Great Expectations
“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 determined 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 upstairs, and refresh himself with a glass of
grog before walking to Walworth. He accepted the invitation. While he
was drinking his moderate 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 companion 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 acquiescence, 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 have
been stirring with the lark, for, glancing into the perspective 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,”
returned 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 again, 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-office was widened
to its utmost extent, I now began to have my strong suspicions. They
were strengthened into certainty 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.”
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 gentleman, 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 present an 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 himself, 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 bonnet like a baby’s, made a
feint of being the bosom friend of Miss Skiffins. The responsibility of
giving the lady away devolved upon the Aged, which led to the
clergyman’s being unintentionally scandalised, and it happened thus.
When he said, “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” the
old gentleman, not in the least knowing what point of the ceremony we
had arrived at, stood most amiably beaming 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
estimable unconsciousness, the bridegroom cried out in his 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 going 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
unwound Wemmick’s arm when it adapted itself to her figure, but sat in
a high-backed chair against the wall, like a violoncello in its case,
and submitted to be embraced as that melodious instrument might have
done.
We had an excellent breakfast, and when any one declined 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 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.”
Chapter LVI.
He lay in prison very ill, during the whole interval between 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 difficulty, which increased daily. It was a consequence of his
hurt that he spoke so low as to be scarcely audible; therefore 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 prison-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 separation were long enough to record
on his face any slight changes that occurred in his physical state. I
do not recollect 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 an impression, from his manner
or from a whispered word or two which escaped him, that he pondered
over the question 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 until 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 getting
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 industrious 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 impossible to try him for that, and do otherwise than find him
guilty.
At that time, it was the custom (as I learnt from my terrible
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 believe, even as I write these words, that
I saw two-and-thirty men and women put before the Judge to receive that
sentence 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
weeping, some covering their faces, some staring gloomily about. There
had been shrieks from among the women convicts; but they had been
stilled, and 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