We had an excellent breakfast, and when any one declined
anything on table, Wemmick said, “Provided by
contract, you know; don’t be afraid of it!”
I drank to the new couple, drank to the Aged, drank
to the Castle, saluted the bride at parting, and made
myself as agreeable as I could.
Wemmick came down to the door with me, and I again
shook hands with him, and wished him joy.
“Thankee!” said Wemmick, rubbing his hands.
“She’s such a manager of fowls, you have
no idea. You shall have some eggs, and judge
for yourself. I say, Mr. Pip!” calling
me back, and speaking low. “This is altogether
a Walworth sentiment, please.”
“I understand. Not to be mentioned in
Little Britain,” said I.
Wemmick nodded. “After what you let out
the other day, Mr. Jaggers may as well not know of
it. He might think my brain was softening, or
something of the kind.”
He lay in prison very ill, during the whole interval
between his committal for trial, and the coming round
of the Sessions. He had broken two ribs, they
had wounded one of his lungs, and he breathed with
great pain and difficulty, which increased daily.
It was a consequence of his hurt, that he spoke so
low as to be scarcely audible; therefore, he spoke
very little. But, he was ever ready to listen
to me, and it became the first duty of my life to say
to him, and read to him, what I knew he ought to hear.
Being far too ill to remain in the common prison,
he was removed, after the first day or so, into the
infirmary. This gave me opportunities of being
with him that I could not otherwise have had.
And but for his illness he would have been put in
irons, for he was regarded as a determined prison-breaker,
and I know not what else.
Although I saw him every day, it was for only a short
time; hence, the regularly recurring spaces of our
separation were long enough to record on his face
any slight changes that occurred in his physical state.
I do not recollect that I once saw any change in it
for the better; he wasted, and became slowly weaker
and worse, day by day, from the day when the prison
door closed upon him.
The kind of submission or resignation that he showed,
was that of a man who was tired out. I sometimes
derived an impression, from his manner or from a whispered
word or two which escaped him, that he pondered over
the question whether he might have been a better man
under better circumstances. But, he never justified
himself by a hint tending that way, or tried to bend
the past out of its eternal shape.
It happened on two or three occasions in my presence,
that his desperate reputation was alluded to by one
or other of the people in attendance on him.
A smile crossed his face then, and he turned his
eyes on me with a trustful look, as if he were confident
that I had seen some small redeeming touch in him,
even so long ago as when I was a little child.
As to all the rest, he was humble and contrite, and
I never knew him complain.
