“I communicated to Magwitch—in New South Wales—when he first wrote to me—from New South Wales—the caution that he must not expect me ever to deviate from the strict line of fact. I also communicated to him another caution. He appeared to me to have obscurely hinted in his letter at some distant idea he had of seeing you in England here. I cautioned him that I must hear no more of that; that he was not at all likely to obtain a pardon; that he was expatriated for the term of his natural life; and that his presenting himself in this country would be an act of felony, rendering him liable to the extreme penalty of the law. I gave Magwitch that caution,” said Mr. Jaggers, looking hard at me; “I wrote it to New South Wales. He guided himself by it, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” said I.
“I have been informed by Wemmick,” pursued Mr. Jaggers, still looking hard at me,“that he has received a letter, under date Portsmouth, from a colonist of the name of Purvis, or—”
“Or Provis,” I suggested.
“Or Provis—thank you, Pip. Perhaps it _is_ Provis?Perhaps you know it’s Provis?”
“Yes,” said I.
“You know it’s Provis. A letter, under date Portsmouth, from a colonist of the name of Provis,asking for the particulars of your address, on behalf of Magwitch.Wemmick sent him the particulars, I understand, by return of post.Probably it is through Provis that you have received the explanation of Magwitch—in New South Wales?”
“It came through Provis,” I replied.
“Good day, Pip,” said Mr. Jaggers, offering his hand; “glad to have seen you.In writing by post to Magwitch—in New South Wales—or in communicating with him through Provis,have the goodness to mention that the particulars and vouchers of our long account shall be sent to you,together with the balance; for there is still a balance remaining. Good-day, Pip!”
We shook hands, and he looked hard at me as long as he could see me. I turned at the door,and he was still looking hard at me, while the two vile casts on the shelf seemed to be trying to get their eyelids open,and to force out of their swollen throats, “O, what a man he is!”
Wemmick was out, and though he had been at his desk he could have done nothing for me.I went straight back to the Temple, where I found the terrible Provis drinking rum and water and smoking negro-head, in safety.
Next day the clothes I had ordered all came home, and he put them on. Whatever he put on,became him less (it dismally seemed to me) than what he had worn before. To my thinking,there was something in him that made it hopeless to attempt to disguise him.The more I dressed him and the better I dressed him,the more he looked like the slouching fugitive on the marshes.This effect on my anxious fancy was partly referable, no doubt,to his old face and manner growing more familiar to me;but I believe too that he dragged one of his legs as if there were still a weight of iron on it,and that from head to foot there was Convict in the very grain of the man.
The influences of his solitary hut-life were upon him besides,and gave him a savage air that no dress could tame;added to these were the influences of his subsequent branded life among men, and, crowning all,his consciousness that he was dodging and hiding now. In all his ways of sitting and standing,and eating and drinking,—of brooding about in a high-shouldered reluctant style,—of taking out his great horn-handled jackknife and wiping it on his legs and cutting his food,—of lifting light glasses and cups to his lips, as if they were clumsy pannikins,—of chopping a wedge off his bread, and soaking up with it the last fragments of gravy round and round his plate,as if to make the most of an allowance, and then drying his finger-ends on it,and then swallowing it,—in these ways and a thousand other small nameless instances arising every minute in the day,there was Prisoner, Felon, Bondsman, plain as plain could be.
It had been his own idea to wear that touch of powder,and I had conceded the powder after overcoming the shorts. But I can compare the effect of it,when on, to nothing but the probable effect of rouge upon the dead;so awful was the manner in which everything in him that it was most desirable to repress,started through that thin layer of pretence,and seemed to come blazing out at the crown of his head. It was abandoned as soon as tried,and he wore his grizzled hair cut short.
Words cannot tell what a sense I had, at the same time, of the dreadful mystery that he was to me.When he fell asleep of an evening, with his knotted hands clenching the sides of the easy-chair,and his bald head tattooed with deep wrinkles falling forward on his breast,I would sit and look at him, wondering what he had done,and loading him with all the crimes in the Calendar,until the impulse was powerful on me to start up and fly from him.Every hour so increased my abhorrence of him,that I even think I might have yielded to this impulse in the first agonies of being so haunted,notwithstanding all he had done for me and the risk he ran,but for the knowledge that Herbert must soon come back. Once,I actually did start out of bed in the night, and begin to dress myself in my worst clothes,hurriedly intending to leave him there with everything else I possessed,and enlist for India as a private soldier.
I doubt if a ghost could have been more terrible to me,up in those lonely rooms in the long evenings and long nights,with the wind and the rain always rushing by.A ghost could not have been taken and hanged on my account, and the consideration that he could be,and the dread that he would be, were no small addition to my horrors. When he was not asleep,or playing a complicated kind of Patience with a ragged pack of cards of his own,—a game that I never saw before or since,and in which he recorded his winnings by sticking his jackknife into the table,—when he was not engaged in either of these pursuits, he would ask me to read to him, —“Foreign language, dear boy!” While I complied, he, not comprehending a single word,would stand before the fire surveying me with the air of an Exhibitor, and I would see him,between the fingers of the hand with which I shaded my face,appealing in dumb show to the furniture to take notice of my proficiency.The imaginary student pursued by the misshapen creature he had impiously made,was not more wretched than I, pursued by the creature who had made me,and recoiling from him with a stronger repulsion,the more he admired me and the fonder he was of me.
This is written of, I am sensible, as if it had lasted a year. It lasted about five days.Expecting Herbert all the time, I dared not go out,except when I took Provis for an airing after dark. At length,one evening when dinner was over and I had dropped into a slumber quite worn out,—for my nights had been agitated and my rest broken by fearful dreams,—I was roused by the welcome footstep on the staircase. Provis, who had been asleep too,staggered up at the noise I made, and in an instant I saw his jackknife shining in his hand.
“Quiet!It’s Herbert!” I said; and Herbert came bursting in, with the airy freshness of six hundred miles of France upon him.
“Handel, my dear fellow, how are you, and again how are you, and again how are you?I seem to have been gone a twelvemonth!Why, so I must have been, for you have grown quite thin and pale!Handel, my—Halloa!I beg your pardon.”
He was stopped in his running on and in his shaking hands with me, by seeing Provis. Provis,regarding him with a fixed attention, was slowly putting up his jackknife,and groping in another pocket for something else.
“Herbert, my dear friend,” said I, shutting the double doors,while Herbert stood staring and wondering, “something very strange has happened. This is—a visitor of mine.”
“It’s all right, dear boy!” said Provis coming forward, with his little clasped black book,and then addressing himself to Herbert. “Take it in your right hand.Lord strike you dead on the spot, if ever you split in any way sumever!Kiss it!”
“Do so, as he wishes it,” I said to Herbert. So, Herbert,looking at me with a friendly uneasiness and amazement, complied,and Provis immediately shaking hands with him, said, “Now you’re on your oath, you know.And never believe me on mine, if Pip shan’t make a gentleman on you!”
Chapter XLI.
In vain should I attempt to describe the astonishment and disquiet of Herbert,when he and I and Provis sat down before the fire, and I recounted the whole of the secret. Enough,that I saw my own feelings reflected in Herbert’s face, and not least among them,my repugnance towards the man who had done so much for me.
What would alone have set a division between that man and us,if there had been no other dividing circumstance, was his triumph in my story.Saving his troublesome sense of having been “low” on one occasion since his return,—on which point he began to hold forth to Herbert, the moment my revelation was finished,—he had no perception of the possibility of my finding any fault with my good fortune.His boast that he had made me a gentleman,and that he had come to see me support the character on his ample resources,was made for me quite as much as for himself.And that it was a highly agreeable boast to both of us, and that we must both be very proud of it,was a conclusion quite established in his own mind.
“Though, look’ee here, Pip’s comrade,” he said to Herbert, after having discoursed for some time,“I know very well that once since I come back—for half a minute—I’ve been low. I said to Pip,I knowed as I had been low. But don’t you fret yourself on that score.I ain’t made Pip a gentleman, and Pip ain’t a-going to make you a gentleman,not fur me not to know what’s due to ye both. Dear boy, and Pip’s comrade,you two may count upon me always having a genteel muzzle on.Muzzled I have been since that half a minute when I was betrayed into lowness,muzzled I am at the present time, muzzled I ever will be.”
Herbert said, “Certainly,” but looked as if there were no specific consolation in this,and remained perplexed and dismayed. We were anxious for the time when he would go to his lodging and leave us together,but he was evidently jealous of leaving us together, and sat late.It was midnight before I took him round to Essex Street,and saw him safely in at his own dark door. When it closed upon him,I experienced the first moment of relief I had known since the night of his arrival.
Never quite free from an uneasy remembrance of the man on the stairs,I had always looked about me in taking my guest out after dark, and in bringing him back;and I looked about me now. Difficult as it is in a large city to avoid the suspicion of being watched,when the mind is conscious of danger in that regard,I could not persuade myself that any of the people within sight cared about my movements.The few who were passing passed on their several ways,and the street was empty when I turned back into the Temple.Nobody had come out at the gate with us, nobody went in at the gate with me.As I crossed by the fountain, I saw his lighted back windows looking bright and quiet, and,when I stood for a few moments in the doorway of the building where I lived,before going up the stairs, Garden Court was as still and lifeless as the staircase was when I ascended it.
Herbert received me with open arms, and I had never felt before so blessedly what it is to have a friend.When he had spoken some sound words of sympathy and encouragement,we sat down to consider the question, What was to be done?
The chair that Provis had occupied still remaining where it had stood,—for he had a barrack way with him of hanging about one spot, in one unsettled manner,and going through one round of observances with his pipe and his negro-head and his jackknife and his pack of cards,and what not, as if it were all put down for him on a slate,—I say his chair remaining where it had stood, Herbert unconsciously took it,but next moment started out of it, pushed it away, and took another.He had no occasion to say after that that he had conceived an aversion for my patron,neither had I occasion to confess my own.We interchanged that confidence without shaping a syllable.
“What,” said I to Herbert, when he was safe in another chair,—“what is to be done?”
“My poor dear Handel,” he replied, holding his head, “I am too stunned to think.”
“So was I, Herbert, when the blow first fell. Still, something must be done.He is intent upon various new expenses,—horses, and carriages, and lavish appearances of all kinds. He must be stopped somehow.”
“You mean that you can’t accept—”
“How can I?” I interposed, as Herbert paused. “Think of him!Look at him!”
An involuntary shudder passed over both of us.
“Yet I am afraid the dreadful truth is, Herbert, that he is attached to me, strongly attached to me. Was there ever such a fate!”
“My poor dear Handel,” Herbert repeated.
“Then,” said I, “after all, stopping short here, never taking another penny from him, think what I owe him already!Then again: I am heavily in debt,—very heavily for me, who have now no expectations,—and I have been bred to no calling, and I am fit for nothing.”
“Well, well, well!” Herbert remonstrated. “Don’t say fit for nothing.”
“What am I fit for?I know only one thing that I am fit for, and that is, to go for a soldier. And I might have gone,my dear Herbert, but for the prospect of taking counsel with your friendship and affection.”
Of course I broke down there: and of course Herbert, beyond seizing a warm grip of my hand, pretended not to know it.
“Anyhow, my dear Handel,” said he presently, “soldiering won’t do.If you were to renounce this patronage and these favours,I suppose you would do so with some faint hope of one day repaying what you have already had.Not very strong, that hope, if you went soldiering!Besides, it’s absurd. You would be infinitely better in Clarriker’s house, small as it is.I am working up towards a partnership, you know.”
Poor fellow!He little suspected with whose money.
“But there is another question,” said Herbert. “This is an ignorant, determined man,who has long had one fixed idea. More than that,he seems to me (I may misjudge him) to be a man of a desperate and fierce character.”
“I know he is,” I returned. “Let me tell you what evidence I have seen of it.” And I told him what I had not mentioned in my narrative, of that encounter with the other convict.
“See, then,” said Herbert; “think of this!He comes here at the peril of his life, for the realisation of his fixed idea.In the moment of realisation, after all his toil and waiting,you cut the ground from under his feet, destroy his idea, and make his gains worthless to him.Do you see nothing that he might do, under the disappointment?”
“I have seen it, Herbert, and dreamed of it, ever since the fatal night of his arrival.Nothing has been in my thoughts so distinctly as his putting himself in the way of being taken.”
“Then you may rely upon it,” said Herbert, “that there would be great danger of his doing it.That is his power over you as long as he remains in England,and that would be his reckless course if you forsook him.”
I was so struck by the horror of this idea, which had weighed upon me from the first,and the working out of which would make me regard myself, in some sort, as his murderer,that I could not rest in my chair, but began pacing to and fro. I said to Herbert, meanwhile,that even if Provis were recognised and taken, in spite of himself,I should be wretched as the cause, however innocently. Yes;even though I was so wretched in having him at large and near me,and even though I would far rather have worked at the forge all the days of my life than I would ever have come to this!
But there was no staving off the question, What was to be done?
“The first and the main thing to be done,” said Herbert, “is to get him out of England.You will have to go with him, and then he may be induced to go.”
“But get him where I will, could I prevent his coming back?”
“My good Handel, is it not obvious that with Newgate in the next street,there must be far greater hazard in your breaking your mind to him and making him reckless, here, than elsewhere?If a pretext to get him away could be made out of that other convict,or out of anything else in his life, now.”
“There, again!” said I, stopping before Herbert, with my open hands held out,as if they contained the desperation of the case. “I know nothing of his life.It has almost made me mad to sit here of a night and see him before me,so bound up with my fortunes and misfortunes, and yet so unknown to me,except as the miserable wretch who terrified me two days in my childhood!”
Herbert got up, and linked his arm in mine, and we slowly walked to and fro together, studying the carpet.
“Handel,” said Herbert, stopping, “you feel convinced that you can take no further benefits from him; do you?”
“Fully. Surely you would, too, if you were in my place?”
“And you feel convinced that you must break with him?”
“Herbert, can you ask me?”
“And you have, and are bound to have, that tenderness for the life he has risked on your account,that you must save him, if possible, from throwing it away.Then you must get him out of England before you stir a finger to extricate yourself. That done,extricate yourself, in Heaven’s name, and we’ll see it out together, dear old boy.”
It was a comfort to shake hands upon it, and walk up and down again, with only that done.
“Now, Herbert,” said I, “with reference to gaining some knowledge of his history.There is but one way that I know of. I must ask him point blank.”
“Yes. Ask him,” said Herbert, “when we sit at breakfast in the morning.” For he had said,on taking leave of Herbert, that he would come to breakfast with us.
With this project formed, we went to bed. I had the wildest dreams concerning him,and woke unrefreshed; I woke, too, to recover the fear which I had lost in the night,of his being found out as a returned transport. Waking, I never lost that fear.
He came round at the appointed time, took out his jackknife, and sat down to his meal.He was full of plans “for his gentleman’s coming out strong, and like a gentleman,” and urged me to begin speedily upon the pocket-book which he had left in my possession.He considered the chambers and his own lodging as temporary residences,and advised me to look out at once for a “fashionable crib” near Hyde Park,in which he could have “a shake-down.” When he had made an end of his breakfast,and was wiping his knife on his leg, I said to him, without a word of preface,—
“After you were gone last night, I told my friend of the struggle that the soldiers found you engaged in on the marshes, when we came up. You remember?”
“Remember!” said he. “I think so!”
“We want to know something about that man—and about you. It is strange to know no more about either,and particularly you, than I was able to tell last night.Is not this as good a time as another for our knowing more?”
“Well!” he said, after consideration. “You’re on your oath, you know, Pip’s comrade?”
“Assuredly,” replied Herbert.
“As to anything I say, you know,” he insisted. “The oath applies to all.”
“I understand it to do so.”
“And look’ee here!Wotever I done is worked out and paid for,” he insisted again.
“So be it.”
He took out his black pipe and was going to fill it with negro-head, when,looking at the tangle of tobacco in his hand,he seemed to think it might perplex the thread of his narrative. He put it back again,stuck his pipe in a button-hole of his coat, spread a hand on each knee,and after turning an angry eye on the fire for a few silent moments,looked round at us and said what follows.
Chapter XLII.
“Dear boy and Pip’s comrade. I am not a-going fur to tell you my life like a song, or a story-book.But to give it you short and handy, I’ll put it at once into a mouthful of English.In jail and out of jail, in jail and out of jail, in jail and out of jail. There, you’ve got it.That’s _my_ life pretty much, down to such times as I got shipped off, arter Pip stood my friend.
“I’ve been done everything to, pretty well—except hanged.I’ve been locked up as much as a silver tea-kittle. I’ve been carted here and carted there,and put out of this town, and put out of that town, and stuck in the stocks,and whipped and worried and drove. I’ve no more notion where I was born than you have—if so much.I first become aware of myself down in Essex, a thieving turnips for my living.Summun had run away from me—a man—a tinker—and he’d took the fire with him, and left me wery cold.
“I know’d my name to be Magwitch, chrisen’d Abel. How did I know it?Much as I know’d the birds’ names in the hedges to be chaffinch, sparrer, thrush.I might have thought it was all lies together, only as the birds’ names come out true, I supposed mine did.
“So fur as I could find, there warn’t a soul that see young Abel Magwitch,with us little on him as in him, but wot caught fright at him, and either drove him off,or took him up. I was took up, took up, took up, to that extent that I reg’larly grow’d up took up.
“This is the way it was, that when I was a ragged little creetur as much to be pitied as ever I see (not that I looked in the glass,for there warn’t many insides of furnished houses known to me), I got the name of being hardened.‘This is a terrible hardened one,’ they says to prison wisitors, picking out me.‘May be said to live in jails, this boy.’ Then they looked at me, and I looked at them,and they measured my head, some on ’em,—they had better a measured my stomach,—and others on ’em giv me tracts what I couldn’t read,and made me speeches what I couldn’t understand. They always went on agen me about the Devil. But what the Devil was I to do?I must put something into my stomach, mustn’t I?—Howsomever, I’m a getting low, and I know what’s due. Dear boy and Pip’s comrade, don’t you be afeerd of me being low.
“Tramping, begging, thieving, working sometimes when I could,—though that warn’t as often as you may think,till you put the question whether you would ha’ been over-ready to give me work yourselves,—a bit of a poacher, a bit of a labourer, a bit of a wagoner, a bit of a haymaker,a bit of a hawker, a bit of most things that don’t pay and lead to trouble, I got to be a man.A deserting soldier in a Traveller’s Rest, what lay hid up to the chin under a lot of taturs,learnt me to read; and a travelling Giant what signed his name at a penny a time learnt me to write.I warn’t locked up as often now as formerly, but I wore out my good share of key-metal still.
“At Epsom races, a matter of over twenty years ago,I got acquainted wi’ a man whose skull I’d crack wi’ this poker, like the claw of a lobster,if I’d got it on this hob. His right name was Compeyson; and that’s the man, dear boy,what you see me a pounding in the ditch,according to what you truly told your comrade arter I was gone last night.
“He set up fur a gentleman, this Compeyson,and he’d been to a public boarding-school and had learning. He was a smooth one to talk,and was a dab at the ways of gentlefolks. He was good-looking too.It was the night afore the great race, when I found him on the heath, in a booth that I know’d on.Him and some more was a sitting among the tables when I went in,and the landlord (which had a knowledge of me, and was a sporting one) called him out, and said,‘I think this is a man that might suit you,’—meaning I was.
“Compeyson, he looks at me very noticing, and I look at him.He has a watch and a chain and a ring and a breast-pin and a handsome suit of clothes.
“‘To judge from appearances, you’re out of luck,’ says Compeyson to me.
“‘Yes, master, and I’ve never been in it much.’ (I had come out of Kingston Jail last on a vagrancy committal.Not but what it might have been for something else; but it warn’t.)
“‘Luck changes,’ says Compeyson; ‘perhaps yours is going to change.’
“I says, ‘I hope it may be so. There’s room.’
“‘What can you do?’ says Compeyson.
“‘Eat and drink,’ I says; ‘if you’ll find the materials.’
“Compeyson laughed, looked at me again very noticing, giv me five shillings,and appointed me for next night. Same place.
“I went to Compeyson next night, same place, and Compeyson took me on to be his man and pardner.And what was Compeyson’s business in which we was to go pardners?Compeyson’s business was the swindling, handwriting forging, stolen bank-note passing,and such-like. All sorts of traps as Compeyson could set with his head,and keep his own legs out of and get the profits from and let another man in for,was Compeyson’s business. He’d no more heart than a iron file, he was as cold as death,and he had the head of the Devil afore mentioned.
“There was another in with Compeyson, as was called Arthur,—not as being so chrisen’d,but as a surname. He was in a Decline, and was a shadow to look at.Him and Compeyson had been in a bad thing with a rich lady some years afore,and they’d made a pot of money by it; but Compeyson betted and gamed,and he’d have run through the king’s taxes. So, Arthur was a dying,and a dying poor and with the horrors on him,and Compeyson’s wife (which Compeyson kicked mostly) was a having pity on him when she could,and Compeyson was a having pity on nothing and nobody.
“I might a took warning by Arthur, but I didn’t;and I won’t pretend I was partick’ler—for where ’ud be the good on it, dear boy and comrade?So I begun wi’ Compeyson, and a poor tool I was in his hands.Arthur lived at the top of Compeyson’s house (over nigh Brentford it was),and Compeyson kept a careful account agen him for board and lodging,in case he should ever get better to work it out. But Arthur soon settled the account.The second or third time as ever I see him,he come a tearing down into Compeyson’s parlour late at night, in only a flannel gown,with his hair all in a sweat, and he says to Compeyson’s wife, ‘Sally,she really is upstairs alonger me, now, and I can’t get rid of her. She’s all in white,’ he says,‘wi’ white flowers in her hair, and she’s awful mad, and she’s got a shroud hanging over her arm,and she says she’ll put it on me at five in the morning.’
“Says Compeyson: ‘Why, you fool, don’t you know she’s got a living body?And how should she be up there, without coming through the door, or in at the window, and up the stairs?’
“‘I don’t know how she’s there,’ says Arthur, shivering dreadful with the horrors,‘but she’s standing in the corner at the foot of the bed, awful mad.And over where her heart’s broke—_you_ broke it!—there’s drops of blood.’
“Compeyson spoke hardy, but he was always a coward. ‘Go up alonger this drivelling sick man,’ he says to his wife, ‘and Magwitch, lend her a hand, will you?’ But he never come nigh himself.
“Compeyson’s wife and me took him up to bed agen, and he raved most dreadful. ‘Why look at her!’ he cries out. ‘She’s a shaking the shroud at me!Don’t you see her?Look at her eyes!Ain’t it awful to see her so mad?’ Next he cries, ‘She’ll put it on me, and then I’m done for!Take it away from 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 I see her myself.
“Compeyson’s wife, being used to him, giv him some liquor to get the horrors off,and by and by he quieted. ‘O, 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 unfolding 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,always 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 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 misdemeanor, while with Compeyson?”
I answered, No.