Great Expectations
“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 vapour 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
to-morrow, 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 grey, 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!”
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 our 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 realise 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 sympathise 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