Kabanata Kabanata 58 · The tidings of my high fortunes having had a heavy fall had got down to

. 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

and poured out my tea—before I could touch the teapot—with the air of a

benefactor who was resolved to be true to the last.

“William,” said Mr. Pumblechook, mournfully, “put the salt on. In

happier times,” addressing me, “I think you took sugar? And did you

take milk? You did. Sugar and milk. William, bring a watercress.”

“Thank you,” said I, shortly, “but I don’t eat watercresses.”

“You don’t eat ’em,” returned Mr. Pumblechook, sighing and nodding his

head several times, as if he might have expected that, and as if

abstinence from watercresses were consistent with my downfall. “True.

The simple fruits of the earth. No. You needn’t bring any, William.”

I went on with my breakfast, and Mr. Pumblechook continued to stand

over me, staring fishily and breathing noisily, as he always did.

“Little more than skin and bone!” mused Mr. Pumblechook, aloud. “And

yet when he went from here (I may say with my blessing), and I spread

afore him my humble store, like the Bee, he was as plump as a Peach!”

This reminded me of the wonderful difference between the servile manner

in which he had offered his hand in my new prosperity, saying, “May I?”

and the ostentatious clemency with which he had just now exhibited the

same fat five fingers.

“Hah!” he went on, handing me the bread and butter. “And air you

a-going to Joseph?”

“In heaven’s name,” said I, firing in spite of myself, “what does it

matter to you where I am going? Leave that teapot alone.”

It was the worst course I could have taken, because it gave Pumblechook

the opportunity he wanted.

“Yes, young man,” said he, releasing the handle of the article in

question, retiring a step or two from my table, and speaking for the

behoof of the landlord and waiter at the door, “I _will_ leave that

teapot alone. You are right, young man. For once you are right. I

forgit myself when I take such an interest in your breakfast, as to

wish your frame, exhausted by the debilitating effects of

prodigygality, to be stimilated by the ’olesome nourishment of your

forefathers. And yet,” said Pumblechook, turning to the landlord and

waiter, and pointing me out at arm’s length, “this is him as I ever

sported with in his days of happy infancy! Tell me not it cannot be; I

tell you this is him!”

A low murmur from the two replied. The waiter appeared to be

particularly affected.

“This is him,” said Pumblechook, “as I have rode in my shay-cart. This

is him as I have seen brought up by hand. This is him untoe the sister

of which I was uncle by marriage, as her name was Georgiana M’ria from

her own mother, let him deny it if he can!”

The waiter seemed convinced that I could not deny it, and that it gave

the case a black look.

“Young man,” said Pumblechook, screwing his head at me in the old

fashion, “you air a-going to Joseph. What does it matter to me, you ask

me, where you air a-going? I say to you, Sir, you air a-going to

Joseph.”

The waiter coughed, as if he modestly invited me to get over that.

“Now,” said Pumblechook, and all this with a most exasperating air of

saying in the cause of virtue what was perfectly convincing and

conclusive, “I will tell you what to say to Joseph. Here is Squires of

the Boar present, known and respected in this town, and here is

William, which his father’s name was Potkins if I do not deceive

myself.”

“You do not, sir,” said William.

“In their presence,” pursued Pumblechook, “I will tell you, young man,

what to say to Joseph. Says you, “Joseph, I have this day seen my

earliest benefactor and the founder of my fortun’s. I will name no

names, Joseph, but so they are pleased to call him up town, and I have

seen that man.”

“I swear I don’t see him here,” said I.

“Say that likewise,” retorted Pumblechook. “Say you said that, and even

Joseph will probably betray surprise.”

“There you quite mistake him,” said I. “I know better.”

“Says you,” Pumblechook went on, “‘Joseph, I have seen that man, and

that man bears you no malice and bears me no malice. He knows your

character, Joseph, and is well acquainted with your pig-headedness and

ignorance; and he knows my character, Joseph, and he knows my want of

gratitoode. Yes, Joseph,’ says you,” here Pumblechook shook his head

and hand at me, “‘he knows my total deficiency of common human

gratitoode. _He_ knows it, Joseph, as none can. _You_ do not know it,

Joseph, having no call to know it, but that man do.’”

Windy donkey as he was, it really amazed me that he could have the face

to talk thus to mine.

“Says you, ‘Joseph, he gave me a little message, which I will now

repeat. It was that, in my being brought low, he saw the finger of

Providence. He knowed that finger when he saw Joseph, and he saw it

plain. It pinted out this writing, Joseph. _Reward of ingratitoode to

his earliest benefactor, and founder of fortun’s_. But that man said he

did not repent of what he had done, Joseph. Not at all. It was right to

do it, it was kind to do it, it was benevolent to do it, and he would

do it again.’”

“It’s pity,” said I, scornfully, as I finished my interrupted

breakfast, “that the man did not say what he had done and would do

again.”

“Squires of the Boar!” Pumblechook was now addressing the landlord,

“and William! I have no objections to your mentioning, either up town

or down town, if such should be your wishes, that it was right to do

it, kind to do it, benevolent to do it, and that I would do it again.”

With those words the Impostor shook them both by the hand, with an air,

and left the house; leaving me much more astonished than delighted by

the virtues of that same indefinite “it.” I was not long after him in

leaving the house too, and when I went down the High Street I saw him

holding forth (no doubt to the same effect) at his shop door to a

select group, who honoured me with very unfavourable glances as I

passed on the opposite side of the way.

But, it was only the pleasanter to turn to Biddy and to Joe, whose

great forbearance shone more brightly than before, if that could be,

contrasted with this brazen pretender. I went towards them slowly, for

my limbs were weak, but with a sense of increasing relief as I drew

nearer to them, and a sense of leaving arrogance and untruthfulness

further and further behind.

The June weather was delicious. The sky was blue, the larks were

soaring high over the green corn, I thought all that countryside more

beautiful and peaceful by far than I had ever known it to be yet. Many

pleasant pictures of the life that I would lead there, and of the

change for the better that would come over my character when I had a

guiding spirit at my side whose simple faith and clear home wisdom I

had proved, beguiled my way. They awakened a tender emotion in me; for

my heart was softened by my return, and such a change had come to pass,

that I felt like one who was toiling home barefoot from distant travel,

and whose wanderings had lasted many years.

The schoolhouse where Biddy was mistress I had never seen; but, the

little roundabout lane by which I entered the village, for quietness’

sake, took me past it. I was disappointed to find that the day was a

holiday; no children were there, and Biddy’s house was closed. Some

hopeful notion of seeing her, busily engaged in her daily duties,

before she saw me, had been in my mind and was defeated.

But the forge was a very short distance off, and I went towards it

under the sweet green limes, listening for the clink of Joe’s hammer.

Long after I ought to have heard it, and long after I had fancied I

heard it and found it but a fancy, all was still. The limes were there,

and the white thorns were there, and the chestnut-trees were there, and

their leaves rustled harmoniously when I stopped to listen; but, the

clink of Joe’s hammer was not in the midsummer wind.

Almost fearing, without knowing why, to come in view of the forge, I

saw it at last, and saw that it was closed. No gleam of fire, no

glittering shower of sparks, no roar of bellows; all shut up, and

still.

But the house was not deserted, and the best parlour seemed to be in

use, for there were white curtains fluttering in its window, and the

window was open and gay with flowers. I went softly towards it, meaning

to peep over the flowers, when Joe and Biddy stood before me, arm in

arm.

At first Biddy gave a cry, as if she thought it was my apparition, but

in another moment she was in my embrace. I wept to see her, and she

wept to see me; I, because she looked so fresh and pleasant; she,

because I looked so worn and white.

“But dear Biddy, how smart you are!”

“Yes, dear Pip.”

“And Joe, how smart _you_ are!”

“Yes, dear old Pip, old chap.”

I looked at both of them, from one to the other, and then—

“It’s my wedding-day!” cried Biddy, in a burst of happiness, “and I am

married to Joe!”

They had taken me into the kitchen, and I had laid my head down on the

old deal table. Biddy held one of my hands to her lips, and Joe’s

restoring touch was on my shoulder. “Which he warn’t strong enough, my

dear, fur to be surprised,” said Joe. And Biddy said, “I ought to have

thought of it, dear Joe, but I was too happy.” They were both so

overjoyed to see me, so proud to see me, so touched by my coming to

them, so delighted that I should have come by accident to make their

day complete!

My first thought was one of great thankfulness that I had never

breathed this last baffled hope to Joe. How often, while he was with me

in my illness, had it risen to my lips! How irrevocable would have been

his knowledge of it, if he had remained with me but another hour!

“Dear Biddy,” said I, “you have the best husband in the whole world,

and if you could have seen him by my bed you would have—But no, you

couldn’t love him better than you do.”

“No, I couldn’t indeed,” said Biddy.

“And, dear Joe, you have the best wife in the whole world, and she will

make you as happy as even you deserve to be, you dear, good, noble

Joe!”

Joe looked at me with a quivering lip, and fairly put his sleeve before

his eyes.

“And Joe and Biddy both, as you have been to church to-day, and are in

charity and love with all mankind, receive my humble thanks for all you

have done for me, and all I have so ill repaid! And when I say that I

am going away within the hour, for I am soon going abroad, and that I

shall never rest until I have worked for the money with which you have

kept me out of prison, and have sent it to you, don’t think, dear Joe

and Biddy, that if I could repay it a thousand times over, I suppose I

could cancel a farthing of the debt I owe you, or that I would do so if

I could!”

They were both melted by these words, and both entreated me to say no

more.

“But I must say more. Dear Joe, I hope you will have children to love,

and that some little fellow will sit in this chimney-corner of a winter

night, who may remind you of another little fellow gone out of it for

ever. Don’t tell him, Joe, that I was thankless; don’t tell him, Biddy,

that I was ungenerous and unjust; only tell him that I honoured you

both, because you were both so good and true, and that, as your child,

I said it would be natural to him to grow up a much better man than I

did.”

“I ain’t a-going,” said Joe, from behind his sleeve, “to tell him

nothink o’ that natur, Pip. Nor Biddy ain’t. Nor yet no one ain’t.”

“And now, though I know you have already done it in your own kind

hearts, pray tell me, both, that you forgive me! Pray let me hear you

say the words, that I may carry the sound of them away with me, and

then I shall be able to believe that you can trust me, and think better

of me, in the time to come!”

“O dear old Pip, old chap,” said Joe. “God knows as I forgive you, if I

have anythink to forgive!”

“Amen! And God knows I do!” echoed Biddy.

“Now let me go up and look at my old little room, and rest there a few

minutes by myself. And then, when I have eaten and drunk with you, go

with me as far as the finger-post, dear Joe and Biddy, before we say

good-bye!”

I sold all I had, and put aside as much as I could, for a composition

with my creditors,—who gave me ample time to pay them in full,—and I

went out and joined Herbert. Within a month, I had quitted England, and

within two months I was clerk to Clarriker and Co., and within four

months I assumed my first undivided responsibility. For the beam across

the parlour ceiling at Mill Pond Bank had then ceased to tremble under

old Bill Barley’s growls and was at peace, and Herbert had gone away to

marry Clara, and I was left in sole charge of the Eastern Branch until

he brought her back.

Many a year went round before I was a partner in the House; but I lived

happily with Herbert and his wife, and lived frugally, and paid my

debts, and maintained a constant correspondence with Biddy and Joe. It

was not until I became third in the Firm, that Clarriker betrayed me to

Herbert; but he then declared that the secret of Herbert’s partnership

had been long enough upon his conscience, and he must tell it. So he

told it, and Herbert was as much moved as amazed, and the dear fellow

and I were not the worse friends for the long concealment. I must not

leave it to be supposed that we were ever a great House, or that we

made mints of money. We were not in a grand way of business, but we had

a good name, and worked for our profits, and did very well. We owed so

much to Herbert’s ever cheerful industry and readiness, that I often

wondered how I had conceived that old idea of his inaptitude, until I

was one day enlightened by the reflection, that perhaps the inaptitude

had never been in him at all, but had been in me.