Fantastic failures of

journeys occupied me until the day dawned and the birds were

singing. Then, I got up and partly dressed, and sat at the window

to take a last look out, and in taking it fell asleep.

Biddy was astir so early to get my breakfast, that, although I did

not sleep at the window an hour, I smelt the smoke of the kitchen

fire when I started up with a terrible idea that it must be late in

the afternoon. But long after that, and long after I had heard the

clinking of the teacups and was quite ready, I wanted the

resolution to go down stairs. After all, I remained up there,

repeatedly unlocking and unstrapping my small portmanteau and

locking and strapping it up again, until Biddy called to me that I

was late.

It was a hurried breakfast 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 who was laughing and nodding and shaking in her usual

chair, 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 had 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 O my dear, dear friend!"

Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are

rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I

was better after I had cried, than before - more sorry, more aware

of my own ingratitude, more gentle. If I had cried before, I should

have had Joe with me then.

So subdued I was by those tears, and by their breaking out again in

the course of the quiet walk, 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. We changed, and I

had not made up my mind, and still reflected for my comfort that it

would be quite practicable to get down and walk back, when we

changed again. And while I was occupied with these deliberations, I

would fancy an exact resemblance to Joe in some man coming along

the road towards us, and my heart would beat high. - As if he could

possibly be there!

We changed again, and yet 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.

THIS IS THE END OF THE FIRST STAGE OF PIP'S EXPECTATIONS.

Chapter 20

The journey from our town to the metropolis, was a journey of about

five hours. It was a little past mid-day when the fourhorse

stage-coach by which I was a passenger, got into the ravel of

traffic frayed out about the Cross Keys, Wood-street, Cheapside,

London.

We Britons had at that time particularly settled that it was

treasonable to doubt our having and our being the best of

everything: otherwise, while I was scared by the immensity of

London, I think I might have had some faint doubts whether it was

not rather ugly, crooked, narrow, and dirty.