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

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.