Great Expectations by Charles Dickens (speed reading book TXT) 📕

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 countryside.

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