Great Expectations, Charles Dickens [top 10 best books of all time txt] 📗
- Author: Charles Dickens
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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.’”
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
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