Great Expectations - Charles Dickens (i want to read a book .txt) 📗

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 favors, 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 realization of his fixed idea. In the

moment of realization, 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 recognized 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”