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Charles Dickens > Great Expectations > Chapter 50

Great Expectations

Chapter 50

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


"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


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


"I had forgotten that, Herbert, but I remember it now you speak of


"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


"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


"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."

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