Great Expectations
“Wery good, then,” said Joe, as if I _had_ answered; “that’s all right;
that’s agreed upon. Then why go into subjects, old chap, which as
betwixt two sech must be for ever onnecessary? There’s subjects enough
as betwixt two sech, without onnecessary ones. Lord! To think of your
poor sister and her Rampages! And don’t you remember Tickler?”
“I do indeed, Joe.”
“Lookee here, old chap,” said Joe. “I done what I could to keep you and
Tickler in sunders, but my power were not always fully equal to my
inclinations. For when your poor sister had a mind to drop into you, it
were not so much,” said Joe, in his favourite argumentative way, “that
she dropped into me too, if I put myself in opposition to her, but that
she dropped into you always heavier for it. I noticed that. It ain’t a
grab at a man’s whisker, not yet a shake or two of a man (to which your
sister was quite welcome), that ’ud put a man off from getting a little
child out of punishment. But when that little child is dropped into
heavier for that grab of whisker or shaking, then that man naterally up
and says to himself, ‘Where is the good as you are a-doing? I grant you
I see the ’arm,’ says the man, ‘but I don’t see the good. I call upon
you, sir, therefore, to pint out the good.’”
“The man says?” I observed, as Joe waited for me to speak.
“The man says,” Joe assented. “Is he right, that man?”
“Dear Joe, he is always right.”
“Well, old chap,” said Joe, “then abide by your words. If he’s always
right (which in general he’s more likely wrong), he’s right when he
says this: Supposing ever you kep any little matter to yourself, when
you was a little child, you kep it mostly because you know’d as J.
Gargery’s power to part you and Tickler in sunders were not fully equal
to his inclinations. Theerfore, think no more of it as betwixt two
sech, and do not let us pass remarks upon onnecessary subjects. Biddy
giv’ herself a deal o’ trouble with me afore I left (for I am almost
awful dull), as I should view it in this light, and, viewing it in this
light, as I should so put it. Both of which,” said Joe, quite charmed
with his logical arrangement, “being done, now this to you a true
friend, say. Namely. You mustn’t go a overdoing on it, but you must
have your supper and your wine and water, and you must be put betwixt
the sheets.”
The delicacy with which Joe dismissed this theme, and the sweet tact
and kindness with which Biddy—who with her woman’s wit had found me out
so soon—had prepared him for it, made a deep impression on my mind. But
whether Joe knew how poor I was, and how my great expectations had all
dissolved, like our own marsh mists before the sun, I could not
understand.
Another thing in Joe that I could not understand when it first began to
develop itself, but which I soon arrived at a sorrowful comprehension
of, was this: As I became stronger and better, Joe became a little less
easy with me. In my weakness and entire dependence on him, the dear
fellow had fallen into the old tone, and called me by the old names,
the dear “old Pip, old chap,” that now were music in my ears. I too had
fallen into the old ways, only happy and thankful that he let me. But,
imperceptibly, though I held by them fast, Joe’s hold upon them began
to slacken; and whereas I wondered at this, at first, I soon began to
understand that the cause of it was in me, and that the fault of it was
all mine.
Ah! Had I given Joe no reason to doubt my constancy, and to think that
in prosperity I should grow cold to him and cast him off? Had I given
Joe’s innocent heart no cause to feel instinctively that as I got
stronger, his hold upon me would be weaker, and that he had better
loosen it in time and let me go, before I plucked myself away?
It was on the third or fourth occasion of my going out walking in the
Temple Gardens leaning on Joe’s arm, that I saw this change in him very
plainly. We had been sitting in the bright warm sunlight, looking at
the river, and I chanced to say as we got up,—
“See, Joe! I can walk quite strongly. Now, you shall see me walk back
by myself.”
“Which do not overdo it, Pip,” said Joe; “but I shall be happy fur to
see you able, sir.”
The last word grated on me; but how could I remonstrate! I walked no
further than the gate of the gardens, and then pretended to be weaker
than I was, and asked Joe for his arm. Joe gave it me, but was
thoughtful.
I, for my part, was thoughtful too; for, how best to check this growing
change in Joe was a great perplexity to my remorseful thoughts. That I
was ashamed to tell him exactly how I was placed, and what I had come
down to, I do not seek to conceal; but I hope my reluctance was not
quite an unworthy one. He would want to help me out of his little
savings, I knew, and I knew that he ought not to help me, and that I
must not suffer him to do it.
It was a thoughtful evening with both of us. But, before we went to
bed, I had resolved that I would wait over to-morrow,—to-morrow being
Sunday,—and would begin my new course with the new week. On Monday
morning I would speak to Joe about this change, I would lay aside this
last vestige of reserve, I would tell him what I had in my thoughts
(that Secondly, not yet arrived at), and why I had not decided to go
out to Herbert, and then the change would be conquered for ever. As I
cleared, Joe cleared, and it seemed as though he had sympathetically
arrived at a resolution too.
We had a quiet day on the Sunday, and we rode out into the country, and
then walked in the fields.
“I feel thankful that I have been ill, Joe,” I said.
“Dear old Pip, old chap, you’re a’most come round, sir.”
“It has been a memorable time for me, Joe.”
“Likeways for myself, sir,” Joe returned.
“We have had a time together, Joe, that I can never forget. There were
days once, I know, that I did for a while forget; but I never shall
forget these.”
“Pip,” said Joe, appearing a little hurried and troubled, “there has
been larks. And, dear sir, what have been betwixt us—have been.”
At night, when I had gone to bed, Joe came into my room, as he had done
all through my recovery. He asked me if I felt sure that I was as well
as in the morning?
“Yes, dear Joe, quite.”
“And are always a getting stronger, old chap?”
“Yes, dear Joe, steadily.”
Joe patted the coverlet on my shoulder with his great good hand, and
said, in what I thought a husky voice, “Good night!”
When I got up in the morning, refreshed and stronger yet, I was full of
my resolution to tell Joe all, without delay. I would tell him before
breakfast. I would dress at once and go to his room and surprise him;
for, it was the first day I had been up early. I went to his room, and
he was not there. Not only was he not there, but his box was gone.
I hurried then to the breakfast-table, and on it found a letter. These
were its brief contents:—
“Not wishful to intrude I have departured fur you are well again dear
Pip and will do better without
JO.
“P.S. Ever the best of friends.”
Enclosed in the letter was a receipt for the debt and costs on which I
had been arrested. Down to that moment, I had vainly supposed that my
creditor had withdrawn, or suspended proceedings until I should be
quite recovered. I had never dreamed of Joe’s having paid the money;
but Joe had paid it, and the receipt was in his name.
What remained for me now, but to follow him to the dear old forge, and
there to have out my disclosure to him, and my penitent remonstrance
with him, and there to relieve my mind and heart of that reserved
Secondly, which had begun as a vague something lingering in my
thoughts, and had formed into a settled purpose?
The purpose was, that I would go to Biddy, that I would show her how
humbled and repentant I came back, that I would tell her how I had lost
all I once hoped for, that I would remind her of our old confidences in
my first unhappy time. Then I would say to her, “Biddy, I think you
once liked me very well, when my errant heart, even while it strayed
away from you, was quieter and better with you than it ever has been
since. If you can like me only half as well once more, if you can take
me with all my faults and disappointments on my head, if you can
receive me like a forgiven child (and indeed I am as sorry, Biddy, and
have as much need of a hushing voice and a soothing hand), I hope I am
a little worthier of you that I was,—not much, but a little. And,
Biddy, it shall rest with you to say whether I shall work at the forge
with Joe, or whether I shall try for any different occupation down in
this country, or whether we shall go away to a distant place where an
opportunity awaits me which I set aside, when it was offered, until I
knew your answer. And now, dear Biddy, if you can tell me that you will
go through the world with me, you will surely make it a better world
for me, and me a better man for it, and I will try hard to make it a
better world for you.”
Such was my purpose. After three days more of recovery, I went down to
the old place to put it in execution. And how I sped in it is all I
have left to tell.
Chapter LVIII.
The tidings of my high fortunes having had a heavy fall had got down to
my native place and its neighbourhood before I got there. I found the
Blue Boar in possession of the intelligence, and I found that it made a
great change in the Boar’s demeanour. Whereas the Boar had cultivated
my good opinion with warm assiduity when I was coming into property,
the Boar was exceedingly cool on the subject now that I was going out
of property.
It was evening when I arrived, much fatigued by the journey I had so
often made so easily. The Boar could not put me into my usual bedroom,
which was engaged (probably by some one who had expectations), and
could only assign me a very indifferent chamber among the pigeons and
post-chaises up the yard. But I had as sound a sleep in that lodging as
in the most superior accommodation the Boar could have given me, and
the quality of my dreams was about the same as in the best bedroom.
Early in the morning, while my breakfast was getting ready, I strolled
round by Satis House. There were printed bills on the gate and on bits
of carpet hanging out of the windows, announcing a sale by auction of
the Household Furniture and Effects, next week. The House itself was to
be sold as old building materials, and pulled down. LOT 1 was marked in
whitewashed knock-knee letters on the brew house; LOT 2 on that part of
the main building which had been so long shut up. Other lots were
marked off on other parts of the structure, and the ivy had been torn
down to make room for the inscriptions, and much of it trailed low in
the dust and was withered already. Stepping in for a moment at the open
gate, and looking around me with the uncomfortable air of a stranger
who had no business there, I saw the auctioneer’s clerk walking on the
casks and telling them off for the information of a catalogue-compiler,
pen in hand, who made a temporary desk of the wheeled chair I had so
often pushed along to the tune of Old Clem.
When I got back to my breakfast in the Boar’s coffee-room, I found Mr.
Pumblechook conversing with the landlord. Mr. Pumblechook (not improved
in appearance by his late nocturnal adventure) was waiting for me, and
addressed me in the following terms:—
“Young man, I am sorry to see you brought low. But what else could be
expected! what else could be expected!”
As he extended his hand with a magnificently forgiving air, and as I
was broken by illness and unfit to quarrel, I took it.
“William,” said Mr. Pumblechook to the waiter, “put a muffin on table.
And has it come to this! Has it come to this!”
I frowningly sat down to my breakfast. Mr. Pumblechook stood over me