Poor fellow! He little suspected with whose money.
`But there is another question,' said Herbert. `This is an ignorant determined man, who has long had one fixed idea. More than that, he seems to me (I may misjudge him) to be a man of a desperate and fierce character.'
`I know he is,' I returned. `Let me tell you what evidence I have seen of it.' And I told him what I had not mentioned in my narrative; of that encounter with the other convict.
`See, then,' said Herbert; `think of this! He comes here at the peril of his life, for the realization of his fixed idea. In the moment of realization, after all his toil and waiting, you cut the ground from under his feet, destroy his idea, and make his gains worthless to him. Do you see nothing that he might do, under the disappointment?'
`I have seen it, Herbert, and dreamed of it, ever since the fatal night of his arrival. Nothing has been in my thoughts so distinctly, as his putting himself in the way of being taken.'
`Then you may rely upon it,' said Herbert, `that there would be great danger of his doing it. That is his power over you as long as he remains in England, and that would be his reckless course if you forsook him.'
I was so struck by the horror of this idea, which had weighed upon me from the first, and the working out of which would make me regard myself, in some sort, as his murderer, that I could not rest in my chair but began pacing to and fro. I said to Herbert, meanwhile, that even if Provis were recognized and taken, in spite of himself, I should be wretched as the cause, however innocently. Yes; even though I was so wretched in having him at large and near me, and even though I would far far rather have worked at the forge all the days of my life than I would ever have come to this!
But there was no raving off the question, What was to be done?
`The first and the main thing to be done,' said Herbert, `is to get him out of England. You will have to go with him, and then he may be induced to go.'
`But get him where I will, could I prevent his coming back?'
`My good Handel, is it not obvious that with Newgate in the next street, there must be far greater hazard in your breaking your mind to him and ****** him reckless, here, than elsewhere. If a pretext to get him away could be made out of that other convict, or out of anything else in his life, now.'
`There, again!' said I, stopping before Herbert, with my open hands held out, as if they contained the desperation of the case. `I know nothing of his life. It has almost made me mad to sit here of a night and see him before me, so bound up with my fortunes and misfortunes, and yet so unknown to me, except as the miserable wretch who terrified me two days in my childhood!'
Herbert got up, and linked his arm in mine, and we slowly walked to and fro together, studying the carpet.
`Handel,' said Herbert, stopping, `you feel convinced that you can take no further benefits from him; do you?'
`Fully. Surely you would, too, if you were in my place?'
`And you feel convinced that you must break with him?'
`Herbert, can you ask me?'
`And you have, and are bound to have, that tenderness for the life he has risked on your account, that you must save him, if possible, from throwing it away. Then you must get him out of England before you stir a finger to extricate yourself. That done, extricate yourself, in Heaven's name, and we'll see it out together, dear old boy.'
It was a comfort to shake hands upon it, and walk up and down again, with only that done.
`Now, Herbert,' said I, `with reference to gaining some knowledge of his history. There is but one way that I know of. I must ask him point-blank.'
`Yes. Ask him,' said Herbert, `when we sit at breakfast in the morning.'
For, he had said, on taking leave of Herbert, that he would come to breakfast with us.
With this project formed, we went to bed. I had the wildest dreams concerning him, and woke unrefreshed; I woke, too, to recover the fear which I had lost in the night, of his being found out as a returned transport. Waking, I never lost that fear.
He came round at the appointed time, took out his jack-knife, and sat down to his meal. He was full of plans `for his gentleman's coming out strong, and like a gentleman,' and urged me to begin speedily upon the pocket-book, which he had left in my possession. He considered the chambers and his own lodging as temporary residences, and advised me to look out at once for a `fashionable crib' near Hyde Park, in which he could have `a shake-down'. When he had made an end of his breakfast, and was wiping his knife on his leg, I said to him, without a word of preface:
`After you were gone last night, I told my friend of the struggle that the soldiers found you engaged in on the marshes, when we came up. You remember?'
`Remember!' said he. `I think so!'
`We want to know something about that man - and about you. It is strange to know no more about either, and particularly you, than I was able to tell last night. Is not this as good a time as another for our knowing more?'
`Well!' he said, after consideration. `You're on your oath, you know, Pip's comrade?'
`Assuredly,' replied Herbert.
`As to anything I say, you know,' he insisted. `The oath applies to all.'
`I understand it to do so.'
`And look'ee here! Wotever I done, is worked out and paid for,' he insisted again.
`So be it.'
He took out his black pipe and was going to fill it with negrohead, when, looking at the tangle of tobacco in his hand, he seemed to think it might perplex the thread of his narrative. He put it back again, stuck his pipe in a button-hole of his coat, spread a hand on each knee, and, after turning an angry eye on the fire for a few silent moments, looked round at us and said what follows.
