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All Quiet On the Western Front Study Guide

By Remarque Erich Maria

  • Window Douglas’s

Remarque was born in Germany and drafted into the German army in 1916.  In a time when many authors were writing novels on the graphic horrors of war, or the romanticism and ideology of courage, Remarque wrote of the soldiers, their lives, and their struggles.

When Hitler came to power in the 1930’s, the Nazi regime criticized Remarque and the novel as being blatantly unpatriotic.  Rather than risk being retaliated against he let the Nazi’s smear his reputation and continued to release a follow-up novel entitled “The Road Back”.  When the Nazi’s further opposed Remarque’s writing, he and his wife fled to Switzerland and the Nazi’s banned his novels and held a book burning.

Though the Nazis vehemently opposed Remarque’s writing, it received critical acclaim and is one of the most popular novels of all time.  The remarkable thing about the success of the novel is that it received positive reviews mostly in the United States even though it is a novel about German soldiers.

At the time the novel was written, English and American soldiers were bitter enemies of Germans, especially German soldiers.  This attests to the fact that World War I was horrifying for all involved and those who went through the experience, no matter which side they were on, all share a unique bond in a way.

“All Quiet on the Western Front” remains Remarque’s most successful novel, though he penned many political and historical novels, and is widely considered to be his masterpiece.

The narrator, Paul Baumer, is a nineteen year old man who decides, with some of his schoolmates to join the German army.  The army is a place of honor and glory to them, but they soon find out that this is not the case, and they simply live in terror all the time.  The boys are some of only eighty men who survive an attack that begin with one-hundred and fifty men.

Upon returning, they visit their friend Kemmerich who has lost a leg and will soon die.  Muller requests to have Kemmerich’s boots when he dies, as he will not need them anymore.  While some of the boys think that he is being insensitive, Paul realizes that war is no place for emotion.

The boys discuss the fact that the leaders of countries should fight the wars amongst themselves, rather than hiding in the shadows while soldiers sacrifice their own lives in wars they did not instigate.

At times, the soldiers wonder what they will do once the war is over.  Few of them seem to have solid plans, while others feel as though the war will never end and if it does they fear they would not know what to do with themselves afterward.  Paul seems to be slowly losing s sense of who he is with a fear of never getting it back.

After surviving a particularly bloody battle, he and some other soldiers meet some French girls and Paul sees it as an attempt to regain the innocence that the war has taken from him, but he cannot seem to find it.  When Paul finds himself home on leave he feels as though he cannot tell anyone of his experiences because they will not understand and he does not want them to fear for him.

The only place he feels home is at war, surrounded by the only people who understand what his life has become.  Slowly, all the original circle of friends dies, with Paul being the only one remaining.  He fears that when he gets home he will no longer know how to live in a peaceful environment.

Paul is the last one to be killed, on a day with very little fighting; on a day when the headline of the paper reads, “All Quiet on the Western Front.”

Paul Baumer

Paul is the narrator and central character of the novel.  His inner monologue expresses distaste for war and for whom war is forcing him to become though he cannot do anything about it.  He struggles with himself, trying to retain something of who he was before the war, but knowing that it is not safe for him to do so because becoming emotionless is a means of self-preservation.

Paul reaches the point where he can no longer feel because it will hurt him and his family too much to realize the truth.  When he is home he does not feel at home and when he loses his friends he feels he cannot mourn, or he will break down.  He lives in fear of becoming insane and ends up dead on the inside long before he is dead on the outside.

Stanislaus Katczinsky

More commonly known as Kat, he is Paul’s closest friend in the military.  Kat is a middle-aged man with a family back at home who tries not to let the war get to him.  He is the provider for the rest of the men, always finding them whatever they may need such as food, clothing, or blankets.

Kat is seen as the leader by most of the men and is greatly admired.  He does not believe in the causes of war or what war turns men into, but he does believe in a sense of duty and the fact that it is his duty to fight in that war even if he does not stand for it.

Albert Kropp

Kropp is one of Paul’s closest friends and allies and was one of his classmates.  Kropp is often described as “hungry,” but it is never said exactly what he is hungry for.  He is one of the most vocal characters about the injustices of war and the way the military is treated. He notes in the hospital that officers are taken care of much quicker than the enlisted men, showing the hierarchy and injustice of the way the men are treated.

Kropp is not scared to speak his mind or to deliver on his actions.  He often speaks of the war and what a bad idea it was to begin with.  He is the character Remarque mainly uses to speak his own mind.

Muller

Muller is one of Paul’s schoolmate friends and the character who is most likely to think of himself first and others later, as he knows must be done.  When Kemmerich is dying in the hospital Muller requests to have his boots when he dies, knowing he will not need them.

The other soldiers feel as though he is being insensitive and selfish, but Paul realizes that he has the right idea because the only way to survive is to look out for oneself first and to feel nothing because emotion is weakness.

Muller is obsessed with life outside of the war zone and wants to know what everyone will be doing when they get home, though it is something that no one wants to think about.

Franz Kemmerich

Another of Paul’s school friends.  Kemmerich is wounded, though not seriously, but contracts gangrene when it is infected and has his leg amputated.  Kemmerich does not seem to notice that his leg is missing, nor does he know that he is going to die.

Paul notices that the orderlies in the hospital are watching him and waiting for him to die, rather impatiently, so they can have his bed for someone else, and Muller is pining over Kemmerich’s boots.

Kemmerich dies in chapter two, and this is when the unimportance of death is first revealed.  There is no sympathy, only expectance.

Joseph Behm

Another of Paul’s classmates and the first of them to die during the war.  Behm wanted to join the military least out of the boys, but did so at the insistence of Kantorek, the boys’ school teacher.  His death is very painful for him and is the first taste the boys get at the true injustice and reality of the war.

They see that very few people care who dies in the war or how it happened.  After the experience of Behm’s death, the boys lose all faith in the people who convinced them that the war effort holds merit and glory.

Tjaden

A friend who serves with Paul in the Second Company.  Tjaden’s life revolves around food, and his mood changes depending on the rations they are given.  When a number of soldiers are killed in the first big battle Tjaden is not saddened like many of the other soldiers, but overjoyed at the extra food that they have to eat.

Tjaden hates Himmelstoss more than any of the other soldiers, mostly because Himmelstoss relentlessly tortures Tjaden for being a bed-wetter.  When Tjaden dies it is at a time when they are coming off of a long journey and a grueling battle and are very weakened and listless.   Being deprived of food, Tjaden is particularly weak and down in spirits, and it leads to his death.

Corporal Himmelstoss

Himmelstoss is a training officer who lived life as a postman before the war.  Himmelstoss torments the soldiers he trains, especially Paul and his companions, and has an obviously thirst for power.

Himmelstoss is obviously a very insecure man who never had any power before he went into the war and, therefore, abuses his power once he gets it.  He tries to earn respect from the soldiers by disrespecting them, which backfires on him.

When Himmelstoss is finally sent to the trenches to fight on the front line for the first time he gains a lot of respect for the soldiers he spent so much time torturing and tries to make amends, though basically ends up groveling to get any respect from them at all.

Detering

One of Paul’s closest friends in the Second Company and the man who seems to find it hardest to check his emotions.  Detering has a wife and a farm back home and desperately wishes to be back there with them and talks about it often.

Detering shows great emotion at the suffering of horses that are dying, he just wishes for them to be shot and taken out of their misery.  He is also extremely emotional over the appearance of a cherry tree that is flowering.  In the middle of the night, Paul finds him packing, and he disappears, never to be seen from again.  It seems that he tried to run away but was caught and court-martialed.

Kantorek

Kantorek was a teacher of the boys while they were still in school that convinced them to join the military.  He believes that it is the boys’ patriotic duty to participate in the war and he presses upon them to join because of this duty.

He represents all of the adults and authority figures who feel as though young boys should sacrifice their lives for the cause of those in power, not willing to do the same themselves or even realize exactly what they are asking.

Paul sees Kantorek as an enemy and an ally of the war because he is a teacher and someone who is meant to be trusted, though upon joining the war, the boys realize that he lied to them.  They get their revenge when Kantorek is enlisted and forced to fight.

Gerard Duval

Duval is a Frenchman that Paul killed and was the victim of his first experience in hand-to-hand combat.  Paul is forced to kill Duval when he crawls into the space in which Paul is hiding during an attack.

Paul stabs the man and spends hours staring at him while he dies, feeling very guilty and has a need to find out about the man he has killed and so he searched him for identification.  He discovers that Duval was a printer and had a wife and a child.

Paul is immensely traumatized by this incident and vows that when the war is over he will send money to Duval’s family.

Josef Hamacher

Josef is a man whom the boys came across at the Catholic Hospital.  He took the blame when Paul threw a bottle in an attempt to quiet the nuns who were praying very loudly.  The boys were very surprised by his actions and his boldness at taking the blame until they learn that he was a sharpshooter.

In the war, sharpshooters are very highly praised and placed on a pedestal, so they could get away with almost anything, punishment-free.  When one of the nuns reprimands him for throwing the bottle, he simply asks if there is another bottle he can throw.

Haie Westhus

Westhus grew up on a farm and is a massive guy.  He is a peat digger and hates his job in real life so much that he wants to stay in the army once the war ends.  He is one of the few characters who does not miss his outside life and does not hate the war and what it has made him.

During an attack, he is hit in the back, and Himmelstoss carries him to the hospital, which is one of Himmelstoss’ few acts of kindness.  Westhus dies from his injuries because his lungs have been exposed.

Lieutenant Bertinck

Bertinck is one of the few truly good and authoritative figures in the novel.  He is very kind, fair, and respectful of his men.  When masses of soldiers die, and there are extra rations to be had he allows his men to eat them even when Ginger (the cook) refuses to allow it.

He fights alongside his men and rescues them from enemy flamethrowers, a brave and noble move that kills him.  In a novel where authority figures are seen as weak and undeserving of respect, Bertinck is one of the good guys to the core.

Leer

Leer is one of Paul’s classmates and also served with him in the Second Company.  Leer is quite the ladies’ man and is the first one of Paul’s classmates to lose his virginity.  When the boys meet the French women he is the first one to try, and succeed, to seduce one of them.

Leer and Bertinck are both hit by a shell fragment and the fragment tears through Leer’s hip, causing him to bleed to death.  As he is dying Paul finds himself wondering why it matters that Leer was good at math in school because it is no use to him now, as he lies dying.

The Psychological Effects of War

As the novel progresses, the characters develop into the shells of the men they used to be.  They begin as innocent young men, fresh out of school, and they become greatly desensitized and void of all emotions through the horrors of war.

The boys become men in the harshest way possible and can no longer live normal lives in peaceful situations because they no longer know how to adapt to normal social situations after living in a constant state of fear and hyper-alertness for such an extended period of time.

Political Power

According to the novel, political powers are responsible for war.  Those who are in powerful positions make the decisions that they feel are best for the advancement and safety of their nations, though the people who face the consequences of these decisions are innocent young men who serve time as soldiers for a cause they at first believe to be noble.

The men who are soldiers in this novel realize they are risking their lives on behalf of other people’s decisions that are often made to further their own career or increase their political power but who will not fight their own fight.

Reality of War

Most depictions of war, be it in novels or in movies, show the romanticism of war.  They show soldiers who join the military for glory, honor, and patriotism.  This novel, unlike others, does not glorify war but paints a realistic picture of it.

The soldiers at first joined the war effort to help and out of what they felt to be their patriotic duty, but soon learned as they saw men dropping dead all around them that war does not equal glory, but death, dismemberment, blood, gore, and pain.  There are no romantic realities of war, only romantic notions.

Identity

The reality of war, as the boys who turned into soldiers soon learned, is that it changes those who participate in it.  Not only did it transform the boys into men, but it transformed them into shells of who they once were.  Paul is the quickest to learn that in order to survive in a wartime situation one needs to be void of all emotion.

Emotion leads to rash decisions and honorable intentions, which also happen to lead to death.  Basically the men become killing machines who are disillusioned to the pain around them and no longer know who they are.  They get to the point where they do not even know how to live in the real world anymore because they have no unique identity any longer.

Sense of Belonging

Throughout the novel, the soldiers have the most trouble finding a place in which they belong.  Starting out they were schoolmates who joined the military due to a sense of duty, glory, and accomplishment but knew that home was where they truly belonged, and the place they longed for the most on days when conditions were particularly hard to deal with.

Over time, they became so tainted by the realities of war and emotionless shells of humans because of the horrors they have faced, that they no longer feel comfortable back at home in the place they once felt they would always belong.  By the end of the novel, the characters know that the only place they will ever belong anymore is in war and that is where their lives all end.

Innocence

Beginning as young men who are eager to prove themselves and serve their country, the characters are extremely naïve and innocent to the terrifying reality of what they are committing themselves to.  As the war goes on, and they endure abuse from Himmelstoss and watch their comrades die in front of them, the boys quickly lose their innocence and become men.

In the scene where they have just survived the bloodiest battle, and they meet up with the French girls, Paul searches for the innocence that he has lost along the way but to no avail.  He realizes, being around the girls in a carefree environment, that he will never be the person he once was and once innocence is lost it cannot return.

Sacrifice

Sacrifice is central to the novel because it is seen in so many different forms.  The soldiers sacrifice their innocence, adulthood, personalities, emotions, belief that there is good in life, sense of belonging, and eventually their lives.  The soldiers sacrifice their lives long before death, in the way that they no longer have any sense of who they are and basically exist for the purpose of killing.

By the end of the novel, all the central group of characters has sacrificed their physical life as well, though to them this may not seem a sacrifice but merely the only way out of the life they have entered into and the people they have become.

Death

Death shows itself both in terms of physical death and as emotional death.  Once soldiers have been exposed to the horrors of war and have seen the extent of physical death that surrounds them, they learn to die emotionally, as well.

In a way, they commit emotional suicide, because they learn that emotion is a hindrance in the circumstance they are in.  The soldiers experience the death of who they once were and rebirth as a unit of killing machines, void of all emotion, who are all basically the same.

When they finally experience their own physical death they do it with a sense of contentment because they no longer have be members of the living dead.

Brotherhood

Despite the fact that the soldiers all become dead on the inside and learn to live without emotion, the main characters are still a solid unit.  They remained friends, and brothers, from beginning to end.  Quite probably the only reasons the boys were able to remain as close as they were is because they were all going through the same horrific experience.

They had all learned to be emotionless, but that may have tied their bond tighter than ever because they were the only people who understood and empathized with the situation at hand.  The characters are obviously hurt by the death of their friends, one at a time, but are happy for them because, in death, they can finally be free.

Animalism

Throughout the novel, the soldiers are compared to animals on numerous occasions.  The way the soldiers are fed as masses, herded together, and forced to use the same outdoor latrine space is the same way animals live and are treated.

The central power figures in the novel fight to be alpha-male and to have the most power, and the entire concept of war is survival of the fittest which is exactly like that of the animal kingdom.  There are several instances throughout the novel where animals turn up, seemingly as a reminder that the soldiers are nothing more than animals to those who are calling the shots.

The novel opens with Paul, the narrator, and his fellow soldiers returning from a battle in which about seventy men were lost.  With Paul are Leer, Muller, and Kropp who were all his classmates in high school, and Tjaden, Haie Westhus, and Katczinsky who are all fellow members of the Second Company of the German army.

Tjaden is a locksmith and a very small guy with a huge appetite whose mood is directly reflected by how much and what he has eaten that day.  Haie Westhus is a peat-digger and a massive guy who hates his real life job so much that he wants to remain in the army after the war is over, and Katzinsky is a middle-aged man who is the most respected by the group and considered the leader.

The morning after the attack the men go down to breakfast where they happily discover that the cook, Ginger, has prepared enough food for 150 soldiers, obviously not knowing how many were lost.  The soldiers are ecstatic to eat the extra food, but Ginger tells them he can only serve one ration to each soldier and the rest will just have to go to waste.  They get into an argument with him and eventually he agrees to serve them all of the rations.

Paul remembers his former teacher, Kantorek, as the reason he and his friends enlisted in the army.  He made them feel as though joining the war was their patriotic duty and something they should be honored to do.  Joseph Behm, the one classmate who did not buy into the patriotism and never wanted to join, was one of the first boys killed.  He died a violent, horrifying, and drawn out death, and Paul and his friends lost all trust they had for authority, feeling as though Kantorek had lied to them.

The boys head to the hospital to visit Kemmerich, another classmate, who is there with a leg injury.  The boys learn that he has contracted gangrene and one of his legs has been amputated.  They know that he is slowly dying, which is made obvious by the fact that the orderlies keep checking on him, anxious for his bed to be vacant, so they can fill it with someone new.  Muller notices Kemmerich’s brand new boots and expresses his desire to have them.

Paul reminisces on what his life was like before the war and what the war has turned his life into.  When he was in school, he used to write poetry and now that he has become disillusioned by the horrors of war he has become hard and cynical and has no time or desire to write poetry any longer.

He wonders what will become of himself and the other soldiers of his age who are participating in the war because they never got a chance to grow up and establish a life.  He feels as though the men who already have careers and families will simply return to their lives and assimilate easily, whereas he and the other boys will never be able to live a normal life again because all they know is war and have nothing to return to that will distract them.

Paul considers Muller’s request to have Kemmerich’s boots and decides that he is not being insensitive but rather rational.  Paul deduces that in order to survive the war he must push aside all emotion and not think about life outside of the war, but only of his close friends that stand beside him every day.

When Paul and the others went through training, they were taught that a soldier is to have no individual identity.  Their training officer, Himmelstoss, tormented all of the soldiers, but especially their close-knit group.  Himmelstoss is a very small man who was a postman in his outside life.

He has an obvious thirst for power and respect that he did not have outside of the war, and he attempts to achieve this respect by disrespecting and humiliating everyone around him.  The men all despise Himmelstoss though Paul muses that perhaps they would not have been strong enough mentally to handle the war had be not been so hard on them.

As Kemmerich is nearing death, Paul sits at his bedside.  Kemmerich knows that his leg is missing and is pretty certain that he is going to die, though Paul tries to life his spirits and make him think differently.  Paul tells Kemmerich of the advancements being made in prosthetics and Kemmerich tells Paul to give his boots to Muller and ignores his attempts at distracting him with conversation.

Paul sees that Kemmerich is in a lot of pain and will soon be dead, so he goes to find a doctor.  Upon returning Paul finds that Kemmerich is already dead.  He watches as the orderlies quickly empty Kemmerich’s bed and get it ready for someone new.  Paul takes Kemmerich’s boots to give to Muller.

Because of the loss of nearly half of the soldiers new recruits were brought in, these new soldiers being even younger than Paul and his friends.  Kat shows the new recruits his knack for acquiring anything he needs, including food, by giving one of the soldiers beans in exchange for tobacco the next time the soldier comes around.

Kat is a firm believer that war could be solved easily, by feeding and paying all of the soldiers exactly the same.  Kropp decides that if the leaders of nations would battle one another with clubs in an arena then war would make much more sense.  The last nation to have a representative still standing would win the war.

Paul and the other soldiers remember being recruits with a fondness compared to what they feel at being in the actual war.  They wonder about Himmelstoss and why he became such a bully once he joined the military because they assume that, as a postman, he must have been a very different person.

Kat believes that the reason Himmelstoss acts the way he does is because he can and because he has never been able to before, so it is hard to resist the opportunity when given power.  He explains that the army is created by one man exacting power over other men, who are seen as weaker and more expendable.

Tjaden discovers that Himmelstoss is coming to the front, and he is very excited because he has a personal vendetta against Himmelstoss.  According to Paul, Tjaden wets the bed, which Himmelstoss attributed to laziness, rather than the actual cause (poor health) and would force Tjaden and another bed-wetter, Kindervater, to sleep on the same bunk and switch places each night, so they would end up taking turns peeing on one another.

To exact revenge on Himmelstoss for being such a bully and humiliating all of them, but especially Tjaden, they planned to attack him on his way home from a bar one night.  Haie, Kropp, Tjaden, and Paul hid on the side of the road and threw a sheet over Himmelstoss’s head as he passed and Haie beat him to a pulp.

The men then pulled down his pants, which Tjaden seemed to take more enjoyment in than the others, and took turns lashing him with a whip.  Himmelstoss never knew who it was that beat him and the men got their revenge without repercussion.

The men of the Second Company are on a mission to lay barbed wire on the front, which will be extremely dangerous.  They hear geese in the distance and agree to stop and pick up the geese on the way back to eat them.

As gunfire sounds in the distance, the younger guys who are new recruits look very scared and nervous but the veterans know that the different sounds of gunfire mean different things and explain that the sounds of this gunfire leads them to believe that there will likely be an attack later in the night.

Paul muses that, as soldiers, they tune in to their animal instincts and become one with the earth.  The earth becomes a second skin for the soldiers as it helps to hide them whenever they need cover.

As the Second Company is at the front to lay the barbed wire they are bombarded, just as Kat predicted.  The soldiers all take cover and Paul helps to hide a recruit who has lost his helmet.  He tries to place the helmet back on the recruits head, but his head is buried under Paul’s arm.

Paul decides to cover the guy’s backside with his helmet to ward off shrapnel instead.  When the fighting stops the recruit finds that he has defecated in his pants and is embarrassed, though Paul assures him that this is something that happens often at the first experiences being under fire.

As the men are riding back in the trucks, Kat gets a feeling that something is going down and suddenly bombs start dropping all around them.  The men all take cover in a graveyard and put their gas masks on.  Paul assists a new recruit in putting on his mask and jumps into a hole that is made by a fallen shell because he believes that a shell is not going to land in the exact same place twice.

After while Paul crawls out of the hole he is in and sees someone not wearing a mask and decides it is safe to take his off.  Paul and Kat notice a soldier who is badly injured and Paul sees it is the new recruit who soiled his pants earlier in the night.

Paul and Kat know that he will not survive his injuries and decide that it would be humane of them to shoot him and put him out of his misery.  Just when they are about to, other soldiers come out of hiding, and they decide that they cannot do it with others watching.

The men are tiring of the grossly unsanitary conditions they are living in.  Tjaden decides that rather than kill his body lice one at a time he will scrape them all off of his skin at once and shut them into a metal tin and then heat the bottom of the tin until they burn to death.  Haie jokes that his lice have red crosses on their heads because they attended to the surgeon general in the hospital.

Muller begins asking all of the men what their plans would be if the war were to end abruptly.  The men who have families and jobs that they love say they would go home and get back into their lives, but the younger men, like Paul, do not know what they would do after the war because it has become all that they know.

The rumor that Himmelstoss would be joining the front turned out to be true.  He was caught tormenting his recruits, as the boys knew he would, and sentenced to spend time on the front as punishment.  When Himmelstoss approached the boys, they ignored him, except for Tjaden who mooned him.

Tjaden ran and hid as Himmelstoss left to notify the authorities of Tjaden’s disrespectful behavior.  When Himmelstoss returns with the sergeant-major Tjaden is nowhere to be found, and the boys refuse to tell them anything of his whereabouts.  It is declared that Tjaden must report to the sergeant-major in ten minutes.

When Himmelstoss comes back later to ask again where Tjaden is they refuse to tell him and Kropp insults him.  Kropp and Tjaden are both taken to trial for being insubordinate but once the judge learns of the torment and humiliations the boys have endured at Himmelstoss’ hands, they are given greatly reduced punishments and Himmelstoss is reprimanded.

Paul and Kat decide that they will go back to get the geese that they heard before.  They see someone driving a munitions wagon and offer him two cigarettes in exchange for a ride.  When they get to the geese, Paul jumps the fence and attempts to kill them by bashing their heads against the wall, but all he ended up doing is angering them and causing them to fight against him.

Paul eventually secures one goose and makes a break for it, giving the goose to Kat who makes quick work of killing it.  The men find a camp that has been abandoned and cook and eat the goose quickly for fear of being caught.  They bond over this experience more than any other experience before and take the leftover cooked goose and feathers back to Tjaden and Kropp to eat and stuff pillows with.

The men of the Second Company are returning to the front, though they are a couple of days early.  They are in lower spirits than usual when they pass a schoolhouse that has been demolished and see all of the coffins lined up outside that are no doubt meant for them.  They can hear English soldiers in the distance and know that they are replenishing their stock of soldiers and weaponry and heading toward the front.

The men sit and wait because it is all they can do.  Paul explains that everything is left up to chance, and nothing is certain or can be prevented.  As the men await the attack, they must fend off rats for their portion of food, and they are all given plenty of ammunition and grenades to last them through the impending battle.

The men remove saw blades on their bayonets, knowing the enemy will kill them immediately if they see the blades.  Paul is disheartened by the fact that Kat appears to be feeling down because it is Kat who always seems to be able to sense when danger is near.

After a few days of waiting the bombs begin to fall with no sign of letting up.  The men have a hard time getting food while the bombs are falling, even Kat who has a knack for procuring any necessities the soldiers may require.  Paul and Kat often have to beat down the new recruits who threaten to leave and try to run away.

One bomb hits the dugout that the soldiers are in, but does not demolish it.  One of the recruits manages to escape and ask he is running away he is hit and blown to pieces.  The soldiers attempt to distract themselves with card games but to no avail.  Finally, the attack comes and the soldiers who have been lying in wait for days unleash their grenades and open fire on the enemy soldiers, killing many of them.

They rush to the front and steal any provisions they can find from the enemy soldiers and hide to eat whatever they have found while they wait for a second attack.

Later in the night, Paul is standing watch and begins to reminisce about his life.  He remembers where he comes from but wonders what he will do after the war because he cannot go back to that life.  He muses that war has ruined him and his friends and they have lost their youth and ability to desire forever.

Days later the attack is over, and dead bodies are piling up all over the place, from both sides.  Many of the dead are new recruits who did not know as many war tactics as the veterans going into the attack.  During a new attack, Paul finds Himmelstoss hiding in a dugout where he is pretending to have an injury, though he obviously is just scared to come out.  Eventually a lieutenant forces him to leave.

The veterans make an attempt to teach the new recruits some tactics, but when the fighting starts up again they seem to have learned nothing as they are the bulk of the casualties once again, though Haie has also received a blow that will kill him.  By the end of the fighting, about 120 men of the 150 are dead.

When the Second Company is reorganizing, Himmelstoss attempts to make amends with the soldiers whom he once tormented, finally realizing what it is like to be in a war zone.  He gives them extra food, which does win them over slightly because rested and fed they are happy.

Paul, Kropp, and Leer meet three French women when they are swimming and plan a midnight rendezvous with them.  They swim across to meet the women bearing food and wearing nothing but their boots.  Paul is desperate to recapture some of his lost innocence with women who do not belong to a brothel, though he feels that his innocence is probably gone forever.

Paul is given seventeen days of leave, and he heads home with mixed emotions.  Paul’s mother is dying of cancer, and the people of his village are slowly starving to death.  He feels as though he is no longer at home in his mother’s house and as though the war zone is the only place where he knows himself anymore.

When his mother asks him how bad it is he lies to her because he feels like he could never find words to describe it nor could she ever understand.  Paul’s father also continually asks him questions which Paul refuses to answer truthfully, not understanding why no one knows how dangerous it would be for him to answer them.

Paul spends a lot of time in his bedroom looking at old pictures, trying to remember his life, his childhood, and his innocence and attempting to regain some small semblance of who he once was, unsuccessfully.

While home, Paul learns that a guy named Mittelstaedt who he went to school with has become a training officer.  Mittelstaedt tells him that Kantorek, the teacher who convinced all the boys to join the army, has been recruited himself.  Mittelstaedt is a higher rank than Kantorek and constantly reminds him.

He vows to Paul to make Kantorek’s life a living hell.  As Paul’s mother becomes sadder, waiting for the day Paul has to return to the war, Paul realizes that he must go visit Kemmerich’s mother and tell her that her son has died.

She insists on knowing how he died, and Paul feels it is his duty to tell her that he died quickly and with no suffering, though that obviously was not the case.  Paul feels that no one can know the reality of what has happened, nor would they understand it.  On Paul’s last night home, his mother sits in his room with him while he pretends to sleep.

Paul hears how much pain his mother is in and insists that she return to her bed and get some rest.  Paul wishes he could just die with his mother and greatly regrets returning home because all it accomplished was causing more pain to both himself and his mother.

Before Paul heads to the front, he must report to training camp.  He discovers that next to the training camp there is a camp for Russian soldiers who have been captured.  He sees the Russian soldiers digging for any extra food in the dumpsters, but he cannot believe they can find much because food is scarce and there are never any leftovers.

Paul notes that the Russians have very kind faces, and he cannot believe that they are the enemy.  He thinks that they seem to be just like them and wonders why he would want to kill them.  He notes how close they all are to one another because they are brothers in suffering.  He decides that the only reason they are enemies is because someone else decided that they should be.

Someone else made the decision that innocent men who had nothing to do with one another would kill and destroy one another.  He then realizes that he must push these thoughts out of his head because it will only break his cleverly built façade of no emotion.  He decides to take his remaining cigarettes and break them in half to share with the prisoners.  When one of the prisoners learns that Paul plays the piano he plays his violin for him which does nothing but make him sadder.

Paul’s sister and father pay him a visit before he is to return to the front.  He feels just ask uncomfortable around them as he did when he was home and finds he has little to talk about with them.  They discuss how sick his mother is and the fact that she has just gone into the hospital for surgery.

Upon leaving they give Paul potato cakes and jam that his mother made for him, but Paul is not hungry and thinks that he should give them to the prisoners.  He realizes that his mother probably made them when she was very ill, and in a lot of pain, so he cannot give them all away and instead gives away only two of them.

Paul returns to the front and finds that Kropp, Tjaden, Kat, and Muller are all still alive, though he did not expect them to be.  They learn that the emperor of Germany will be visiting them at camp, and they are excited to meet him.  They are all given new clothes to wear, but, upon his arrival, they see that he is not the statuesque burly man they expected him to be.

When he leaves their new clothes are taken away, and they go about business as usual.  Paul muses that war only happens because of the decisions of a few people and leaders who wish to see their names in history books.

Paul volunteers for a reconnaissance job that will take him into No Man’s Land alone.  He gets lost on his way back and faces a bombardment which he hides in a hole to wait out.  He knows that he must play dead in the hole but then an enemy soldier jumps in and Paul stabs him on instinct.

Paul is trapped in the hole with the enemy because it is too light out for him to make a run for it.  He notices that the soldier is not dead, so he dresses the wounds and gives him water, feeling terrible for what he has done.  He searches the soldier for some identification and learns that his name is Gerard Duval, and he worked as a printer and had a wife and child back home.  He reads what he can of the letters Duval carries on him and is very emotional over stabbing him.  He vows to send money to Duval’s family once the war is over.

The man takes a few hours to die and when he finally does it is dark enough out for Paul to return to his trenches.  Upon his arrival, Paul tells his friends about what he had to do and the remorse he feels about it, being his first hand-to-hand combat experience.

Kat and Kropp explain to him that he did what he had to do to survive, and he feels remorse which makes him human.  They point out the snipers who kill people when they themselves are in no danger, and tell Paul that he is different because in his situation he had to kill or he would have been killed, and he got no pleasure out of the experience.

Paul and his friends are given a job to keep watch at a supply dump in a village that has been abandoned.  They find a concrete shelter to use as a dugout and set it up with luxuries such as a bed and blankets that they find and have not had use of in such a long time.  The men cook a feast in a nearby kitchen including pig, fresh vegetables, and eggs and Paul even makes pancakes.

The house they are in is bombed when the enemies see smoke coming out of the chimney.  All of the soldiers flee back to the dugout except Paul who continues making the pancakes through the bombing.  He manages to make it back to the dugout with all of the pancakes and the men eat their feast.

They adopt a stray cat and spend the night smoking cigarettes, and drinking cognac, though, after being malnourished for so long, the feast has done a number on their digestive tracts, and they suffer from diarrhea all night.

After living in the lap of luxury for a few weeks, they finally must move.  As they are evacuating the next village, some shrapnel hits both Paul and Kropp, injuring them both.  Kropp realizes there is a chance his leg will be amputated due to his injury and vows to kill himself if that happens.

Kropp comes down with a fever, and they are forced to go to a nearby Catholic hospital where Paul pretends to be sick as well, so he can stay with him.  Paul realizes that the hospital is the best place to learn about war because of the mass amounts of men he sees dying all around him and Kropp has to have his leg amputated.  He wonders yet again what will happen to himself and his friends once the war is over.

At the hospital, the soldiers meet a middle aged man named Lewandowski who has a stomach injury.  Lewandowski’s wife is about to visit him and bring their two year old child with her and all he wishes for is to take her somewhere and have sex with her because it has been two years since he has seen her.

Unfortunately, he develops a fever before her arrival and is confined to bed.  The men resolve to help him on his mission.  When his wife arrives he tells her he wants to have sex with her, and she is embarrassed though the other soldiers explain to her that the war zone is no place for modesty.

Kropp takes care of the baby and the other soldiers stand guard, immersed in a card game with their backs to the couple while they take care of business.  Lewandowski’s wife shares the food she has brought with the soldiers before she leaves.

Paul and Kropp both heal, despite the fact that their wounds are dressed in paper bandages because they have run out of cloth ones.  Kropp is very distanced and withdrawn since the loss of his leg and Paul thinks that if Kropp were not surrounded by other soldiers he probably would have killed himself.

Paul is sent home on leave once again while he heals, and it is just as awkward as the previous time.  Paul’s mother is sicker and weaker than ever and leaving her is most difficult than it was before.

As the war rages on, the German soldiers lose track of how long they have been fighting as time ceases to mean anything to them.  The German soldiers are greatly weakened by the lack of food, a nasty bout of dysentery, and battered weaponry.  The new soldiers who are coming in to fight have very little training, if any at all and no idea what they are doing.

Paul notes that while the soldiers were once individuals they are now just soldiers, and that is the trait they identify with first and foremost.  Their entire purpose in life is to not die.  They no longer have any goals other than to survive so they can keep fighting.

The soldiers are all very close to one another because unwavering loyalty is the only way they will survive, and their soldier brethren are the only family that will ever understand what they have gone through.  The men follow their primal animal instincts because it is instinct that will keep them alive and emotion that will kill them.

Despite their greatest efforts to be void of all emotional, the horrors of war do eventually wear them down.  Detering makes an attempt to run away after seeing a blossoming cherry tree one day that reminds him of an orchard that he has back home.  Rather than running to Holland, where he likely would not have been caught, he returns to his home where he is captured and convicted of deserting the army.

The soldiers never hear from him again.  Shortly after, Muller is shot in the stomach, and he suffers in pain for a half hour before he finally dies.  Paul makes sure to take Muller’s boots, which were once Kemmerich’s because he knows that Muller would want him to have them.  Leer suffers a leg wound that causes him to bleed out and die, and although there is talk of the war coming to an end the soldiers are not comforted.

Paul and Kat are the only of their close friends remaining.  One day when Kat is stealing food for them he is wounded.  Paul will not leave Kat’s side to find a stretcher because he knows that Kat is bleeding too heavily to survive long enough.

Paul decides to carry Kat to the nearest dressing station in an effort to save the only friend he has left, but realizes upon arrival that Kat was hit in the head with a shell fragment, and he is dead.

Paul survived through the bloodiest and harshest summer of his war experience though his entire original group of friends has been killed.  The war appears to be coming to an end, and it is obvious that the Germans are losing.

Paul decides that if the war does not end very soon then there is great potential for an uprising of the German people against the leaders.  Paul receives two weeks of leave after he inhales a poisonous gas, though he decides not to return home because he fears what he will discover about himself when he gets there.

He has no goals and no identity.  His entire generation that has survived the war has not really survived at all as they have become shells of the people they once were.  They only know how to be soldiers and nothing else.  He holds hope that there will be some soldiers who will easily assimilate back into normal society, but he knows that his life is destroyed, and he will never be the person he once was.

In October of 1918 Paul is finally killed, as was almost inevitable.  He dies on a day when there is very little fighting, a day that is almost peaceful.  The headline in the paper the day he dies reads only, “All Quiet on the Western Front.”  Paul’s face looks at peace, as if he is relieved to not worry about the rest of his life.

Snug, the joiner, plays the Lion and is excited by the prospect. He is, however, afraid of frightening the ladies in the audience, which shows his gentleness and sensitivity. Snug can be seen as another foolish character, as he is initially worried he won’t be able to learn his lines—which are at the time all roars! He is the only minor character of the Mechanicals not given a first name.

Snout, the tinker, plays the Wall in the play. Initially he is meant to play Pyramus’ father, but the play’s need for a Wall ended up being greater. He, like his friends and fellow actors, is terrified by the prospect of Bottom being transformed, but is one of only two to return and approach Bottom for a short while. Snout’s bravery is short lived, however, as once he has pointed out Bottom’s transformation, he flees to safety.

A small, frail doctor comes in the morning to see Henry and attempt to remove the shrapnel from his knee. The doctor tires of the mundane and precise task quickly and calls in a few doctors for a consultation. The doctors agree that Henry should not have an operation for six more months, an idea that sounds unbearable to Henry as he cannot possibly stay in bed that long.

Henry asks for a second opinion, and, within a couple hours, he is introduced to Dr. Valentini. Henry finds Dr. Valentini to be cool, confident, and cheerful as the men chat and have a drink together. Dr. Valentini tells Henry that he will operate on him in the morning.

The night before Henry’s operation Catherine stays with him. The two lie in bed together and stare out into the night. Henry fears that someone will discover them lying in bed together, but Catherine tells him that everyone else is asleep so no one will come in.

In the morning, Henry wishes he could have breakfast in the park, but Catherine tells him that he must get ready for surgery, despite his efforts to get her back into bed. She tells him that he will be groggy from medication that evening and to be careful that he does not tell anyone about their relationship, as the medication often makes patients talk too much.

They begin to discuss their relationship, and when Catherine asks Henry how many women he has been with he tells her she is the only one. Despite the fact that Catherine is sure he is lying, she is happy with his response to her question.

Henry falls ill after his operation, and while he is recovering three new patients are admitted. One of the guys blew up a fuse cap in his own face, and another guy has malaria, and another has both malaria and jaundice. Helen becomes Henry’s ally as she passes notes to Catherine for him when she is working.

Henry asks Helen if she wants to come to their wedding, but Helen does not think that Henry and Catherine will get married. She worries that Catherine is getting sick and tells Henry so. Henry talks to Miss Gage about Catherine taking a couple of days off of work to rest and she agrees to it. After three days off, Catherine comes in to see Henry, and they are ecstatic and passionate to be reunited.

Henry continues healing and learns to use crutches to help him walk by summertime. He and Catherine spend a lot of time together out and about in Milan and spend their nights together. They discuss the topic of marriage though both of them are opposed to it for the time being. Catherine feels that a married woman would not be able to stay in the military hospital so she is content with where their relationship is for now. She tells Henry that she is fully committed to him regardless of marriage, sure that while many terrible things will probably happen to them, infidelity will not.

Henry spends a lot of his time wandering around Milan and makes friends with some locals, mainly an older couple called the Meyerses. Henry sees the Meyerses one day while walking the streets, and after parting ways, he buys some chocolates for Catherine. He heads into a bar where he runs into a guy from San Francisco who is also serving in the Italian army.

The man, Ettore Moretti, has many war medals and Henry considers him a real hero but finds him quite bland. He goes back to the hospital and tells Catherine he ran into Moretti, whom Catherine is not fond of because she does not consider him a gentleman. Henry and Catherine talk for hours though when it starts to rain, Catherine cries. She tells Henry that rain is “hard on loving”.

Henry and Catherine take the Myers’ tips to the races and bring with them Helen Ferguson, or “Fergie” as Henry calls her, and one of the other guys from the hospital. Though the Myers’ do well in the races, they are reluctant to share all of their secrets.

The race that is going on that day is all horses who have never won big but Catherine spots something she thinks is suspicious. She finds a horse that looks as though it has an unnatural purple-hue to it as though its fur has been dyed to conceal its identity, and perhaps it is a champion.

They bet on the horse, but, unfortunately, do not make very much money off the race. Catherine soon grew uncomfortable being in the crowd so she and Henry went off by themselves. They both enjoy being alone together, claiming that being alone together rather than in a crowd makes them feel less lonely somehow.

As September comes around, the Allies are losing the war, and Henry is informed that if things keep up the way they are the Allies will lose the war within the next year. Henry has nearly healed from his surgery and is expected to make a return to the front after three weeks of leave. He and Catherine are planning to take a trip somewhere together, and as they are planning Catherine tells Henry that she is three months pregnant with their child. Worried that Henry will want to leave Catherine tells him that she will not cause any trouble for him but Henry surprises her by saying he loves her and is happy they are having a child. Henry tells Catherine that “a coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave but one” and they try to recall who made that sentiment but cannot remember. Catherine muses that the intelligent, brave men probably die thousands of deaths but are smart enough to not say anything.

It starts to rain again and just when Henry is about to take his leave he develops jaundice. Miss Van Campen decides that Henry’s jaundice has been caused by his excessive drinking, as she has found all of the empty liquor bottles that Henry has been stashing under his bed. Miss Van Campen thinks that Henry has made himself sick on purpose so that he does not have to return to battle and so she decides to punish him by putting in a petition to take away his leave, and so it is.

Henry begins packing his things and saying his goodbyes as he is heading to the front. As he is walking down the street, he sees Catherine in a cafe and signals for her to join him. Henry remarks that the couple they pass embracing outside a cathedral is like them, but Catherine disagrees as she thinks there is no one like them. He stops to buy a new gun, and he and Catherine decide to get a hotel room so they can be alone before he leaves again.

Catherine feels like a cheap prostitute, but they have no other choice for the time being. Henry worries about how Catherine will deal with having the baby while he is gone, but she assures him she will be fine and have a home set up for him when he returns.

A carriage picks up Henry and Catherine and takes them to the train station where they will part ways.  When they arrive Henry gets out to catch his train and sends Catherine in the carriage back to the hospital. Henry tells Catherine to be careful to take care of herself and the baby, whom he refers to as “little Catherine”. Henry has caused a stir on the train because he has asked someone to save a seat for him while he says his goodbyes and the train is terribly crowded. Henry decides to offer his seat to the officer who has been complaining and spends the night on the floor instead.

When Henry returns to the front in Gorizia, he speaks with the lead major about the status of the war, and the possibility of it coming to an end. The major is pleased about Henry’s decorations but tells him that had he been sent on leave he would likely not have returned.

Henry goes off in search of Rinaldi whom he has not seen in quite some time. Rinaldi checks out Henry’s knee and cannot believe he was sent back to the battle after his surgery. He asks Henry if he is in love with Catherine, if they are married, and whether she is any good in bed, a question which Henry deems inappropriate as it is a private matter.

The men toast to Catherine and head to dinner where Rinaldi makes fun of the priest for old time’s sake, despite the fact that his audience is considerable smaller than it was just a few months before.

When the men are done with dinner, Henry stays and has a talk with the priest. They discuss the ending of the war, which the priest thinks will happen soon though he is not sure why. He thinks that the war has made the men more mild and gentle as that tends to happen. He cites Jesus Christ as an example as his struggles made him a gentler man. Henry no longer cares about victory or even believes in it because even if they win they have lost too many people to make the victory a happy one. The priest asks what Henry does believe in these days, and Henry replies “sleep”.

The next day Henry goes to Bainsizza where the fighting is occurring and learns from another soldier named Gino about the weaponry of the Austrians. He says that if the Austrians are to attack then the Italians will essentially be helpless. Henry feels like there is no meaning to words like “sacred” or “glorious” anymore and the only words that have meaning are names and numbers.

A bombardment occurs that night, and the Italians learn that the Germans are included in the enemy, which scares them because they have never had to deal with the Germans before. They find out that the Italian line has been broken, and everyone is being evacuated. Henry finds out that Rinaldi has gone to the hospital, and he and some of the other drivers – Bonello, Piani, and Aymo – stop to rest before continuing on their way.

A motorcade of soldiers exits the town together forming a seemingly endless line. They take turns sleeping and driving and shortly after Henry wakens he finds that the line has stopped moving.

Henry checks on the other men, finds that they are okay, and goes back to Piani’s truck where he falls asleep once again. Henry has dreams of Catherine and even speaks to her in his sleep. More people join the retreat that night, mostly peasants, and the next morning Henry and his men decide to leave the retreat and take another route themselves. They stop at a farmhouse for breakfast before continuing on their journey.

While on their retreat, the car driven by Aymo gets stuck due to the soft ground, and Henry knows the only way to ensure it does not happen again is to cut brush to lie over the ground and drive across. The other men do not want to help because they feel if they stop for any reason the enemy may catch up to them. Henry gets frustrated with the men for not wanting to help and shoots one of them. Bonello takes Henry’s gun from him and shoots the man again, killing him.

The men use everything they can find to keep the car out of the mud, but nothing seems to be working. They decide to leave the car there and continue on with the other cars, though they do not get very far before they are stuck again.  Two girls that had been riding with Aymo are given money, and sent to a nearby village to hopefully take them out of danger, and the men are forced to retreat on foot as they cannot move their vehicles.

The men see the Germans coming and try to avoid them by taking another road and heading toward an embankment. The men are shot at the Aymo is killed immediately. They realize they have been shot at by the rear guard and Aymo has been killed by his own people out of fear. They realize they are in more danger from their own people than the Germans and find a farmhouse to hide out in until dark.

Piani and Bonello go to look for food, but Piani returns alone as Bonello has gone looking for the enemy with the hopes of being taken in because he feels that is his best chance of escaping. The next day they hope to rejoin the Italians and find a bunch of officers being interrogated to find out who is responsible for the rogue Italian soldiers who turned on their own people. Henry is seized and notices another officer being shot near him.

Henry takes the opportunity to duck away from his captors and jumps in the water to escape. He keeps swimming away until the sounds of the gunfire fade into the distance.

When Henry thinks that he is far enough away he gets out of the water, careful to remove the stars on his uniform that identify him as an officer. Henry counts the money that he has on him and proceeds to walk across the Venetian Plane toward the closest military train station, which he arrives at that night.

A young soldier sees Henry, and Henry is worried that his cover is blown, but the soldier allows him on the train as he assumes that Henry belongs there. Henry hides under a tarp of canvas in the gun car so he will not be found, cutting his head in the process. He reminds himself to pick the dried blood off his head before he exits the train because he does not want to draw attention to himself.

As Henry rides under the tarp, he thinks about how strong his knee has been, surprised that the surgery was so effective. He thinks about Catherine though he tries not to because he feels he may go crazy just thinking about her when he does not know if or when he will see her again.

Henry feels sure that there is no place in the war for him anymore because his army and his friends are no longer there. Physical needs overcome Henry’s thoughts as he realizes that he needs to eat, drink, sleep, and be with Catherine. All Henry wants now is to find Catherine and take her to a place where they can be safe and happy together.

Henry lets himself off the train in Milan and goes out in search of Catherine. He stops in a wine shop for coffee and ends up having a glass of wine with the owner of the shop. The owner asks Henry if he can help him with anything but Henry says he is fine. He heads to the hospital to find Catherine but finds that she has left for Stresa.

Henry finds one of the opera musicians, Ralph Simmons, he had made friends with before he left and asks the man how he can go about getting to Switzerland to be free and meet with Catherine. Simmons gives Henry some civilian clothing and sends him on his way, wishing him good luck with everything.

Henry feels strange on the train to Stresa because as a young man he is expected to be a soldier, though he is obviously not according to the public as he is wearing civilian clothing. When he arrives in Stresa, he checks in to a hotel and tells them that he is expecting his wife to be joining him. He hears that two English nurses are at a small hotel nearby, and Henry knows that must be Catherine. When he arrives, Catherine and Helen are having lunch and Catherine is delighted to see him though Helen hates him for what he has made of Catherine’s life. Henry enjoys the night he spends with Catherine as it is true bliss for him.

The next morning Catherine realizes just how horrible Henry’s experience must have been because he does not want to read the paper or anything about the war. He tells Catherine that he will share his experiences with her someday when he fully wraps his head around it. He feels as though he has committed a crime by leaving, but Catherine assures him that he is no criminal, and she cannot wait until they take off for Switzerland together.

The next morning Catherine goes off to see Helen and Henry goes fishing with Emilio, the bartender from his hotel whom he becomes fast friends with. Emilio has told Henry that any time he wants to use his boat he can. Henry and Catherine dine with Helen for lunch and run into a man named Count Greffi whom Henry knows from an earlier trip to Stresa, who is staying with his niece at the same hotel. Henry and Count Greffi spend some time together that evening and play some pool with another. The Count tells Henry his misconceptions about religion, and they discuss the war, and whether it will end in a victory for Italy.

Henry is woken by Emilio that night who tells him he has heard that the military police have a plan to take Henry in when the morning comes. Emilio offers Henry and Catherine his boat, as he feels they should leave immediately and row themselves to Switzerland where they can be safe.

Henry immediately wakes Catherine, so they can pack their things and leave. Emilio provides Henry and Catherine with the supplies they will need for their trip – a boat, sandwiches, and a bottle of brandy. Henry pays Emilio what he can for the supplies, and they make an agreement for Henry to send back 500 francs as payment for the boat when they get established.

Henry and Catherine set up a home in the town of Montreux and make friends with the couple who live downstairs from them, the Guttingens. Henry and Catherine immensely enjoy their life together in their cozy mountainside home and spend a lot of time in town together. One day they go to town so Catherine can have her hair done and they stop at a bar to have a beer.

Catherine is sure that drinking beer will keep the baby small in size because she is worried that she will have a hard time giving birth due to her narrow hips. Henry and Catherine approach the idea of marriage again, and Catherine feels it will be only right for them to wed to make their baby legitimate.

Catherine cannot wait to be American when they are married and see famous American landmarks such as the Golden Gate Bridge and the Niagara Falls. Around Christmas time Catherine notices that Henry seems to be growing restless, and she suggests he change something about his appearance, such as grow a beard, to calm himself. They try to fall asleep at the same together, but Henry cannot sleep and he instead he lies awake and stares at Catherine because his mind will not rest.

During January, Henry’s beard grows to an impressive fullness. They continue taking walks together in town and enjoy the isolation of being together in a place where no one knows them. They worry that after the baby arrives they will no longer be able to enjoy the solitude that they hold so dearly.

Catherine tells Henry that after the baby comes and she loses the weight she will cut her hair shorter, and make herself attractive again so Henry will fall in love with her all over again. Henry tells Catherine that he loves her plenty already so that will be unnecessary.

Henry and Catherine decide to move to a town called Lausanne in March because the baby is about to come and they want to be closer to the hospital pending the baby’s arrival. Rather than find a place to call home right away they spend three weeks in a hotel. Catherine spends her days finding baby clothes and Henry spends a lot of his time working out at the gym. They try to spend as much of their time together as possible because they feel that the baby is remarkably close to making its arrival.

Catherine goes into labor around three o’clock in the morning one day and is rushed to the hospital where she is given a room and a gown. She tells Henry to go to breakfast because she feels he has time and so he does, though upon returning he finds that Catherine has been taken to the delivery room. Catherine spends most of the day inhaling anesthetic gas to help her through the pain of a difficult labor that is not making much progress.

The doctor decides Catherine needs to have a cesarean section and takes her away on a stretcher. The doctor comes out soon, fussing over the baby boy, but Henry rushes past him to see Catherine. Catherine asks about the baby, and Henry says he is fine, but the nurse, confused by this statement, pulls Henry aside and tells him that the baby had been strangled by the umbilical cord while it was still in the womb.

After dinner, Henry learns that Catherine is bleeding heavily and when he goes into see her she tells him she is dying. She asks Henry to promise her that he will never say the same things to other girls that he has said to her and Henry stays by her side in her last moments. After Catherine dies Henry tries to say his goodbyes with her but he cannot and he just leaves the hospital and walks through the rain alone, back to the hotel.

Henry rows for the most of the night though it hurts his hands quite a bit due to the choppy water conditions from the storm. Catherine rows for a short time but Henry will not allow her to row for long.  When they finally arrive in Switzerland in the morning, they are relieved and settle in to have some breakfast.

They are soon taken in by the Swiss guards who hold them until they can get temporary visas. Henry and Catherine are soon released, to their relief, and find themselves a hotel to stay in where they immediately go to sleep after their long and tiring journey.

Summary: Chapter 43

Pip realizes that if Compeyson is alive and anywhere near London, he wouldn’t hesitate to turn Magwitch over to the authorities. He and Herbert agree that he must be whisked out of the country by sea. Pip has also given some thought to Estella. He shivers to think what the lady would think of him now, with a former convict as the founder of his fortunes. He resolves that she must never know.

Pip decides he must visit Estella before leaving England. He goes to her residence in Richmond, but the family she stays with says she has returned to Miss Havisham at Satis House. Pip thinks this is mysterious because she’s never gone there before without him accompanying her. He tells Magwitch a falsehood about needing to see Joe one more time and takes the next day’s coach to the marsh country.

Stepping off at the Blue Boar, Pip is disgusted to see Bentley Drummle. At first, they pretend not to know each other. Later, as they both stand near the fire, they get into a testy exchange. Drummle tells the waiter that “the lady” won’t be riding today, meaning Estella. Pip is in a blind rage. They come very near a brawl, but then some other guests come in and Drummle leaves. As he’s mounting his horse, Pip thinks he sees Orlick helping him with his coat. As he prepares to visit Miss Havisham and Estella, he couldn’t be in a worse state of mind.

Analysis: Chapter XLIII

Why should I pause to ask how much of my shrinking from Provis might be traced to Estella? Why should I loiter on my road, to compare the state of mind in which I had tried to rid myself of the stain of the prison before meeting her at the coach-office, with the state of mind in which I now reflected on the abyss between Estella in her pride and beauty, and the returned transport whom I harbored? The road would be none the smoother for it, the end would be none the better for it, he would not be helped, nor I extenuated.

A new fear had been engendered in my mind by his narrative; or rather, his narrative had given form and purpose to the fear that was already there. If Compeyson were alive and should discover his return, I could hardly doubt the consequence. That, Compeyson stood in mortal fear of him, neither of the two could know much better than I; and that any such man as that man had been described to be would hesitate to release himself for good from a dreaded enemy by the safe means of becoming an informer was scarcely to be imagined.

Never had I breathed, and never would I breathe–or so I resolved –a word of Estella to Provis. But, I said to Herbert that, before I could go abroad, I must see both Estella and Miss Havisham. This was when we were left alone on the night of the day when Provis told us his story. I resolved to go out to Richmond next day, and I went.

On my presenting myself at Mrs. Brandley’s, Estella’s maid was called to tell that Estella had gone into the country. Where? To Satis House, as usual. Not as usual, I said, for she had never yet gone there without me; when was she coming back? There was an air of reservation in the answer which increased my perplexity, and the answer was, that her maid believed she was only coming back at all for a little while. I could make nothing of this, except that it was meant that I should make nothing of it, and I went home again in complete discomfiture.

Another night consultation with Herbert after Provis was gone home (I always took him home, and always looked well about me), led us to the conclusion that nothing should be said about going abroad until I came back from Miss Havisham’s. In the mean time, Herbert and I were to consider separately what it would be best to say; whether we should devise any pretence of being afraid that he was under suspicious observation; or whether I, who had never yet been abroad, should propose an expedition. We both knew that I had but to propose anything, and he would consent. We agreed that his remaining many days in his present hazard was not to be thought of.

Next day I had the meanness to feign that I was under a binding promise to go down to Joe; but I was capable of almost any meanness towards Joe or his name. Provis was to be strictly careful while I was gone, and Herbert was to take the charge of him that I had taken. I was to be absent only one night, and, on my return, the gratification of his impatience for my starting as a gentleman on a greater scale was to be begun. It occurred to me then, and as I afterwards found to Herbert also, that he might be best got away across the water, on that pretence,–as, to make purchases, or the like.

Having thus cleared the way for my expedition to Miss Havisham’s, I set off by the early morning coach before it was yet light, and was out on the open country road when the day came creeping on, halting and whimpering and shivering, and wrapped in patches of cloud and rags of mist, like a beggar. When we drove up to the Blue Boar after a drizzly ride, whom should I see come out under the gateway, toothpick in hand, to look at the coach, but Bentley Drummle!

As he pretended not to see me, I pretended not to see him. It was a very lame pretence on both sides; the lamer, because we both went into the coffee-room, where he had just finished his breakfast, and where I ordered mine. It was poisonous to me to see him in the town, for I very well knew why he had come there.

Pretending to read a smeary newspaper long out of date, which had nothing half so legible in its local news, as the foreign matter of coffee, pickles, fish sauces, gravy, melted butter, and wine with which it was sprinkled all over, as if it had taken the measles in a highly irregular form, I sat at my table while he stood before the fire. By degrees it became an enormous injury to me that he stood before the fire. And I got up, determined to have my share of it. I had to put my hand behind his legs for the poker when I went up to the fireplace to stir the fire, but still pretended not to know him.

“Is this a cut?” said Mr. Drummle.

“Oh!” said I, poker in hand; “it’s you, is it? How do you do? I was wondering who it was, who kept the fire off.”

With that, I poked tremendously, and having done so, planted myself side by side with Mr. Drummle, my shoulders squared and my back to the fire.

“You have just come down?” said Mr. Drummle, edging me a little away with his shoulder.

“Yes,” said I, edging him a little away with my shoulder.

“Beastly place,” said Drummle. “Your part of the country, I think?”

“Yes,” I assented. “I am told it’s very like your Shropshire.”

“Not in the least like it,” said Drummle.

Here Mr. Drummle looked at his boots and I looked at mine, and then Mr. Drummle looked at my boots, and I looked at his.

“Have you been here long?” I asked, determined not to yield an inch of the fire.

“Long enough to be tired of it,” returned Drummle, pretending to yawn, but equally determined.

“Do you stay here long?”

“Can’t say,” answered Mr. Drummle. “Do you?”

“Can’t say,” said I.

I felt here, through a tingling in my blood, that if Mr. Drummle’s shoulder had claimed another hair’s breadth of room, I should have jerked him into the window; equally, that if my own shoulder had urged a similar claim, Mr. Drummle would have jerked me into the nearest box. He whistled a little. So did I.

“Large tract of marshes about here, I believe?” said Drummle.

“Yes. What of that?” said I.

Mr. Drummle looked at me, and then at my boots, and then said, “Oh!” and laughed.

“Are you amused, Mr. Drummle?”

“No,” said he, “not particularly. I am going out for a ride in the saddle. I mean to explore those marshes for amusement. Out-of-the-way villages there, they tell me. Curious little public-houses–and smithies–and that. Waiter!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that horse of mine ready?”

“Brought round to the door, sir.”

“I say. Look here, you sir. The lady won’t ride to-day; the weather won’t do.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And I don’t dine, because I’m going to dine at the lady’s.”

“Very good, sir.”

Then, Drummle glanced at me, with an insolent triumph on his great-jowled face that cut me to the heart, dull as he was, and so exasperated me, that I felt inclined to take him in my arms (as the robber in the story-book is said to have taken the old lady) and seat him on the fire.

One thing was manifest to both of us, and that was, that until relief came, neither of us could relinquish the fire. There we stood, well squared up before it, shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot, with our hands behind us, not budging an inch. The horse was visible outside in the drizzle at the door, my breakfast was put on the table, Drummle’s was cleared away, the waiter invited me to begin, I nodded, we both stood our ground.

“Have you been to the Grove since?” said Drummle.

“No,” said I, “I had quite enough of the Finches the last time I was there.”

“Was that when we had a difference of opinion?”

“Yes,” I replied, very shortly.

“Come, come! They let you off easily enough,” sneered Drummle. “You shouldn’t have lost your temper.”

“Mr. Drummle,” said I, “you are not competent to give advice on that subject. When I lose my temper (not that I admit having done so on that occasion), I don’t throw glasses.”

“I do,” said Drummle.

After glancing at him once or twice, in an increased state of smouldering ferocity, I said,–

“Mr. Drummle, I did not seek this conversation, and I don’t think it an agreeable one.”

“I am sure it’s not,” said he, superciliously over his shoulder; “I don’t think anything about it.”

“And therefore,” I went on, “with your leave, I will suggest that we hold no kind of communication in future.”

“Quite my opinion,” said Drummle, “and what I should have suggested myself, or done–more likely–without suggesting. But don’t lose your temper. Haven’t you lost enough without that?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Waiter!,” said Drummle, by way of answering me.

The waiter reappeared.

“Look here, you sir. You quite understand that the young lady don’t ride to-day, and that I dine at the young lady’s?”

“Quite so, sir!”

When the waiter had felt my fast-cooling teapot with the palm of his hand, and had looked imploringly at me, and had gone out, Drummle, careful not to move the shoulder next me, took a cigar from his pocket and bit the end off, but showed no sign of stirring. Choking and boiling as I was, I felt that we could not go a word further, without introducing Estella’s name, which I could not endure to hear him utter; and therefore I looked stonily at the opposite wall, as if there were no one present, and forced myself to silence. How long we might have remained in this ridiculous position it is impossible to say, but for the incursion of three thriving farmers–laid on by the waiter, I think–who came into the coffee-room unbuttoning their great-coats and rubbing their hands, and before whom, as they charged at the fire, we were obliged to give way.

I saw him through the window, seizing his horse’s mane, and mounting in his blundering brutal manner, and sidling and backing away. I thought he was gone, when he came back, calling for a light for the cigar in his mouth, which he had forgotten. A man in a dust-colored dress appeared with what was wanted,–I could not have said from where: whether from the inn yard, or the street, or where not,–and as Drummle leaned down from the saddle and lighted his cigar and laughed, with a jerk of his head towards the coffee-room windows, the slouching shoulders and ragged hair of this man whose back was towards me reminded me of Orlick.

Too heavily out of sorts to care much at the time whether it were he or no, or after all to touch the breakfast, I washed the weather and the journey from my face and hands, and went out to the memorable old house that it would have been so much the better for me never to have entered, never to have seen.

Summary: Chapter 44

Pip surprises Estella and Miss Havisham with his unexpected visit. Estella is knitting by the fire. Pip explains to Miss Havisham that Matthew and Herbert Pocket are very different than the other pockets. He asks if Miss Havisham can continue his good deed of investing in his future. She agrees to the idea and agrees to remain a secret donor.

Miss Havisham realizes that Pip has discovered his true benefactor. She doesn’t deny that she allowed him to continue in the illusion that it was her all along. She remarks that it was merely a coincidence that she and Pip’s benefactor had the same lawyer. For his part, Pip understands that the trickery was undertaken to exact punishment on the greedy Pockets. But he says that Miss Havisham never considered what effect that might have on him. She becomes angry and wonders why Pip would think she could possibly be kind or considerate.

The conversation turns to Estella. She reveals that she is indeed going to be married to Bentley Drummle. She’s choses the dullest of all her admirers as punishment to the rest, she says. She guarantees he won’t be happy. Pip is horrified and almost glad to be leaving the country. He wishes her well but is ashamed for her to choose such a brute as a husband.

Returning home, Pip is greeted by the guardsman with a note from Wemmick. It says “Do not go home.”

Analysis: Chapter XLIV

In the room where the dressing-table stood, and where the wax- candles burnt on the wall, I found Miss Havisham and Estella; Miss Havisham seated on a settee near the fire, and Estella on a cushion at her feet. Estella was knitting, and Miss Havisham was looking on. They both raised their eyes as I went in, and both saw an alteration in me. I derived that, from the look they interchanged.

“And what wind,” said Miss Havisham, “blows you here, Pip?”

Though she looked steadily at me, I saw that she was rather confused. Estella, pausing a moment in her knitting with her eyes upon me, and then going on, I fancied that I read in the action of her fingers, as plainly as if she had told me in the dumb alphabet, that she perceived I had discovered my real benefactor.

“Miss Havisham,” said I, “I went to Richmond yesterday, to speak to Estella; and finding that some wind had blown her here, I followed.”

Miss Havisham motioning to me for the third or fourth time to sit down, I took the chair by the dressing-table, which I had often seen her occupy. With all that ruin at my feet and about me, it seemed a natural place for me, that day.

“What I had to say to Estella, Miss Havisham, I will say before you, presently–in a few moments. It will not surprise you, it will not displease you. I am as unhappy as you can ever have meant me to be.”

Miss Havisham continued to look steadily at me. I could see in the action of Estella’s fingers as they worked that she attended to what I said; but she did not look up.

“I have found out who my patron is. It is not a fortunate discovery, and is not likely ever to enrich me in reputation, station, fortune, anything. There are reasons why I must say no more of that. It is not my secret, but another’s.”

As I was silent for a while, looking at Estella and considering how to go on, Miss Havisham repeated, “It is not your secret, but another’s. Well?”

“When you first caused me to be brought here, Miss Havisham, when I belonged to the village over yonder, that I wish I had never left, I suppose I did really come here, as any other chance boy might have come,–as a kind of servant, to gratify a want or a whim, and to be paid for it?”

“Ay, Pip,” replied Miss Havisham, steadily nodding her head; “you did.”

“And that Mr. Jaggers–”

“Mr. Jaggers,” said Miss Havisham, taking me up in a firm tone, “had nothing to do with it, and knew nothing of it. His being my lawyer, and his being the lawyer of your patron is a coincidence. He holds the same relation towards numbers of people, and it might easily arise. Be that as it may, it did arise, and was not brought about by any one.”

Any one might have seen in her haggard face that there was no suppression or evasion so far.

“But when I fell into the mistake I have so long remained in, at least you led me on?” said I.

“Yes,” she returned, again nodding steadily, “I let you go on.”

“Was that kind?”

“Who am I,” cried Miss Havisham, striking her stick upon the floor and flashing into wrath so suddenly that Estella glanced up at her in surprise,–”who am I, for God’s sake, that I should be kind?”

It was a weak complaint to have made, and I had not meant to make it. I told her so, as she sat brooding after this outburst.

“Well, well, well!” she said. “What else?”

“I was liberally paid for my old attendance here,” I said, to soothe her, “in being apprenticed, and I have asked these questions only for my own information. What follows has another (and I hope more disinterested) purpose. In humoring my mistake, Miss Havisham, you punished–practised on–perhaps you will supply whatever term expresses your intention, without offence–your self-seeking relations?”

“I did. Why, they would have it so! So would you. What has been my history, that I should be at the pains of entreating either them or you not to have it so! You made your own snares. I never made them.”

Waiting until she was quiet again,–for this, too, flashed out of her in a wild and sudden way,–I went on.

“I have been thrown among one family of your relations, Miss Havisham, and have been constantly among them since I went to London. I know them to have been as honestly under my delusion as I myself. And I should be false and base if I did not tell you, whether it is acceptable to you or no, and whether you are inclined to give credence to it or no, that you deeply wrong both Mr. Matthew Pocket and his son Herbert, if you suppose them to be otherwise than generous, upright, open, and incapable of anything designing or mean.”

“They are your friends,” said Miss Havisham.

“They made themselves my friends,” said I, “when they supposed me to have superseded them; and when Sarah Pocket, Miss Georgiana, and Mistress Camilla were not my friends, I think.”

This contrasting of them with the rest seemed, I was glad to see, to do them good with her. She looked at me keenly for a little while, and then said quietly,–

“What do you want for them?”

“Only,” said I, “that you would not confound them with the others. They may be of the same blood, but, believe me, they are not of the same nature.”

Still looking at me keenly, Miss Havisham repeated,–

“What do you want for them?”

“I am not so cunning, you see,” I said, in answer, conscious that I reddened a little, “as that I could hide from you, even if I desired, that I do want something. Miss Havisham, if you would spare the money to do my friend Herbert a lasting service in life, but which from the nature of the case must be done without his knowledge, I could show you how.”

“Why must it be done without his knowledge?” she asked, settling her hands upon her stick, that she might regard me the more attentively.

“Because,” said I, “I began the service myself, more than two years ago, without his knowledge, and I don’t want to be betrayed. Why I fail in my ability to finish it, I cannot explain. It is a part of the secret which is another person’s and not mine.”

She gradually withdrew her eyes from me, and turned them on the fire. After watching it for what appeared in the silence and by the light of the slowly wasting candles to be a long time, she was roused by the collapse of some of the red coals, and looked towards me again–at first, vacantly–then, with a gradually concentrating attention. All this time Estella knitted on. When Miss Havisham had fixed her attention on me, she said, speaking as if there had been no lapse in our dialogue,–

“What else?”

“Estella,” said I, turning to her now, and trying to command my trembling voice, “you know I love you. You know that I have loved you long and dearly.”

She raised her eyes to my face, on being thus addressed, and her fingers plied their work, and she looked at me with an unmoved countenance. I saw that Miss Havisham glanced from me to her, and from her to me.

“I should have said this sooner, but for my long mistake. It induced me to hope that Miss Havisham meant us for one another. While I thought you could not help yourself, as it were, I refrained from saying it. But I must say it now.”

Preserving her unmoved countenance, and with her fingers still going, Estella shook her head.

“I know,” said I, in answer to that action,–”I know. I have no hope that I shall ever call you mine, Estella. I am ignorant what may become of me very soon, how poor I may be, or where I may go. Still, I love you. I have loved you ever since I first saw you in this house.”

Looking at me perfectly unmoved and with her fingers busy, she shook her head again.

“It would have been cruel in Miss Havisham, horribly cruel, to practise on the susceptibility of a poor boy, and to torture me through all these years with a vain hope and an idle pursuit, if she had reflected on the gravity of what she did. But I think she did not. I think that, in the endurance of her own trial, she forgot mine, Estella.”

I saw Miss Havisham put her hand to her heart and hold it there, as she sat looking by turns at Estella and at me.

“It seems,” said Estella, very calmly, “that there are sentiments, fancies,–I don’t know how to call them,–which I am not able to comprehend. When you say you love me, I know what you mean, as a form of words; but nothing more. You address nothing in my breast, you touch nothing there. I don’t care for what you say at all. I have tried to warn you of this; now, have I not?”

I said in a miserable manner, “Yes.”

“Yes. But you would not be warned, for you thought I did not mean it. Now, did you not think so?”

“I thought and hoped you could not mean it. You, so young, untried, and beautiful, Estella! Surely it is not in Nature.”

“It is in my nature,” she returned. And then she added, with a stress upon the words, “It is in the nature formed within me. I make a great difference between you and all other people when I say so much. I can do no more.”

“Is it not true,” said I, “that Bentley Drummle is in town here, and pursuing you?”

“It is quite true,” she replied, referring to him with the indifference of utter contempt.

“That you encourage him, and ride out with him, and that he dines with you this very day?”

She seemed a little surprised that I should know it, but again replied, “Quite true.”

“You cannot love him, Estella!”

Her fingers stopped for the first time, as she retorted rather angrily, “What have I told you? Do you still think, in spite of it, that I do not mean what I say?”

“You would never marry him, Estella?”

She looked towards Miss Havisham, and considered for a moment with her work in her hands. Then she said, “Why not tell you the truth? I am going to be married to him.”

I dropped my face into my hands, but was able to control myself better than I could have expected, considering what agony it gave me to hear her say those words. When I raised my face again, there was such a ghastly look upon Miss Havisham’s, that it impressed me, even in my passionate hurry and grief.

“Estella, dearest Estella, do not let Miss Havisham lead you into this fatal step. Put me aside for ever,–you have done so, I well know,–but bestow yourself on some worthier person than Drummle. Miss Havisham gives you to him, as the greatest slight and injury that could be done to the many far better men who admire you, and to the few who truly love you. Among those few there may be one who loves you even as dearly, though he has not loved you as long, as I. Take him, and I can bear it better, for your sake!”

My earnestness awoke a wonder in her that seemed as if it would have been touched with compassion, if she could have rendered me at all intelligible to her own mind.

“I am going,” she said again, in a gentler voice, “to be married to him. The preparations for my marriage are making, and I shall be married soon. Why do you injuriously introduce the name of my mother by adoption? It is my own act.”

“Your own act, Estella, to fling yourself away upon a brute?”

“On whom should I fling myself away?” she retorted, with a smile. “Should I fling myself away upon the man who would the soonest feel (if people do feel such things) that I took nothing to him? There! It is done. I shall do well enough, and so will my husband. As to leading me into what you call this fatal step, Miss Havisham would have had me wait, and not marry yet; but I am tired of the life I have led, which has very few charms for me, and I am willing enough to change it. Say no more. We shall never understand each other.”

“Such a mean brute, such a stupid brute!” I urged, in despair.

“Don’t be afraid of my being a blessing to him,” said Estella; “I shall not be that. Come! Here is my hand. Do we part on this, you visionary boy–or man?”

“O Estella!” I answered, as my bitter tears fell fast on her hand, do what I would to restrain them; “even if I remained in England and could hold my head up with the rest, how could I see you Drummle’s wife?”

“Nonsense,” she returned,–”nonsense. This will pass in no time.”

“Never, Estella!”

“You will get me out of your thoughts in a week.”

“Out of my thoughts! You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since,–on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made are not more real, or more impossible to be displaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation, I associate you only with the good; and I will faithfully hold you to that always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me feel now what sharp distress I may. O God bless you, God forgive you!”

In what ecstasy of unhappiness I got these broken words out of myself, I don’t know. The rhapsody welled up within me, like blood from an inward wound, and gushed out. I held her hand to my lips some lingering moments, and so I left her. But ever afterwards, I remembered,–and soon afterwards with stronger reason,–that while Estella looked at me merely with incredulous wonder, the spectral figure of Miss Havisham, her hand still covering her heart, seemed all resolved into a ghastly stare of pity and remorse.

All done, all gone! So much was done and gone, that when I went out at the gate, the light of the day seemed of a darker color than when I went in. For a while, I hid myself among some lanes and by-paths, and then struck off to walk all the way to London. For, I had by that time come to myself so far as to consider that I could not go back to the inn and see Drummle there; that I could not bear to sit upon the coach and be spoken to; that I could do nothing half so good for myself as tire myself out.

It was past midnight when I crossed London Bridge. Pursuing the narrow intricacies of the streets which at that time tended westward near the Middlesex shore of the river, my readiest access to the Temple was close by the river-side, through Whitefriars. I was not expected till to-morrow; but I had my keys, and, if Herbert were gone to bed, could get to bed myself without disturbing him.

As it seldom happened that I came in at that Whitefriars gate after the Temple was closed, and as I was very muddy and weary, I did not take it ill that the night-porter examined me with much attention as he held the gate a little way open for me to pass in. To help his memory I mentioned my name.

“I was not quite sure, sir, but I thought so. Here’s a note, sir. The messenger that brought it, said would you be so good as read it by my lantern?”

Much surprised by the request, I took the note. It was directed to Philip Pip, Esquire, and on the top of the superscription were the words, “PLEASE READ THIS, HERE.” I opened it, the watchman holding up his light, and read inside, in Wemmick’s writing,–

“DON’T GO HOME.”

Summary: Chapter 45

Pip takes the note from Wemmick seriously and takes lodgings in another part of London. He has a terrible night’s sleep, between imagining bugs falling on his face and his worries about what’s possibly gone wrong. As soon as it’s light, he heads straight for Walworth, where Wemmick lives with the Aged.

Wemmick isn’t too surprised to see him and is glad that Pip didn’t go home. He explains in a roundabout way that someone suspects Magwitch of being back in London. He can’t say too much because the situation is complicated. Likewise, he doesn’t want to know more than he has to, so that he may later have plausible deniability. His employer – Jaggers – is involved somehow. Wemmick gives Pip advice on how to cover his tracks. He explains that the city is probably the best place to hide during a pursuit.

Wemmick explains that Pip’s recent guest has been moved to a better, safer location – a room above the home of Herbert’s fiancée. The place is convenient for several reasons. For one, it’s out of Pip’s usual path. He’s never actually visited Herbert’s secret bride to be, Clara. Second, it’s on the river. When the time is right, it will be easy to move whoever it is that needs to be moved.

Analysis: Chapter XLV

Turning from the Temple gate as soon as I had read the warning, I made the best of my way to Fleet Street, and there got a late hackney chariot and drove to the Hummums in Covent Garden. In those times a bed was always to be got there at any hour of the night, and the chamberlain, letting me in at his ready wicket, lighted the candle next in order on his shelf, and showed me straight into the bedroom next in order on his list. It was a sort of vault on the ground floor at the back, with a despotic monster of a four-post bedstead in it, straddling over the whole place, putting one of his arbitrary legs into the fireplace and another into the doorway, and squeezing the wretched little washing-stand in quite a Divinely Righteous manner.

As I had asked for a night-light, the chamberlain had brought me in, before he left me, the good old constitutional rushlight of those virtuous days.–an object like the ghost of a walking-cane, which instantly broke its back if it were touched, which nothing could ever be lighted at, and which was placed in solitary confinement at the bottom of a high tin tower, perforated with round holes that made a staringly wide-awake pattern on the walls. When I had got into bed, and lay there footsore, weary, and wretched, I found that I could no more close my own eyes than I could close the eyes of this foolish Argus. And thus, in the gloom and death of the night, we stared at one another.

What a doleful night! How anxious, how dismal, how long! There was an inhospitable smell in the room, of cold soot and hot dust; and, as I looked up into the corners of the tester over my head, I thought what a number of blue-bottle flies from the butchers’, and earwigs from the market, and grubs from the country, must be holding on up there, lying by for next summer. This led me to speculate whether any of them ever tumbled down, and then I fancied that I felt light falls on my face,–a disagreeable turn of thought, suggesting other and more objectionable approaches up my back. When I had lain awake a little while, those extraordinary voices with which silence teems began to make themselves audible. The closet whispered, the fireplace sighed, the little washing-stand ticked, and one guitar-string played occasionally in the chest of drawers. At about the same time, the eyes on the wall acquired a new expression, and in every one of those staring rounds I saw written, DON’T GO HOME.

Whatever night-fancies and night-noises crowded on me, they never warded off this DON’T GO HOME. It plaited itself into whatever I thought of, as a bodily pain would have done. Not long before, I had read in the newspapers, how a gentleman unknown had come to the Hummums in the night, and had gone to bed, and had destroyed himself, and had been found in the morning weltering in blood. It came into my head that he must have occupied this very vault of mine, and I got out of bed to assure myself that there were no red marks about; then opened the door to look out into the passages, and cheer myself with the companionship of a distant light, near which I knew the chamberlain to be dozing. But all this time, why I was not to go home, and what had happened at home, and when I should go home, and whether Provis was safe at home, were questions occupying my mind so busily, that one might have supposed there could be no more room in it for any other theme. Even when I thought of Estella, and how we had parted that day forever, and when I recalled all the circumstances of our parting, and all her looks and tones, and the action of her fingers while she knitted,– even then I was pursuing, here and there and everywhere, the caution, Don’t go home. When at last I dozed, in sheer exhaustion of mind and body, it became a vast shadowy verb which I had to conjugate. Imperative mood, present tense: Do not thou go home, let him not go home, let us not go home, do not ye or you go home, let not them go home. Then potentially: I may not and I cannot go home; and I might not, could not, would not, and should not go home; until I felt that I was going distracted, and rolled over on the pillow, and looked at the staring rounds upon the wall again.

I had left directions that I was to be called at seven; for it was plain that I must see Wemmick before seeing any one else, and equally plain that this was a case in which his Walworth sentiments only could be taken. It was a relief to get out of the room where the night had been so miserable, and I needed no second knocking at the door to startle me from my uneasy bed.

The Castle battlements arose upon my view at eight o’clock. The little servant happening to be entering the fortress with two hot rolls, I passed through the postern and crossed the drawbridge in her company, and so came without announcement into the presence of Wemmick as he was making tea for himself and the Aged. An open door afforded a perspective view of the Aged in bed.

“Halloa, Mr. Pip!” said Wemmick. “You did come home, then?”

“Yes,” I returned; “but I didn’t go home.”

“That’s all right,” said he, rubbing his hands. “I left a note for you at each of the Temple gates, on the chance. Which gate did you come to?”

I told him.

“I’ll go round to the others in the course of the day and destroy the notes,” said Wemmick; “it’s a good rule never to leave documentary evidence if you can help it, because you don’t know when it may be put in. I’m going to take a liberty with you. Would you mind toasting this sausage for the Aged P.?”

I said I should be delighted to do it.

“Then you can go about your work, Mary Anne,” said Wemmick to the little servant; “which leaves us to ourselves, don’t you see, Mr. Pip?” he added, winking, as she disappeared.

I thanked him for his friendship and caution, and our discourse proceeded in a low tone, while I toasted the Aged’s sausage and he buttered the crumb of the Aged’s roll.

“Now, Mr. Pip, you know,” said Wemmick, “you and I understand one another. We are in our private and personal capacities, and we have been engaged in a confidential transaction before to-day. Official sentiments are one thing. We are extra official.”

I cordially assented. I was so very nervous, that I had already lighted the Aged’s sausage like a torch, and been obliged to blow it out.

“I accidentally heard, yesterday morning,” said Wemmick, “being in a certain place where I once took you,–even between you and me, it’s as well not to mention names when avoidable–”

“Much better not,” said I. “I understand you.”

“I heard there by chance, yesterday morning,” said Wemmick, “that a certain person not altogether of uncolonial pursuits, and not unpossessed of portable property,–I don’t know who it may really be,–we won’t name this person–”

“Not necessary,” said I.

“–Had made some little stir in a certain part of the world where a good many people go, not always in gratification of their own inclinations, and not quite irrespective of the government expense–”

In watching his face, I made quite a firework of the Aged’s sausage, and greatly discomposed both my own attention and Wemmick’s; for which I apologized.

“–By disappearing from such place, and being no more heard of thereabouts. From which,” said Wemmick, “conjectures had been raised and theories formed. I also heard that you at your chambers in Garden Court, Temple, had been watched, and might be watched again.”

“By whom?” said I.

“I wouldn’t go into that,” said Wemmick, evasively, “it might clash with official responsibilities. I heard it, as I have in my time heard other curious things in the same place. I don’t tell it you on information received. I heard it.”

He took the toasting-fork and sausage from me as he spoke, and set forth the Aged’s breakfast neatly on a little tray. Previous to placing it before him, he went into the Aged’s room with a clean white cloth, and tied the same under the old gentleman’s chin, and propped him up, and put his nightcap on one side, and gave him quite a rakish air. Then he placed his breakfast before him with great care, and said, “All right, ain’t you, Aged P.?” To which the cheerful Aged replied, “All right, John, my boy, all right!” As there seemed to be a tacit understanding that the Aged was not in a presentable state, and was therefore to be considered invisible, I made a pretence of being in complete ignorance of these proceedings.

“This watching of me at my chambers (which I have once had reason to suspect),” I said to Wemmick when he came back, “is inseparable from the person to whom you have adverted; is it?”

Wemmick looked very serious. “I couldn’t undertake to say that, of my own knowledge. I mean, I couldn’t undertake to say it was at first. But it either is, or it will be, or it’s in great danger of being.”

As I saw that he was restrained by fealty to Little Britain from saying as much as he could, and as I knew with thankfulness to him how far out of his way he went to say what he did, I could not press him. But I told him, after a little meditation over the fire, that I would like to ask him a question, subject to his answering or not answering, as he deemed right, and sure that his course would be right. He paused in his breakfast, and crossing his arms, and pinching his shirt-sleeves (his notion of in-door comfort was to sit without any coat), he nodded to me once, to put my question.

“You have heard of a man of bad character, whose true name is Compeyson?”

He answered with one other nod.

“Is he living?”

One other nod.

“Is he in London?”

He gave me one other nod, compressed the post-office exceedingly, gave me one last nod, and went on with his breakfast.

“Now,” said Wemmick, “questioning being over,” which he emphasized and repeated for my guidance, “I come to what I did, after hearing what I heard. I went to Garden Court to find you; not finding you, I went to Clarriker’s to find Mr. Herbert.”

“And him you found?” said I, with great anxiety.

“And him I found. Without mentioning any names or going into any details, I gave him to understand that if he was aware of anybody– Tom, Jack, or Richard–being about the chambers, or about the immediate neighborhood, he had better get Tom, Jack, or Richard out of the way while you were out of the way.”

“He would be greatly puzzled what to do?”

“He was puzzled what to do; not the less, because I gave him my opinion that it was not safe to try to get Tom, Jack, or Richard too far out of the way at present. Mr. Pip, I’ll tell you something. Under existing circumstances, there is no place like a great city when you are once in it. Don’t break cover too soon. Lie close. Wait till things slacken, before you try the open, even for foreign air.”

I thanked him for his valuable advice, and asked him what Herbert had done?

“Mr. Herbert,” said Wemmick, “after being all of a heap for half an hour, struck out a plan. He mentioned to me as a secret, that he is courting a young lady who has, as no doubt you are aware, a bedridden Pa. Which Pa, having been in the Purser line of life, lies a-bed in a bow-window where he can see the ships sail up and down the river. You are acquainted with the young lady, most probably?”

“Not personally,” said I.

The truth was, that she had objected to me as an expensive companion who did Herbert no good, and that, when Herbert had first proposed to present me to her, she had received the proposal with such very moderate warmth, that Herbert had felt himself obliged to confide the state of the case to me, with a view to the lapse of a little time before I made her acquaintance. When I had begun to advance Herbert’s prospects by stealth, I had been able to bear this with cheerful philosophy: he and his affianced, for their part, had naturally not been very anxious to introduce a third person into their interviews; and thus, although I was assured that I had risen in Clara’s esteem, and although the young lady and I had long regularly interchanged messages and remembrances by Herbert, I had never seen her. However, I did not trouble Wemmick with these particulars.

“The house with the bow-window,” said Wemmick, “being by the river-side, down the Pool there between Limehouse and Greenwich, and being kept, it seems, by a very respectable widow who has a furnished upper floor to let, Mr. Herbert put it to me, what did I think of that as a temporary tenement for Tom, Jack, or Richard? Now, I thought very well of it, for three reasons I’ll give you. That is to say: Firstly. It’s altogether out of all your beats, and is well away from the usual heap of streets great and small. Secondly. Without going near it yourself, you could always hear of the safety of Tom, Jack, or Richard, through Mr. Herbert. Thirdly. After a while and when it might be prudent, if you should want to slip Tom, Jack, or Richard on board a foreign packet-boat, there he is–ready.”

Much comforted by these considerations, I thanked Wemmick again and again, and begged him to proceed.

“Well, sir! Mr. Herbert threw himself into the business with a will, and by nine o’clock last night he housed Tom, Jack, or Richard,– whichever it may be,–you and I don’t want to know,–quite successfully. At the old lodgings it was understood that he was summoned to Dover, and, in fact, he was taken down the Dover road and cornered out of it. Now, another great advantage of all this is, that it was done without you, and when, if any one was concerning himself about your movements, you must be known to be ever so many miles off and quite otherwise engaged. This diverts suspicion and confuses it; and for the same reason I recommended that, even if you came back last night, you should not go home. It brings in more confusion, and you want confusion.”

Wemmick, having finished his breakfast, here looked at his watch, and began to get his coat on.

“And now, Mr. Pip,” said he, with his hands still in the sleeves, “I have probably done the most I can do; but if I can ever do more,– from a Walworth point of view, and in a strictly private and personal capacity,–I shall be glad to do it. Here’s the address. There can be no harm in your going here to-night, and seeing for yourself that all is well with Tom, Jack, or Richard, before you go home,–which is another reason for your not going home last night. But, after you have gone home, don’t go back here. You are very welcome, I am sure, Mr. Pip”; his hands were now out of his sleeves, and I was shaking them; “and let me finally impress one important point upon you.” He laid his hands upon my shoulders, and added in a solemn whisper: “Avail yourself of this evening to lay hold of his portable property. You don’t know what may happen to him. Don’t let anything happen to the portable property.”

Quite despairing of making my mind clear to Wemmick on this point, I forbore to try.

“Time’s up,” said Wemmick, “and I must be off. If you had nothing more pressing to do than to keep here till dark, that’s what I should advise. You look very much worried, and it would do you good to have a perfectly quiet day with the Aged,–he’ll be up presently, –and a little bit of–you remember the pig?”

“Of course,” said I.

“Well; and a little bit of him. That sausage you toasted was his, and he was in all respects a first-rater. Do try him, if it is only for old acquaintance sake. Good by, Aged Parent!” in a cheery shout.

“All right, John; all right, my boy!” piped the old man from within.

I soon fell asleep before Wemmick’s fire, and the Aged and I enjoyed one another’s society by falling asleep before it more or less all day. We had loin of pork for dinner, and greens grown on the estate; and I nodded at the Aged with a good intention whenever I failed to do it drowsily. When it was quite dark, I left the Aged preparing the fire for toast; and I inferred from the number of teacups, as well as from his glances at the two little doors in the wall, that Miss Skiffins was expected.

Summary: Chapter 46

Pip travels to Mill Pond Bank, downstream from his residence at the Temple, where Herbert’s fiancée lives. He meets Herbert there, who explains that Magwitch has taken the rooms on the third floor under the name “Mr. Campbell.” Herbert’s fiancée is Clara, and her father lives on the second floor. He never leaves his rooms and stays drunk on rum. Her father would not approve of any marriage, so Herbert must remain a secret for the time being.

After a few introductions, Pip and Herbert go upstairs to talk with their secret friend. Pip has decided not to tell him anything about Compeyson. He worries that Magwitch may go into a blind rage and seek him out. Instead, they explain that there’s some unknown risk – Wemmick has heard that Magwitch may have been spotted.

Herbert devises a plan for getting Magwitch safely out of the city. He suggests that Pip keep a boat at the Temple and get into the habit of rowing up and down the river. After a while, no one will pay any attention to him. At a point in the future, Pip and Herbert will take Magwitch downstream. For now, Magwitch will signal that all is well from his window by slowly drawing the blinds.

Analysis: Chapter XLVI

Eight o’clock had struck before I got into the air, that was scented, not disagreeably, by the chips and shavings of the long-shore boat-builders, and mast, oar, and block makers. All that water-side region of the upper and lower Pool below Bridge was unknown ground to me; and when I struck down by the river, I found that the spot I wanted was not where I had supposed it to be, and was anything but easy to find. It was called Mill Pond Bank, Chinks’s Basin; and I had no other guide to Chinks’s Basin than the Old Green Copper Rope-walk.

It matters not what stranded ships repairing in dry docks I lost myself among, what old hulls of ships in course of being knocked to pieces, what ooze and slime and other dregs of tide, what yards of ship-builders and ship-breakers, what rusty anchors blindly biting into the ground, though for years off duty, what mountainous country of accumulated casks and timber, how many ropewalks that were not the Old Green Copper. After several times falling short of my destination and as often overshooting it, I came unexpectedly round a corner, upon Mill Pond Bank. It was a fresh kind of place, all circumstances considered, where the wind from the river had room to turn itself round; and there were two or three trees in it, and there was the stump of a ruined windmill, and there was the Old Green Copper Ropewalk,–whose long and narrow vista I could trace in the moonlight, along a series of wooden frames set in the ground, that looked like superannuated haymaking-rakes which had grown old and lost most of their teeth.

Selecting from the few queer houses upon Mill Pond Bank a house with a wooden front and three stories of bow-window (not bay-window, which is another thing), I looked at the plate upon the door, and read there, Mrs. Whimple. That being the name I wanted, I knocked, and an elderly woman of a pleasant and thriving appearance responded. She was immediately deposed, however, by Herbert, who silently led me into the parlor and shut the door. It was an odd sensation to see his very familiar face established quite at home in that very unfamiliar room and region; and I found myself looking at him, much as I looked at the corner-cupboard with the glass and china, the shells upon the chimney-piece, and the colored engravings on the wall, representing the death of Captain Cook, a ship-launch, and his Majesty King George the Third in a state coachman’s wig, leather-breeches, and top-boots, on the terrace at Windsor.

“All is well, Handel,” said Herbert, “and he is quite satisfied, though eager to see you. My dear girl is with her father; and if you’ll wait till she comes down, I’ll make you known to her, and then we’ll go up stairs. That’s her father.”

I had become aware of an alarming growling overhead, and had probably expressed the fact in my countenance.

“I am afraid he is a sad old rascal,” said Herbert, smiling, “but I have never seen him. Don’t you smell rum? He is always at it.”

“At rum?” said I.

“Yes,” returned Herbert, “and you may suppose how mild it makes his gout. He persists, too, in keeping all the provisions up stairs in his room, and serving them out. He keeps them on shelves over his head, and will weigh them all. His room must be like a chandler’s shop.”

While he thus spoke, the growling noise became a prolonged roar, and then died away.

“What else can be the consequence,” said Herbert, in explanation, “if he will cut the cheese? A man with the gout in his right hand– and everywhere else–can’t expect to get through a Double Gloucester without hurting himself.”

He seemed to have hurt himself very much, for he gave another furious roar.

“To have Provis for an upper lodger is quite a godsend to Mrs. Whimple,” said Herbert, “for of course people in general won’t stand that noise. A curious place, Handel; isn’t it?”

It was a curious place, indeed; but remarkably well kept and clean.

“Mrs. Whimple,” said Herbert, when I told him so, “is the best of housewives, and I really do not know what my Clara would do without her motherly help. For, Clara has no mother of her own, Handel, and no relation in the world but old Gruffandgrim.”

“Surely that’s not his name, Herbert?”

“No, no,” said Herbert, “that’s my name for him. His name is Mr. Barley. But what a blessing it is for the son of my father and mother to love a girl who has no relations, and who can never bother herself or anybody else about her family!”

Herbert had told me on former occasions, and now reminded me, that he first knew Miss Clara Barley when she was completing her education at an establishment at Hammersmith, and that on her being recalled home to nurse her father, he and she had confided their affection to the motherly Mrs. Whimple, by whom it had been fostered and regulated with equal kindness and discretion, ever since. It was understood that nothing of a tender nature could possibly be confided to old Barley, by reason of his being totally unequal to the consideration of any subject more psychological than Gout, Rum, and Purser’s stores.

As we were thus conversing in a low tone while Old Barley’s sustained growl vibrated in the beam that crossed the ceiling, the room door opened, and a very pretty, slight, dark-eyed girl of twenty or so came in with a basket in her hand: whom Herbert tenderly relieved of the basket, and presented, blushing, as “Clara.” She really was a most charming girl, and might have passed for a captive fairy, whom that truculent Ogre, Old Barley, had pressed into his service.

“Look here,” said Herbert, showing me the basket, with a compassionate and tender smile, after we had talked a little; “here’s poor Clara’s supper, served out every night. Here’s her allowance of bread, and here’s her slice of cheese, and here’s her rum,–which I drink. This is Mr. Barley’s breakfast for to-morrow, served out to be cooked. Two mutton-chops, three potatoes, some split peas, a little flour, two ounces of butter, a pinch of salt, and all this black pepper. It’s stewed up together, and taken hot, and it’s a nice thing for the gout, I should think!”

There was something so natural and winning in Clara’s resigned way of looking at these stores in detail, as Herbert pointed them out; and something so confiding, loving, and innocent in her modest manner of yielding herself to Herbert’s embracing arm; and something so gentle in her, so much needing protection on Mill Pond Bank, by Chinks’s Basin, and the Old Green Copper Ropewalk, with Old Barley growling in the beam,–that I would not have undone the engagement between her and Herbert for all the money in the pocket-book I had never opened.

I was looking at her with pleasure and admiration, when suddenly the growl swelled into a roar again, and a frightful bumping noise was heard above, as if a giant with a wooden leg were trying to bore it through the ceiling to come at us. Upon this Clara said to Herbert, “Papa wants me, darling!” and ran away.

“There is an unconscionable old shark for you!” said Herbert. “What do you suppose he wants now, Handel?”

“I don’t know,” said I. “Something to drink?”

“That’s it!” cried Herbert, as if I had made a guess of extraordinary merit. “He keeps his grog ready mixed in a little tub on the table. Wait a moment, and you’ll hear Clara lift him up to take some. There he goes!” Another roar, with a prolonged shake at the end. “Now,” said Herbert, as it was succeeded by silence, “he’s drinking. Now,” said Herbert, as the growl resounded in the beam once more, “he’s down again on his back!”

Clara returned soon afterwards, and Herbert accompanied me up stairs to see our charge. As we passed Mr. Barley’s door, he was heard hoarsely muttering within, in a strain that rose and fell like wind, the following Refrain, in which I substitute good wishes for something quite the reverse:–

“Ahoy! Bless your eyes, here’s old Bill Barley. Here’s old Bill Barley, bless your eyes. Here’s old Bill Barley on the flat of his back, by the Lord. Lying on the flat of his back like a drifting old dead flounder, here’s your old Bill Barley, bless your eyes. Ahoy! Bless you.”

In this strain of consolation, Herbert informed me the invisible Barley would commune with himself by the day and night together; Often, while it was light, having, at the same time, one eye at a telescope which was fitted on his bed for the convenience of sweeping the river.

In his two cabin rooms at the top of the house, which were fresh and airy, and in which Mr. Barley was less audible than below, I found Provis comfortably settled. He expressed no alarm, and seemed to feel none that was worth mentioning; but it struck me that he was softened,–indefinably, for I could not have said how, and could never afterwards recall how when I tried, but certainly.

The opportunity that the day’s rest had given me for reflection had resulted in my fully determining to say nothing to him respecting Compeyson. For anything I knew, his animosity towards the man might otherwise lead to his seeking him out and rushing on his own destruction. Therefore, when Herbert and I sat down with him by his fire, I asked him first of all whether he relied on Wemmick’s judgment and sources of information?

“Ay, ay, dear boy!” he answered, with a grave nod, “Jaggers knows.”

“Then, I have talked with Wemmick,” said I, “and have come to tell you what caution he gave me and what advice.”

This I did accurately, with the reservation just mentioned; and I told him how Wemmick had heard, in Newgate prison (whether from officers or prisoners I could not say), that he was under some suspicion, and that my chambers had been watched; how Wemmick had recommended his keeping close for a time, and my keeping away from him; and what Wemmick had said about getting him abroad. I added, that of course, when the time came, I should go with him, or should follow close upon him, as might be safest in Wemmick’s judgment. What was to follow that I did not touch upon; neither, indeed, was I at all clear or comfortable about it in my own mind, now that I saw him in that softer condition, and in declared peril for my sake. As to altering my way of living by enlarging my expenses, I put it to him whether in our present unsettled and difficult circumstances, it would not be simply ridiculous, if it were no worse?

He could not deny this, and indeed was very reasonable throughout. His coming back was a venture, he said, and he had always known it to be a venture. He would do nothing to make it a desperate venture, and he had very little fear of his safety with such good help.

Herbert, who had been looking at the fire and pondering, here said that something had come into his thoughts arising out of Wemmick’s suggestion, which it might be worth while to pursue. “We are both good watermen, Handel, and could take him down the river ourselves when the right time comes. No boat would then be hired for the purpose, and no boatmen; that would save at least a chance of suspicion, and any chance is worth saving. Never mind the season; don’t you think it might be a good thing if you began at once to keep a boat at the Temple stairs, and were in the habit of rowing up and down the river? You fall into that habit, and then who notices or minds? Do it twenty or fifty times, and there is nothing special in your doing it the twenty-first or fifty-first.”

I liked this scheme, and Provis was quite elated by it. We agreed that it should be carried into execution, and that Provis should never recognize us if we came below Bridge, and rowed past Mill Pond Bank. But we further agreed that he should pull down the blind in that part of his window which gave upon the east, whenever he saw us and all was right.

Our conference being now ended, and everything arranged, I rose to go; remarking to Herbert that he and I had better not go home together, and that I would take half an hour’s start of him. “I don’t like to leave you here,” I said to Provis, “though I cannot doubt your being safer here than near me. Good by!”

“Dear boy,” he answered, clasping my hands, “I don’t know when we may meet again, and I don’t like good by. Say good night!”

“Good night! Herbert will go regularly between us, and when the time comes you may be certain I shall be ready. Good night, good night!”

We thought it best that he should stay in his own rooms; and we left him on the landing outside his door, holding a light over the stair-rail to light us down stairs. Looking back at him, I thought of the first night of his return, when our positions were reversed, and when I little supposed my heart could ever be as heavy and anxious at parting from him as it was now.

Old Barley was growling and swearing when we repassed his door, with no appearance of having ceased or of meaning to cease. When we got to the foot of the stairs, I asked Herbert whether he had preserved the name of Provis. He replied, certainly not, and that the lodger was Mr. Campbell. He also explained that the utmost known of Mr. Campbell there was, that he (Herbert) had Mr. Campbell consigned to him, and felt a strong personal interest in his being well cared for, and living a secluded life. So, when we went into the parlor where Mrs. Whimple and Clara were seated at work, I said nothing of my own interest in Mr. Campbell, but kept it to myself.

When I had taken leave of the pretty, gentle, dark-eyed girl, and of the motherly woman who had not outlived her honest sympathy with a little affair of true love, I felt as if the Old Green Copper Ropewalk had grown quite a different place. Old Barley might be as old as the hills, and might swear like a whole field of troopers, but there were redeeming youth and trust and hope enough in Chinks’s Basin to fill it to overflowing. And then I thought of Estella, and of our parting, and went home very sadly.

All things were as quiet in the Temple as ever I had seen them. The windows of the rooms on that side, lately occupied by Provis, were dark and still, and there was no lounger in Garden Court. I walked past the fountain twice or thrice before I descended the steps that were between me and my rooms, but I was quite alone. Herbert, coming to my bedside when he came in,–for I went straight to bed, dispirited and fatigued,–made the same report. Opening one of the windows after that, he looked out into the moonlight, and told me that the pavement was a solemnly empty as the pavement of any cathedral at that same hour.

Next day I set myself to get the boat. It was soon done, and the boat was brought round to the Temple stairs, and lay where I could reach her within a minute or two. Then, I began to go out as for training and practice: sometimes alone, sometimes with Herbert. I was often out in cold, rain, and sleet, but nobody took much note of me after I had been out a few times. At first, I kept above Blackfriars Bridge; but as the hours of the tide changed, I took towards London Bridge. It was Old London Bridge in those days, and at certain states of the tide there was a race and fall of water there which gave it a bad reputation. But I knew well enough how to “shoot’ the bridge after seeing it done, and so began to row about among the shipping in the Pool, and down to Erith. The first time I passed Mill Pond Bank, Herbert and I were pulling a pair of oars; and, both in going and returning, we saw the blind towards the east come down. Herbert was rarely there less frequently than three times in a week, and he never brought me a single word of intelligence that was at all alarming. Still, I knew that there was cause for alarm, and I could not get rid of the notion of being watched. Once received, it is a haunting idea; how many undesigning persons I suspected of watching me, it would be hard to calculate.

In short, I was always full of fears for the rash man who was in hiding. Herbert had sometimes said to me that he found it pleasant to stand at one of our windows after dark, when the tide was running down, and to think that it was flowing, with everything it bore, towards Clara. But I thought with dread that it was flowing towards Magwitch, and that any black mark on its surface might be his pursuers, going swiftly, silently, and surely, to take him.

Summary: Chapter 47

Time passes slowly. Pip continues rowing up and down the river several times a week. One evening, he happens to catch a play with Mr. Wopsle as one of the lead actors. The performance is equally ridiculous as before, but Pip enjoys himself. It’s one of the few moments in which he isn’t worrying about Magwitch, the people hunting him, or his money woes. Mr. Wopsle has not been as successful in drama as he had hoped. However, his spirits are still high. The man sees that his young friend Pip is in the audience.

After the play concludes, Pip and Mr. Wopsle meet outside the theater and walk together. Mr. Wopsle says he saw something very unusual during the performance – sitting behind Pip was the “other” convict from the marshes, the one that Pip knows as Compeyson. He remembers the day out on the marshes very clearly and is quite sure of the man’s identity. Pip has to pretend that this news doesn’t affect him. For Mr. Woplse, it’s simply a bizarre coincidence. For Pip, however, it’s proof that bad people are watching him closely. He sends a letter to Wemmick informing him of this new discovery. He decides again that it’s best for Magwitch not to know too many details.

Analysis: Chapter XLVII

Some weeks passed without bringing any change. We waited for Wemmick, and he made no sign. If I had never known him out of Little Britain, and had never enjoyed the privilege of being on a familiar footing at the Castle, I might have doubted him; not so for a moment, knowing him as I did.

My worldly affairs began to wear a gloomy appearance, and I was pressed for money by more than one creditor. Even I myself began to know the want of money (I mean of ready money in my own pocket), and to relieve it by converting some easily spared articles of jewelery into cash. But I had quite determined that it would be a heartless fraud to take more money from my patron in the existing state of my uncertain thoughts and plans. Therefore, I had sent him the unopened pocket-book by Herbert, to hold in his own keeping, and I felt a kind of satisfaction–whether it was a false kind or a true, I hardly know–in not having profited by his generosity since his revelation of himself.

As the time wore on, an impression settled heavily upon me that Estella was married. Fearful of having it confirmed, though it was all but a conviction, I avoided the newspapers, and begged Herbert (to whom I had confided the circumstances of our last interview) never to speak of her to me. Why I hoarded up this last wretched little rag of the robe of hope that was rent and given to the winds, how do I know? Why did you who read this, commit that not dissimilar inconsistency of your own last year, last month, last week?

It was an unhappy life that I lived; and its one dominant anxiety, towering over all its other anxieties, like a high mountain above a range of mountains, never disappeared from my view. Still, no new cause for fear arose. Let me start from my bed as I would, with the terror fresh upon me that he was discovered; let me sit listening, as I would with dread, for Herbert’s returning step at night, lest it should be fleeter than ordinary, and winged with evil news,–for all that, and much more to like purpose, the round of things went on. Condemned to inaction and a state of constant restlessness and suspense, I rowed about in my boat, and waited, waited, waited, as I best could.

There were states of the tide when, having been down the river, I could not get back through the eddy-chafed arches and starlings of old London Bridge; then, I left my boat at a wharf near the Custom House, to be brought up afterwards to the Temple stairs. I was not averse to doing this, as it served to make me and my boat a commoner incident among the water-side people there. From this slight occasion sprang two meetings that I have now to tell of.

One afternoon, late in the month of February, I came ashore at the wharf at dusk. I had pulled down as far as Greenwich with the ebb tide, and had turned with the tide. It had been a fine bright day, but had become foggy as the sun dropped, and I had had to feel my way back among the shipping, pretty carefully. Both in going and returning, I had seen the signal in his window, All well.

As it was a raw evening, and I was cold, I thought I would comfort myself with dinner at once; and as I had hours of dejection and solitude before me if I went home to the Temple, I thought I would afterwards go to the play. The theatre where Mr. Wopsle had achieved his questionable triumph was in that water-side neighborhood (it is nowhere now), and to that theatre I resolved to go. I was aware that Mr. Wopsle had not succeeded in reviving the Drama, but, on the contrary, had rather partaken of its decline. He had been ominously heard of, through the play-bills, as a faithful Black, in connection with a little girl of noble birth, and a monkey. And Herbert had seen him as a predatory Tartar of comic propensities, with a face like a red brick, and an outrageous hat all over bells.

I dined at what Herbert and I used to call a geographical chop-house, where there were maps of the world in porter-pot rims on every half-yard of the tablecloths, and charts of gravy on every one of the knives,–to this day there is scarcely a single chop-house within the Lord Mayor’s dominions which is not geographical,–and wore out the time in dozing over crumbs, staring at gas, and baking in a hot blast of dinners. By and by, I roused myself, and went to the play.

There, I found a virtuous boatswain in His Majesty’s service,–a most excellent man, though I could have wished his trousers not quite so tight in some places, and not quite so loose in others,– who knocked all the little men’s hats over their eyes, though he was very generous and brave, and who wouldn’t hear of anybody’s paying taxes, though he was very patriotic. He had a bag of money in his pocket, like a pudding in the cloth, and on that property married a young person in bed-furniture, with great rejoicings; the whole population of Portsmouth (nine in number at the last census) turning out on the beach to rub their own hands and shake everybody else’s, and sing “Fill, fill!” A certain dark-complexioned Swab, however, who wouldn’t fill, or do anything else that was proposed to him, and whose heart was openly stated (by the boatswain) to be as black as his figure-head, proposed to two other Swabs to get all mankind into difficulties; which was so effectually done (the Swab family having considerable political influence) that it took half the evening to set things right, and then it was only brought about through an honest little grocer with a white hat, black gaiters, and red nose, getting into a clock, with a gridiron, and listening, and coming out, and knocking everybody down from behind with the gridiron whom he couldn’t confute with what he had overheard. This led to Mr. Wopsle’s (who had never been heard of before) coming in with a star and garter on, as a plenipotentiary of great power direct from the Admiralty, to say that the Swabs were all to go to prison on the spot, and that he had brought the boatswain down the Union Jack, as a slight acknowledgment of his public services. The boatswain, unmanned for the first time, respectfully dried his eyes on the Jack, and then cheering up, and addressing Mr. Wopsle as Your Honor, solicited permission to take him by the fin. Mr. Wopsle, conceding his fin with a gracious dignity, was immediately shoved into a dusty corner, while everybody danced a hornpipe; and from that corner, surveying the public with a discontented eye, became aware of me.

The second piece was the last new grand comic Christmas pantomime, in the first scene of which, it pained me to suspect that I detected Mr. Wopsle with red worsted legs under a highly magnified phosphoric countenance and a shock of red curtain-fringe for his hair, engaged in the manufacture of thunderbolts in a mine, and displaying great cowardice when his gigantic master came home (very hoarse) to dinner. But he presently presented himself under worthier circumstances; for, the Genius of Youthful Love being in want of assistance,–on account of the parental brutality of an ignorant farmer who opposed the choice of his daughter’s heart, by purposely falling upon the object, in a flour-sack, out of the first-floor window,–summoned a sententious Enchanter; and he, coming up from the antipodes rather unsteadily, after an apparently violent journey, proved to be Mr. Wopsle in a high-crowned hat, with a necromantic work in one volume under his arm. The business of this enchanter on earth being principally to be talked at, sung at, butted at, danced at, and flashed at with fires of various colors, he had a good deal of time on his hands. And I observed, with great surprise, that he devoted it to staring in my direction as if he were lost in amazement.

There was something so remarkable in the increasing glare of Mr. Wopsle’s eye, and he seemed to be turning so many things over in his mind and to grow so confused, that I could not make it out. I sat thinking of it long after he had ascended to the clouds in a large watch-case, and still I could not make it out. I was still thinking of it when I came out of the theatre an hour afterwards, and found him waiting for me near the door.

“How do you do?” said I, shaking hands with him as we turned down the street together. “I saw that you saw me.”

“Saw you, Mr. Pip!” he returned. “Yes, of course I saw you. But who else was there?”

“Who else?”

“It is the strangest thing,” said Mr. Wopsle, drifting into his lost look again; “and yet I could swear to him.”

Becoming alarmed, I entreated Mr. Wopsle to explain his meaning.

“Whether I should have noticed him at first but for your being there,” said Mr. Wopsle, going on in the same lost way, “I can’t be positive; yet I think I should.”

Involuntarily I looked round me, as I was accustomed to look round me when I went home; for these mysterious words gave me a chill.

“Oh! He can’t be in sight,” said Mr. Wopsle. “He went out before I went off. I saw him go.”

Having the reason that I had for being suspicious, I even suspected this poor actor. I mistrusted a design to entrap me into some admission. Therefore I glanced at him as we walked on together, but said nothing.

“I had a ridiculous fancy that he must be with you, Mr. Pip, till I saw that you were quite unconscious of him, sitting behind you there like a ghost.”

My former chill crept over me again, but I was resolved not to speak yet, for it was quite consistent with his words that he might be set on to induce me to connect these references with Provis. Of course, I was perfectly sure and safe that Provis had not been there.

“I dare say you wonder at me, Mr. Pip; indeed, I see you do. But it is so very strange! You’ll hardly believe what I am going to tell you. I could hardly believe it myself, if you told me.”

“Indeed?” said I.

“No, indeed. Mr. Pip, you remember in old times a certain Christmas Day, when you were quite a child, and I dined at Gargery’s, and some soldiers came to the door to get a pair of handcuffs mended?”

“I remember it very well.”

“And you remember that there was a chase after two convicts, and that we joined in it, and that Gargery took you on his back, and that I took the lead, and you kept up with me as well as you could?”

“I remember it all very well.” Better than he thought,–except the last clause.

“And you remember that we came up with the two in a ditch, and that there was a scuffle between them, and that one of them had been severely handled and much mauled about the face by the other?”

“I see it all before me.”

“And that the soldiers lighted torches, and put the two in the centre, and that we went on to see the last of them, over the black marshes, with the torchlight shining on their faces,–I am particular about that,–with the torchlight shining on their faces, when there was an outer ring of dark night all about us?”

“Yes,” said I. “I remember all that.”

“Then, Mr. Pip, one of those two prisoners sat behind you tonight. I saw him over your shoulder.”

“Steady!” I thought. I asked him then, “Which of the two do you suppose you saw?”

“The one who had been mauled,” he answered readily, “and I’ll swear I saw him! The more I think of him, the more certain I am of him.”

“This is very curious!” said I, with the best assumption I could put on of its being nothing more to me. “Very curious indeed!”

I cannot exaggerate the enhanced disquiet into which this conversation threw me, or the special and peculiar terror I felt at Compeyson’s having been behind me “like a ghost.” For if he had ever been out of my thoughts for a few moments together since the hiding had begun, it was in those very moments when he was closest to me; and to think that I should be so unconscious and off my guard after all my care was as if I had shut an avenue of a hundred doors to keep him out, and then had found him at my elbow. I could not doubt, either, that he was there, because I was there, and that, however slight an appearance of danger there might be about us, danger was always near and active.

I put such questions to Mr. Wopsle as, When did the man come in? He could not tell me that; he saw me, and over my shoulder he saw the man. It was not until he had seen him for some time that he began to identify him; but he had from the first vaguely associated him with me, and known him as somehow belonging to me in the old village time. How was he dressed? Prosperously, but not noticeably otherwise; he thought, in black. Was his face at all disfigured? No, he believed not. I believed not too, for, although in my brooding state I had taken no especial notice of the people behind me, I thought it likely that a face at all disfigured would have attracted my attention.

When Mr. Wopsle had imparted to me all that he could recall or I extract, and when I had treated him to a little appropriate refreshment, after the fatigues of the evening, we parted. It was between twelve and one o’clock when I reached the Temple, and the gates were shut. No one was near me when I went in and went home.

Herbert had come in, and we held a very serious council by the fire. But there was nothing to be done, saving to communicate to Wemmick what I had that night found out, and to remind him that we waited for his hint. As I thought that I might compromise him if I went too often to the Castle, I made this communication by letter. I wrote it before I went to bed, and went out and posted it; and again no one was near me. Herbert and I agreed that we could do nothing else but be very cautious. And we were very cautious indeed, –more cautious than before, if that were possible,–and I for my part never went near Chinks’s Basin, except when I rowed by, and then I only looked at Mill Pond Bank as I looked at anything else.

Summary: Chapter 48

Pip lands his boat near Cheapside and walks around the streets, considering where he might eat. He’s surprised by Jaggers coming up behind him. The lawyer suggests they eat together. Pip would have refused, until he hears that Wemmick is joining them also. He goes along with Jaggers back to the office, and then the three of them set out for Gerrard Street in a coach.

At Jaggers’ home, the lawyer informs Pip that Miss Havisham has requested his presence concerning a matter of business they had previously discussed. To Pip’s anguish, Jaggers toasts the future Mrs. Bentley Drummle. As they are speaking of Estella, Pip notices something about the hands of Jaggers’ servant, Molly. She has the same hands as Estella. He further notices that her eyes and hair are similar, too. Soon, he can’t deny the obvious – Molly is Estella’s mother.

Wemmick and Pip leave Jaggers’ home together. At Pip’s request, Wemmick tells the story of Molly, or at least as much of it as he knows. Many years ago, Molly was acquitted of murder with the help of Jaggers. She’s been in service to him ever since. Wemmick doesn’t know any details about Molly’s child. During the trial, it was put forward that Molly had killed her child in a rage or jealousy.

Analysis: Chapter XLVIII

The second of the two meetings referred to in the last chapter occurred about a week after the first. I had again left my boat at the wharf below Bridge; the time was an hour earlier in the afternoon; and, undecided where to dine, I had strolled up into Cheapside, and was strolling along it, surely the most unsettled person in all the busy concourse, when a large hand was laid upon my shoulder by some one overtaking me. It was Mr. Jaggers’s hand, and he passed it through my arm.

“As we are going in the same direction, Pip, we may walk together. Where are you bound for?”

“For the Temple, I think,” said I.

“Don’t you know?” said Mr. Jaggers.

“Well,” I returned, glad for once to get the better of him in cross-examination, “I do not know, for I have not made up my mind.”

“You are going to dine?” said Mr. Jaggers. “You don’t mind admitting that, I suppose?”

“No,” I returned, “I don’t mind admitting that.”

“And are not engaged?”

“I don’t mind admitting also that I am not engaged.”

“Then,” said Mr. Jaggers, “come and dine with me.”

I was going to excuse myself, when he added, “Wemmick’s coming.” So I changed my excuse into an acceptance,–the few words I had uttered, serving for the beginning of either,–and we went along Cheapside and slanted off to Little Britain, while the lights were springing up brilliantly in the shop windows, and the street lamp-lighters, scarcely finding ground enough to plant their ladders on in the midst of the afternoon’s bustle, were skipping up and down and running in and out, opening more red eyes in the gathering fog than my rushlight tower at the Hummums had opened white eyes in the ghostly wall.

At the office in Little Britain there was the usual letter-writing, hand-washing, candle-snuffing, and safe-locking, that closed the business of the day. As I stood idle by Mr. Jaggers’s fire, its rising and falling flame made the two casts on the shelf look as if they were playing a diabolical game at bo-peep with me; while the pair of coarse, fat office candles that dimly lighted Mr. Jaggers as he wrote in a corner were decorated with dirty winding-sheets, as if in remembrance of a host of hanged clients.

We went to Gerrard Street, all three together, in a hackney-coach: And, as soon as we got there, dinner was served. Although I should not have thought of making, in that place, the most distant reference by so much as a look to Wemmick’s Walworth sentiments, yet I should have had no objection to catching his eye now and then in a friendly way. But it was not to be done. He turned his eyes on Mr. Jaggers whenever he raised them from the table, and was as dry and distant to me as if there were twin Wemmicks, and this was the wrong one.

“Did you send that note of Miss Havisham’s to Mr. Pip, Wemmick?” Mr. Jaggers asked, soon after we began dinner.

“No, sir,” returned Wemmick; “it was going by post, when you brought Mr. Pip into the office. Here it is.” He handed it to his principal instead of to me.

“It’s a note of two lines, Pip,” said Mr. Jaggers, handing it on, “sent up to me by Miss Havisham on account of her not being sure of your address. She tells me that she wants to see you on a little matter of business you mentioned to her. You’ll go down?”

“Yes,” said I, casting my eyes over the note, which was exactly in those terms.

“When do you think of going down?”

“I have an impending engagement,” said I, glancing at Wemmick, who was putting fish into the post-office, “that renders me rather uncertain of my time. At once, I think.”

“If Mr. Pip has the intention of going at once,” said Wemmick to Mr. Jaggers, “he needn’t write an answer, you know.”

Receiving this as an intimation that it was best not to delay, I settled that I would go to-morrow, and said so. Wemmick drank a glass of wine, and looked with a grimly satisfied air at Mr. Jaggers, but not at me.

“So, Pip! Our friend the Spider,” said Mr. Jaggers, “has played his cards. He has won the pool.”

It was as much as I could do to assent.

“Hah! He is a promising fellow–in his way–but he may not have it all his own way. The stronger will win in the end, but the stronger has to be found out first. If he should turn to, and beat her–”

“Surely,” I interrupted, with a burning face and heart, “you do not seriously think that he is scoundrel enough for that, Mr. Jaggers?”

“I didn’t say so, Pip. I am putting a case. If he should turn to and beat her, he may possibly get the strength on his side; if it should be a question of intellect, he certainly will not. It would be chance work to give an opinion how a fellow of that sort will turn out in such circumstances, because it’s a toss-up between two results.”

“May I ask what they are?”

“A fellow like our friend the Spider,” answered Mr. Jaggers, “either beats or cringes. He may cringe and growl, or cringe and not growl; but he either beats or cringes. Ask Wemmick his opinion.”

“Either beats or cringes,” said Wemmick, not at all addressing himself to me.

“So here’s to Mrs. Bentley Drummle,” said Mr. Jaggers, taking a decanter of choicer wine from his dumb-waiter, and filling for each of us and for himself, “and may the question of supremacy be settled to the lady’s satisfaction! To the satisfaction of the lady and the gentleman, it never will be. Now, Molly, Molly, Molly, Molly, how slow you are to-day!”

She was at his elbow when he addressed her, putting a dish upon the table. As she withdrew her hands from it, she fell back a step or two, nervously muttering some excuse. And a certain action of her fingers, as she spoke, arrested my attention.

“What’s the matter?” said Mr. Jaggers.

“Nothing. Only the subject we were speaking of,” said I, “was rather painful to me.”

The action of her fingers was like the action of knitting. She stood looking at her master, not understanding whether she was free to go, or whether he had more to say to her and would call her back if she did go. Her look was very intent. Surely, I had seen exactly such eyes and such hands on a memorable occasion very lately!

He dismissed her, and she glided out of the room. But she remained before me as plainly as if she were still there. I looked at those hands, I looked at those eyes, I looked at that flowing hair; and I compared them with other hands, other eyes, other hair, that I knew of, and with what those might be after twenty years of a brutal husband and a stormy life. I looked again at those hands and eyes of the housekeeper, and thought of the inexplicable feeling that had come over me when I last walked–not alone–in the ruined garden, and through the deserted brewery. I thought how the same feeling had come back when I saw a face looking at me, and a hand waving to me from a stage-coach window; and how it had come back again and had flashed about me like lightning, when I had passed in a carriage–not alone–through a sudden glare of light in a dark street. I thought how one link of association had helped that identification in the theatre, and how such a link, wanting before, had been riveted for me now, when I had passed by a chance swift from Estella’s name to the fingers with their knitting action, and the attentive eyes. And I felt absolutely certain that this woman was Estella’s mother.

Mr. Jaggers had seen me with Estella, and was not likely to have missed the sentiments I had been at no pains to conceal. He nodded when I said the subject was painful to me, clapped me on the back, put round the wine again, and went on with his dinner.

Only twice more did the housekeeper reappear, and then her stay in the room was very short, and Mr. Jaggers was sharp with her. But her hands were Estella’s hands, and her eyes were Estella’s eyes, and if she had reappeared a hundred times I could have been neither more sure nor less sure that my conviction was the truth.

It was a dull evening, for Wemmick drew his wine, when it came round, quite as a matter of business,–just as he might have drawn his salary when that came round,–and with his eyes on his chief, sat in a state of perpetual readiness for cross-examination. As to the quantity of wine, his post-office was as indifferent and ready as any other post-office for its quantity of letters. From my point of view, he was the wrong twin all the time, and only externally like the Wemmick of Walworth.

We took our leave early, and left together. Even when we were groping among Mr. Jaggers’s stock of boots for our hats, I felt that the right twin was on his way back; and we had not gone half a dozen yards down Gerrard Street in the Walworth direction, before I found that I was walking arm in arm with the right twin, and that the wrong twin had evaporated into the evening air.

“Well!” said Wemmick, “that’s over! He’s a wonderful man, without his living likeness; but I feel that I have to screw myself up when I dine with him,–and I dine more comfortably unscrewed.”

I felt that this was a good statement of the case, and told him so.

“Wouldn’t say it to anybody but yourself,” he answered. “I know that what is said between you and me goes no further.”

I asked him if he had ever seen Miss Havisham’s adopted daughter, Mrs. Bentley Drummle. He said no. To avoid being too abrupt, I then spoke of the Aged and of Miss Skiffins. He looked rather sly when I mentioned Miss Skiffins, and stopped in the street to blow his nose, with a roll of the head, and a flourish not quite free from latent boastfulness.

“Wemmick,” said I, “do you remember telling me, before I first went to Mr. Jaggers’s private house, to notice that housekeeper?”

“Did I?” he replied. “Ah, I dare say I did. Deuce take me,” he added, suddenly, “I know I did. I find I am not quite unscrewed yet.”

“A wild beast tamed, you called her.”

“And what do you call her?”

“The same. How did Mr. Jaggers tame her, Wemmick?”

“That’s his secret. She has been with him many a long year.”

“I wish you would tell me her story. I feel a particular interest in being acquainted with it. You know that what is said between you and me goes no further.”

“Well!” Wemmick replied, “I don’t know her story,–that is, I don’t know all of it. But what I do know I’ll tell you. We are in our private and personal capacities, of course.”

“Of course.”

“A score or so of years ago, that woman was tried at the Old Bailey for murder, and was acquitted. She was a very handsome young woman, and I believe had some gypsy blood in her. Anyhow, it was hot enough when it was up, as you may suppose.”

“But she was acquitted.”

“Mr. Jaggers was for her,” pursued Wemmick, with a look full of meaning, “and worked the case in a way quite astonishing. It was a desperate case, and it was comparatively early days with him then, and he worked it to general admiration; in fact, it may almost be said to have made him. He worked it himself at the police-office, day after day for many days, contending against even a committal; and at the trial where he couldn’t work it himself, sat under counsel, and–every one knew–put in all the salt and pepper. The murdered person was a woman,–a woman a good ten years older, very much larger, and very much stronger. It was a case of jealousy. They both led tramping lives, and this woman in Gerrard Street here had been married very young, over the broomstick (as we say), to a tramping man, and was a perfect fury in point of jealousy. The murdered woman,–more a match for the man, certainly, in point of years–was found dead in a barn near Hounslow Heath. There had been a violent struggle, perhaps a fight. She was bruised and scratched and torn, and had been held by the throat, at last, and choked. Now, there was no reasonable evidence to implicate any person but this woman, and on the improbabilities of her having been able to do it Mr. Jaggers principally rested his case. You may be sure,” said Wemmick, touching me on the sleeve, “that he never dwelt upon the strength of her hands then, though he sometimes does now.”

I had told Wemmick of his showing us her wrists, that day of the dinner party.

“Well, sir!” Wemmick went on; “it happened–happened, don’t you see?–that this woman was so very artfully dressed from the time of her apprehension, that she looked much slighter than she really was; in particular, her sleeves are always remembered to have been so skilfully contrived that her arms had quite a delicate look. She had only a bruise or two about her,–nothing for a tramp,–but the backs of her hands were lacerated, and the question was, Was it with finger-nails? Now, Mr. Jaggers showed that she had struggled through a great lot of brambles which were not as high as her face; but which she could not have got through and kept her hands out of; and bits of those brambles were actually found in her skin and put in evidence, as well as the fact that the brambles in question were found on examination to have been broken through, and to have little shreds of her dress and little spots of blood upon them here and there. But the boldest point he made was this: it was attempted to be set up, in proof of her jealousy, that she was under strong suspicion of having, at about the time of the murder, frantically destroyed her child by this man–some three years old –to revenge herself upon him. Mr. Jaggers worked that in this way: “We say these are not marks of finger-nails, but marks of brambles, and we show you the brambles. You say they are marks of finger-nails, and you set up the hypothesis that she destroyed her child. You must accept all consequences of that hypothesis. For anything we know, she may have destroyed her child, and the child in clinging to her may have scratched her hands. What then? You are not trying her for the murder of her child; why don’t you? As to this case, if you will have scratches, we say that, for anything we know, you may have accounted for them, assuming for the sake of argument that you have not invented them?” To sum up, sir,” said Wemmick, “Mr. Jaggers was altogether too many for the jury, and they gave in.”

“Has she been in his service ever since?”

“Yes; but not only that,” said Wemmick, “she went into his service immediately after her acquittal, tamed as she is now. She has since been taught one thing and another in the way of her duties, but she was tamed from the beginning.”

“Do you remember the sex of the child?”

“Said to have been a girl.”

“You have nothing more to say to me to-night?”

“Nothing. I got your letter and destroyed it. Nothing.”

We exchanged a cordial good-night, and I went home, with new matter for my thoughts, though with no relief from the old.

Summary: Chapter 49

Miss Havisham is remorseful for the unhappiness she has caused to Pip. She regrets turning Estella into a monster and asks for Pip’s forgiveness. Pip says there’s nothing to forgive; that he would have fallen in love with Estella either way. Miss Havisham stares at the fire, only half listening to what Pip says.

Pip begins to fill in the details of the secret business arrangement that has benefited Herbert Pocket. He says that 900 pounds are needed to seal the deal and ensure his future. Miss Havisham writes a formal note for Jaggers to deliver the money to Pip. She then collapses on the floor, saying, “What have I done?” over and over again.

Pip walks around the old property, remembering his younger days. He remembers how terrible Estella made him feel as a boy. As he nears the gate, he decides to walk back up and see Miss Havisham one last time. Standing outside her room, he sees her dress catch fire. She rushes toward him. He does his best to put out the flames, burning his own hands in the process. The injuries are serious, and Miss Havisham is laid upon the table where she prophesied that she would lay when dead. She is in shock, repeating a handful of phrases and unaware of the world.

Analysis: Chapter XLIX

Putting Miss Havisham’s note in my pocket, that it might serve as my credentials for so soon reappearing at Satis House, in case her waywardness should lead her to express any surprise at seeing me, I went down again by the coach next day. But I alighted at the Halfway House, and breakfasted there, and walked the rest of the distance; for I sought to get into the town quietly by the unfrequented ways, and to leave it in the same manner.

The best light of the day was gone when I passed along the quiet echoing courts behind the High Street. The nooks of ruin where the old monks had once had their refectories and gardens, and where the strong walls were now pressed into the service of humble sheds and stables, were almost as silent as the old monks in their graves. The cathedral chimes had at once a sadder and a more remote sound to me, as I hurried on avoiding observation, than they had ever had before; so, the swell of the old organ was borne to my ears like funeral music; and the rooks, as they hovered about the gray tower and swung in the bare high trees of the priory garden, seemed to call to me that the place was changed, and that Estella was gone out of it for ever.

An elderly woman, whom I had seen before as one of the servants who lived in the supplementary house across the back courtyard, opened the gate. The lighted candle stood in the dark passage within, as of old, and I took it up and ascended the staircase alone. Miss Havisham was not in her own room, but was in the larger room across the landing. Looking in at the door, after knocking in vain, I saw her sitting on the hearth in a ragged chair, close before, and lost in the contemplation of, the ashy fire.

Doing as I had often done, I went in, and stood touching the old chimney-piece, where she could see me when she raised her eyes. There was an air or utter loneliness upon her, that would have moved me to pity though she had wilfully done me a deeper injury than I could charge her with. As I stood compassionating her, and thinking how, in the progress of time, I too had come to be a part of the wrecked fortunes of that house, her eyes rested on me. She stared, and said in a low voice, “Is it real?”

“It is I, Pip. Mr. Jaggers gave me your note yesterday, and I have lost no time.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

As I brought another of the ragged chairs to the hearth and sat down, I remarked a new expression on her face, as if she were afraid of me.

“I want,” she said, “to pursue that subject you mentioned to me when you were last here, and to show you that I am not all stone. But perhaps you can never believe, now, that there is anything human in my heart?”

When I said some reassuring words, she stretched out her tremulous right hand, as though she was going to touch me; but she recalled it again before I understood the action, or knew how to receive it.

“You said, speaking for your friend, that you could tell me how to do something useful and good. Something that you would like done, is it not?”

“Something that I would like done very much.”

“What is it?”

I began explaining to her that secret history of the partnership. I had not got far into it, when I judged from her looks that she was thinking in a discursive way of me, rather than of what I said. It seemed to be so; for, when I stopped speaking, many moments passed before she showed that she was conscious of the fact.

“Do you break off,” she asked then, with her former air of being afraid of me, “because you hate me too much to bear to speak to me?”

“No, no,” I answered, “how can you think so, Miss Havisham! I stopped because I thought you were not following what I said.”

“Perhaps I was not,” she answered, putting a hand to her head. “Begin again, and let me look at something else. Stay! Now tell me.”

She set her hand upon her stick in the resolute way that sometimes was habitual to her, and looked at the fire with a strong expression of forcing herself to attend. I went on with my explanation, and told her how I had hoped to complete the transaction out of my means, but how in this I was disappointed. That part of the subject (I reminded her) involved matters which could form no part of my explanation, for they were the weighty secrets of another.

“So!” said she, assenting with her head, but not looking at me. “And how much money is wanting to complete the purchase?”

I was rather afraid of stating it, for it sounded a large sum. “Nine hundred pounds.”

“If I give you the money for this purpose, will you keep my secret as you have kept your own?”

“Quite as faithfully.”

“And your mind will be more at rest?”

“Much more at rest.”

“Are you very unhappy now?”

She asked this question, still without looking at me, but in an unwonted tone of sympathy. I could not reply at the moment, for my voice failed me. She put her left arm across the head of her stick, and softly laid her forehead on it.

“I am far from happy, Miss Havisham; but I have other causes of disquiet than any you know of. They are the secrets I have mentioned.”

After a little while, she raised her head, and looked at the fire Again.

“It is noble in you to tell me that you have other causes of unhappiness, Is it true?”

“Too true.”

“Can I only serve you, Pip, by serving your friend? Regarding that as done, is there nothing I can do for you yourself?”

“Nothing. I thank you for the question. I thank you even more for the tone of the question. But there is nothing.”

She presently rose from her seat, and looked about the blighted room for the means of writing. There were none there, and she took from her pocket a yellow set of ivory tablets, mounted in tarnished gold, and wrote upon them with a pencil in a case of tarnished gold that hung from her neck.

“You are still on friendly terms with Mr. Jaggers?”

“Quite. I dined with him yesterday.”

“This is an authority to him to pay you that money, to lay out at your irresponsible discretion for your friend. I keep no money here; but if you would rather Mr. Jaggers knew nothing of the matter, I will send it to you.”

“Thank you, Miss Havisham; I have not the least objection to receiving it from him.”

She read me what she had written; and it was direct and clear, and evidently intended to absolve me from any suspicion of profiting by the receipt of the money. I took the tablets from her hand, and it trembled again, and it trembled more as she took off the chain to which the pencil was attached, and put it in mine. All this she did without looking at me.

“My name is on the first leaf. If you can ever write under my name, “I forgive her,” though ever so long after my broken heart is dust pray do it!”

“O Miss Havisham,” said I, “I can do it now. There have been sore mistakes; and my life has been a blind and thankless one; and I want forgiveness and direction far too much, to be bitter with you.”

She turned her face to me for the first time since she had averted it, and, to my amazement, I may even add to my terror, dropped on her knees at my feet; with her folded hands raised to me in the manner in which, when her poor heart was young and fresh and whole, they must often have been raised to heaven from her mother’s side.

To see her with her white hair and her worn face kneeling at my feet gave me a shock through all my frame. I entreated her to rise, and got my arms about her to help her up; but she only pressed that hand of mine which was nearest to her grasp, and hung her head over it and wept. I had never seen her shed a tear before, and, in the hope that the relief might do her good, I bent over her without speaking. She was not kneeling now, but was down upon the ground.

“O!” she cried, despairingly. “What have I done! What have I done!”

“If you mean, Miss Havisham, what have you done to injure me, let me answer. Very little. I should have loved her under any circumstances. Is she married?”

“Yes.”

It was a needless question, for a new desolation in the desolate house had told me so.

“What have I done! What have I done!” She wrung her hands, and crushed her white hair, and returned to this cry over and over again. “What have I done!”

I knew not how to answer, or how to comfort her. That she had done a grievous thing in taking an impressionable child to mould into the form that her wild resentment, spurned affection, and wounded pride found vengeance in, I knew full well. But that, in shutting out the light of day, she had shut out infinitely more; that, in seclusion, she had secluded herself from a thousand natural and healing influences; that, her mind, brooding solitary, had grown diseased, as all minds do and must and will that reverse the appointed order of their Maker, I knew equally well. And could I look upon her without compassion, seeing her punishment in the ruin she was, in her profound unfitness for this earth on which she was placed, in the vanity of sorrow which had become a master mania, like the vanity of penitence, the vanity of remorse, the vanity of unworthiness, and other monstrous vanities that have been curses in this world?

“Until you spoke to her the other day, and until I saw in you a looking-glass that showed me what I once felt myself, I did not know what I had done. What have I done! What have I done!” And so again, twenty, fifty times over, What had she done!

“Miss Havisham,” I said, when her cry had died away, “you may dismiss me from your mind and conscience. But Estella is a different case, and if you can ever undo any scrap of what you have done amiss in keeping a part of her right nature away from her, it will be better to do that than to bemoan the past through a hundred years.”

“Yes, yes, I know it. But, Pip–my dear!” There was an earnest womanly compassion for me in her new affection. “My dear! Believe this: when she first came to me, I meant to save her from misery like my own. At first, I meant no more.”

“Well, well!” said I. “I hope so.”

“But as she grew, and promised to be very beautiful, I gradually did worse, and with my praises, and with my jewels, and with my teachings, and with this figure of myself always before her, a warning to back and point my lessons, I stole her heart away, and put ice in its place.”

“Better,” I could not help saying, “to have left her a natural heart, even to be bruised or broken.”

With that, Miss Havisham looked distractedly at me for a while, and then burst out again, What had she done!

“If you knew all my story,” she pleaded, “you would have some compassion for me and a better understanding of me.”

“Miss Havisham,” I answered, as delicately as I could, “I believe I may say that I do know your story, and have known it ever since I first left this neighborhood. It has inspired me with great commiseration, and I hope I understand it and its influences. Does what has passed between us give me any excuse for asking you a question relative to Estella? Not as she is, but as she was when she first came here?”

She was seated on the ground, with her arms on the ragged chair, and her head leaning on them. She looked full at me when I said this, and replied, “Go on.”

“Whose child was Estella?”

She shook her head.

“You don’t know?”

She shook her head again.

“But Mr. Jaggers brought her here, or sent her here?”

“Brought her here.”

“Will you tell me how that came about?”

She answered in a low whisper and with caution: “I had been shut up in these rooms a long time (I don’t know how long; you know what time the clocks keep here), when I told him that I wanted a little girl to rear and love, and save from my fate. I had first seen him when I sent for him to lay this place waste for me; having read of him in the newspapers, before I and the world parted. He told me that he would look about him for such an orphan child. One night he brought her here asleep, and I called her Estella.”

“Might I ask her age then?”

“Two or three. She herself knows nothing, but that she was left an orphan and I adopted her.”

So convinced I was of that woman’s being her mother, that I wanted no evidence to establish the fact in my own mind. But, to any mind, I thought, the connection here was clear and straight.

What more could I hope to do by prolonging the interview? I had succeeded on behalf of Herbert, Miss Havisham had told me all she knew of Estella, I had said and done what I could to ease her mind. No matter with what other words we parted; we parted.

Twilight was closing in when I went down stairs into the natural air. I called to the woman who had opened the gate when I entered, that I would not trouble her just yet, but would walk round the place before leaving. For I had a presentiment that I should never be there again, and I felt that the dying light was suited to my last view of it.

By the wilderness of casks that I had walked on long ago, and on which the rain of years had fallen since, rotting them in many places, and leaving miniature swamps and pools of water upon those that stood on end, I made my way to the ruined garden. I went all round it; round by the corner where Herbert and I had fought our battle; round by the paths where Estella and I had walked. So cold, so lonely, so dreary all!

Taking the brewery on my way back, I raised the rusty latch of a little door at the garden end of it, and walked through. I was going out at the opposite door,–not easy to open now, for the damp wood had started and swelled, and the hinges were yielding, and the threshold was encumbered with a growth of fungus,–when I turned my head to look back. A childish association revived with wonderful force in the moment of the slight action, and I fancied that I saw Miss Havisham hanging to the beam. So strong was the impression, that I stood under the beam shuddering from head to foot before I knew it was a fancy,–though to be sure I was there in an instant.

The mournfulness of the place and time, and the great terror of this illusion, though it was but momentary, caused me to feel an indescribable awe as I came out between the open wooden gates where I had once wrung my hair after Estella had wrung my heart. Passing on into the front courtyard, I hesitated whether to call the woman to let me out at the locked gate of which she had the key, or first to go up stairs and assure myself that Miss Havisham was as safe and well as I had left her. I took the latter course and went up.

I looked into the room where I had left her, and I saw her seated in the ragged chair upon the hearth close to the fire, with her back towards me. In the moment when I was withdrawing my head to go quietly away, I saw a great flaming light spring up. In the same moment I saw her running at me, shrieking, with a whirl of fire blazing all about her, and soaring at least as many feet above her head as she was high.

I had a double-caped great-coat on, and over my arm another thick coat. That I got them off, closed with her, threw her down, and got them over her; that I dragged the great cloth from the table for the same purpose, and with it dragged down the heap of rottenness in the midst, and all the ugly things that sheltered there; that we were on the ground struggling like desperate enemies, and that the closer I covered her, the more wildly she shrieked and tried to free herself,–that this occurred I knew through the result, but not through anything I felt, or thought, or knew I did. I knew nothing until I knew that we were on the floor by the great table, and that patches of tinder yet alight were floating in the smoky air, which, a moment ago, had been her faded bridal dress.

Then, I looked round and saw the disturbed beetles and spiders running away over the floor, and the servants coming in with breathless cries at the door. I still held her forcibly down with all my strength, like a prisoner who might escape; and I doubt if I even knew who she was, or why we had struggled, or that she had been in flames, or that the flames were out, until I saw the patches of tinder that had been her garments no longer alight but falling in a black shower around us.

She was insensible, and I was afraid to have her moved, or even touched. Assistance was sent for, and I held her until it came, as if I unreasonably fancied (I think I did) that, if I let her go, the fire would break out again and consume her. When I got up, on the surgeon’s coming to her with other aid, I was astonished to see that both my hands were burnt; for, I had no knowledge of it through the sense of feeling.

On examination it was pronounced that she had received serious hurts, but that they of themselves were far from hopeless; the danger lay mainly in the nervous shock. By the surgeon’s directions, her bed was carried into that room and laid upon the great table, which happened to be well suited to the dressing of her injuries. When I saw her again, an hour afterwards, she lay, indeed, where I had seen her strike her stick, and had heard her say that she would lie one day.

Though every vestige of her dress was burnt, as they told me, she still had something of her old ghastly bridal appearance; for, they had covered her to the throat with white cotton-wool, and as she lay with a white sheet loosely overlying that, the phantom air of something that had been and was changed was still upon her.

I found, on questioning the servants, that Estella was in Paris, and I got a promise from the surgeon that he would write to her by the next post. Miss Havisham’s family I took upon myself; intending to communicate with Mr. Matthew Pocket only, and leave him to do as he liked about informing the rest. This I did next day, through Herbert, as soon as I returned to town.

There was a stage, that evening, when she spoke collectedly of what had happened, though with a certain terrible vivacity. Towards midnight she began to wander in her speech; and after that it gradually set in that she said innumerable times in a low solemn voice, “What have I done!” And then, “When she first came, I meant to save her from misery like mine.” And then, “Take the pencil and write under my name, ‘I forgive her!’” She never changed the order of these three sentences, but she sometimes left out a word in one or other of them; never putting in another word, but always leaving a blank and going on to the next word.

As I could do no service there, and as I had, nearer home, that pressing reason for anxiety and fear which even her wanderings could not drive out of my mind, I decided, in the course of the night that I would return by the early morning coach, walking on a mile or so, and being taken up clear of the town. At about six o’clock of the morning, therefore, I leaned over her and touched her lips with mine, just as they said, not stopping for being touched, “Take the pencil and write under my name, ‘I forgive her.’”

Summary: Chapter 50

Pip has his left arm immobilized in a sling and his right hand bandaged. Herbert acts as nurse, regularly changing bandages and keeping Pip’s attention off the pain and shock of the event. They both understand that Pip must recover as quickly as possible. The boat trips up and down river must continue. Any day they may have to ferry Magwitch out of the city.

Herbert says that he spoke for a couple of hours with Magwitch, and the rough old colonist is becoming much more civilized. He also learned much more of his backstory, in particular his associations with Compeyson and Molly. Pip is eager to here more. He suspects there’s some as yet hidden connection between Magwitch, Jaggers and Molly, but he’s not certain of anything yet.

Herbert explains that Magwitch and Molly had a child. When the little girl was 2 or 3 years old, Molly threatened to kill the child as punishment for Magwitch. As far as he knows, she went through with the awful act. Pip remembers that Estella came to Miss Havisham when she was only about two. Finally, all the clues come together, and he delivers the news to Herbert – Abel Magwitch is Estella’s father.

Analysis: Chapter L

My hands had been dressed twice or thrice in the night, and again in the morning. My left arm was a good deal burned to the elbow, and, less severely, as high as the shoulder; it was very painful, but the flames had set in that direction, and I felt thankful it was no worse. My right hand was not so badly burnt but that I could move the fingers. It was bandaged, of course, but much less inconveniently than my left hand and arm; those I carried in a sling; and I could only wear my coat like a cloak, loose over my shoulders and fastened at the neck. My hair had been caught by the fire, but not my head or face.

When Herbert had been down to Hammersmith and seen his father, he came back to me at our chambers, and devoted the day to attending on me. He was the kindest of nurses, and at stated times took off the bandages, and steeped them in the cooling liquid that was kept ready, and put them on again, with a patient tenderness that I was deeply grateful for.

At first, as I lay quiet on the sofa, I found it painfully difficult, I might say impossible, to get rid of the impression of the glare of the flames, their hurry and noise, and the fierce burning smell. If I dozed for a minute, I was awakened by Miss Havisham’s cries, and by her running at me with all that height of fire above her head. This pain of the mind was much harder to strive against than any bodily pain I suffered; and Herbert, seeing that, did his utmost to hold my attention engaged.

Neither of us spoke of the boat, but we both thought of it. That was made apparent by our avoidance of the subject, and by our agreeing–without agreement–to make my recovery of the use of my hands a question of so many hours, not of so many weeks.

My first question when I saw Herbert had been of course, whether all was well down the river? As he replied in the affirmative, with perfect confidence and cheerfulness, we did not resume the subject until the day was wearing away. But then, as Herbert changed the bandages, more by the light of the fire than by the outer light, he went back to it spontaneously.

“I sat with Provis last night, Handel, two good hours.”

“Where was Clara?”

“Dear little thing!” said Herbert. “She was up and down with Gruffandgrim all the evening. He was perpetually pegging at the floor the moment she left his sight. I doubt if he can hold out long, though. What with rum and pepper,–and pepper and rum,–I should think his pegging must be nearly over.”

“And then you will be married, Herbert?”

“How can I take care of the dear child otherwise?–Lay your arm out upon the back of the sofa, my dear boy, and I’ll sit down here, and get the bandage off so gradually that you shall not know when it comes. I was speaking of Provis. Do you know, Handel, he improves?”

“I said to you I thought he was softened when I last saw him.”

“So you did. And so he is. He was very communicative last night, and told me more of his life. You remember his breaking off here about some woman that he had had great trouble with.–Did I hurt you?”

I had started, but not under his touch. His words had given me a start.

“I had forgotten that, Herbert, but I remember it now you speak of it.”

“Well! He went into that part of his life, and a dark wild part it is. Shall I tell you? Or would it worry you just now?”

“Tell me by all means. Every word.”

Herbert bent forward to look at me more nearly, as if my reply had been rather more hurried or more eager than he could quite account for. “Your head is cool?” he said, touching it.

“Quite,” said I. “Tell me what Provis said, my dear Herbert.”

“It seems,” said Herbert, “–there’s a bandage off most charmingly, and now comes the cool one,–makes you shrink at first, my poor dear fellow, don’t it? but it will be comfortable presently, –it seems that the woman was a young woman, and a jealous woman, and a revengeful woman; revengeful, Handel, to the last degree.”

“To what last degree?”

“Murder.–Does it strike too cold on that sensitive place?”

“I don’t feel it. How did she murder? Whom did she murder?” “Why, the deed may not have merited quite so terrible a name,” said Herbert, “but, she was tried for it, and Mr. Jaggers defended her, and the reputation of that defence first made his name known to Provis. It was another and a stronger woman who was the victim, and there had been a struggle–in a barn. Who began it, or how fair it was, or how unfair, may be doubtful; but how it ended is certainly not doubtful, for the victim was found throttled.”

“Was the woman brought in guilty?”

“No; she was acquitted.–My poor Handel, I hurt you!”

“It is impossible to be gentler, Herbert. Yes? What else?”

“This acquitted young woman and Provis had a little child; a little child of whom Provis was exceedingly fond. On the evening of the very night when the object of her jealousy was strangled as I tell you, the young woman presented herself before Provis for one moment, and swore that she would destroy the child (which was in her possession), and he should never see it again; then she vanished.–There’s the worst arm comfortably in the sling once more, and now there remains but the right hand, which is a far easier job. I can do it better by this light than by a stronger, for my hand is steadiest when I don’t see the poor blistered patches too distinctly.–You don’t think your breathing is affected, my dear boy? You seem to breathe quickly.”

“Perhaps I do, Herbert. Did the woman keep her oath?”

“There comes the darkest part of Provis’s life. She did.”

“That is, he says she did.”

“Why, of course, my dear boy,” returned Herbert, in a tone of surprise, and again bending forward to get a nearer look at me. “He says it all. I have no other information.”

“No, to be sure.”

“Now, whether,” pursued Herbert, “he had used the child’s mother ill, or whether he had used the child’s mother well, Provis doesn’t say; but she had shared some four or five years of the wretched life he described to us at this fireside, and he seems to have felt pity for her, and forbearance towards her. Therefore, fearing he should be called upon to depose about this destroyed child, and so be the cause of her death, he hid himself (much as he grieved for the child), kept himself dark, as he says, out of the way and out of the trial, and was only vaguely talked of as a certain man called Abel, out of whom the jealousy arose. After the acquittal she disappeared, and thus he lost the child and the child’s mother.”

“I want to ask–”

“A moment, my dear boy, and I have done. That evil genius, Compeyson, the worst of scoundrels among many scoundrels, knowing of his keeping out of the way at that time and of his reasons for doing so, of course afterwards held the knowledge over his head as a means of keeping him poorer and working him harder. It was clear last night that this barbed the point of Provis’s animosity.”

“I want to know,” said I, “and particularly, Herbert, whether he told you when this happened?”

“Particularly? Let me remember, then, what he said as to that. His expression was, ‘a round score o’ year ago, and a’most directly after I took up wi’ Compeyson.’ How old were you when you came upon him in the little churchyard?”

“I think in my seventh year.”

“Ay. It had happened some three or four years then, he said, and you brought into his mind the little girl so tragically lost, who would have been about your age.”

“Herbert,” said I, after a short silence, in a hurried way, “can you see me best by the light of the window, or the light of the fire?”

“By the firelight,” answered Herbert, coming close again.

“Look at me.”

“I do look at you, my dear boy.”

“Touch me.”

“I do touch you, my dear boy.”

“You are not afraid that I am in any fever, or that my head is much disordered by the accident of last night?”

“N-no, my dear boy,” said Herbert, after taking time to examine me. “You are rather excited, but you are quite yourself.”

“I know I am quite myself. And the man we have in hiding down the river, is Estella’s Father.”

Summary: Chapter 51

The next day, Pip goes to visit Jaggers and Wemmick at the office. Jaggers authorizes the check for 900 pounds that will enrich Herbert’s business venture. Pip unfolds the story of Estella’s true parentage. Jaggers knows about the mother, but that the father is “Provis” is news to him. Pip would like for Estella to be reunited with her parents. Jaggers sees things differently.

Jaggers explains how the situation between he and Molly came about. As part of the deal in securing her acquittal, Estella was to be raised in a more suitable environment, and so avoid the life of poverty and crime. Jaggers says that he regularly sees children brought before the courts. He saw an opportunity to prevent that for Estella. When Molly was unable to suppress her violent tendencies, Jaggers brought her under his service.

The lawyer points out to Pip that revealing the parents to their child would benefit no one, at least not as he saw it. Wemmick seems to agree. Pip begs Jaggers to have some human feelings, and then asks Wemmick to remember that he has a castle and an Aged Parent at home. Wemmick is annoyed that Pip would bring his home life into the open while at the office. Jaggers is surprised, and lovingly calls Wemmick an impostor.

Analysis: Chapter LI

What purpose I had in view when I was hot on tracing out and proving Estella’s parentage, I cannot say. It will presently be seen that the question was not before me in a distinct shape until it was put before me by a wiser head than my own.

But when Herbert and I had held our momentous conversation, I was seized with a feverish conviction that I ought to hunt the matter down,–that I ought not to let it rest, but that I ought to see Mr. Jaggers, and come at the bare truth. I really do not know whether I felt that I did this for Estella’s sake, or whether I was glad to transfer to the man in whose preservation I was so much concerned some rays of the romantic interest that had so long surrounded me. Perhaps the latter possibility may be the nearer to the truth.

Any way, I could scarcely be withheld from going out to Gerrard Street that night. Herbert’s representations that, if I did, I should probably be laid up and stricken useless, when our fugitive’s safety would depend upon me, alone restrained my impatience. On the understanding, again and again reiterated, that, come what would, I was to go to Mr. Jaggers to-morrow, I at length submitted to keep quiet, and to have my hurts looked after, and to stay at home. Early next morning we went out together, and at the corner of Giltspur Street by Smithfield, I left Herbert to go his way into the City, and took my way to Little Britain.

There were periodical occasions when Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick went over the office accounts, and checked off the vouchers, and put all things straight. On these occasions, Wemmick took his books and papers into Mr. Jaggers’s room, and one of the up-stairs clerks came down into the outer office. Finding such clerk on Wemmick’s post that morning, I knew what was going on; but I was not sorry to have Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick together, as Wemmick would then hear for himself that I said nothing to compromise him.

My appearance, with my arm bandaged and my coat loose over my shoulders, favored my object. Although I had sent Mr. Jaggers a brief account of the accident as soon as I had arrived in town, yet I had to give him all the details now; and the speciality of the occasion caused our talk to be less dry and hard, and less strictly regulated by the rules of evidence, than it had been before. While I described the disaster, Mr. Jaggers stood, according to his wont, before the fire. Wemmick leaned back in his chair, staring at me, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, and his pen put horizontally into the post. The two brutal casts, always inseparable in my mind from the official proceedings, seemed to be congestively considering whether they didn’t smell fire at the present moment.

My narrative finished, and their questions exhausted, I then produced Miss Havisham’s authority to receive the nine hundred pounds for Herbert. Mr. Jaggers’s eyes retired a little deeper into his head when I handed him the tablets, but he presently handed them over to Wemmick, with instructions to draw the check for his signature. While that was in course of being done, I looked on at Wemmick as he wrote, and Mr. Jaggers, poising and swaying himself on his well-polished boots, looked on at me. “I am sorry, Pip,” said he, as I put the check in my pocket, when he had signed it, “that we do nothing for you.”

“Miss Havisham was good enough to ask me,” I returned, “whether she could do nothing for me, and I told her No.”

“Everybody should know his own business,” said Mr. Jaggers. And I saw Wemmick’s lips form the words “portable property.”

“I should not have told her No, if I had been you,” said Mr Jaggers; “but every man ought to know his own business best.”

“Every man’s business,” said Wemmick, rather reproachfully towards me, “is portable property.”

As I thought the time was now come for pursuing the theme I had at heart, I said, turning on Mr. Jaggers:–

“I did ask something of Miss Havisham, however, sir. I asked her to give me some information relative to her adopted daughter, and she gave me all she possessed.”

“Did she?” said Mr. Jaggers, bending forward to look at his boots and then straightening himself. “Hah! I don’t think I should have done so, if I had been Miss Havisham. But she ought to know her own business best.”

“I know more of the history of Miss Havisham’s adopted child than Miss Havisham herself does, sir. I know her mother.”

Mr. Jaggers looked at me inquiringly, and repeated “Mother?”

“I have seen her mother within these three days.”

“Yes?” said Mr. Jaggers.

“And so have you, sir. And you have seen her still more recently.”

“Yes?” said Mr. Jaggers.

“Perhaps I know more of Estella’s history than even you do,” said I. “I know her father too.”

A certain stop that Mr. Jaggers came to in his manner–he was too self-possessed to change his manner, but he could not help its being brought to an indefinably attentive stop–assured me that he did not know who her father was. This I had strongly suspected from Provis’s account (as Herbert had repeated it) of his having kept himself dark; which I pieced on to the fact that he himself was not Mr. Jaggers’s client until some four years later, and when he could have no reason for claiming his identity. But, I could not be sure of this unconsciousness on Mr. Jaggers’s part before, though I was quite sure of it now.

“So! You know the young lady’s father, Pip?” said Mr. Jaggers.

“Yes,” I replied, “and his name is Provis–from New South Wales.”

Even Mr. Jaggers started when I said those words. It was the slightest start that could escape a man, the most carefully repressed and the sooner checked, but he did start, though he made it a part of the action of taking out his pocket-handkerchief. How Wemmick received the announcement I am unable to say; for I was afraid to look at him just then, lest Mr. Jaggers’s sharpness should detect that there had been some communication unknown to him between us.

“And on what evidence, Pip,” asked Mr. Jaggers, very coolly, as he paused with his handkerchief half way to his nose, “does Provis make this claim?”

“He does not make it,” said I, “and has never made it, and has no knowledge or belief that his daughter is in existence.”

For once, the powerful pocket-handkerchief failed. My reply was so Unexpected, that Mr. Jaggers put the handkerchief back into his pocket without completing the usual performance, folded his arms, and looked with stern attention at me, though with an immovable face.

Then I told him all I knew, and how I knew it; with the one reservation that I left him to infer that I knew from Miss Havisham what I in fact knew from Wemmick. I was very careful indeed as to that. Nor did I look towards Wemmick until I had finished all I had to tell, and had been for some time silently meeting Mr. Jaggers’s look. When I did at last turn my eyes in Wemmick’s direction, I found that he had unposted his pen, and was intent upon the table before him.

“Hah!” said Mr. Jaggers at last, as he moved towards the papers on the table. “What item was it you were at, Wemmick, when Mr. Pip came in?”

But I could not submit to be thrown off in that way, and I made a passionate, almost an indignant appeal, to him to be more frank and manly with me. I reminded him of the false hopes into which I had lapsed, the length of time they had lasted, and the discovery I had made: and I hinted at the danger that weighed upon my spirits. I represented myself as being surely worthy of some little confidence from him, in return for the confidence I had just now imparted. I said that I did not blame him, or suspect him, or mistrust him, but I wanted assurance of the truth from him. And if he asked me why I wanted it, and why I thought I had any right to it, I would tell him, little as he cared for such poor dreams, that I had loved Estella dearly and long, and that although I had lost her, and must live a bereaved life, whatever concerned her was still nearer and dearer to me than anything else in the world. And seeing that Mr. Jaggers stood quite still and silent, and apparently quite obdurate, under this appeal, I turned to Wemmick, and said, “Wemmick, I know you to be a man with a gentle heart. I have seen your pleasant home, and your old father, and all the innocent, cheerful playful ways with which you refresh your business life. And I entreat you to say a word for me to Mr. Jaggers, and to represent to him that, all circumstances considered, he ought to be more open with me!”

I have never seen two men look more oddly at one another than Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick did after this apostrophe. At first, a misgiving crossed me that Wemmick would be instantly dismissed from his employment; but it melted as I saw Mr. Jaggers relax into something like a smile, and Wemmick become bolder.

“What’s all this?” said Mr. Jaggers. “You with an old father, and you with pleasant and playful ways?”

“Well!” returned Wemmick. “If I don’t bring ‘em here, what does it matter?”

“Pip,” said Mr. Jaggers, laying his hand upon my arm, and smiling openly, “this man must be the most cunning impostor in all London.”

“Not a bit of it,” returned Wemmick, growing bolder and bolder. “I think you’re another.”

Again they exchanged their former odd looks, each apparently still distrustful that the other was taking him in.

“You with a pleasant home?” said Mr. Jaggers.

“Since it don’t interfere with business,” returned Wemmick, “let it be so. Now, I look at you, sir, I shouldn’t wonder if you might be planning and contriving to have a pleasant home of your own one of these days, when you’re tired of all this work.”

Mr. Jaggers nodded his head retrospectively two or three times, and actually drew a sigh. “Pip,” said he, “we won’t talk about ‘poor dreams;’ you know more about such things than I, having much fresher experience of that kind. But now about this other matter. I’ll put a case to you. Mind! I admit nothing.”

He waited for me to declare that I quite understood that he expressly said that he admitted nothing.

“Now, Pip,” said Mr. Jaggers, “put this case. Put the case that a woman, under such circumstances as you have mentioned, held her child concealed, and was obliged to communicate the fact to her legal adviser, on his representing to her that he must know, with an eye to the latitude of his defence, how the fact stood about that child. Put the case that, at the same time he held a trust to find a child for an eccentric rich lady to adopt and bring up.”

“I follow you, sir.”

“Put the case that he lived in an atmosphere of evil, and that all he saw of children was their being generated in great numbers for certain destruction. Put the case that he often saw children solemnly tried at a criminal bar, where they were held up to be seen; put the case that he habitually knew of their being imprisoned, whipped, transported, neglected, cast out, qualified in all ways for the hangman, and growing up to be hanged. Put the case that pretty nigh all the children he saw in his daily business life he had reason to look upon as so much spawn, to develop into the fish that were to come to his net,–to be prosecuted, defended, forsworn, made orphans, bedevilled somehow.”

“I follow you, sir.”

“Put the case, Pip, that here was one pretty little child out of the heap who could be saved; whom the father believed dead, and dared make no stir about; as to whom, over the mother, the legal adviser had this power: “I know what you did, and how you did it. You came so and so, you did such and such things to divert suspicion. I have tracked you through it all, andI tell it you all. Part with the child, unless it should benecessary to produce it to clear you, and then it shall be produced. Give the child into my hands, and I will do my best to bring you off. If you are saved, your child is saved too; if you are lost, your child is still saved.” Put the case that this was done, and that the woman was cleared.”

“I understand you perfectly.”

“But that I make no admissions?”

“That you make no admissions.” And Wemmick repeated, “No admissions.”

“Put the case, Pip, that passion and the terror of death had a little shaken the woman’s intellects, and that when she was set at liberty, she was scared out of the ways of the world, and went to him to be sheltered. Put the case that he took her in, and that he kept down the old, wild, violent nature whenever he saw an inkling of its breaking out, by asserting his power over her in the old way. Do you comprehend the imaginary case?”

“Quite.”

“Put the case that the child grew up, and was married for money. That the mother was still living. That the father was still living. That the mother and father, unknown to one another, were dwelling within so many miles, furlongs, yards if you like, of one another. That the secret was still a secret, except that you had got wind of it. Put that last case to yourself very carefully.”

“I do.”

“I ask Wemmick to put it to himself very carefully.”

And Wemmick said, “I do.”

“For whose sake would you reveal the secret? For the father’s? I think he would not be much the better for the mother. For the mother’s? I think if she had done such a deed she would be safer where she was. For the daughter’s? I think it would hardly serve her to establish her parentage for the information of her husband, and to drag her back to disgrace, after an escape of twenty years, pretty secure to last for life. But add the case that you had loved her, Pip, and had made her the subject of those ‘poor dreams’ which have, at one time or another, been in the heads of more men than you think likely, then I tell you that you had better–and would much sooner when you had thought well of it–chop off that bandaged left hand of yours with your bandaged right hand, and then pass the chopper on to Wemmick there, to cut that off too.”

I looked at Wemmick, whose face was very grave. He gravely touched his lips with his forefinger. I did the same. Mr. Jaggers did the same. “Now, Wemmick,” said the latter then, resuming his usual manner, “what item was it you were at when Mr. Pip came in?”

Standing by for a little, while they were at work, I observed that the odd looks they had cast at one another were repeated several times: with this difference now, that each of them seemed suspicious, not to say conscious, of having shown himself in a weak and unprofessional light to the other. For this reason, I suppose, they were now inflexible with one another; Mr. Jaggers being highly dictatorial, and Wemmick obstinately justifying himself whenever there was the smallest point in abeyance for a moment. I had never seen them on such ill terms; for generally they got on very well indeed together.

But they were both happily relieved by the opportune appearance of Mike, the client with the fur cap and the habit of wiping his nose on his sleeve, whom I had seen on the very first day of my appearance within those walls. This individual, who, either in his own person or in that of some member of his family, seemed to be always in trouble (which in that place meant Newgate), called to announce that his eldest daughter was taken up on suspicion of shoplifting. As he imparted this melancholy circumstance to Wemmick, Mr. Jaggers standing magisterially before the fire and taking no share in the proceedings, Mike’s eye happened to twinkle with a tear.

“What are you about?” demanded Wemmick, with the utmost indignation. “What do you come snivelling here for?”

“I didn’t go to do it, Mr. Wemmick.”

“You did,” said Wemmick. “How dare you? You’re not in a fit state to come here, if you can’t come here without spluttering like a bad pen. What do you mean by it?”

“A man can’t help his feelings, Mr. Wemmick,” pleaded Mike.

“His what?” demanded Wemmick, quite savagely. “Say that again!”

“Now look here my man,” said Mr. Jaggers, advancing a step, and pointing to the door. “Get out of this office. I’ll have no feelings here. Get out.”

“It serves you right,” said Wemmick, “Get out.”

So, the unfortunate Mike very humbly withdrew, and Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick appeared to have re-established their good understanding, and went to work again with an air of refreshment upon them as if they had just had lunch.

Summary: Chapter 52

Pip receives word from Wemmick that they should carry out their plans of escape early in the week, or Wednesday at the latest. Pip’s injuries have been slow to heal. He’s not capable of rowing, only steering. He and Herbert consider what they might do; they decide that Startop is both a good boatman and trustworthy. They agree to tell him as little as possible. The escape is planned for Wednesday morning.

Before Wednesday arrives, Pip receives another note in his door. This time, the note is anonymous. The sender requests that he come to the marshes at 9 p.m. to learn something important pertaining to his “Uncle Provis.” Without giving it too much thought, he sets out for the marsh country. Later, in the coach, he questions the wisdom of following the guidance of an anonymous note.

Pip avoids the Blue Boar and stays at a smaller inn. The landlord tells Pip’s story, without knowing that he’s talking to Pip himself. He says that Mr. Pumblechook is the founder of the boy’s fortunes, and that Pip is certainly an ungrateful gentleman. Pip loses his appetite. When the time comes, he strikes out for the limekiln near the marshes.

Analysis: Chapter LII

From Little Britain I went, with my check in my pocket, to Miss Skiffins’s brother, the accountant; and Miss Skiffins’s brother, the accountant, going straight to Clarriker’s and bringing Clarriker to me, I had the great satisfaction of concluding that arrangement. It was the only good thing I had done, and the only completed thing I had done, since I was first apprised of my great expectations.

Clarriker informing me on that occasion that the affairs of the House were steadily progressing, that he would now be able to establish a small branch-house in the East which was much wanted for the extension of the business, and that Herbert in his new partnership capacity would go out and take charge of it, I found that I must have prepared for a separation from my friend, even though my own affairs had been more settled. And now, indeed, I felt as if my last anchor were loosening its hold, and I should soon be driving with the winds and waves.

But there was recompense in the joy with which Herbert would come home of a night and tell me of these changes, little imagining that he told me no news, and would sketch airy pictures of himself conducting Clara Barley to the land of the Arabian Nights, and of me going out to join them (with a caravan of camels, I believe), and of our all going up the Nile and seeing wonders. Without being sanguine as to my own part in those bright plans, I felt that Herbert’s way was clearing fast, and that old Bill Barley had but to stick to his pepper and rum, and his daughter would soon be happily provided for.

We had now got into the month of March. My left arm, though it presented no bad symptoms, took, in the natural course, so long to heal that I was still unable to get a coat on. My right arm was tolerably restored; disfigured, but fairly serviceable.

On a Monday morning, when Herbert and I were at breakfast, I received the following letter from Wemmick by the post.

“Walworth. Burn this as soon as read. Early in the week, or say Wednesday, you might do what you know of, if you felt disposed to try it. Now burn.”

When I had shown this to Herbert and had put it in the fire–but not before we had both got it by heart–we considered what to do. For, of course my being disabled could now be no longer kept out of view.

“I have thought it over again and again,” said Herbert, “and I think I know a better course than taking a Thames waterman. Take Startop. A good fellow, a skilled hand, fond of us, and enthusiastic and honorable.”

I had thought of him more than once.

“But how much would you tell him, Herbert?”

“It is necessary to tell him very little. Let him suppose it a mere freak, but a secret one, until the morning comes: then let him know that there is urgent reason for your getting Provis aboard and away. You go with him?”

“No doubt.”

“Where?”

It had seemed to me, in the many anxious considerations I had given the point, almost indifferent what port we made for,–Hamburg, Rotterdam, Antwerp,–the place signified little, so that he was out of England. Any foreign steamer that fell in our way and would take us up would do. I had always proposed to myself to get him well down the river in the boat; certainly well beyond Gravesend, which was a critical place for search or inquiry if suspicion were afoot. As foreign steamers would leave London at about the time of high-water, our plan would be to get down the river by a previous ebb-tide, and lie by in some quiet spot until we could pull off to one. The time when one would be due where we lay, wherever that might be, could be calculated pretty nearly, if we made inquiries beforehand.

Herbert assented to all this, and we went out immediately after breakfast to pursue our investigations. We found that a steamer for Hamburg was likely to suit our purpose best, and we directed our thoughts chiefly to that vessel. But we noted down what other foreign steamers would leave London with the same tide, and we satisfied ourselves that we knew the build and color of each. We then separated for a few hours: I, to get at once such passports as were necessary; Herbert, to see Startop at his lodgings. We both did what we had to do without any hindrance, and when we met again at one o’clock reported it done. I, for my part, was prepared with passports; Herbert had seen Startop, and he was more than ready to join.

Those two should pull a pair of oars, we settled, and I would steer; our charge would be sitter, and keep quiet; as speed was not our object, we should make way enough. We arranged that Herbert should not come home to dinner before going to Mill Pond Bank that evening; that he should not go there at all to-morrow evening, Tuesday; that he should prepare Provis to come down to some stairs hard by the house, on Wednesday, when he saw us approach, and not sooner; that all the arrangements with him should be concluded that Monday night; and that he should be communicated with no more in any way, until we took him on board.

These precautions well understood by both of us, I went home.

On opening the outer door of our chambers with my key, I found a letter in the box, directed to me; a very dirty letter, though not ill-written. It had been delivered by hand (of course, since I left home), and its contents were these:–

“If you are not afraid to come to the old marshes to-night or tomorrow night at nine, and to come to the little sluice-house by the limekiln, you had better come. If you want information regarding your uncle Provis, you had much better come and tell no one, and lose no time. You must come alone. Bring this with you.”

I had had load enough upon my mind before the receipt of this strange letter. What to do now, I could not tell. And the worst was, that I must decide quickly, or I should miss the afternoon coach, which would take me down in time for to-night. To-morrow night I could not think of going, for it would be too close upon the time of the flight. And again, for anything I knew, the proffered information might have some important bearing on the flight itself.

If I had had ample time for consideration, I believe I should still have gone. Having hardly any time for consideration,–my watch showing me that the coach started within half an hour,–I resolved to go. I should certainly not have gone, but for the reference to my Uncle Provis. That, coming on Wemmick’s letter and the morning’s busy preparation, turned the scale.

It is so difficult to become clearly possessed of the contents of almost any letter, in a violent hurry, that I had to read this mysterious epistle again twice, before its injunction to me to be secret got mechanically into my mind. Yielding to it in the same mechanical kind of way, I left a note in pencil for Herbert, telling him that as I should be so soon going away, I knew not for how long, I had decided to hurry down and back, to ascertain for myself how Miss Havisham was faring. I had then barely time to get my great-coat, lock up the chambers, and make for the coach-office by the short by-ways. If I had taken a hackney-chariot and gone by the streets, I should have missed my aim; going as I did, I caught the coach just as it came out of the yard. I was the only inside passenger, jolting away knee-deep in straw, when I came to myself.

For I really had not been myself since the receipt of the letter; it had so bewildered me, ensuing on the hurry of the morning. The morning hurry and flutter had been great; for, long and anxiously as I had waited for Wemmick, his hint had come like a surprise at last. And now I began to wonder at myself for being in the coach, and to doubt whether I had sufficient reason for being there, and to consider whether I should get out presently and go back, and to argue against ever heeding an anonymous communication, and, in short, to pass through all those phases of contradiction and indecision to which I suppose very few hurried people are strangers. Still, the reference to Provis by name mastered everything. I reasoned as I had reasoned already without knowing it, –if that be reasoning,–in case any harm should befall him through my not going, how could I ever forgive myself!

It was dark before we got down, and the journey seemed long and dreary to me, who could see little of it inside, and who could not go outside in my disabled state. Avoiding the Blue Boar, I put up at an inn of minor reputation down the town, and ordered some dinner. While it was preparing, I went to Satis House and inquired for Miss Havisham; she was still very ill, though considered something better.

My inn had once been a part of an ancient ecclesiastical house, and I dined in a little octagonal common-room, like a font. As I was not able to cut my dinner, the old landlord with a shining bald head did it for me. This bringing us into conversation, he was so good as to entertain me with my own story,–of course with the popular feature that Pumblechook was my earliest benefactor and the founder of my fortunes.

“Do you know the young man?” said I.

“Know him!” repeated the landlord. “Ever since he was–no height at all.”

“Does he ever come back to this neighborhood?”

“Ay, he comes back,” said the landlord, “to his great friends, now and again, and gives the cold shoulder to the man that made him.”

“What man is that?”

“Him that I speak of,” said the landlord. “Mr. Pumblechook.”

“Is he ungrateful to no one else?”

“No doubt he would be, if he could,” returned the landlord, “but he can’t. And why? Because Pumblechook done everything for him.”

“Does Pumblechook say so?”

“Say so!” replied the landlord. “He han’t no call to say so.”

“But does he say so?”

“It would turn a man’s blood to white wine winegar to hear him tell of it, sir,” said the landlord.

I thought, “Yet Joe, dear Joe, you never tell of it. Long-suffering and loving Joe, you never complain. Nor you, sweet-tempered Biddy!”

“Your appetite’s been touched like by your accident,” said the landlord, glancing at the bandaged arm under my coat. “Try a tenderer bit.”

“No, thank you,” I replied, turning from the table to brood over the fire. “I can eat no more. Please take it away.”

I had never been struck at so keenly, for my thanklessness to Joe, as through the brazen impostor Pumblechook. The falser he, the truer Joe; the meaner he, the nobler Joe.

My heart was deeply and most deservedly humbled as I mused over the fire for an hour or more. The striking of the clock aroused me, but not from my dejection or remorse, and I got up and had my coat fastened round my neck, and went out. I had previously sought in my pockets for the letter, that I might refer to it again; but I could not find it, and was uneasy to think that it must have been dropped in the straw of the coach. I knew very well, however, that the appointed place was the little sluice-house by the limekiln on the marshes, and the hour nine. Towards the marshes I now went straight, having no time to spare.

Summary: Chapter 53

Pip finds an empty, weather-beaten shack near the limekiln. Inside, a candle burns. He knocks and waits for an answer. He steps in and examines the surroundings, but no one seems to be there. As he looks at the candles, someone slips a noose on him from behind and ties his arms back, causing extreme pain. Everything has gone dark. Pip has fallen into a trap.

When his captor strikes a flint, he sees that it’s Orlick. The mean-spirited former workman reveals that he’s long held a grudge against Pip. He blames Pip for Biddy’s rejection. He knows that Pip got him dismissed from the post at Miss Havisham’s. He also thinks Pip’s sister targeted him for special abuse, which is why he knocked her out cold in the kitchen.

Orlick goes on to explain that he was watching his movements in London. That’s how he came to know about “Uncle Provis.” He also began working for Compeyson and therefore learned the real identity of Provis. Orlick says he will kill Pip on the spot. Pip’s life flashes before his eyes.

Pip yells out one last time, and a group of people burst into the room. Orlick escapes. Pip sees that Herbert, Startop and Trabb’s boy have come to his rescue. Herbert was suspicious of the visit from the very beginning and decided to follow from London.

Wednesday, the day of escape, approaches, and Pip tries to recover from the pain of his re-injured arm.

Analysis: Chapter LIII

It was a dark night, though the full moon rose as I left the enclosed lands, and passed out upon the marshes. Beyond their dark line there was a ribbon of clear sky, hardly broad enough to hold the red large moon. In a few minutes she had ascended out of that clear field, in among the piled mountains of cloud.

There was a melancholy wind, and the marshes were very dismal. A stranger would have found them insupportable, and even to me they were so oppressive that I hesitated, half inclined to go back. But I knew them well, and could have found my way on a far darker night, and had no excuse for returning, being there. So, having come there against my inclination, I went on against it.

The direction that I took was not that in which my old home lay, nor that in which we had pursued the convicts. My back was turned towards the distant Hulks as I walked on, and, though I could see the old lights away on the spits of sand, I saw them over my shoulder. I knew the limekiln as well as I knew the old Battery, but they were miles apart; so that, if a light had been burning at each point that night, there would have been a long strip of the blank horizon between the two bright specks.

At first, I had to shut some gates after me, and now and then to stand still while the cattle that were lying in the banked-up pathway arose and blundered down among the grass and reeds. But after a little while I seemed to have the whole flats to myself.

It was another half-hour before I drew near to the kiln. The lime was burning with a sluggish stifling smell, but the fires were made up and left, and no workmen were visible. Hard by was a small stone-quarry. It lay directly in my way, and had been worked that day, as I saw by the tools and barrows that were lying about.

Coming up again to the marsh level out of this excavation,–for the rude path lay through it,–I saw a light in the old sluice-house. I quickened my pace, and knocked at the door with my hand. Waiting for some reply, I looked about me, noticing how the sluice was abandoned and broken, and how the house–of wood with a tiled roof –would not be proof against the weather much longer, if it were so even now, and how the mud and ooze were coated with lime, and how the choking vapor of the kiln crept in a ghostly way towards me. Still there was no answer, and I knocked again. No answer still, and I tried the latch.

It rose under my hand, and the door yielded. Looking in, I saw a lighted candle on a table, a bench, and a mattress on a truckle bedstead. As there was a loft above, I called, “Is there any one here?” but no voice answered. Then I looked at my watch, and, finding that it was past nine, called again, “Is there any one here?” There being still no answer, I went out at the door, irresolute what to do.

It was beginning to rain fast. Seeing nothing save what I had seen already, I turned back into the house, and stood just within the shelter of the doorway, looking out into the night. While I was considering that some one must have been there lately and must soon be coming back, or the candle would not be burning, it came into my head to look if the wick were long. I turned round to do so, and had taken up the candle in my hand, when it was extinguished by some violent shock; and the next thing I comprehended was, that I had been caught in a strong running noose, thrown over my head from behind.

“Now,” said a suppressed voice with an oath, “I’ve got you!”

“What is this?” I cried, struggling. “Who is it? Help, help, help!”

Not only were my arms pulled close to my sides, but the pressure on my bad arm caused me exquisite pain. Sometimes, a strong man’s hand, sometimes a strong man’s breast, was set against my mouth to deaden my cries, and with a hot breath always close to me, I struggled ineffectually in the dark, while I was fastened tight to the wall. “And now,” said the suppressed voice with another oath, “call out again, and I’ll make short work of you!”

Faint and sick with the pain of my injured arm, bewildered by the surprise, and yet conscious how easily this threat could be put in execution, I desisted, and tried to ease my arm were it ever so little. But, it was bound too tight for that. I felt as if, having been burnt before, it were now being boiled.

The sudden exclusion of the night, and the substitution of black darkness in its place, warned me that the man had closed a shutter. After groping about for a little, he found the flint and steel he wanted, and began to strike a light. I strained my sight upon the sparks that fell among the tinder, and upon which he breathed and breathed, match in hand, but I could only see his lips, and the blue point of the match; even those but fitfully. The tinder was damp,–no wonder there,–and one after another the sparks died out.

The man was in no hurry, and struck again with the flint and steel. As the sparks fell thick and bright about him, I could see his hands, and touches of his face, and could make out that he was seated and bending over the table; but nothing more. Presently I saw his blue lips again, breathing on the tinder, and then a flare of light flashed up, and showed me Orlick.

Whom I had looked for, I don’t know. I had not looked for him. Seeing him, I felt that I was in a dangerous strait indeed, and I kept my eyes upon him.

He lighted the candle from the flaring match with great deliberation, and dropped the match, and trod it out. Then he put the candle away from him on the table, so that he could see me, and sat with his arms folded on the table and looked at me. I made out that I was fastened to a stout perpendicular ladder a few inches from the wall,–a fixture there,–the means of ascent to the loft above.

“Now,” said he, when we had surveyed one another for some time, “I’ve got you.”

“Unbind me. Let me go!”

“Ah!” he returned, “I’ll let you go. I’ll let you go to the moon, I’ll let you go to the stars. All in good time.”

“Why have you lured me here?”

“Don’t you know?” said he, with a deadly look.

“Why have you set upon me in the dark?”

“Because I mean to do it all myself. One keeps a secret better than two. O you enemy, you enemy!”

His enjoyment of the spectacle I furnished, as he sat with his arms folded on the table, shaking his head at me and hugging himself, had a malignity in it that made me tremble. As I watched him in silence, he put his hand into the corner at his side, and took up a gun with a brass-bound stock.

“Do you know this?” said he, making as if he would take aim at me. “Do you know where you saw it afore? Speak, wolf!”

“Yes,” I answered.

“You cost me that place. You did. Speak!”

“What else could I do?”

“You did that, and that would be enough, without more. How dared you to come betwixt me and a young woman I liked?”

“When did I?”

“When didn’t you? It was you as always give Old Orlick a bad name to her.”

“You gave it to yourself; you gained it for yourself. I could have done you no harm, if you had done yourself none.”

“You’re a liar. And you’ll take any pains, and spend any money, to drive me out of this country, will you?” said he, repeating my words to Biddy in the last interview I had with her. “Now, I’ll tell you a piece of information. It was never so well worth your while to get me out of this country as it is to-night. Ah! If it was all your money twenty times told, to the last brass farden!” As he shook his heavy hand at me, with his mouth snarling like a tiger’s, I felt that it was true.

“What are you going to do to me?”

“I’m a going,” said he, bringing his fist down upon the table with a heavy blow, and rising as the blow fell to give it greater force,– “I’m a going to have your life!”

He leaned forward staring at me, slowly unclenched his hand and drew it across his mouth as if his mouth watered for me, and sat down again.

“You was always in Old Orlick’s way since ever you was a child. You goes out of his way this present night. He’ll have no more on you. You’re dead.”

I felt that I had come to the brink of my grave. For a moment I looked wildly round my trap for any chance of escape; but there was none.

“More than that,” said he, folding his arms on the table again, “I won’t have a rag of you, I won’t have a bone of you, left on earth. I’ll put your body in the kiln,–I’d carry two such to it, on my Shoulders,–and, let people suppose what they may of you, they shall never know nothing.”

My mind, with inconceivable rapidity followed out all the consequences of such a death. Estella’s father would believe I had deserted him, would be taken, would die accusing me; even Herbert would doubt me, when he compared the letter I had left for him with the fact that I had called at Miss Havisham’s gate for only a moment; Joe and Biddy would never know how sorry I had been that night, none would ever know what I had suffered, how true I had meant to be, what an agony I had passed through. The death close before me was terrible, but far more terrible than death was the dread of being misremembered after death. And so quick were my thoughts, that I saw myself despised by unborn generations,– Estella’s children, and their children,–while the wretch’s words were yet on his lips.

“Now, wolf,” said he, “afore I kill you like any other beast,– which is wot I mean to do and wot I have tied you up for,–I’ll have a good look at you and a good goad at you. O you enemy!”

It had passed through my thoughts to cry out for help again; though few could know better than I, the solitary nature of the spot, and the hopelessness of aid. But as he sat gloating over me, I was supported by a scornful detestation of him that sealed my lips. Above all things, I resolved that I would not entreat him, and that I would die making some last poor resistance to him. Softened as my thoughts of all the rest of men were in that dire extremity; humbly beseeching pardon, as I did, of Heaven; melted at heart, as I was, by the thought that I had taken no farewell, and never now could take farewell of those who were dear to me, or could explain myself to them, or ask for their compassion on my miserable errors,– still, if I could have killed him, even in dying, I would have done it.

He had been drinking, and his eyes were red and bloodshot. Around his neck was slung a tin bottle, as I had often seen his meat and drink slung about him in other days. He brought the bottle to his lips, and took a fiery drink from it; and I smelt the strong spirits that I saw flash into his face.

“Wolf!” said he, folding his arms again, “Old Orlick’s a going to tell you somethink. It was you as did for your shrew sister.”

Again my mind, with its former inconceivable rapidity, had exhausted the whole subject of the attack upon my sister, her illness, and her death, before his slow and hesitating speech had formed these words.

“It was you, villain,” said I.

“I tell you it was your doing,–I tell you it was done through you,” he retorted, catching up the gun, and making a blow with the stock at the vacant air between us. “I come upon her from behind, as I come upon you to-night. I giv’ it her! I left her for dead, and if there had been a limekiln as nigh her as there is now nigh you, she shouldn’t have come to life again. But it warn’t Old Orlick as did it; it was you. You was favored, and he was bullied and beat. Old Orlick bullied and beat, eh? Now you pays for it. You done it; now you pays for it.”

He drank again, and became more ferocious. I saw by his tilting of the bottle that there was no great quantity left in it. I distinctly understood that he was working himself up with its contents to make an end of me. I knew that every drop it held was a drop of my life. I knew that when I was changed into a part of the vapor that had crept towards me but a little while before, like my own warning ghost, he would do as he had done in my sister’s case,–make all haste to the town, and be seen slouching about there drinking at the alehouses. My rapid mind pursued him to the town, made a picture of the street with him in it, and contrasted its lights and life with the lonely marsh and the white vapor creeping over it, into which I should have dissolved.

It was not only that I could have summed up years and years and years while he said a dozen words, but that what he did say presented pictures to me, and not mere words. In the excited and exalted state of my brain, I could not think of a place without seeing it, or of persons without seeing them. It is impossible to overstate the vividness of these images, and yet I was so intent, all the time, upon him himself,–who would not be intent on the tiger crouching to spring!–that I knew of the slightest action of his fingers.

When he had drunk this second time, he rose from the bench on which he sat, and pushed the table aside. Then, he took up the candle, and, shading it with his murderous hand so as to throw its light on me, stood before me, looking at me and enjoying the sight.

“Wolf, I’ll tell you something more. It was Old Orlick as you tumbled over on your stairs that night.”

I saw the staircase with its extinguished lamps. I saw the shadows of the heavy stair-rails, thrown by the watchman’s lantern on the wall. I saw the rooms that I was never to see again; here, a door half open; there, a door closed; all the articles of furniture around.

“And why was Old Orlick there? I’ll tell you something more, wolf. You and her have pretty well hunted me out of this country, so far as getting a easy living in it goes, and I’ve took up with new companions, and new masters. Some of ‘em writes my letters when I wants ‘em wrote,–do you mind?–writes my letters, wolf! They writes fifty hands; they’re not like sneaking you, as writes but one. I’ve had a firm mind and a firm will to have your life, since you was down here at your sister’s burying. I han’t seen a way to get you safe, and I’ve looked arter you to know your ins and outs. For, says Old Orlick to himself, ‘Somehow or another I’ll have him!’ What! When I looks for you, I finds your uncle Provis, eh?”

Mill Pond Bank, and Chinks’s Basin, and the Old Green Copper Ropewalk, all so clear and plain! Provis in his rooms, the signal whose use was over, pretty Clara, the good motherly woman, old Bill Barley on his back, all drifting by, as on the swift stream of my life fast running out to sea!

“You with a uncle too! Why, I know’d you at Gargery’s when you was so small a wolf that I could have took your weazen betwixt this finger and thumb and chucked you away dead (as I’d thoughts o’ doing, odd times, when I see you loitering amongst the pollards on a Sunday), and you hadn’t found no uncles then. No, not you! But when Old Orlick come for to hear that your uncle Provis had most like wore the leg-iron wot Old Orlick had picked up, filed asunder, on these meshes ever so many year ago, and wot he kep by him till he dropped your sister with it, like a bullock, as he means to drop you–hey?–when he come for to hear that–hey?”

In his savage taunting, he flared the candle so close at me that I turned my face aside to save it from the flame.

“Ah!” he cried, laughing, after doing it again, “the burnt child dreads the fire! Old Orlick knowed you was burnt, Old Orlick knowed you was smuggling your uncle Provis away, Old Orlick’s a match for you and know’d you’d come to-night! Now I’ll tell you something more, wolf, and this ends it. There’s them that’s as good a match for your uncle Provis as Old Orlick has been for you. Let him ‘ware them, when he’s lost his nevvy! Let him ‘ware them, when no man can’t find a rag of his dear relation’s clothes, nor yet a bone of his body. There’s them that can’t and that won’t have Magwitch,– yes, I know the name!–alive in the same land with them, and that’s had such sure information of him when he was alive in another land, as that he couldn’t and shouldn’t leave it unbeknown and put them in danger. P’raps it’s them that writes fifty hands, and that’s not like sneaking you as writes but one. ‘Ware Compeyson, Magwitch, and the gallows!”

He flared the candle at me again, smoking my face and hair, and for an instant blinding me, and turned his powerful back as he replaced the light on the table. I had thought a prayer, and had been with Joe and Biddy and Herbert, before he turned towards me again.

There was a clear space of a few feet between the table and the opposite wall. Within this space, he now slouched backwards and forwards. His great strength seemed to sit stronger upon him than ever before, as he did this with his hands hanging loose and heavy at his sides, and with his eyes scowling at me. I had no grain of hope left. Wild as my inward hurry was, and wonderful the force of the pictures that rushed by me instead of thoughts, I could yet clearly understand that, unless he had resolved that I was within a few moments of surely perishing out of all human knowledge, he would never have told me what he had told.

Of a sudden, he stopped, took the cork out of his bottle, and tossed it away. Light as it was, I heard it fall like a plummet. He swallowed slowly, tilting up the bottle by little and little, and now he looked at me no more. The last few drops of liquor he poured into the palm of his hand, and licked up. Then, with a sudden hurry of violence and swearing horribly, he threw the bottle from him, and stooped; and I saw in his hand a stone-hammer with a long heavy handle.

The resolution I had made did not desert me, for, without uttering one vain word of appeal to him, I shouted out with all my might, and struggled with all my might. It was only my head and my legs that I could move, but to that extent I struggled with all the force, until then unknown, that was within me. In the same instant I heard responsive shouts, saw figures and a gleam of light dash in at the door, heard voices and tumult, and saw Orlick emerge from a struggle of men, as if it were tumbling water, clear the table at a leap, and fly out into the night.

After a blank, I found that I was lying unbound, on the floor, in the same place, with my head on some one’s knee. My eyes were fixed on the ladder against the wall, when I came to myself,–had opened on it before my mind saw it,–and thus as I recovered consciousness, I knew that I was in the place where I had lost it.

Too indifferent at first, even to look round and ascertain who supported me, I was lying looking at the ladder, when there came between me and it a face. The face of Trabb’s boy!

“I think he’s all right!” said Trabb’s boy, in a sober voice; “but ain’t he just pale though!”

At these words, the face of him who supported me looked over into mine, and I saw my supporter to be–

“Herbert! Great Heaven!”

“Softly,” said Herbert. “Gently, Handel. Don’t be too eager.”

“And our old comrade, Startop!” I cried, as he too bent over me.

“Remember what he is going to assist us in,” said Herbert, “and be calm.”

The allusion made me spring up; though I dropped again from the pain in my arm. “The time has not gone by, Herbert, has it? What night is to-night? How long have I been here?” For, I had a strange and strong misgiving that I had been lying there a long time – a day and a night,–two days and nights,–more.

“The time has not gone by. It is still Monday night.”

“Thank God!”

“And you have all to-morrow, Tuesday, to rest in,” said Herbert. “But you can’t help groaning, my dear Handel. What hurt have you got? Can you stand?”

“Yes, yes,” said I, “I can walk. I have no hurt but in this throbbing arm.”

They laid it bare, and did what they could. It was violently swollen and inflamed, and I could scarcely endure to have it touched. But, they tore up their handkerchiefs to make fresh bandages, and carefully replaced it in the sling, until we could get to the town and obtain some cooling lotion to put upon it. In a little while we had shut the door of the dark and empty sluice-house, and were passing through the quarry on our way back. Trabb’s boy–Trabb’s overgrown young man now–went before us with a lantern, which was the light I had seen come in at the door. But, the moon was a good two hours higher than when I had last seen the sky, and the night, though rainy, was much lighter. The white vapor of the kiln was passing from us as we went by, and as I had thought a prayer before, I thought a thanksgiving now.

Entreating Herbert to tell me how he had come to my rescue,–which at first he had flatly refused to do, but had insisted on my remaining quiet,–I learnt that I had in my hurry dropped the letter, open, in our chambers, where he, coming home to bring with him Startop whom he had met in the street on his way to me, found it, very soon after I was gone. Its tone made him uneasy, and the more so because of the inconsistency between it and the hasty letter I had left for him. His uneasiness increasing instead of subsiding, after a quarter of an hour’s consideration, he set off for the coach-office with Startop, who volunteered his company, to make inquiry when the next coach went down. Finding that the afternoon coach was gone, and finding that his uneasiness grew into positive alarm, as obstacles came in his way, he resolved to follow in a post-chaise. So he and Startop arrived at the Blue Boar, fully expecting there to find me, or tidings of me; but, finding neither, went on to Miss Havisham’s, where they lost me. Hereupon they went back to the hotel (doubtless at about the time when I was hearing the popular local version of my own story) to refresh themselves and to get some one to guide them out upon the marshes. Among the loungers under the Boar’s archway happened to be Trabb’s Boy,–true to his ancient habit of happening to be everywhere where he had no business,–and Trabb’s boy had seen me passing from Miss Havisham’s in the direction of my dining-place. Thus Trabb’s boy became their guide, and with him they went out to the sluice-house, though by the town way to the marshes, which I had avoided. Now, as they went along, Herbert reflected, that I might, after all, have been brought there on some genuine and serviceable errand tending to Provis’s safety, and, bethinking himself that in that case interruption must be mischievous, left his guide and Startop on the edge of the quarry, and went on by himself, and stole round the house two or three times, endeavouring to ascertain whether all was right within. As he could hear nothing but indistinct sounds of one deep rough voice (this was while my mind was so busy), he even at last began to doubt whether I was there, when suddenly I cried out loudly, and he answered the cries, and rushed in, closely followed by the other two.

When I told Herbert what had passed within the house, he was for our immediately going before a magistrate in the town, late at night as it was, and getting out a warrant. But, I had already considered that such a course, by detaining us there, or binding us to come back, might be fatal to Provis. There was no gainsaying this difficulty, and we relinquished all thoughts of pursuing Orlick at that time. For the present, under the circumstances, we deemed it prudent to make rather light of the matter to Trabb’s boy; who, I am convinced, would have been much affected by disappointment, if he had known that his intervention saved me from the limekiln. Not that Trabb’s boy was of a malignant nature, but that he had too much spare vivacity, and that it was in his constitution to want variety and excitement at anybody’s expense. When we parted, I presented him with two guineas (which seemed to meet his views), and told him that I was sorry ever to have had an ill opinion of him (which made no impression on him at all).

Wednesday being so close upon us, we determined to go back to London that night, three in the post-chaise; the rather, as we should then be clear away before the night’s adventure began to be talked of. Herbert got a large bottle of stuff for my arm; and by dint of having this stuff dropped over it all the night through, I was just able to bear its pain on the journey. It was daylight when we reached the Temple, and I went at once to bed, and lay in bed all day.

My terror, as I lay there, of falling ill, and being unfitted for tomorrow, was so besetting, that I wonder it did not disable me of itself. It would have done so, pretty surely, in conjunction with the mental wear and tear I had suffered, but for the unnatural strain upon me that to-morrow was. So anxiously looked forward to, charged with such consequences, its results so impenetrably hidden, though so near.

No precaution could have been more obvious than our refraining from communication with him that day; yet this again increased my restlessness. I started at every footstep and every sound, believing that he was discovered and taken, and this was the messenger to tell me so. I persuaded myself that I knew he was taken; that there was something more upon my mind than a fear or a presentiment; that the fact had occurred, and I had a mysterious knowledge of it. As the days wore on, and no ill news came, as the day closed in and darkness fell, my overshadowing dread of being disabled by illness before to-morrow morning altogether mastered me. My burning arm throbbed, and my burning head throbbed, and I fancied I was beginning to wander. I counted up to high numbers, to make sure of myself, and repeated passages that I knew in prose and verse. It happened sometimes that in the mere escape of a fatigued mind, I dozed for some moments or forgot; then I would say to myself with a start, “Now it has come, and I am turning delirious!”

They kept me very quiet all day, and kept my arm constantly dressed, and gave me cooling drinks. Whenever I fell asleep, I awoke with the notion I had had in the sluice-house, that a long time had elapsed and the opportunity to save him was gone. About midnight I got out of bed and went to Herbert, with the conviction that I had been asleep for four-and-twenty hours, and that Wednesday was past. It was the last self-exhausting effort of my fretfulness, for after that I slept soundly.

Wednesday morning was dawning when I looked out of window. The winking lights upon the bridges were already pale, the coming sun was like a marsh of fire on the horizon. The river, still dark and mysterious, was spanned by bridges that were turning coldly gray, with here and there at top a warm touch from the burning in the sky. As I looked along the clustered roofs, with church-towers and spires shooting into the unusually clear air, the sun rose up, and a veil seemed to be drawn from the river, and millions of sparkles burst out upon its waters. From me too, a veil seemed to be drawn, and I felt strong and well.

Herbert lay asleep in his bed, and our old fellow-student lay asleep on the sofa. I could not dress myself without help; but I made up the fire, which was still burning, and got some coffee ready for them. In good time they too started up strong and well, and we admitted the sharp morning air at the windows, and looked at the tide that was still flowing towards us.

“When it turns at nine o’clock,” said Herbert, cheerfully, “look out for us, and stand ready, you over there at Mill Pond Bank!”

Summary: Chapter 54

They set out in the morning. Their plan is to be far downstream by nightfall and put in at the first public house they see. Everything goes smoothly during the day. The weather is agreeable and no one seems to have followed them.

Outside of London, the riverbanks are desolate. There doesn’t seem to be anyone living nearby. Traffic on the river is light. It’s dark when they find a run-down establishment that will take them in for the night. One of the people there mentions a four-oared galley that has traveled up and down the river all day. Pip is instantly suspicious. He stays up late and sees a couple of people look into their boat. Magwitch is less concerned, but Herbert and Pip agree that they need to be extra cautious.

Next morning, they wait quietly for a steamer that’s expected to pass by at 1 p.m. They put in the river about noon. They row toward the steamer when it appears, but suddenly the four-oared galley comes into view also. Compeyson is sitting inside. There’s a struggle and both men fall into the water.

Only Magwitch resurfaces. He’s badly hurt on the head and in his chest. The authorities take him into custody. Pip is allowed to accompany him to London.

Analysis: Chapter LIV

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. We had out pea-coats with us, and I took a bag. Of all my worldly possessions I took no more than the few necessaries that filled the bag. Where I might go, what I might do, or when I might return, were questions utterly unknown to me; nor did I vex my mind with them, for it was wholly set on Provis’s safety. I only wondered for the passing moment, as I stopped at the door and looked back, under what altered circumstances I should next see those rooms, if ever.

We loitered down to the Temple stairs, and stood loitering there, as if we were not quite decided to go upon the water at all. Of course, I had taken care that the boat should be ready and everything in order. After a little show of indecision, which there were none to see but the two or three amphibious creatures belonging to our Temple stairs, we went on board and cast off; Herbert in the bow, I steering. It was then about high-water,– half-past eight.

Our plan was this. The tide, beginning to run down at nine, and being with us until three, we intended still to creep on after it had turned, and row against it until dark. We should then be well in those long reaches below Gravesend, between Kent and Essex, where the river is broad and solitary, where the water-side inhabitants are very few, and where lone public-houses are scattered here and there, of which we could choose one for a resting-place. There, we meant to lie by all night. The steamer for Hamburg and the steamer for Rotterdam would start from London at about nine on Thursday morning. We should know at what time to expect them, according to where we were, and would hail the first; so that, if by any accident we were not taken abroad, we should have another chance. We knew the distinguishing marks of each vessel.

The relief of being at last engaged in the execution of the purpose was so great to me that I felt it difficult to realize the condition in which I had been a few hours before. The crisp air, the sunlight, the movement on the river, and the moving river itself,–the road that ran with us, seeming to sympathize with us, animate us, and encourage us on,–freshened me with new hope. I felt mortified to be of so little use in the boat; but, there were few better oarsmen than my two friends, and they rowed with a steady stroke that was to last all day.

At that time, the steam-traffic on the Thames was far below its present extent, and watermen’s boats were far more numerous. Of barges, sailing colliers, and coasting-traders, there were perhaps, as many as now; but of steam-ships, great and small, not a tithe or a twentieth part so many. Early as it was, there were plenty of scullers going here and there that morning, and plenty of barges dropping down with the tide; the navigation of the river between bridges, in an open boat, was a much easier and commoner matter in those days than it is in these; and we went ahead among many skiffs and wherries briskly.

Old London Bridge was soon passed, and old Billingsgate Market with its oyster-boats and Dutchmen, and the White Tower and Traitor’s Gate, and we were in among the tiers of shipping. Here were the Leith, Aberdeen, and Glasgow steamers, loading and unloading goods, and looking immensely high out of the water as we passed alongside; here, were colliers by the score and score, with the coal-whippers plunging off stages on deck, as counterweights to measures of coal swinging up, which were then rattled over the side into barges; here, at her moorings was to-morrow’s steamer for Rotterdam, of which we took good notice; and here to-morrow’s for Hamburg, under whose bowsprit we crossed. And now I, sitting in the stern, could see, with a faster beating heart, Mill Pond Bank and Mill Pond stairs.

“Is he there?” said Herbert.

“Not yet.”

“Right! He was not to come down till he saw us. Can you see his signal?”

“Not well from here; but I think I see it.–Now I see him! Pull both. Easy, Herbert. Oars!”

We touched the stairs lightly for a single moment, and he was on board, and we were off again. He had a boat-cloak with him, and a black canvas bag; and he looked as like a river-pilot as my heart could have wished.

“Dear boy!” he said, putting his arm on my shoulder, as he took his seat. “Faithful dear boy, well done. Thankye, thankye!”

Again among the tiers of shipping, in and out, avoiding rusty chain-cables frayed hempen hawsers and bobbing buoys, sinking for the moment floating broken baskets, scattering floating chips of wood and shaving, cleaving floating scum of coal, in and out, under the figure-head of the John of Sunderland making a speech to the winds (as is done by many Johns), and the Betsy of Yarmouth with a firm formality of bosom and her knobby eyes starting two inches out of her head; in and out, hammers going in ship-builders’ yards, saws going at timber, clashing engines going at things unknown, pumps going in leaky ships, capstans going, ships going out to sea, and unintelligible sea-creatures roaring curses over the bulwarks at respondent lightermen, in and out,–out at last upon the clearer river, where the ships’ boys might take their fenders in, no longer fishing in troubled waters with them over the side, and where the festooned sails might fly out to the wind.

At the Stairs where we had taken him abroad, and ever since, I had looked warily for any token of our being suspected. I had seen none. We certainly had not been, and at that time as certainly we were not either attended or followed by any boat. If we had been waited on by any boat, I should have run in to shore, and have obliged her to go on, or to make her purpose evident. But we held our own without any appearance of molestation.

He had his boat-cloak on him, and looked, as I have said, a natural part of the scene. It was remarkable (but perhaps the wretched life he had led accounted for it) that he was the least anxious of any of us. He was not indifferent, for he told me that he hoped to live to see his gentleman one of the best of gentlemen in a foreign country; he was not disposed to be passive or resigned, as I understood it; but he had no notion of meeting danger half way. When it came upon him, he confronted it, but it must come before he troubled himself.

“If you knowed, dear boy,” he said to me, “what it is to sit here alonger my dear boy and have my smoke, arter having been day by day betwixt four walls, you’d envy me. But you don’t know what it is.”

“I think I know the delights of freedom,” I answered.

“Ah,” said he, shaking his head gravely. “But you don’t know it equal to me. You must have been under lock and key, dear boy, to know it equal to me,–but I ain’t a going to be low.”

It occurred to me as inconsistent, that, for any mastering idea, he should have endangered his freedom, and even his life. But I reflected that perhaps freedom without danger was too much apart from all the habit of his existence to be to him what it would be to another man. I was not far out, since he said, after smoking a little:–

“You see, dear boy, when I was over yonder, t’other side the world, I was always a looking to this side; and it come flat to be there, for all I was a growing rich. Everybody knowed Magwitch, and Magwitch could come, and Magwitch could go, and nobody’s head would be troubled about him. They ain’t so easy concerning me here, dear boy,–wouldn’t be, leastwise, if they knowed where I was.”

“If all goes well,” said I, “you will be perfectly free and safe again within a few hours.”

“Well,” he returned, drawing a long breath, “I hope so.”

“And think so?”

He dipped his hand in the water over the boat’s gunwale, and said, smiling with that softened air upon him which was not new to me:–

“Ay, I s’pose I think so, dear boy. We’d be puzzled to be more quiet and easy-going than we are at present. But–it’s a flowing so soft and pleasant through the water, p’raps, as makes me think it–I was a thinking through my smoke just then, that we can no more see to the bottom of the next few hours than we can see to the bottom of this river what I catches hold of. Nor yet we can’t no more hold their tide than I can hold this. And it’s run through my fingers and gone, you see!” holding up his dripping hand.

“But for your face I should think you were a little despondent,” said I.

“Not a bit on it, dear boy! It comes of flowing on so quiet, and of that there rippling at the boat’s head making a sort of a Sunday tune. Maybe I’m a growing a trifle old besides.”

He put his pipe back in his mouth with an undisturbed expression of face, and sat as composed and contented as if we were already out of England. Yet he was as submissive to a word of advice as if he had been in constant terror; for, when we ran ashore to get some bottles of beer into the boat, and he was stepping out, I hinted that I thought he would be safest where he was, and he said. “Do you, dear boy?” and quietly sat down again.

The air felt cold upon the river, but it was a bright day, and the sunshine was very cheering. The tide ran strong, I took care to lose none of it, and our steady stroke carried us on thoroughly well. By imperceptible degrees, as the tide ran out, we lost more and more of the nearer woods and hills, and dropped lower and lower between the muddy banks, but the tide was yet with us when we were off Gravesend. As our charge was wrapped in his cloak, I purposely passed within a boat or two’s length of the floating Custom House, and so out to catch the stream, alongside of two emigrant ships, and under the bows of a large transport with troops on the forecastle looking down at us. And soon the tide began to slacken, and the craft lying at anchor to swing, and presently they had all swung round, and the ships that were taking advantage of the new tide to get up to the Pool began to crowd upon us in a fleet, and we kept under the shore, as much out of the strength of the tide now as we could, standing carefully off from low shallows and mudbanks.

Our oarsmen were so fresh, by dint of having occasionally let her drive with the tide for a minute or two, that a quarter of an hour’s rest proved full as much as they wanted. We got ashore among some slippery stones while we ate and drank what we had with us, and looked about. It was like my own marsh country, flat and monotonous, and with a dim horizon; while the winding river turned and turned, and the great floating buoys upon it turned and turned, and everything else seemed stranded and still. For now the last of the fleet of ships was round the last low point we had headed; and the last green barge, straw-laden, with a brown sail, had followed; and some ballast-lighters, shaped like a child’s first rude imitation of a boat, lay low in the mud; and a little squat shoal-lighthouse on open piles stood crippled in the mud on stilts and crutches; and slimy stakes stuck out of the mud, and slimy stones stuck out of the mud, and red landmarks and tidemarks stuck out of the mud, and an old landing-stage and an old roofless building slipped into the mud, and all about us was stagnation and mud.

We pushed off again, and made what way we could. It was much harder work now, but Herbert and Startop persevered, and rowed and rowed and rowed until the sun went down. By that time the river had lifted us a little, so that we could see above the bank. There was the red sun, on the low level of the shore, in a purple haze, fast deepening into black; and there was the solitary flat marsh; and far away there were the rising grounds, between which and us there seemed to be no life, save here and there in the foreground a melancholy gull.

As the night was fast falling, and as the moon, being past the full, would not rise early, we held a little council; a short one, for clearly our course was to lie by at the first lonely tavern we could find. So, they plied their oars once more, and I looked out for anything like a house. Thus we held on, speaking little, for four or five dull miles. It was very cold, and, a collier coming by us, with her galley-fire smoking and flaring, looked like a comfortable home. The night was as dark by this time as it would be until morning; and what light we had, seemed to come more from the river than the sky, as the oars in their dipping struck at a few reflected stars.

At this dismal time we were evidently all possessed by the idea that we were followed. As the tide made, it flapped heavily at irregular intervals against the shore; and whenever such a sound came, one or other of us was sure to start, and look in that direction. Here and there, the set of the current had worn down the bank into a little creek, and we were all suspicious of such places, and eyed them nervously. Sometimes, “What was that ripple?” one of us would say in a low voice. Or another, “Is that a boat yonder?” And afterwards we would fall into a dead silence, and I would sit impatiently thinking with what an unusual amount of noise the oars worked in the thowels.

At length we descried a light and a roof, and presently afterwards ran alongside a little causeway made of stones that had been picked up hard by. Leaving the rest in the boat, I stepped ashore, and found the light to be in a window of a public-house. It was a dirty place enough, and I dare say not unknown to smuggling adventurers; but there was a good fire in the kitchen, and there were eggs and bacon to eat, and various liquors to drink. Also, there were two double-bedded rooms,–”such as they were,” the landlord said. No other company was in the house than the landlord, his wife, and a grizzled male creature, the “Jack” of the little causeway, who was as slimy and smeary as if he had been low-water mark too.

With this assistant, I went down to the boat again, and we all came ashore, and brought out the oars, and rudder and boat-hook, and all else, and hauled her up for the night. We made a very good meal by the kitchen fire, and then apportioned the bedrooms: Herbert and Startop were to occupy one; I and our charge the other. We found the air as carefully excluded from both, as if air were fatal to life; and there were more dirty clothes and bandboxes under the beds than I should have thought the family possessed. But we considered ourselves well off, notwithstanding, for a more solitary place we could not have found.

While we were comforting ourselves by the fire after our meal, the Jack–who was sitting in a corner, and who had a bloated pair of shoes on, which he had exhibited while we were eating our eggs and bacon, as interesting relics that he had taken a few days ago from the feet of a drowned seaman washed ashore–asked me if we had seen a four-oared galley going up with the tide? When I told him No, he said she must have gone down then, and yet she “took up too,” when she left there.

“They must ha’ thought better on’t for some reason or another,” said the Jack, “and gone down.”

“A four-oared galley, did you say?” said I.

“A four,” said the Jack, “and two sitters.”

“Did they come ashore here?”

“They put in with a stone two-gallon jar for some beer. I’d ha’ been glad to pison the beer myself,” said the Jack, “or put some rattling physic in it.”

“Why?”

“I know why,” said the Jack. He spoke in a slushy voice, as if much mud had washed into his throat.

“He thinks,” said the landlord, a weakly meditative man with a pale eye, who seemed to rely greatly on his Jack,–”he thinks they was, what they wasn’t.”

“I knows what I thinks,” observed the Jack.

“You thinks Custum ‘Us, Jack?” said the landlord.

“I do,” said the Jack.

“Then you’re wrong, Jack.”

“AM I!”

In the infinite meaning of his reply and his boundless confidence in his views, the Jack took one of his bloated shoes off, looked into it, knocked a few stones out of it on the kitchen floor, and put it on again. He did this with the air of a Jack who was so right that he could afford to do anything.

“Why, what do you make out that they done with their buttons then, Jack?” asked the landlord, vacillating weakly.

“Done with their buttons?” returned the Jack. “Chucked ‘em overboard. Swallered ‘em. Sowed ‘em, to come up small salad. Done with their buttons!”

“Don’t be cheeky, Jack,” remonstrated the landlord, in a melancholy and pathetic way.

“A Custum ‘Us officer knows what to do with his Buttons,” said the Jack, repeating the obnoxious word with the greatest contempt, “when they comes betwixt him and his own light. A four and two sitters don’t go hanging and hovering, up with one tide and down with another, and both with and against another, without there being Custum ‘Us at the bottom of it.” Saying which he went out in disdain; and the landlord, having no one to reply upon, found it impracticable to pursue the subject.

This dialogue made us all uneasy, and me very uneasy. The dismal wind was muttering round the house, the tide was flapping at the shore, and I had a feeling that we were caged and threatened. A four-oared galley hovering about in so unusual a way as to attract this notice was an ugly circumstance that I could not get rid of. When I had induced Provis to go up to bed, I went outside with my two companions (Startop by this time knew the state of the case), and held another council. Whether we should remain at the house until near the steamer’s time, which would be about one in the afternoon, or whether we should put off early in the morning, was the question we discussed. On the whole we deemed it the better course to lie where we were, until within an hour or so of the steamer’s time, and then to get out in her track, and drift easily with the tide. Having settled to do this, we returned into the house and went to bed.

I lay down with the greater part of my clothes on, and slept well for a few hours. When I awoke, the wind had risen, and the sign of the house (the Ship) was creaking and banging about, with noises that startled me. Rising softly, for my charge lay fast asleep, I looked out of the window. It commanded the causeway where we had hauled up our boat, and, as my eyes adapted themselves to the light of the clouded moon, I saw two men looking into her. They passed by under the window, looking at nothing else, and they did not go down to the landing-place which I could discern to be empty, but struck across the marsh in the direction of the Nore.

My first impulse was to call up Herbert, and show him the two men going away. But reflecting, before I got into his room, which was at the back of the house and adjoined mine, that he and Startop had had a harder day than I, and were fatigued, I forbore. Going back to my window, I could see the two men moving over the marsh. In that light, however, I soon lost them, and, feeling very cold, lay down to think of the matter, and fell asleep again.

We were up early. As we walked to and fro, all four together, before breakfast, I deemed it right to recount what I had seen. Again our charge was the least anxious of the party. It was very likely that the men belonged to the Custom House, he said quietly, and that they had no thought of us. I tried to persuade myself that it was so,–as, indeed, it might easily be. However, I proposed that he and I should walk away together to a distant point we could see, and that the boat should take us aboard there, or as near there as might prove feasible, at about noon. This being considered a good precaution, soon after breakfast he and I set forth, without saying anything at the tavern.

He smoked his pipe as we went along, and sometimes stopped to clap me on the shoulder. One would have supposed that it was I who was in danger, not he, and that he was reassuring me. We spoke very little. As we approached the point, I begged him to remain in a sheltered place, while I went on to reconnoitre; for it was towards it that the men had passed in the night. He complied, and I went on alone. There was no boat off the point, nor any boat drawn up anywhere near it, nor were there any signs of the men having embarked there. But, to be sure, the tide was high, and there might have been some footpints under water.

When he looked out from his shelter in the distance, and saw that I waved my hat to him to come up, he rejoined me, and there we waited; sometimes lying on the bank, wrapped in our coats, and sometimes moving about to warm ourselves, until we saw our boat coming round. We got aboard easily, and rowed out into the track of the steamer. By that time it wanted but ten minutes of one o’clock, and we began to look out for her smoke.

But, it was half-past one before we saw her smoke, and soon afterwards we saw behind it the smoke of another steamer. As they were coming on at full speed, we got the two bags ready, and took that opportunity of saying good by to Herbert and Startop. We had all shaken hands cordially, and neither Herbert’s eyes nor mine were quite dry, when I saw a four-oared galley shoot out from under the bank but a little way ahead of us, and row out into the same track.

A stretch of shore had been as yet between us and the steamer’s smoke, by reason of the bend and wind of the river; but now she was visible, coming head on. I called to Herbert and Startop to keep before the tide, that she might see us lying by for her, and I adjured Provis to sit quite still, wrapped in his cloak. He answered cheerily, “Trust to me, dear boy,” and sat like a statue. Meantime the galley, which was very skilfully handled, had crossed us, let us come up with her, and fallen alongside. Leaving just room enough for the play of the oars, she kept alongside, drifting when we drifted, and pulling a stroke or two when we pulled. Of the two sitters one held the rudder-lines, and looked at us attentively, –as did all the rowers; the other sitter was wrapped up, much as Provis was, and seemed to shrink, and whisper some instruction to the steerer as he looked at us. Not a word was spoken in either boat.

Startop could make out, after a few minutes, which steamer was first, and gave me the word “Hamburg,” in a low voice, as we sat face to face. She was nearing us very fast, and the beating of her peddles grew louder and louder. I felt as if her shadow were absolutely upon us, when the galley hailed us. I answered.

“You have a returned Transport there,” said the man who held the lines. “That’s the man, wrapped in the cloak. His name is Abel Magwitch, otherwise Provis. I apprehend that man, and call upon him to surrender, and you to assist.”

At the same moment, without giving any audible direction to his crew, he ran the galley abroad of us. They had pulled one sudden stroke ahead, had got their oars in, had run athwart us, and were holding on to our gunwale, before we knew what they were doing. This caused great confusion on board the steamer, and I heard them calling to us, and heard the order given to stop the paddles, and heard them stop, but felt her driving down upon us irresistibly. In the same moment, I saw the steersman of the galley lay his hand on his prisoner’s shoulder, and saw that both boats were swinging round with the force of the tide, and saw that all hands on board the steamer were running forward quite frantically. Still, in the same moment, I saw the prisoner start up, lean across his captor, and pull the cloak from the neck of the shrinking sitter in the galley. Still in the same moment, I saw that the face disclosed, was the face of the other convict of long ago. Still, in the same moment, I saw the face tilt backward with a white terror on it that I shall never forget, and heard a great cry on board the steamer, and a loud splash in the water, and felt the boat sink from under me.

It was but for an instant that I seemed to struggle with a thousand mill-weirs and a thousand flashes of light; that instant past, I was taken on board the galley. Herbert was there, and Startop was there; but our boat was gone, and the two convicts were gone.

What with the cries aboard the steamer, and the furious blowing off of her steam, and her driving on, and our driving on, I could not at first distinguish sky from water or shore from shore; but the crew of the galley righted her with great speed, and, pulling certain swift strong strokes ahead, lay upon their oars, every man looking silently and eagerly at the water astern. Presently a dark object was seen in it, bearing towards us on the tide. No man spoke, but the steersman held up his hand, and all softly backed water, and kept the boat straight and true before it. As it came nearer, I saw it to be Magwitch, swimming, but not swimming freely. He was taken on board, and instantly manacled at the wrists and ankles.

The galley was kept steady, and the silent, eager look-out at the water was resumed. But, the Rotterdam steamer now came up, and apparently not understanding what had happened, came on at speed. By the time she had been hailed and stopped, both steamers were drifting away from us, and we were rising and falling in a troubled wake of water. The look-out was kept, long after all was still again and the two steamers were gone; but everybody knew that it was hopeless now.

At length we gave it up, and pulled under the shore towards the tavern we had lately left, where we were received with no little surprise. Here I was able to get some comforts for Magwitch,– Provis no longer,–who had received some very severe injury in the Chest, and a deep cut in the head.

He told me that he believed himself to have gone under the keel of the steamer, and to have been struck on the head in rising. The injury to his chest (which rendered his breathing extremely painful) he thought he had received against the side of the galley. He added that he did not pretend to say what he might or might not have done to Compeyson, but that, in the moment of his laying his hand on his cloak to identify him, that villain had staggered up and staggered back, and they had both gone overboard together, when the sudden wrenching of him (Magwitch) out of our boat, and the endeavor of his captor to keep him in it, had capsized us. He told me in a whisper that they had gone down fiercely locked in each other’s arms, and that there had been a struggle under water, and that he had disengaged himself, struck out, and swum away.

I never had any reason to doubt the exact truth of what he thus told me. The officer who steered the galley gave the same account of their going overboard.

When I asked this officer’s permission to change the prisoner’s wet clothes by purchasing any spare garments I could get at the public-house, he gave it readily: merely observing that he must take charge of everything his prisoner had about him. So the pocket-book which had once been in my hands passed into the officer’s. He further gave me leave to accompany the prisoner to London; but declined to accord that grace to my two friends.

The Jack at the Ship was instructed where the drowned man had gone down, and undertook to search for the body in the places where it was likeliest to come ashore. His interest in its recovery seemed to me to be much heightened when he heard that it had stockings on. Probably, it took about a dozen drowned men to fit him out completely; and that may have been the reason why the different articles of his dress were in various stages of decay.

We remained at the public-house until the tide turned, and then Magwitch was carried down to the galley and put on board. Herbert and Startop were to get to London by land, as soon as they could. We had a doleful parting, and when I took my place by Magwitch’s side, I felt that that was my place henceforth while he lived.

For now, my repugnance to him had all melted away; and in the Hunted, wounded, shackled creature who held my hand in his, I only saw a man who had meant to be my benefactor, and who had felt affectionately, gratefully, and generously, towards me with great constancy through a series of years. I only saw in him a much better man than I had been to Joe.

His breathing became more difficult and painful as the night drew on, and often he could not repress a groan. I tried to rest him on the arm I could use, in any easy position; but it was dreadful to think that I could not be sorry at heart for his being badly hurt, since it was unquestionably best that he should die. That there were, still living, people enough who were able and willing to identify him, I could not doubt. That he would be leniently treated, I could not hope. He who had been presented in the worst light at his trial, who had since broken prison and had been tried again, who had returned from transportation under a life sentence, and who had occasioned the death of the man who was the cause of his arrest.

As we returned towards the setting sun we had yesterday left behind us, and as the stream of our hopes seemed all running back, I told him how grieved I was to think that he had come home for my sake.

“Dear boy,” he answered, “I’m quite content to take my chance. I’ve seen my boy, and he can be a gentleman without me.”

No. I had thought about that, while we had been there side by side. No. Apart from any inclinations of my own, I understood Wemmick’s hint now. I foresaw that, being convicted, his possessions would be forfeited to the Crown.

“Lookee here, dear boy,” said he “It’s best as a gentleman should not be knowed to belong to me now. Only come to see me as if you come by chance alonger Wemmick. Sit where I can see you when I am swore to, for the last o’ many times, and I don’t ask no more.”

“I will never stir from your side,” said I, “when I am suffered to be near you. Please God, I will be as true to you as you have been to me!”

I felt his hand tremble as it held mine, and he turned his face away as he lay in the bottom of the boat, and I heard that old sound in his throat,–softened now, like all the rest of him. It was a good thing that he had touched this point, for it put into my mind what I might not otherwise have thought of until too late,– that he need never know how his hopes of enriching me had perished.

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