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 plumpudding, 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 dykes 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 favour to ask of her.
“And it is, Biddy,” said I, “that you will not omit any opportunity of helping Joe on, a little.”