Great Expectations
me out at the locked gate of which she had the key, or first to go
upstairs 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.’”
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