Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the forty-sixth chapter of Great Expectations.

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Today we'll be continuing great expectations by Charles Dickens chapter 46 08:00 had struck before I got into the air that was scented, not disagreeably, by the chips and shavings of the long shoreboat builders and mast ore and blockmakers.

All that waterside 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 Basin, and I had no other guide to C****'s Basin than the old green copper ropewalk.

It matters not what stranded ships or paring in dry docks I lost myself among what old holes of ships in course of being knocked to pieces, what ooze and slime and other dregs of tide, what yards of shipbuilders and shipbreakers, what rusty anchors blindly biting into the ground, though for years off duty, what mountainous country of accumulated casks and timber, how many ropewalks that were not the old green copper, after several times falling short of my destination, and is 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 super annutated 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.

Wimple, 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 parlor and shut the door.

It was an od 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 in China, the shells upon the chimney piece, and the colored engravings on the wall representing the death of Captain Cook, a ship launch, and his Majesty King George II in a state coachman's wig, leather breeches, and top boots on the terrace at Windsor.

All is well handle, 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'd become aware of an alarming growling overhead, and had probably expressed the fact in my countenance.

I'm afraid he's a saddled rascal, said Herbert, smiling.

But I've never seen him.

Don't you smell rum?

He's 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 a gout in his right hand, and everywhere else can expect to get through a double gloucester without hurting himself.

You seemed to have hurt himself very much.

For he gave another furious roar.

The have provos for an upper lodger is quite a godsend to Mrs.

Wimple, said Herbert.

For, of course, people in general won't stand that noise.

A curious place handle, isn't it?

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

Mrs.

Wimple, 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 handle.

And no relation in the world.

But old Guffengrim.

Surely that's not his.

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.

Wimple.

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 an old barley.

By reason of his being totally unequal to the consideration of any subject more psychological than gout rum and purser 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 20 or so.

Came in with a basket in her hand, whom Herbert tenderly relieved at 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 tomorrow, served out to be cooked.

Two mutton chops, three potatoes, some split peas, a little flour, 2oz of butter, a pinch of salt, and all this black pepper.

It stood 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.

Something so gentle in her so much needing protection on mill pond bank by C****'s basin.

And the old green copper rope walk.

With old barley growing in the beam.

That I would not have undone the engagement between her and Herbert.

For all the money in the pocketbook I had never opened.

I was looking at her with pleasure and admiration.

When suddenly the growl swelled into a roar again.

And the 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's an unconscionable old shark for you, said Herbert.

What do you suppose he wants now handle?

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.

Heaths 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 sleeping 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 compisson 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 Wimick's judgment and sources of information.

Aye, aye, dear boy, he answered with a grave nod.

Jagger's nose, then I have talked with Wimick, 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 Wimick 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 Wimick had recommended his keeping close for a time, and my keeping away from him, and what Wimick 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 Wimick'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, an undeclared 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'd been looking at the fire and pondering here, said that something had come into his thoughts, arising out of Wimick's suggestion, which it might be worthwhile to pursue.

We are both good watermen, handle, 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 chances 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 20 or 50 times, and there's nothing special in your doing it the 21st or 51st.

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 recognize us if we came below bridge and rode 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, or marking 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 you're being safer here than near me.

Goodbye, dear boy, he answered, clasping my hands.

I don't know when we may meet again, and I don't like goodbye.

Say goodnight.

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 were past his door, with no appearance of having ceased or of meaning to cease.

When we got to the foot of the stairs, asked Herbert whether he had preserved the name of province.

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 parlor where Mrs.

Wimple 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 C****'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 province, 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'd been out a few times.

At first I kept above Blackfrier's 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.

Thank you for joining bite at a time books today while we read a bite of one of your favorite classics again.

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