Great Expectations
seed trade on those premises, if enlarged, such as had never occurred
before in that or any other neighbourhood. What alone was wanting to
the realisation of a vast fortune, he considered to be More Capital.
Those were the two little words, more capital. Now it appeared to him
(Pumblechook) that if that capital were got into the business, through
a sleeping partner, sir,—which sleeping partner would have nothing to
do but walk in, by self or deputy, whenever he pleased, and examine the
books,—and walk in twice a year and take his profits away in his
pocket, to the tune of fifty per cent,—it appeared to him that that
might be an opening for a young gentleman of spirit combined with
property, which would be worthy of his attention. But what did I think?
He had great confidence in my opinion, and what did I think? I gave it
as my opinion. “Wait a bit!” The united vastness and distinctness of
this view so struck him, that he no longer asked if he might shake
hands with me, but said he really must,—and did.
We drank all the wine, and Mr. Pumblechook pledged himself over and
over again to keep Joseph up to the mark (I don’t know what mark), and
to render me efficient and constant service (I don’t know what
service). He also made known to me for the first time in my life, and
certainly after having kept his secret wonderfully well, that he had
always said of me, “That boy is no common boy, and mark me, his fortun’
will be no common fortun’.” He said with a tearful smile that it was a
singular thing to think of now, and I said so too. Finally, I went out
into the air, with a dim perception that there was something unwonted
in the conduct of the sunshine, and found that I had slumberously got
to the turnpike without having taken any account of the road.
There, I was roused by Mr. Pumblechook’s hailing me. He was a long way
down the sunny street, and was making expressive gestures for me to
stop. I stopped, and he came up breathless.
“No, my dear friend,” said he, when he had recovered wind for speech.
“Not if I can help it. This occasion shall not entirely pass without
that affability on your part.—May I, as an old friend and well-wisher?
_May_ I?”
We shook hands for the hundredth time at least, and he ordered a young
carter out of my way with the greatest indignation. Then, he blessed me
and stood waving his hand to me until I had passed the crook in the
road; and then I turned into a field and had a long nap under a hedge
before I pursued my way home.
I had scant luggage to take with me to London, for little of the little
I possessed was adapted to my new station. But I began packing that
same afternoon, and wildly packed up things that I knew I should want
next morning, in a fiction that there was not a moment to be lost.
So, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, passed; and on Friday morning I
went to Mr. Pumblechook’s, to put on my new clothes and pay my visit to
Miss Havisham. Mr. Pumblechook’s own room was given up to me to dress
in, and was decorated with clean towels expressly for the event. My
clothes were rather a disappointment, of course. Probably every new and
eagerly expected garment ever put on since clothes came in, fell a
trifle short of the wearer’s expectation. But after I had had my new
suit on some half an hour, and had gone through an immensity of
posturing with Mr. Pumblechook’s very limited dressing-glass, in the
futile endeavour to see my legs, it seemed to fit me better. It being
market morning at a neighbouring town some ten miles off, Mr.
Pumblechook was not at home. I had not told him exactly when I meant to
leave, and was not likely to shake hands with him again before
departing. This was all as it should be, and I went out in my new
array, fearfully ashamed of having to pass the shopman, and suspicious
after all that I was at a personal disadvantage, something like Joe’s
in his Sunday suit.
I went circuitously to Miss Havisham’s by all the back ways, and rang
at the bell constrainedly, on account of the stiff long fingers of my
gloves. Sarah Pocket came to the gate, and positively reeled back when
she saw me so changed; her walnut-shell countenance likewise turned
from brown to green and yellow.
“You?” said she. “You? Good gracious! What do you want?”
“I am going to London, Miss Pocket,” said I, “and want to say good-bye
to Miss Havisham.”
I was not expected, for she left me locked in the yard, while she went
to ask if I were to be admitted. After a very short delay, she returned
and took me up, staring at me all the way.
Miss Havisham was taking exercise in the room with the long spread
table, leaning on her crutch stick. The room was lighted as of yore,
and at the sound of our entrance, she stopped and turned. She was then
just abreast of the rotted bride-cake.
“Don’t go, Sarah,” she said. “Well, Pip?”
“I start for London, Miss Havisham, to-morrow,” I was exceedingly
careful what I said, “and I thought you would kindly not mind my taking
leave of you.”
“This is a gay figure, Pip,” said she, making her crutch stick play
round me, as if she, the fairy godmother who had changed me, were
bestowing the finishing gift.
“I have come into such good fortune since I saw you last, Miss
Havisham,” I murmured. “And I am so grateful for it, Miss Havisham!”
“Ay, ay!” said she, looking at the discomfited and envious Sarah, with
delight. “I have seen Mr. Jaggers. _I_ have heard about it, Pip. So you
go to-morrow?”
“Yes, Miss Havisham.”
“And you are adopted by a rich person?”
“Yes, Miss Havisham.”
“Not named?”
“No, Miss Havisham.”
“And Mr. Jaggers is made your guardian?”
“Yes, Miss Havisham.”
She quite gloated on these questions and answers, so keen was her
enjoyment of Sarah Pocket’s jealous dismay. “Well!” she went on; “you
have a promising career before you. Be good—deserve it—and abide by Mr.
Jaggers’s instructions.” She looked at me, and looked at Sarah, and
Sarah’s countenance wrung out of her watchful face a cruel smile.
“Good-bye, Pip!—you will always keep the name of Pip, you know.”
“Yes, Miss Havisham.”
“Good-bye, Pip!”
She stretched out her hand, and I went down on my knee and put it to my
lips. I had not considered how I should take leave of her; it came
naturally to me at the moment to do this. She looked at Sarah Pocket
with triumph in her weird eyes, and so I left my fairy godmother, with
both her hands on her crutch stick, standing in the midst of the dimly
lighted room beside the rotten bride-cake that was hidden in cobwebs.
Sarah Pocket conducted me down, as if I were a ghost who must be seen
out. She could not get over my appearance, and was in the last degree
confounded. I said “Good-bye, Miss Pocket;” but she merely stared, and
did not seem collected enough to know that I had spoken. Clear of the
house, I made the best of my way back to Pumblechook’s, took off my new
clothes, made them into a bundle, and went back home in my older dress,
carrying it—to speak the truth—much more at my ease too, though I had
the bundle to carry.
And now, those six days which were to have run out so slowly, had run
out fast and were gone, and to-morrow looked me in the face more
steadily than I could look at it. As the six evenings had dwindled
away, to five, to four, to three, to two, I had become more and more
appreciative of the society of Joe and Biddy. On this last evening, I
dressed myself out in my new clothes for their delight, and sat in my
splendour until bedtime. We had a hot supper on the occasion,
graced by the inevitable roast fowl, and we had some flip to finish
with. We were all very low, and none the higher for pretending to be in
spirits.
I was to leave our village at five in the morning, carrying my little
hand-portmanteau, and I had told Joe that I wished to walk away all
alone. I am afraid—sore afraid—that this purpose originated in my sense
of the contrast there would be between me and Joe, if we went to the
coach together. I had pretended with myself that there was nothing of
this taint in the arrangement; but when I went up to my little room on
this last night, I felt compelled to admit that it might be so, and had
an impulse upon me to go down again and entreat Joe to walk with me in
the morning. I did not.
All night there were coaches in my broken sleep, going to wrong places
instead of to London, and having in the traces, now dogs, now cats, now
pigs, now men,—never horses. Fantastic failures of journeys occupied me
until the day dawned and the birds were singing. Then, I got up and
partly dressed, and sat at the window to take a last look out, and in
taking it fell asleep.
Biddy was astir so early to get my breakfast, that, although I did not
sleep at the window an hour, I smelt the smoke of the kitchen fire when
I started up with a terrible idea that it must be late in the
afternoon. But long after that, and long after I had heard the clinking
of the teacups and was quite ready, I wanted the resolution to go
downstairs. After all, I remained up there, repeatedly unlocking and
unstrapping my small portmanteau and locking and strapping it up again,
until Biddy called to me that I was late.
It was a hurried breakfast with no taste in it. I got up from the meal,
saying with a sort of briskness, as if it had only just occurred to me,
“Well! I suppose I must be off!” and then I kissed my sister who was
laughing and nodding and shaking in her usual chair, and kissed Biddy,
and threw my arms around Joe’s neck. Then I took up my little
portmanteau and walked out. The last I saw of them was, when I
presently heard a scuffle behind me, and looking back, saw Joe throwing
an old shoe after me and Biddy throwing another old shoe. I stopped
then, to wave my hat, and dear old Joe waved his strong right arm above
his head, crying huskily “Hooroar!” and Biddy put her apron to her
face.
I walked away at a good pace, thinking it was easier to go than I had
supposed it would be, and reflecting that it would never have done to
have had an old shoe thrown after the coach, in sight of all the High
Street. I whistled and made nothing of going. But the village was very
peaceful and quiet, and the light mists were solemnly rising, as if to
show me the world, and I had been so innocent and little there, and all
beyond was so unknown and great, that in a moment with a strong heave
and sob I broke into tears. It was by the finger-post at the end of the
village, and I laid my hand upon it, and said, “Good-bye, O my dear,
dear friend!”
Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain
upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was
better after I had cried than before,—more sorry, more aware of my own
ingratitude, more gentle. If I had cried before, I should have had Joe
with me then.
So subdued I was by those tears, and by their breaking out again in the
course of the quiet walk, that when I was on the coach, and it was
clear of the town, I deliberated with an aching heart whether I would
not get down when we changed horses and walk back, and have another
evening at home, and a better parting. We changed, and I had not made
up my mind, and still reflected for my comfort that it would be quite
practicable to get down and walk back, when we changed again. And while
I was occupied with these deliberations, I would fancy an exact
resemblance to Joe in some man coming along the road towards us, and my
heart would beat high.—As if he could possibly be there!
We changed again, and yet again, and it was now too late and too far to
go back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and
the world lay spread before me.
THIS IS THE END OF THE FIRST STAGE OF PIP’S EXPECTATIONS.
Chapter XX.