogue:

‘What else?’

‘Estella,’ said I, turning to her now, and trying to com-

mand my trembling voice, ‘you know I love you. You know

that I have loved you long and dearly.’

She raised her eyes to my face, on being thus addressed,

and her fingers plied their work, and she looked at me

with an unmoved countenance. I saw that Miss Havisham

glanced from me to her, and from her to me.

‘I should have said this sooner, but for my long mistake.

It induced me to hope that Miss Havisham meant us for one

another. While I thought you could not help yourself, as it

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