Chương Chương 57 · Now that I was left wholly to myself, I gave notice of my intention to

. Now that I was left wholly to myself, I gave notice of my intention to

quit the chambers in the Temple as soon as my tenancy could legally

determine, and in the meanwhile to underlet them. At once I put bills

up in the windows; for, I was in debt, and had scarcely any money, and

began to be seriously alarmed by the state of my affairs. I ought

rather to write that I should have been alarmed if I had had energy and

concentration enough to help me to the clear perception of any truth

beyond the fact that I was falling very ill. The late stress upon me

had enabled me to put off illness, but not to put it away; I knew that

it was coming on me now, and I knew very little else, and was even

careless as to that.

For a day or two, I lay on the sofa, or on the floor,—anywhere,

according as I happened to sink down,—with a heavy head and aching

limbs, and no purpose, and no power. Then there came, one night which

appeared of great duration, and which teemed with anxiety and horror;

and when in the morning I tried to sit up in my bed and think of it, I

found I could not do so.

Whether I really had been down in Garden Court in the dead of the

night, groping about for the boat that I supposed to be there; whether

I had two or three times come to myself on the staircase with great

terror, not knowing how I had got out of bed; whether I had found

myself lighting the lamp, possessed by the idea that he was coming up

the stairs, and that the lights were blown out; whether I had been

inexpressibly harassed by the distracted talking, laughing, and

groaning of some one, and had half suspected those sounds to be of my

own making; whether there had been a closed iron furnace in a dark

corner of the room, and a voice had called out, over and over again,

that Miss Havisham was consuming within it,—these were things that I

tried to settle with myself and get into some order, as I lay that

morning on my bed. But the vapour of a limekiln would come between me

and them, disordering them all, and it was through the vapour at last

that I saw two men looking at me.

“What do you want?” I asked, starting; “I don’t know you.”

“Well, sir,” returned one of them, bending down and touching me on the

shoulder, “this is a matter that you’ll soon arrange, I dare say, but

you’re arrested.”

“What is the debt?”

“Hundred and twenty-three pound, fifteen, six. Jeweller’s account, I

think.”

“What is to be done?”

“You had better come to my house,” said the man. “I keep a very nice

house.”

I made some attempt to get up and dress myself. When I next attended to

them, they were standing a little off from the bed, looking at me. I

still lay there.

“You see my state,” said I. “I would come with you if I could; but

indeed I am quite unable. If you take me from here, I think I shall die

by the way.”

Perhaps they replied, or argued the point, or tried to encourage me to

believe that I was better than I thought. Forasmuch as they hang in my

memory by only this one slender thread, I don’t know what they did,

except that they forbore to remove me.

That I had a fever and was avoided, that I suffered greatly, that I

often lost my reason, that the time seemed interminable, that I

confounded impossible existences with my own identity; that I was a

brick in the house-wall, and yet entreating to be released from the

giddy place where the builders had set me; that I was a steel beam of a

vast engine, clashing and whirling over a gulf, and yet that I implored

in my own person to have the engine stopped, and my part in it hammered

off; that I passed through these phases of disease, I know of my own

remembrance, and did in some sort know at the time. That I sometimes

struggled with real people, in the belief that they were murderers, and

that I would all at once comprehend that they meant to do me good, and

would then sink exhausted in their arms, and suffer them to lay me

down, I also knew at the time. But, above all, I knew that there was a

constant tendency in all these people,—who, when I was very ill, would

present all kinds of extraordinary transformations of the human face,

and would be much dilated in size,—above all, I say, I knew that there

was an extraordinary tendency in all these people, sooner or later, to

settle down into the likeness of Joe.

After I had turned the worst point of my illness, I began to notice

that while all its other features changed, this one consistent feature

did not change. Whoever came about me, still settled down into Joe. I

opened my eyes in the night, and I saw, in the great chair at the

bedside, Joe. I opened my eyes in the day, and, sitting on the

window-seat, smoking his pipe in the shaded open window, still I saw

Joe. I asked for cooling drink, and the dear hand that gave it me was

Joe’s. I sank back on my pillow after drinking, and the face that

looked so hopefully and tenderly upon me was the face of Joe.

At last, one day, I took courage, and said, “_Is_ it Joe?”

And the dear old home-voice answered, “Which it air, old chap.”

“O Joe, you break my heart! Look angry at me, Joe. Strike me, Joe. Tell

me of my ingratitude. Don’t be so good to me!”

For Joe had actually laid his head down on the pillow at my side, and

put his arm round my neck, in his joy that I knew him.

“Which dear old Pip, old chap,” said Joe, “you and me was ever friends.

And when you’re well enough to go out for a ride—what larks!”

After which, Joe withdrew to the window, and stood with his back

towards me, wiping his eyes. And as my extreme weakness prevented me

from getting up and going to him, I lay there, penitently whispering,

“O God bless him! O God bless this gentle Christian man!”

Joe’s eyes were red when I next found him beside me; but I was holding

his hand, and we both felt happy.

“How long, dear Joe?”

“Which you meantersay, Pip, how long have your illness lasted, dear old

chap?”

“Yes, Joe.”

“It’s the end of May, Pip. To-morrow is the first of June.”

“And have you been here all that time, dear Joe?”

“Pretty nigh, old chap. For, as I says to Biddy when the news of your

being ill were brought by letter, which it were brought by the post,

and being formerly single he is now married though underpaid for a deal

of walking and shoe-leather, but wealth were not a object on his part,

and marriage were the great wish of his hart—”

“It is so delightful to hear you, Joe! But I interrupt you in what you

said to Biddy.”

“Which it were,” said Joe, “that how you might be amongst strangers,

and that how you and me having been ever friends, a wisit at such a

moment might not prove unacceptabobble. And Biddy, her word were, ‘Go

to him, without loss of time.’ That,” said Joe, summing up with his

judicial air, “were the word of Biddy. ‘Go to him,’ Biddy say, ‘without

loss of time.’ In short, I shouldn’t greatly deceive you,” Joe added,

after a little grave reflection, “if I represented to you that the word

of that young woman were, ‘without a minute’s loss of time.’”

There Joe cut himself short, and informed me that I was to be talked to

in great moderation, and that I was to take a little nourishment at

stated frequent times, whether I felt inclined for it or not, and that

I was to submit myself to all his orders. So I kissed his hand, and lay

quiet, while he proceeded to indite a note to Biddy, with my love in

it.

Evidently Biddy had taught Joe to write. As I lay in bed looking at

him, it made me, in my weak state, cry again with pleasure to see the

pride with which he set about his letter. My bedstead, divested of its

curtains, had been removed, with me upon it, into the sitting-room, as

the airiest and largest, and the carpet had been taken away, and the

room kept always fresh and wholesome night and day. At my own

writing-table, pushed into a corner and cumbered with little bottles,

Joe now sat down to his great work, first choosing a pen from the

pen-tray as if it were a chest of large tools, and tucking up his

sleeves as if he were going to wield a crow-bar or sledgehammer. It was

necessary for Joe to hold on heavily to the table with his left elbow,

and to get his right leg well out behind him, before he could begin;

and when he did begin he made every downstroke so slowly that it might

have been six feet long, while at every upstroke I could hear his pen

spluttering extensively. He had a curious idea that the inkstand was on

the side of him where it was not, and constantly dipped his pen into

space, and seemed quite satisfied with the result. Occasionally, he was

tripped up by some orthographical stumbling-block; but on the whole he

got on very well indeed; and when he had signed his name, and had

removed a finishing blot from the paper to the crown of his head with

his two forefingers, he got up and hovered about the table, trying the

effect of his performance from various points of view, as it lay there,

with unbounded satisfaction.

Not to make Joe uneasy by talking too much, even if I had been able to

talk much, I deferred asking him about Miss Havisham until next day. He

shook his head when I then asked him if she had recovered.

“Is she dead, Joe?”

“Why you see, old chap,” said Joe, in a tone of remonstrance, and by

way of getting at it by degrees, “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,

for that’s a deal to say; but she ain’t—”

“Living, Joe?”

“That’s nigher where it is,” said Joe; “she ain’t living.”

“Did she linger long, Joe?”

“Arter you was took ill, pretty much about what you might call (if you

was put to it) a week,” said Joe; still determined, on my account, to

come at everything by degrees.

“Dear Joe, have you heard what becomes of her property?”

“Well, old chap,” said Joe, “it do appear that she had settled the most

of it, which I meantersay tied it up, on Miss Estella. But she had

wrote out a little coddleshell in her own hand a day or two afore the

accident, leaving a cool four thousand to Mr. Matthew Pocket. And why,

do you suppose, above all things, Pip, she left that cool four thousand

unto him? ‘Because of Pip’s account of him, the said Matthew.’ I am

told by Biddy, that air the writing,” said Joe, repeating the legal

turn as if it did him infinite good, “‘account of him the said

Matthew.’ And a cool four thousand, Pip!”

I never discovered from whom Joe derived the conventional temperature

of the four thousand pounds; but it appeared to make the sum of money

more to him, and he had a manifest relish in insisting on its being

cool.

This account gave me great joy, as it perfected the only good thing I

had done. I asked Joe whether he had heard if any of the other

relations had any legacies?

“Miss Sarah,” said Joe, “she have twenty-five pound perannium fur to

buy pills, on account of being bilious. Miss Georgiana, she have twenty

pound down. Mrs.—what’s the name of them wild beasts with humps, old

chap?”

“Camels?” said I, wondering why he could possibly want to know.

Joe nodded. “Mrs. Camels,” by which I presently understood he meant

Camilla, “she have five pound fur to buy rushlights to put her in

spirits when she wake up in the night.”

The accuracy of these recitals was sufficiently obvious to me, to give

me great confidence in Joe’s information. “And now,” said Joe, “you

ain’t that strong yet, old chap, that you can take in more nor one

additional shovelful to-day. Old Orlick he’s been a bustin’ open a

dwelling-ouse.”

“Whose?” said I.

“Not, I grant you, but what his manners is given to blusterous,” said

Joe, apologetically; “still, a Englishman’s ouse is his Castle, and

castles must not be busted ’cept when done in war time. And wotsume’er

the failings on his part, he were a corn and seedsman in his hart.”

“Is it Pumblechook’s house that has been broken into, then?”

“That’s it, Pip,” said Joe; “and they took his till, and they took his

cash-box, and they drinked his wine, and they partook of his wittles,

and they slapped his face, and they pulled his nose, and they tied him

up to his bedpust, and they giv’ him a dozen, and they stuffed his

mouth full of flowering annuals to prewent his crying out. But he

knowed Orlick, and Orlick’s in the county jail.”

By these approaches we arrived at unrestricted conversation. I was slow

to gain strength, but I did slowly and surely become less weak, and Joe

stayed with me, and I fancied I was little Pip again.

For the tenderness of Joe was so beautifully proportioned to my need,

that I was like a child in his hands. He would sit and talk to me in

the old confidence, and with the old simplicity, and in the old

unassertive protecting way, so that I would half believe that all my

life since the days of the old kitchen was one of the mental troubles

of the fever that was gone. He did everything for me except the

household work, for which he had engaged a very decent woman, after

paying off the laundress on his first arrival. “Which I do assure you,

Pip,” he would often say, in explanation of that liberty; “I found her

a tapping the spare bed, like a cask of beer, and drawing off the

feathers in a bucket, for sale. Which she would have tapped yourn next,

and draw’d it off with you a laying on it, and was then a carrying away

the coals gradiwally in the soup-tureen and wegetable-dishes, and the

wine and spirits in your Wellington boots.”

We looked forward to the day when I should go out for a ride, as we had

once looked forward to the day of my apprenticeship. And when the day

came, and an open carriage was got into the Lane, Joe wrapped me up,

took me in his arms, carried me down to it, and put me in, as if I were

still the small helpless creature to whom he had so abundantly given of

the wealth of his great nature.

And Joe got in beside me, and we drove away together into the country,

where the rich summer growth was already on the trees and on the grass,

and sweet summer scents filled all the air. The day happened to be

Sunday, and when I looked on the loveliness around me, and thought how

it had grown and changed, and how the little wild-flowers had been

forming, and the voices of the birds had been strengthening, by day and

by night, under the sun and under the stars, while poor I lay burning

and tossing on my bed, the mere remembrance of having burned and tossed

there came like a check upon my peace. But when I heard the Sunday

bells, and looked around a little more upon the outspread beauty, I

felt that I was not nearly thankful enough,—that I was too weak yet to

be even that,—and I laid my head on Joe’s shoulder, as I had laid it

long ago when he had taken me to the Fair or where not, and it was too

much for my young senses.

More composure came to me after a while, and we talked as we used to

talk, lying on the grass at the old Battery. There was no change

whatever in Joe. Exactly what he had been in my eyes then, he was in my

eyes still; just as simply faithful, and as simply right.

When we got back again, and he lifted me out, and carried me—so

easily!—across the court and up the stairs, I thought of that eventful

Christmas Day when he had carried me over the marshes. We had not yet

made any allusion to my change of fortune, nor did I know how much of

my late history he was acquainted with. I was so doubtful of myself

now, and put so much trust in him, that I could not satisfy myself

whether I ought to refer to it when he did not.

“Have you heard, Joe,” I asked him that evening, upon further

consideration, as he smoked his pipe at the window, “who my patron

was?”

“I heerd,” returned Joe, “as it were not Miss Havisham, old chap.”

“Did you hear who it was, Joe?”

“Well! I heerd as it were a person what sent the person what giv’ you

the bank-notes at the Jolly Bargemen, Pip.”

“So it was.”

“Astonishing!” said Joe, in the placidest way.

“Did you hear that he was dead, Joe?” I presently asked, with

increasing diffidence.

“Which? Him as sent the bank-notes, Pip?”

“Yes.”

“I think,” said Joe, after meditating a long time, and looking rather

evasively at the window-seat, “as I _did_ hear tell that how he were

something or another in a general way in that direction.”

“Did you hear anything of his circumstances, Joe?”

“Not partickler, Pip.”

“If you would like to hear, Joe—” I was beginning, when Joe got up and

came to my sofa.

“Lookee here, old chap,” said Joe, bending over me. “Ever the best of

friends; ain’t us, Pip?”

I was ashamed to answer him.

“Wery good, then,” said Joe, as if I _had_ answered; “that’s all right;

that’s agreed upon. Then why go into subjects, old chap, which as

betwixt two sech must be for ever onnecessary? There’s subjects enough

as betwixt two sech, without onnecessary ones. Lord! To think of your

poor sister and her Rampages! And don’t you remember Tickler?”

“I do indeed, Joe.”

“Lookee here, old chap,” said Joe. “I done what I could to keep you and

Tickler in sunders, but my power were not always fully equal to my

inclinations. For when your poor sister had a mind to drop into you, it

were not so much,” said Joe, in his favourite argumentative way, “that

she dropped into me too, if I put myself in opposition to her, but that

she dropped into you always heavier for it. I noticed that. It ain’t a

grab at a man’s whisker, not yet a shake or two of a man (to which your

sister was quite welcome), that ’ud put a man off from getting a little

child out of punishment. But when that little child is dropped into

heavier for that grab of whisker or shaking, then that man naterally up

and says to himself, ‘Where is the good as you are a-doing? I grant you

I see the ’arm,’ says the man, ‘but I don’t see the good. I call upon

you, sir, therefore, to pint out the good.’”

“The man says?” I observed, as Joe waited for me to speak.

“The man says,” Joe assented. “Is he right, that man?”

“Dear Joe, he is always right.”

“Well, old chap,” said Joe, “then abide by your words. If he’s always

right (which in general he’s more likely wrong), he’s right when he

says this: Supposing ever you kep any little matter to yourself, when

you was a little child, you kep it mostly because you know’d as J.

Gargery’s power to part you and Tickler in sunders were not fully equal

to his inclinations. Theerfore, think no more of it as betwixt two

sech, and do not let us pass remarks upon onnecessary subjects. Biddy

giv’ herself a deal o’ trouble with me afore I left (for I am almost

awful dull), as I should view it in this light, and, viewing it in this

light, as I should so put it. Both of which,” said Joe, quite charmed

with his logical arrangement, “being done, now this to you a true

friend, say. Namely. You mustn’t go a overdoing on it, but you must

have your supper and your wine and water, and you must be put betwixt

the sheets.”

The delicacy with which Joe dismissed this theme, and the sweet tact

and kindness with which Biddy—who with her woman’s wit had found me out

so soon—had prepared him for it, made a deep impression on my mind. But

whether Joe knew how poor I was, and how my great expectations had all

dissolved, like our own marsh mists before the sun, I could not

understand.

Another thing in Joe that I could not understand when it first began to

develop itself, but which I soon arrived at a sorrowful comprehension

of, was this: As I became stronger and better, Joe became a little less

easy with me. In my weakness and entire dependence on him, the dear

fellow had fallen into the old tone, and called me by the old names,

the dear “old Pip, old chap,” that now were music in my ears. I too had

fallen into the old ways, only happy and thankful that he let me. But,

imperceptibly, though I held by them fast, Joe’s hold upon them began

to slacken; and whereas I wondered at this, at first, I soon began to

understand that the cause of it was in me, and that the fault of it was

all mine.

Ah! Had I given Joe no reason to doubt my constancy, and to think that

in prosperity I should grow cold to him and cast him off? Had I given

Joe’s innocent heart no cause to feel instinctively that as I got

stronger, his hold upon me would be weaker, and that he had better

loosen it in time and let me go, before I plucked myself away?

It was on the third or fourth occasion of my going out walking in the

Temple Gardens leaning on Joe’s arm, that I saw this change in him very

plainly. We had been sitting in the bright warm sunlight, looking at

the river, and I chanced to say as we got up,—

“See, Joe! I can walk quite strongly. Now, you shall see me walk back

by myself.”

“Which do not overdo it, Pip,” said Joe; “but I shall be happy fur to

see you able, sir.”

The last word grated on me; but how could I remonstrate! I walked no

further than the gate of the gardens, and then pretended to be weaker

than I was, and asked Joe for his arm. Joe gave it me, but was

thoughtful.

I, for my part, was thoughtful too; for, how best to check this growing

change in Joe was a great perplexity to my remorseful thoughts. That I

was ashamed to tell him exactly how I was placed, and what I had come

down to, I do not seek to conceal; but I hope my reluctance was not

quite an unworthy one. He would want to help me out of his little

savings, I knew, and I knew that he ought not to help me, and that I

must not suffer him to do it.

It was a thoughtful evening with both of us. But, before we went to

bed, I had resolved that I would wait over to-morrow,—to-morrow being

Sunday,—and would begin my new course with the new week. On Monday

morning I would speak to Joe about this change, I would lay aside this

last vestige of reserve, I would tell him what I had in my thoughts

(that Secondly, not yet arrived at), and why I had not decided to go

out to Herbert, and then the change would be conquered for ever. As I

cleared, Joe cleared, and it seemed as though he had sympathetically

arrived at a resolution too.

We had a quiet day on the Sunday, and we rode out into the country, and

then walked in the fields.

“I feel thankful that I have been ill, Joe,” I said.

“Dear old Pip, old chap, you’re a’most come round, sir.”

“It has been a memorable time for me, Joe.”

“Likeways for myself, sir,” Joe returned.

“We have had a time together, Joe, that I can never forget. There were

days once, I know, that I did for a while forget; but I never shall

forget these.”

“Pip,” said Joe, appearing a little hurried and troubled, “there has

been larks. And, dear sir, what have been betwixt us—have been.”

At night, when I had gone to bed, Joe came into my room, as he had done

all through my recovery. He asked me if I felt sure that I was as well

as in the morning?

“Yes, dear Joe, quite.”

“And are always a getting stronger, old chap?”

“Yes, dear Joe, steadily.”

Joe patted the coverlet on my shoulder with his great good hand, and

said, in what I thought a husky voice, “Good night!”

When I got up in the morning, refreshed and stronger yet, I was full of

my resolution to tell Joe all, without delay. I would tell him before

breakfast. I would dress at once and go to his room and surprise him;

for, it was the first day I had been up early. I went to his room, and

he was not there. Not only was he not there, but his box was gone.

I hurried then to the breakfast-table, and on it found a letter. These

were its brief contents:—

“Not wishful to intrude I have departured fur you are well again dear

Pip and will do better without

JO.

“P.S. Ever the best of friends.”

Enclosed in the letter was a receipt for the debt and costs on which I

had been arrested. Down to that moment, I had vainly supposed that my

creditor had withdrawn, or suspended proceedings until I should be

quite recovered. I had never dreamed of Joe’s having paid the money;

but Joe had paid it, and the receipt was in his name.

What remained for me now, but to follow him to the dear old forge, and

there to have out my disclosure to him, and my penitent remonstrance

with him, and there to relieve my mind and heart of that reserved

Secondly, which had begun as a vague something lingering in my

thoughts, and had formed into a settled purpose?

The purpose was, that I would go to Biddy, that I would show her how

humbled and repentant I came back, that I would tell her how I had lost

all I once hoped for, that I would remind her of our old confidences in

my first unhappy time. Then I would say to her, “Biddy, I think you

once liked me very well, when my errant heart, even while it strayed

away from you, was quieter and better with you than it ever has been

since. If you can like me only half as well once more, if you can take

me with all my faults and disappointments on my head, if you can

receive me like a forgiven child (and indeed I am as sorry, Biddy, and

have as much need of a hushing voice and a soothing hand), I hope I am

a little worthier of you that I was,—not much, but a little. And,

Biddy, it shall rest with you to say whether I shall work at the forge

with Joe, or whether I shall try for any different occupation down in

this country, or whether we shall go away to a distant place where an

opportunity awaits me which I set aside, when it was offered, until I

knew your answer. And now, dear Biddy, if you can tell me that you will

go through the world with me, you will surely make it a better world

for me, and me a better man for it, and I will try hard to make it a

better world for you.”

Such was my purpose. After three days more of recovery, I went down to

the old place to put it in execution. And how I sped in it is all I

have left to tell.