It was a very dark night when it was all over, and when I set out with Mr. Wopsle on the walk home.Beyond town, we found a heavy mist out, and it fell wet and thick. The turnpike lamp was a blur,quite out of the lamp’s usual place apparently, and its rays looked solid substance on the fog.We were noticing this, and saying how that the mist rose with a change of wind from a certain quarter of our marshes,when we came upon a man, slouching under the lee of the turnpike house.
“Halloa!” we said, stopping. “Orlick there?”
“Ah!” he answered, slouching out. “I was standing by a minute, on the chance of company.”
“You are late,” I remarked.
Orlick not unnaturally answered, “Well?And _you_’re late.”
“We have been,” said Mr. Wopsle, exalted with his late performance,—“we have been indulging, Mr. Orlick, in an intellectual evening.”
Old Orlick growled, as if he had nothing to say about that, and we all went on together.I asked him presently whether he had been spending his half-holiday up and down town?
“Yes,” said he, “all of it. I come in behind yourself. I didn’t see you,but I must have been pretty close behind you. By the by, the guns is going again.”
“At the Hulks?” said I.
“Ay!There’s some of the birds flown from the cages. The guns have been going since dark, about. You’ll hear one presently.”
In effect, we had not walked many yards further, when the well-remembered boom came towards us,deadened by the mist, and heavily rolled away along the low grounds by the river,as if it were pursuing and threatening the fugitives.
“A good night for cutting off in,” said Orlick.“We’d be puzzled how to bring down a jail-bird on the wing, to-night.”
The subject was a suggestive one to me, and I thought about it in silence. Mr. Wopsle,as the ill-requited uncle of the evening’s tragedy,fell to meditating aloud in his garden at Camberwell. Orlick, with his hands in his pockets,slouched heavily at my side. It was very dark, very wet, very muddy, and so we splashed along.Now and then, the sound of the signal cannon broke upon us again,and again rolled sulkily along the course of the river. I kept myself to myself and my thoughts.Mr. Wopsle died amiably at Camberwell, and exceedingly game on Bosworth Field,and in the greatest agonies at Glastonbury. Orlick sometimes growled, “Beat it out, beat it out, —Old Clem!With a clink for the stout,—Old Clem!” I thought he had been drinking, but he was not drunk.
Thus, we came to the village. The way by which we approached it took us past the Three Jolly Bargemen,which we were surprised to find—it being eleven o’clock—in a state of commotion,with the door wide open, and unwonted lights that had been hastily caught up and put down scattered about.Mr. Wopsle dropped in to ask what was the matter (surmising that a convict had been taken), but came running out in a great hurry.
“There’s something wrong,” said he, without stopping, “up at your place, Pip. Run all!”
“What is it?” I asked, keeping up with him. So did Orlick, at my side.
“I can’t quite understand. The house seems to have been violently entered when Joe Gargery was out.Supposed by convicts. Somebody has been attacked and hurt.”
We were running too fast to admit of more being said,and we made no stop until we got into our kitchen. It was full of people;the whole village was there, or in the yard; and there was a surgeon, and there was Joe,and there were a group of women, all on the floor in the midst of the kitchen.The unemployed bystanders drew back when they saw me, and so I became aware of my sister,—lying without sense or movement on the bare boards where she had been knocked down by a tremendous blow on the back of the head,dealt by some unknown hand when her face was turned towards the fire,—destined never to be on the Rampage again, while she was the wife of Joe.
Chapter XVI.
With my head full of George Barnwell, I was at first disposed to believe that _I_ must have had some hand in the attack upon my sister,or at all events that as her near relation, popularly known to be under obligations to her,I was a more legitimate object of suspicion than any one else. But when,in the clearer light of next morning, I began to reconsider the matter and to hear it discussed around me on all sides,I took another view of the case, which was more reasonable.
Joe had been at the Three Jolly Bargemen, smoking his pipe,from a quarter after eight o’clock to a quarter before ten. While he was there,my sister had been seen standing at the kitchen door,and had exchanged Good Night with a farm-labourer going home.The man could not be more particular as to the time at which he saw her (he got into dense confusion when he tried to be),than that it must have been before nine. When Joe went home at five minutes before ten,he found her struck down on the floor, and promptly called in assistance.The fire had not then burnt unusually low, nor was the snuff of the candle very long; the candle, however, had been blown out.
Nothing had been taken away from any part of the house. Neither,beyond the blowing out of the candle,—which stood on a table between the door and my sister,and was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,—was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made,in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot.She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine;after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence,as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up,was a convict’s leg-iron which had been filed asunder.
Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith’s eye,declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks,and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe’s opinion was corroborated.They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged;but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night.Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron.
Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here.I believed the iron to be my convict’s iron,—the iron I had seen and heard him filing at,on the marshes,—but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use.For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it,and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick,or the strange man who had shown me the file.
Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike,he had been seen about town all the evening,he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr.Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him,and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man;if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them,because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation;the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly,that she had been felled before she could look round.
It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly,but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;—the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course—for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?—and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant.
The Constables and the Bow Street men from London—for,this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police—were about the house for a week or two,and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases.They took up several obviously wrong people,and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas,and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas,instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also,they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen,with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighbourhood with admiration;and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink,that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it.
Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed.Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied,and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities;her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When,at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs,it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her,that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech.As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller,and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader,extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve.The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe,and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes.
However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient.A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state,and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head,and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind.We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her,until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr.Wopsle’s great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen,and Biddy became a part of our establishment.
It may have been about a month after my sister’s reappearance in the kitchen,when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects,and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe,for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife,and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening,to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened,“Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!” Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy;Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life,and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good.It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it),and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered.
Biddy’s first triumph in her new office,was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it,but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:—
Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate,a character that looked like a curious T,and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted.I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub.At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer,and on my lustily calling that word in my sister’s ear,she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon,I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail.Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village,and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence.But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it,that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck.
When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her,this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it,heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister,looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter),and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me.
“Why, of course!” cried Biddy, with an exultant face. “Don’t you see?It’s _him_!”
Orlick, without a doubt!She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer.We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer,wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out,with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him.
I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him,and that I was disappointed by the different result.She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him,was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced,and motioned that she would have him given something to drink.She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception,she showed every possible desire to conciliate him,and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did,such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day,a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate,and without Orlick’s slouching in and standing doggedly before her,as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it.
Chapter XVII.
I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life,which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes,by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham.I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her,and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words.The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going,and told me to come again on my next birthday.I may mention at once that this became an annual custom.I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion,but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more?Then, and after that, I took it.
So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room,the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass,that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and,while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still.Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it,any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me,and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home.
Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel,her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,—she was common,and could not be like Estella,—but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered.She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me),when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes;eyes that were very pretty and very good.
It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at—writing some passages from a book,to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem—and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about.I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down.
“Biddy,” said I, “how do you manage it?Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever.”
“What is it that I manage?I don’t know,” returned Biddy, smiling.
She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that,though that made what I did mean more surprising.
“How do you manage, Biddy,” said I, “to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?” I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it,and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt,now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price.
“I might as well ask you,” said Biddy, “how _you_ manage?”
“No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy.”
“I suppose I must catch it like a cough,” said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing.
Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair,and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side,I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now,that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade,and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew,Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better.
“You are one of those, Biddy,” said I, “who make the most of every chance.You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!”
Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. “I was your first teacher though; wasn’t I?” said she, as she sewed.
“Biddy!” I exclaimed, in amazement. “Why, you are crying!”
“No I am not,” said Biddy, looking up and laughing. “What put that in your head?”
What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work?I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr.Wopsle’s great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living,so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people.I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school,with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered.I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing,for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course.Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears,and while I looked at her and thought about it all,it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy.I might have been too reserved, and should have patronised her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence.
“Yes, Biddy,” I observed, when I had done turning it over, “you were my first teacher,and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen.”
“Ah, poor thing!” replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister,and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; “that’s sadly true!”
“Well!” said I, “we must talk together a little more, as we used to do.And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do.Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat.”
My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon,and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather.When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard,and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on,I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way.When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet,making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound,I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence.
“Biddy,” said I, after binding her to secrecy, “I want to be a gentleman.”
“O, I wouldn’t, if I was you!” she returned. “I don’t think it would answer.”
“Biddy,” said I, with some severity, “I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman.”
“You know best, Pip; but don’t you think you are happier as you are?”
“Biddy,” I exclaimed, impatiently, “I am not at all happy as I am.I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don’t be absurd.”
“Was I absurd?” said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; “I am sorry for that; I didn’t mean to be.I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable.”
“Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable—or anything but miserable—there, Biddy!—unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now.”
“That’s a pity!” said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air.
Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that,in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on,I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own.I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped.
“If I could have settled down,” I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach,much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,—“if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little,I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then,and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time,and I might even have grown up to keep company with you,and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people.I should have been good enough for _you_; shouldn’t I, Biddy?”
Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, “Yes;I am not over-particular.” It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well.
“Instead of that,” said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two,“see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and—what would it signify to me,being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!”
Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine,and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships.
“It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say,” she remarked,directing her eyes to the ships again. “Who said it?”
I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to.It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered,“The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham’s, and she’s more beautiful than anybody ever was,and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account.” Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river,as if I had some thoughts of following it.
“Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?” Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause.
“I don’t know,” I moodily answered.
“Because, if it is to spite her,” Biddy pursued,“I should think—but you know best—that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words.And if it is to gain her over, I should think—but you know best—she was not worth gaining over.”
Exactly what I myself had thought, many times.Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad,avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day?
“It may be all quite true,” said I to Biddy, “but I admire her dreadfully.”
In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that,and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well.All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced,that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair,and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot.
Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand,which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another,and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way,while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,—exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,—and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can’t say which.
“I am glad of one thing,” said Biddy, “and that is,that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing,and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear!such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set.But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it’s of no use now.” So,with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said,with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, “Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?”
“Biddy,” I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, “I shall always tell you everything.”
“Till you’re a gentleman,” said Biddy.
“You know I never shall be, so that’s always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything,for you know everything I know,—as I told you at home the other night.”
“Ah!” said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated,with her former pleasant change, “shall we walk a little farther, or go home?”
I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so,and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful.I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all,in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbour by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks,and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head,with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies,and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it,and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable?I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, “Pip, what a fool you are!”
We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting,or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain,and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine.How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two?
“Biddy,” said I, when we were walking homeward, “I wish you could put me right.”
“I wish I could!” said Biddy.
“If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,—you don’t mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?”
“Oh dear, not at all!” said Biddy. “Don’t mind me.”
“If I could only get myself to do it, _that_ would be the thing for me.”
“But you never will, you see,” said Biddy.
It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening,as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before.I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she _was_,and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill,too, that she should be so positive on the point.
When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment,and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes,or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick.
“Halloa!” he growled, “where are you two going?”
“Where should we be going, but home?”
“Well, then,” said he, “I’m jiggered if I don’t see you home!”
This penalty of being jiggered was a favourite supposititious case of his.He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it,like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind,and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger,I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally,he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook.
Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, “Don’t let him come;I don’t like him.” As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him,but we didn’t want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter,and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance.
Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him.
“Oh!” she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, “because I—I am afraid he likes me.”
“Did he ever tell you he liked you?” I asked indignantly.