 58 The tidings of my high fortunes having had a heavy fall had got down to my native place and its neighborhood 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 demeanor. 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 someone who had expectations, and could only assign me a very indifferent chamber among the pigeons and post chases up the yard, but I had as sound asleep at 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 catalog 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? 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 water-cress. Thank you, said I shortly, but I don't eat water-cresses. You don't eat them. Returned Mr. Pumblechook, sighing and nodding his head several times, as if he might have expected that, and as if abstinence from water-cresses 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 before 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. Ha! he went on, handing me bread and butter. And are you going to Joseph? In heaven's name, said I, firing in spite of myself, what does it matter to you where I'm 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, and 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 forget myself when I take such an interest in your breakfast, as to wish your frame, exhausted by the debilitating effects of prodigy-gallity, to be stimulated by the wholesome 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 unto the sister of which I was uncle by marriage, as her name was Georgiana Miria 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 are a going to Joseph. What does it matter to me, you ask me? Where you are a going? I say to you, sir, you are a going to Joseph. The waiter coughed as if he modestly invited me to get over that. Now, said Pumblechook, and all this was the 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 fortune. 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 gratitude. Yes, Joseph, says you, here Pumblechook shook his head and hand at me. He knows my total deficiency of common human gratitude. He knows that Joseph as none can. You do not know it, Joseph, having no call to know it, but that man do. Wendy 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. He pointed out this writing, Joseph, reward of ingratitude to his earliest benefactor and founder of fortune. 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 a 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 uptown or downtown, 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 these words the imposter 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 unfavorable 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 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 school-house where Biddy was mistress I had never seen, but the little roundabout lane by which I entered the village, for quietness's 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'd 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 mid-summer 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 parlor 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 Chup! 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 you weren't strong enough, my dear, for 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 have 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 today, 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 forever. 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 nothing of that nature, 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 that I shall be able to believe that you can trust me and think better of me in the time to come. Oh, dear old Pip, old chap, said Joe, God knows as I forgive you if I have anything to forgive. Amen, and God knows I do, echo 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've eaten and drunk with you, go with me as far as the finger post. Dear Joe and Biddy, before we say goodbye, 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 clerked to Cleriker and Company, and within four months I assumed my first undivided responsibility. For the beam across the parlor ceiling at Milpawn 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 Cleriker 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 worst 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 it been in me. CHAPTER 59 For eleven years I have not seen Joe nor Biddy with my bodily eyes, though they had both been often before my fancy in the East, when upon an evening in December, an hour or two after dark, I laid my hand softly on the latch of the old kitchen door. I touched it so softly that I was not heard, and looked in unseen. There, smoking his pipe in the old place by the kitchen firelight, as hail and as strong as ever, though a little gray, sat Joe, and there, fenced into the corner with Joe's leg, and sitting on my own little stool looking at the fire, was I again. We give him the name of Pip for your sake, dear old chap, said Joe, delighted, when I took another stool by the child's side, but I did not rumple his hair. And we hoped he might grow a little bit like you, and we think he do. I thought so, too, and I took him out for a walk next morning, and we talked immensely, understanding one another to perfection. And I took him down to the churchyard, and set him on a certain tombstone there, and he showed me from that elevation which stone was sacred to the memory of Philip Pirup, late of this parish, and also Georgiana, wife of the above. Biddy, said I, when I talked with her after dinner, as her little girl lay sleeping in her lap, you must give Pip to me one of these days, or lend him at all events. No, no, said Biddy gently. You must marry. So Herbert and Clara say, but I don't think I shall, Biddy. I have so settled down in their home that it's not at all likely. I'm already quite an old bachelor. Biddy looked down at her child and put his little hand to her lips, and then put the good matronly hand with which she had touched it into mine. There was something in the action, and in the light pressure of Biddy's wedding ring, that had a very pretty eloquence in it. Dear Pip, said Biddy, you are sure you don't fret for her? Oh, no, I think not, Biddy. Tell me, as an old, old friend, have you quite forgotten her? My dear Biddy, I have forgotten nothing in my life that ever had a foremost place there, and little that ever had any place there, but that poor dream, as I once used to call it, has all gone by, Biddy, all gone by. Nevertheless, I knew, while I said those words, that I secretly intended to revisit the side of the old house that evening, alone, for her sake. Yes, even so, for Estela's sake. I had heard of her as leading a most unhappy life, and as being separated from her husband, who had used her with great cruelty, and who had become quite renowned as a compound of pride, address, brutality, and meanness. And I had heard of the death of her husband, from an accident consequent on his ill-treatment of a horse. This release had befallen her some two years before, for anything I knew, she was married again. The early dinner hour at Joe's left me in abundance of time, without hurrying my talk with Biddy, to walk over to the old spot before dark. But, what with loitering on the way to look at old objects, and to think of old times, the day had quite declined when I came to the place. There was no house now, no brewery, no building whatever left, but the wall of the old garden. The cleared space had been enclosed with a rough fence, and looking over it, I saw that some of the old ivy had struck root anew, and was growing green on low, quiet mounds of ruin. A gate in the fence, standing a jar, I pushed it open and went in. A cold silvery mist had veiled the afternoon, and the moon was not yet up to scatter it. But the stars were shining beyond the mist, and the moon was coming, and the evening was not dark. I could trace out where every part of the old house had been, and where the brewery had been, and where the gates, and where the casks. I had done so, and was looking along the desolate garden walk, when I beheld a solitary figure in it. The figure showed itself aware of me as I advanced. It had been moving towards me, but it stood still. As I drew nearer, I saw it to be the figure of a woman. As I drew nearer yet, it was about to turn away when it stopped, and let me come up with it. Then it faltered, as if much surprise, and uttered my name, and I cried out, Estella! I am greatly changed. I wonder you knew me. The freshness of her beauty was indeed gone, but its indescribable majesty and its indescribable charm remained. Those attractions in it I had seen before. What I had never seen before was the saddened, softened light of the once proud eyes. What I had never felt before was the friendly touch of the once insensible hand. We sat down on a bench that was nearer, and I said, After so many years it is strange that we should thus meet again, Estella, here where our first meeting was. Do you often come back? I have never been here since. Nor I. The moon began to rise, and I thought of the placent look at the white ceiling which had passed away. The moon began to rise, and I thought of the pressure on my hand when I had spoken the last words he had heard on earth. Estella was the next to break the silence that ensued between us. I have very often hoped and intended to come back, but have been prevented by many circumstances. Poor, poor old place. The silvery mist was touched with the first rays of the moonlight, and the same rays touched the tears that dropped from her eyes. Not knowing that I saw them, and setting herself to get the better of them, she said quietly, Were you wondering, as you walked along, how it came to be left in this condition? Yes, Estella. The ground belongs to me. It is the only possession I have not relinquished. Everything else has gone from me, little by little. But I have kept this. It was the subject of the only determined resistance I made in all the wretched years. Is it to be built on? At last it is. I came here to take leave of it before its change. And you, she said in a voice of touching interest to a wanderer, you live abroad still? Still. And do well, I am sure. I work pretty hard for a sufficient living, and therefore, yes, I do well. I have often thought of you, said Estella. Have you? Of late, very often. There was a long hard time when I kept far from me the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth. But since my duty has not been incompatible with the admission of that remembrance, I have given it a place in my heart. You have always held your place in my heart, I answered. And we were silent again until she spoke. I little thought, said Estella, that I should take leave of you in taking leave of the spot. I am very glad to do so. Glad to part again, Estella? To me, parting is a painful thing. To me, the remembrance of our last parting has been ever mournful and painful. But you said to me, returned Estella, very earnestly, God bless you, God forgive you. And if you could say that to me then, you will not hesitate to say that to me now. Now, when suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be, I have been bent and broken. But I hope into a better shape. Be as considerate and good to me as you were, and tell me we are friends. We are friends, said I, rising and bending over her as she rose from the bench. And we'll continue friends apart, said Estella. I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place, and as the morning mist had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so the evening mist were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting from her.