And now, because my mind was not confused enough before,
I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by
having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy
was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the
plain honest working life to which I was born, had
nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient
means of self-respect and happiness. At those
times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection
to dear old Joe and the forge, was gone, and that
I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with
Joe and to keep company with Biddy — when all
in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham
days would fall upon me, like a destructive missile,
and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take
a long time picking up; and often, before I had got
them well together, they would be dispersed in all
directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after
all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when
my time was out.
If my time had run out, it would have left me still
at the height of my perplexities, I dare say.
It never did run out, however, but was brought to
a premature end, as I proceed to relate.
Chapter 18
It was in the fourth year of my apprenticeship to
Joe, and it was a Saturday night. There was
a group assembled round the fire at the Three Jolly
Bargemen, attentive to Mr. Wopsle as he read the newspaper
aloud. Of that group I was one.
A highly popular murder had been committed, and Mr.
Wopsle was imbrued in blood to the eyebrows.
He gloated over every abhorrent adjective in the
description, and identified himself with every witness
at the Inquest. He faintly moaned, “I am
done for,” as the victim, and he barbarously
bellowed, “I’ll serve you out,” as
the murderer. He gave the medical testimony,
in pointed imitation of our local practitioner; and
he piped and shook, as the aged turnpike-keeper who
had heard blows, to an extent so very paralytic as
to suggest a doubt regarding the mental competency
of that witness. The coroner, in Mr. Wopsle’s
hands, became Timon of Athens; the beadle, Coriolanus.
He enjoyed himself thoroughly, and we all enjoyed
ourselves, and were delightfully comfortable.
In this cozy state of mind we came to the verdict
Wilful Murder.
Then, and not sooner, I became aware of a strange
gentleman leaning over the back of the settle opposite
me, looking on. There was an expression of contempt
on his face, and he bit the side of a great forefinger
as he watched the group of faces.
“Well!” said the stranger to Mr. Wopsle,
when the reading was done, “you have settled
it all to your own satisfaction, I have no doubt?”
Everybody started and looked up, as if it were the
murderer. He looked at everybody coldly and
sarcastically.
“Guilty, of course?” said he. “Out
with it. Come!”
“Sir,” returned Mr. Wopsle, “without
having the honour of your acquaintance, I do say Guilty.”
Upon this, we all took courage to unite in a confirmatory
murmur.
