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 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

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.