Chương Chương 46 · Eight o’clock had struck before I got into the air, that was scented,

. Eight o’clock had struck before I got into the air, that was scented,

not disagreeably, by the chips and shavings of the long-shore

boat-builders, and mast, oar, and block makers. All that water-side

region of the upper and lower Pool below Bridge was unknown ground to

me; and when I struck down by the river, I found that the spot I wanted

was not where I had supposed it to be, and was anything but easy to

find. It was called Mill Pond Bank, Chinks’s Basin; and I had no other

guide to Chinks’s Basin than the Old Green Copper Rope-walk.

It matters not what stranded ships repairing in dry docks I lost myself

among, what old hulls of ships in course of being knocked to pieces,

what ooze and slime and other dregs of tide, what yards of

ship-builders and ship-breakers, what rusty anchors blindly biting into

the ground, though for years off duty, what mountainous country of

accumulated casks and timber, how many rope-walks that were not the Old

Green Copper. After several times falling short of my destination and

as often overshooting it, I came unexpectedly round a corner, upon Mill

Pond Bank. It was a fresh kind of place, all circumstances considered,

where the wind from the river had room to turn itself round; and there

were two or three trees in it, and there was the stump of a ruined

windmill, and there was the Old Green Copper Rope-walk,—whose long and

narrow vista I could trace in the moonlight, along a series of wooden

frames set in the ground, that looked like superannuated

haymaking-rakes which had grown old and lost most of their teeth.

Selecting from the few queer houses upon Mill Pond Bank a house with a

wooden front and three stories of bow-window (not bay-window, which is

another thing), I looked at the plate upon the door, and read there,

Mrs. Whimple. That being the name I wanted, I knocked, and an elderly

woman of a pleasant and thriving appearance responded. She was

immediately deposed, however, by Herbert, who silently led me into the

parlour and shut the door. It was an odd sensation to see his very

familiar face established quite at home in that very unfamiliar room

and region; and I found myself looking at him, much as I looked at the

corner-cupboard with the glass and china, the shells upon the

chimney-piece, and the coloured engravings on the wall, representing

the death of Captain Cook, a ship-launch, and his Majesty King George

the Third in a state coachman’s wig, leather-breeches, and top-boots,

on the terrace at Windsor.

“All is well, Handel,” said Herbert, “and he is quite satisfied, though

eager to see you. My dear girl is with her father; and if you’ll wait

till she comes down, I’ll make you known to her, and then we’ll go

upstairs. _That’s_ her father.”

I had become aware of an alarming growling overhead, and had probably

expressed the fact in my countenance.

“I am afraid he is a sad old rascal,” said Herbert, smiling, “but I

have never seen him. Don’t you smell rum? He is always at it.”

“At rum?” said I.

“Yes,” returned Herbert, “and you may suppose how mild it makes his

gout. He persists, too, in keeping all the provisions upstairs in his

room, and serving them out. He keeps them on shelves over his head, and

_will_ weigh them all. His room must be like a chandler’s shop.”

While he thus spoke, the growling noise became a prolonged roar, and

then died away.

“What else can be the consequence,” said Herbert, in explanation, “if

he _will_ cut the cheese? A man with the gout in his right hand—and

everywhere else—can’t expect to get through a Double Gloucester without

hurting himself.”

He seemed to have hurt himself very much, for he gave another furious

roar.

“To have Provis for an upper lodger is quite a godsend to Mrs.

Whimple,” said Herbert, “for of course people in general won’t stand

that noise. A curious place, Handel; isn’t it?”

It was a curious place, indeed; but remarkably well kept and clean.

“Mrs. Whimple,” said Herbert, when I told him so, “is the best of

housewives, and I really do not know what my Clara would do without her

motherly help. For, Clara has no mother of her own, Handel, and no

relation in the world but old Gruffandgrim.”

“Surely that’s not his name, Herbert?”

“No, no,” said Herbert, “that’s my name for him. His name is Mr.

Barley. But what a blessing it is for the son of my father and mother

to love a girl who has no relations, and who can never bother herself

or anybody else about her family!”

Herbert had told me on former occasions, and now reminded me, that he

first knew Miss Clara Barley when she was completing her education at

an establishment at Hammersmith, and that on her being recalled home to

nurse her father, he and she had confided their affection to the

motherly Mrs. Whimple, by whom it had been fostered and regulated with

equal kindness and discretion, ever since. It was understood that

nothing of a tender nature could possibly be confided to old Barley, by

reason of his being totally unequal to the consideration of any subject

more psychological than Gout, Rum, and Purser’s stores.

As we were thus conversing in a low tone while Old Barley’s sustained

growl vibrated in the beam that crossed the ceiling, the room door

opened, and a very pretty, slight, dark-eyed girl of twenty or so came

in with a basket in her hand: whom Herbert tenderly relieved of the

basket, and presented, blushing, as “Clara.” She really was a most

charming girl, and might have passed for a captive fairy, whom that

truculent Ogre, Old Barley, had pressed into his service.

“Look here,” said Herbert, showing me the basket, with a compassionate

and tender smile, after we had talked a little; “here’s poor Clara’s

supper, served out every night. Here’s her allowance of bread, and

here’s her slice of cheese, and here’s her rum,—which I drink. This is

Mr. Barley’s breakfast for to-morrow, served out to be cooked. Two

mutton-chops, three potatoes, some split peas, a little flour, two

ounces of butter, a pinch of salt, and all this black pepper. It’s

stewed up together, and taken hot, and it’s a nice thing for the gout,

I should think!”

There was something so natural and winning in Clara’s resigned way of

looking at these stores in detail, as Herbert pointed them out; and

something so confiding, loving, and innocent in her modest manner of

yielding herself to Herbert’s embracing arm; and something so gentle in

her, so much needing protection on Mill Pond Bank, by Chinks’s Basin,

and the Old Green Copper Rope-walk, with Old Barley growling in the

beam,—that I would not have undone the engagement between her and

Herbert for all the money in the pocket-book I had never opened.

I was looking at her with pleasure and admiration, when suddenly the

growl swelled into a roar again, and a frightful bumping noise was

heard above, as if a giant with a wooden leg were trying to bore it

through the ceiling to come at us. Upon this Clara said to Herbert,

“Papa wants me, darling!” and ran away.

“There is an unconscionable old shark for you!” said Herbert. “What do

you suppose he wants now, Handel?”

“I don’t know,” said I. “Something to drink?”

“That’s it!” cried Herbert, as if I had made a guess of extraordinary

merit. “He keeps his grog ready mixed in a little tub on the table.

Wait a moment, and you’ll hear Clara lift him up to take some. There he

goes!” Another roar, with a prolonged shake at the end. “Now,” said

Herbert, as it was succeeded by silence, “he’s drinking. Now,” said

Herbert, as the growl resounded in the beam once more, “he’s down again

on his back!”

Clara returned soon afterwards, and Herbert accompanied me upstairs to

see our charge. As we passed Mr. Barley’s door, he was heard hoarsely

muttering within, in a strain that rose and fell like wind, the

following Refrain, in which I substitute good wishes for something

quite the reverse:—

“Ahoy! Bless your eyes, here’s old Bill Barley. Here’s old Bill Barley,

bless your eyes. Here’s old Bill Barley on the flat of his back, by the

Lord. Lying on the flat of his back like a drifting old dead flounder,

here’s your old Bill Barley, bless your eyes. Ahoy! Bless you.”

In this strain of consolation, Herbert informed me the invisible Barley

would commune with himself by the day and night together; Often, while

it was light, having, at the same time, one eye at a telescope which

was fitted on his bed for the convenience of sweeping the river.

In his two cabin rooms at the top of the house, which were fresh and

airy, and in which Mr. Barley was less audible than below, I found

Provis comfortably settled. He expressed no alarm, and seemed to feel

none that was worth mentioning; but it struck me that he was

softened,—indefinably, for I could not have said how, and could never

afterwards recall how when I tried, but certainly.

The opportunity that the day’s rest had given me for reflection had

resulted in my fully determining to say nothing to him respecting

Compeyson. For anything I knew, his animosity towards the man might

otherwise lead to his seeking him out and rushing on his own

destruction. Therefore, when Herbert and I sat down with him by his

fire, I asked him first of all whether he relied on Wemmick’s judgment

and sources of information?

“Ay, ay, dear boy!” he answered, with a grave nod, “Jaggers knows.”

“Then, I have talked with Wemmick,” said I, “and have come to tell you

what caution he gave me and what advice.”

This I did accurately, with the reservation just mentioned; and I told

him how Wemmick had heard, in Newgate prison (whether from officers or

prisoners I could not say), that he was under some suspicion, and that

my chambers had been watched; how Wemmick had recommended his keeping

close for a time, and my keeping away from him; and what Wemmick had

said about getting him abroad. I added, that of course, when the time

came, I should go with him, or should follow close upon him, as might

be safest in Wemmick’s judgment. What was to follow that I did not

touch upon; neither, indeed, was I at all clear or comfortable about it

in my own mind, now that I saw him in that softer condition, and in

declared peril for my sake. As to altering my way of living by

enlarging my expenses, I put it to him whether in our present unsettled

and difficult circumstances, it would not be simply ridiculous, if it

were no worse?

He could not deny this, and indeed was very reasonable throughout. His

coming back was a venture, he said, and he had always known it to be a

venture. He would do nothing to make it a desperate venture, and he had

very little fear of his safety with such good help.

Herbert, who had been looking at the fire and pondering, here said that

something had come into his thoughts arising out of Wemmick’s

suggestion, which it might be worth while to pursue. “We are both good

watermen, Handel, and could take him down the river ourselves when the

right time comes. No boat would then be hired for the purpose, and no

boatmen; that would save at least a chance of suspicion, and any chance

is worth saving. Never mind the season; don’t you think it might be a

good thing if you began at once to keep a boat at the Temple stairs,

and were in the habit of rowing up and down the river? You fall into

that habit, and then who notices or minds? Do it twenty or fifty times,

and there is nothing special in your doing it the twenty-first or

fifty-first.”

I liked this scheme, and Provis was quite elated by it. We agreed that

it should be carried into execution, and that Provis should never

recognise us if we came below Bridge, and rowed past Mill Pond Bank.

But we further agreed that he should pull down the blind in that part

of his window which gave upon the east, whenever he saw us and all was

right.

Our conference being now ended, and everything arranged, I rose to go;

remarking to Herbert that he and I had better not go home together, and

that I would take half an hour’s start of him. “I don’t like to leave

you here,” I said to Provis, “though I cannot doubt your being safer

here than near me. Good-bye!”

“Dear boy,” he answered, clasping my hands, “I don’t know when we may

meet again, and I don’t like good-bye. Say good-night!”

“Good-night! Herbert will go regularly between us, and when the time

comes you may be certain I shall be ready. Good-night, good-night!”

We thought it best that he should stay in his own rooms; and we left

him on the landing outside his door, holding a light over the

stair-rail to light us downstairs. Looking back at him, I thought of

the first night of his return, when our positions were reversed, and

when I little supposed my heart could ever be as heavy and anxious at

parting from him as it was now.

Old Barley was growling and swearing when we repassed his door, with no

appearance of having ceased or of meaning to cease. When we got to the

foot of the stairs, I asked Herbert whether he had preserved the name

of Provis. He replied, certainly not, and that the lodger was Mr.

Campbell. He also explained that the utmost known of Mr. Campbell there

was, that he (Herbert) had Mr. Campbell consigned to him, and felt a

strong personal interest in his being well cared for, and living a

secluded life. So, when we went into the parlour where Mrs. Whimple and

Clara were seated at work, I said nothing of my own interest in Mr.

Campbell, but kept it to myself.

When I had taken leave of the pretty, gentle, dark-eyed girl, and of

the motherly woman who had not outlived her honest sympathy with a

little affair of true love, I felt as if the Old Green Copper Rope-walk

had grown quite a different place. Old Barley might be as old as the

hills, and might swear like a whole field of troopers, but there were

redeeming youth and trust and hope enough in Chinks’s Basin to fill it

to overflowing. And then I thought of Estella, and of our parting, and

went home very sadly.

All things were as quiet in the Temple as ever I had seen them. The

windows of the rooms on that side, lately occupied by Provis, were dark

and still, and there was no lounger in Garden Court. I walked past the

fountain twice or thrice before I descended the steps that were between

me and my rooms, but I was quite alone. Herbert, coming to my bedside

when he came in,—for I went straight to bed, dispirited and

fatigued,—made the same report. Opening one of the windows after that,

he looked out into the moonlight, and told me that the pavement was as

solemnly empty as the pavement of any cathedral at that same hour.

Next day I set myself to get the boat. It was soon done, and the boat

was brought round to the Temple stairs, and lay where I could reach her

within a minute or two. Then, I began to go out as for training and

practice: sometimes alone, sometimes with Herbert. I was often out in

cold, rain, and sleet, but nobody took much note of me after I had been

out a few times. At first, I kept above Blackfriars Bridge; but as the

hours of the tide changed, I took towards London Bridge. It was Old

London Bridge in those days, and at certain states of the tide there

was a race and fall of water there which gave it a bad reputation. But

I knew well enough how to ‘shoot’ the bridge after seeing it done, and

so began to row about among the shipping in the Pool, and down to

Erith. The first time I passed Mill Pond Bank, Herbert and I were

pulling a pair of oars; and, both in going and returning, we saw the

blind towards the east come down. Herbert was rarely there less

frequently than three times in a week, and he never brought me a single

word of intelligence that was at all alarming. Still, I knew that there

was cause for alarm, and I could not get rid of the notion of being

watched. Once received, it is a haunting idea; how many undesigning

persons I suspected of watching me, it would be hard to calculate.

In short, I was always full of fears for the rash man who was in

hiding. Herbert had sometimes said to me that he found it pleasant to

stand at one of our windows after dark, when the tide was running down,

and to think that it was flowing, with everything it bore, towards

Clara. But I thought with dread that it was flowing towards Magwitch,

and that any black mark on its surface might be his pursuers, going

swiftly, silently, and surely, to take him.