Chapter 58

Chapter LVIII


T
he 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 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 honored 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 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 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 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 honored 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 by!"



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 parlor 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.



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