Chapter 19

Morning made a considerable difference in my general prospect of Life,
and brightened it so much that it scarcely seemed the same. What lay heaviest on
my mind was, the consideration that six days intervened between me and the day
of departure; for I could not divest myself of a misgiving that something might
happen to London in the meanwhile, and that, when I got there, it would be
either greatly deteriorated or clean gone.

Joe and Biddy were very sympathetic and pleasant when I spoke of our approaching
separation; but they only referred to it when I did. After breakfast, Joe
brought out my indentures from the press in the best parlor, and we put them in
the fire, and I felt that I was free. With all the novelty of my emancipation on
me, I went to church with Joe, and thought perhaps the clergyman wouldn’t have
read that about the rich man and the kingdom of Heaven, if he had known all.

After our early dinner, I strolled out alone, purposing to finish off the
marshes at once, and get them done with. As I passed the church, I felt (as I
had felt during service in the morning) a sublime compassion for the poor
creatures who were destined to go there, Sunday after Sunday, all their lives
through, and to lie obscurely at last among the low green mounds. I promised
myself that I would do something for them one of these days, and formed a plan
in outline for bestowing a dinner of roast-beef and plum-pudding, a pint of ale,
and a gallon of condescension, upon everybody in the village.

If I had often thought before, with something allied to shame, of my
companionship with the fugitive whom I had once seen limping among those graves,
what were my thoughts on this Sunday, when the place recalled the wretch, ragged
and shivering, with his felon iron and badge! My comfort was, that it happened a
long time ago, and that he had doubtless been transported a long way off, and
that he was dead to me, and might be veritably dead into the bargain.

No more low, wet grounds, no more dikes and sluices, no more of these grazing
cattle,—though they seemed, in their dull manner, to wear a more respectful air
now, and to face round, in order that they might stare as long as possible at
the possessor of such great expectations,—farewell, monotonous acquaintances of
my childhood, henceforth I was for London and greatness; not for smith’s work in
general, and for you! I made my exultant way to the old Battery, and, lying down
there to consider the question whether Miss Havisham intended me for Estella,
fell asleep.

When I awoke, I was much surprised to find Joe sitting beside me, smoking his
pipe. He greeted me with a cheerful smile on my opening my eyes, and said,—

"As being the last time, Pip, I thought I’d foller."

"And Joe, I am very glad you did so."

"Thankee, Pip."

"You may be sure, dear Joe," I went on, after we had shaken hands, "that I shall
never forget you."

"No, no, Pip!" said Joe, in a comfortable tone, "I’m sure of that. Ay,
ay, old chap! Bless you, it were only necessary to get it well round in a man’s
mind, to be certain on it. But it took a bit of time to get it well round, the
change come so oncommon plump; didn’t it?"

Somehow, I was not best pleased with Joe’s being so mightily secure of me. I
should have liked him to have betrayed emotion, or to have said, "It does you
credit, Pip," or something of that sort. Therefore, I made no remark on Joe’s
first head; merely saying as to his second, that the tidings had indeed come
suddenly, but that I had always wanted to be a gentleman, and had often and
often speculated on what I would do, if I were one.

"Have you though?" said Joe. "Astonishing!"

"It’s a pity now, Joe," said I, "that you did not get on a little more, when we
had our lessons here; isn’t it?"

"Well, I don’t know," returned Joe. "I’m so awful dull. I’m only master of my
own trade. It were always a pity as I was so awful dull; but it’s no more of a
pity now, than it was—this day twelvemonth—don’t you see?"

What I had meant was, that when I came into my property and was able to do
something for Joe, it would have been much more agreeable if he had been better
qualified for a rise in station. He was so perfectly innocent of my meaning,
however, that I thought I would mention it to Biddy in preference.

So, when we had walked home and had had tea, I took Biddy into our little garden
by the side of the lane, and, after throwing out in a general way for the
elevation of her spirits, that I should never forget her, said I had a favor to
ask of her.

"And it is, Biddy," said I, "that you will not omit any opportunity of helping
Joe on, a little."

"How helping him on?" asked Biddy, with a steady sort of glance.

"Well! Joe is a dear good fellow,—in fact, I think he is the dearest fellow that
ever lived,—but he is rather backward in some things. For instance, Biddy, in
his learning and his manners."

Although I was looking at Biddy as I spoke, and although she opened her eyes
very wide when I had spoken, she did not look at me.

"O, his manners! won’t his manners do then?" asked Biddy, plucking a
black-currant leaf.

"My dear Biddy, they do very well here—"

"O! they do very
well here?" interrupted Biddy, looking closely at the leaf in her hand.

"Hear me out,—but if I were to remove Joe into a higher sphere, as I shall hope
to remove him when I fully come into my property, they would hardly do him
justice."

"And don’t you think he knows that?" asked Biddy.

It was such a very provoking question (for it had never in the most distant
manner occurred to me), that I said, snappishly,—

"Biddy, what do you mean?"

Biddy, having rubbed the leaf to pieces between her hands,—and the smell of a
black-currant bush has ever since recalled to me that evening in the little
garden by the side of the lane,—said, "Have you never considered that he may be
proud?"

"Proud?" I repeated, with disdainful emphasis.

"O! there are many kinds of pride," said Biddy, looking full at me and shaking
her head; "pride is not all of one kind—"

"Well? What are you stopping for?" said I.

"Not all of one kind," resumed Biddy. "He may be too proud to let any one take
him out of a place that he is competent to fill, and fills well and with
respect. To tell you the truth, I think he is; though it sounds bold in me to
say so, for you must know him far better than I do."

"Now, Biddy," said I, "I am very sorry to see this in you. I did not expect to
see this in you. You are envious, Biddy, and grudging. You are dissatisfied on
account of my rise in fortune, and you can’t help showing it."

"If you have the heart to think so," returned Biddy, "say so. Say so over and
over again, if you have the heart to think so."

"If you have the heart to be so, you mean, Biddy," said I, in a virtuous and
superior tone; "don’t put it off upon me. I am very sorry to see it, and it’s
a—it’s a bad side of human nature. I did intend to ask you to use any little
opportunities you might have after I was gone, of improving dear Joe. But after
this I ask you nothing. I am extremely sorry to see this in you, Biddy," I
repeated. "It’s a—it’s a bad side of human nature."

"Whether you scold me or approve of me," returned poor Biddy, "you may equally
depend upon my trying to do all that lies in my power, here, at all times. And
whatever opinion you take away of me, shall make no difference in my remembrance
of you. Yet a gentleman should not be unjust neither," said Biddy, turning away
her head.

I again warmly repeated that it was a bad side of human nature (in which
sentiment, waiving its application, I have since seen reason to think I was
right), and I walked down the little path away from Biddy, and Biddy went into
the house, and I went out at the garden gate and took a dejected stroll until
supper-time; again feeling it very sorrowful and strange that this, the second
night of my bright fortunes, should be as lonely and unsatisfactory as the
first.

But, morning once more brightened my view, and I extended my clemency to Biddy,
and we dropped the subject. Putting on the best clothes I had, I went into town
as early as I could hope to find the shops open, and presented myself before Mr.
Trabb, the tailor, who was having his breakfast in the parlor behind his shop,
and who did not think it worth his while to come out to me, but called me in to
him.

"Well!" said Mr. Trabb, in a hail-fellow-well-met kind of way. "How are you, and
what can I do for you?"

Mr. Trabb had sliced his hot roll into three feather-beds, and was slipping
butter in between the blankets, and covering it up. He was a prosperous old
bachelor, and his open window looked into a prosperous little garden and
orchard, and there was a prosperous iron safe let into the wall at the side of
his fireplace, and I did not doubt that heaps of his prosperity were put away in
it in bags.

"Mr. Trabb," said I, "it’s an unpleasant thing to have to mention, because it
looks like boasting; but I have come into a handsome property."

A change passed over Mr. Trabb. He forgot the butter in bed, got up from the
bedside, and wiped his fingers on the tablecloth, exclaiming, "Lord bless my
soul!"

"I am going up to my guardian in London," said I, casually drawing some guineas
out of my pocket and looking at them; "and I want a fashionable suit of clothes
to go in. I wish to pay for them," I added—otherwise I thought he might only
pretend to make them, "with ready money."

"My dear sir," said Mr. Trabb, as he respectfully bent his body, opened his
arms, and took the liberty of touching me on the outside of each elbow, "don’t
hurt me by mentioning that. May I venture to congratulate you? Would you do me
the favor of stepping into the shop?"

Mr. Trabb’s boy was the most audacious boy in all that country-side. When I had
entered he was sweeping the shop, and he had sweetened his labors by sweeping
over me. He was still sweeping when I came out into the shop with Mr. Trabb, and
he knocked the broom against all possible corners and obstacles, to express (as
I understood it) equality with any blacksmith, alive or dead.

"Hold that noise," said Mr. Trabb, with the greatest sternness, "or I’ll knock
your head off!—Do me the favor to be seated, sir. Now, this," said Mr. Trabb,
taking down a roll of cloth, and tiding it out in a flowing manner over the
counter, preparatory to getting his hand under it to show the gloss, "is a very
sweet article. I can recommend it for your purpose, sir, because it really is
extra super. But you shall see some others. Give me Number Four, you!" (To the
boy, and with a dreadfully severe stare; foreseeing the danger of that
miscreant’s brushing me with it, or making some other sign of familiarity.)

Mr. Trabb never removed his stern eye from the boy until he had deposited number
four on the counter and was at a safe distance again. Then he commanded him to
bring number five, and number eight. "And let me have none of your tricks here,"
said Mr. Trabb, "or you shall repent it, you young scoundrel, the longest day
you have to live."

Mr. Trabb then bent over number four, and in a sort of deferential confidence
recommended it to me as a light article for summer wear, an article much in
vogue among the nobility and gentry, an article that it would ever be an honor
to him to reflect upon a distinguished fellow-townsman’s (if he might claim me
for a fellow-townsman) having worn. "Are you bringing numbers five and eight,
you vagabond," said Mr. Trabb to the boy after that, "or shall I kick you out of
the shop and bring them myself?"

I selected the materials for a suit, with the assistance of Mr. Trabb’s
judgment, and re-entered the parlor to be measured. For although Mr. Trabb had
my measure already, and had previously been quite contented with it, he said
apologetically that it "wouldn’t do under existing circumstances, sir,—wouldn’t
do at all." So, Mr. Trabb measured and calculated me in the parlor, as if I were
an estate and he the finest species of surveyor, and gave himself such a world
of trouble that I felt that no suit of clothes could possibly remunerate him for
his pains. When he had at last done and had appointed to send the articles to
Mr. Pumblechook’s on the Thursday evening, he said, with his hand upon the
parlor lock, "I know, sir, that London gentlemen cannot be expected to patronize
local work, as a rule; but if you would give me a turn now and then in the
quality of a townsman, I should greatly esteem it. Good morning, sir, much
obliged.—Door!"

The last word was flung at the boy, who had not the least notion what it meant.
But I saw him collapse as his master rubbed me out with his hands, and my first
decided experience of the stupendous power of money was, that it had morally
laid upon his back Trabb’s boy.

After this memorable event, I went to the hatter’s, and the bootmaker’s, and the
hosier’s, and felt rather like Mother Hubbard’s dog whose outfit required the
services of so many trades. I also went to the coach-office and took my place
for seven o’clock on Saturday morning. It was not necessary to explain
everywhere that I had come into a handsome property; but whenever I said
anything to that effect, it followed that the officiating tradesman ceased to
have his attention diverted through the window by the High Street, and
concentrated his mind upon me. When I had ordered everything I wanted, I
directed my steps towards Pumblechook’s, and, as I approached that gentleman’s
place of business, I saw him standing at his door.

He was waiting for me with great impatience. He had been out early with the
chaise-cart, and had called at the forge and heard the news. He had prepared a
collation for me in the Barnwell parlor, and he too ordered his shopman to "come
out of the gangway" as my sacred person passed.

"My dear friend," said Mr. Pumblechook, taking me by both hands, when he and I
and the collation were alone, "I give you joy of your good fortune. Well
deserved, well deserved!"

This was coming to the point, and I thought it a sensible way of expressing
himself.

"To think," said Mr. Pumblechook, after snorting admiration at me for some
moments, "that I should have been the humble instrument of leading up to this,
is a proud reward."

I begged Mr. Pumblechook to remember that nothing was to be ever said or hinted,
on that point.

"My dear young friend," said Mr. Pumblechook; "if you will allow me to call you
so—"

I murmured "Certainly," and Mr. Pumblechook took me by both hands again, and
communicated a movement to his waistcoat, which had an emotional appearance,
though it was rather low down, "My dear young friend, rely upon my doing my
little all in your absence, by keeping the fact before the mind of
Joseph.—Joseph!" said Mr. Pumblechook, in the way of a compassionate adjuration.
"Joseph!! Joseph!!!" Thereupon he shook his head and tapped it, expressing his
sense of deficiency in Joseph.

"But my dear young friend," said Mr. Pumblechook, "you must be hungry, you must
be exhausted. Be seated. Here is a chicken had round from the Boar, here is a
tongue had round from the Boar, here’s one or two little things had round from
the Boar, that I hope you may not despise. But do I," said Mr. Pumblechook,
getting up again the moment after he had sat down, "see afore me, him as I ever
sported with in his times of happy infancy? And may I—may I—?"

This May I, meant might he shake hands? I consented, and he was fervent, and
then sat down again.

"Here is wine," said Mr. Pumblechook. "Let us drink, Thanks to Fortune, and may
she ever pick out her favorites with equal judgment! And yet I cannot," said Mr.
Pumblechook, getting up again, "see afore me One—and likewise drink to
One—without again expressing—May I—may I—?"

I said he might, and he shook hands with me again, and emptied his glass and
turned it upside down. I did the same; and if I had turned myself upside down
before drinking, the wine could not have gone more direct to my head.

Mr. Pumblechook helped me to the liver wing, and to the best slice of tongue
(none of those out-of-the-way No Thoroughfares of Pork now), and took,
comparatively speaking, no care of himself at all. "Ah! poultry, poultry! You
little thought," said Mr. Pumblechook, apostrophizing the fowl in the dish,
"when you was a young fledgling, what was in store for you. You little thought
you was to be refreshment beneath this humble roof for one as—Call it a
weakness, if you will," said Mr. Pumblechook, getting up again, "but may I? may I—?"

It began to be unnecessary to repeat the form of saying he might, so he did it
at once. How he ever did it so often without wounding himself with my knife, I
don’t know.

"And your sister," he resumed, after a little steady eating, "which had the
honor of bringing you up by hand! It’s a sad picter, to reflect that she’s no
longer equal to fully understanding the honor. May—"

I saw he was about to come at me again, and I stopped him.

"We’ll drink her health," said I.

"Ah!" cried Mr. Pumblechook, leaning back in his chair, quite flaccid with
admiration, "that’s the way you know ’em, sir!" (I don’t know who Sir was, but
he certainly was not I, and there was no third person present); "that’s the way
you know the noble-minded, sir! Ever forgiving and ever affable. It might," said
the servile Pumblechook, putting down his untasted glass in a hurry and getting
up again, "to a common person, have the appearance of repeating—but may I—?"

When he had done it, he resumed his seat and drank to my sister. "Let us never
be blind," said Mr. Pumblechook, "to her faults of temper, but it is to be hoped
she meant well."

At about this time, I began to observe that he was getting flushed in the face;
as to myself, I felt all face, steeped in wine and smarting.

I mentioned to Mr. Pumblechook that I wished to have my new clothes sent to his
house, and he was ecstatic on my so distinguishing him. I mentioned my reason
for desiring to avoid observation in the village, and he lauded it to the skies.
There was nobody but himself, he intimated, worthy of my confidence, and—in
short, might he? Then he asked me tenderly if I remembered our boyish games at
sums, and how we had gone together to have me bound apprentice, and, in effect,
how he had ever been my favorite fancy and my chosen friend? If I had taken ten
times as many glasses of wine as I had, I should have known that he never had
stood in that relation towards me, and should in my heart of hearts have
repudiated the idea. Yet for all that, I remember feeling convinced that I had
been much mistaken in him, and that he was a sensible, practical, good-hearted
prime fellow.

By degrees he fell to reposing such great confidence in me, as to ask my advice
in reference to his own affairs. He mentioned that there was an opportunity for
a great amalgamation and monopoly of the corn and seed trade on those premises,
if enlarged, such as had never occurred before in that or any other
neighborhood. What alone was wanting to the realization 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 endeavor to see my legs, it seemed to fit me better. It being market
morning at a neighboring 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 by 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 by, Pip!—you will always keep the name of
Pip, you know."

"Yes, Miss Havisham."

"Good by, 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 by, 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 my self out in my new clothes for their delight,
and sat in my splendor 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 down stairs. 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 by, 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.