"Good. Then we will see to getting you a tutor. But first you should
have some new clothes to come away in. When will you be ready to leave?
Say this day week. You'll want some money. Shall I leave you twenty
guineas?"
He produced a long purse, with the greatest coolness, and counted them
out on the table and pushed them over to me. This was the first time he
had taken his leg from the chair. He sat astride of the chair when he
had pushed the money over, and sat swinging his purse and eyeing Joe.
"Well, Joseph Gargery? You look dumbfoundered?"
"I _am_!" said Joe, in a very decided manner.
"It was understood that you wanted nothing for yourself, remember?"
"It were understood," said Joe. "And it _are_ understood. And it ever
will be similar according."
"But what," said the lawyer, swinging his purse, "what if it was in my
instructions to make you a present, as compensation?"
"As compensation what for?" Joe demanded.
"For the loss of his services."
Joe laid his hand upon my shoulder with the touch of a woman. I have
often thought of him since, like the steam-hammer, that can crush a man
or pat an egg-shell, in his combination of strength with gentleness.
"Pip is that hearty welcome," said Joe, "to go free with his services,
to honor and fortun', as no words can tell him. But if you think as
Money can make compensation to me for the loss of the little child--what
come to the forge--and ever the best of friends--"
Oh, dear, good Joe, whom I was so ready to leave and so unthankful to, I
see you again, with your muscular blacksmith's arm before your eyes, and
your broad chest heaving, and your voice dying away. Oh, dear, good,
faithful, tender Joe, I feel the loving tremble of your hand upon my
arm, as solemnly this day as if it had been the rustle of an angel's
wing!
But at the time I was lost in the mazes of my future fortunes, and could
not retrace the by-paths we had trodden together. I begged Joe to be
comforted. Joe scooped his eyes with his disengaged wrist, as if he
were bent on gouging himself, but said not another word.
After the lawyer had taken his leave, Joe and I went into the kitchen,
where we found Biddy and my sister, and told them of my good fortune.
They dropped their sewing and looked at me. Joe held his knees and
looked at me. I looked at them, in turn. After a pause they heartily
congratulated me; but there was a certain touch of sadness in their
congratulations that I rather resented.
Now that I was actually going away I became quite gloomy. I did not
know why, but I sat in the chimney corner looking at the fire, my elbow
on my knee; and while the others tried to make the conversation
cheerful, I grew gloomier than ever.
But the bright sunlight of the next morning dispelled my doubts and
fears, and I began to count the days eagerly. I went down to Trabb's,
the tailor's, and got measured for a wonderful suit of clothes, much to
the consternation of Trabb's boy, who thought himself equal to any
blacksmith that ever lived. Then 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 Saturday morning.
And everywhere about the village the news of my great expectations
preceded me and I was heartily stared at.
Uncle Pumblechook was especially officious at this time. He acted as
though he were the sole cause of all this.
"To think," said he, swelling up, "that I should have been the humble
instrument of this proud reward."
He thought, like all the rest of us, that Miss Havisham was my unknown
benefactor. It was a natural mistake, as she had been kind to me in her
way; and I had seen the lawyer at her house. But it was a mistake after
all and led to other unhappy blunders ere I learned the truth.
For, many years afterward, I found that "my convict"--the man I had
helped down in the churchyard--was none other than the friend who had
left me this fortune. He had escaped again from the hulks and, coming
into a considerable property, had arranged with the lawyer to use it in
making a gentleman out of the little boy he had found crying on the
tombstone. But, as I say, none of us knew it or suspected it at first.
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 my sister and Biddy. On this
last evening, I dressed myself 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.
It was a hurried breakfast, the next morning, 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, 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 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-bye, oh, my
dear, dear friend!"
So subdued was I by those tears, 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. But while I deliberated,
we had changed and changed 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. My boyhood was over. Henceforth I was
to play a man's part--a man with Great Expectations.
*THE STORY OF LITTLE DORRIT*
[Illustration: LITTLE DORRIT.]
*I. THE CHILD OF THE MARSHALSEA*
Some years ago when the laws of England were harsher than they are now,
there were debtors' prisons, or big, gloomy jails into which men were
put, if they couldn't pay what they owed. This was cruel and unjust,
for the prisoner was of course cut off from the chance to earn any more
money; and so he might linger there for years or even his whole life
long, if some friend did not come to his relief. But otherwise the
prisoner was given many liberties not found in ordinary jails. His
family might live with him, if they chose, and come and go as they
pleased.
One of the largest of these debtors' prisons was called the
"Marshalsea." One day a gentleman was brought there who had lost his
money in business; but so confident was he of speedily regaining his
liberty, that he would not unpack his valise, at first. His name was
William Dorrit, an easy-going man who had spent his money freely and
paid little attention to his tradesmen's bills. Now that he had fallen
upon evil days, he thought that his friends would be glad to help him.
But as the days and weeks passed with no prospect of aid, he was
persuaded not only to unpack his belongings but also to have his wife
and two children brought to live with him.
The two children, Fanny and Edward--commonly called "Tip"--were so young
when they were brought to the Marshalsea, that they soon forgot any
earlier life, and played very happily with other children in the prison
yard. Not long after, a little sister was added to their family. She
was christened Amy, but was so tiny that everybody called her "Little
Dorrit."
Being born in the prison, Little Dorrit was petted and made much of.
Every one there seemed to claim her, and visitors were proudly shown
"the Child of the Marshalsea."
The turnkey, who was a kind-hearted man, took an especial interest in
her.
"By rights," he remarked, when she was first shown to him, "I ought to
be her godfather."
Mr. Dorrit looked at the honest fellow for a moment, and thought that he
would suit better than some of their false friends.
"Perhaps you wouldn't object to really being her godfather?" he said.
"Oh, I don't object, if you don't," replied the turnkey.
Thus it came to pass that she was christened one Sunday afternoon, when
the turnkey, being relieved, went up to the font of Saint George's
church, and promised and vowed on her behalf, as he himself related when
he came back, "like a good 'un."
This invested the turnkey with a new proprietary share in the child,
over and above his former official one. When she began to walk and
talk, he became fond of her; bought a little arm-chair and stood it by
the high fender of the lodge fireplace; liked to have her company when
he was on the lock; and used to bribe her with cheap toys to come and
talk to him. The child, for her part, soon grew so fond of the turnkey,
that she would come climbing up the lodge steps of her own accord at all
hours of the day. When she fell asleep in the little arm-chair by the
high fender, the turnkey would cover her with his pocket handkerchief;
and when she sat in it dressing and undressing a doll--which soon came
to be unlike dolls on the other side of the lock--he would contemplate
her from the top of his stool, with exceeding gentleness. Witnessing
these things, the inmates would express an opinion that the turnkey, who
was a bachelor, had been cut out by nature for a family man. But the
turnkey thanked them, and said, "No, on the whole it was enough for him
to see other people's children there."
At what period of her early life the little creature began to perceive
that it was not the habit of all the world to live locked up in narrow
yards, surrounded by high walls with spikes at the top, would be a
difficult question to settle. But she was a very, very little creature
indeed, when she had somehow gained the knowledge, that her clasp of her
father's hand was to be always loosened at the door which the great key
opened; and that while her own light steps were free to pass beyond it,
his feet must never cross that line. A pitiful and plaintive look, with
which she had begun to regard him when she was still extremely young,
was perhaps a part of this discovery.
Wistful and wondering, she would sit in summer weather by the high
fender in the lodge, looking up at the sky through the barred window,
until bars of light would arise, when she would turn her eyes away.
"Thinking of the fields," the turnkey said once, after watching her,
"ain't you?"
"Where are they?" she inquired.
"Why, they're--over there, my dear," said the turnkey, with a vague
flourish of his key. "Just about there."
"Does anybody open them, and shut them? Are they locked?"