Great Expectations
Charles Dickens
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
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
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 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,
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
"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.
"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,
"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,
Herbert, "but, she was tried for it, and Mr. Jaggers defended her,
and the reputation of that defence first made his name known to
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
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."
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."
"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 this barbed the point of Provis's animosity."
"I want to know," said I, "and particularly, Herbert, whether he
told you when this happened?"
expression was, 'a round score o' year ago, and a'most directly
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
fire?"
"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 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