Great Expectations by Charles Dickens (best ereader under 100 TXT) 📖

Chapter XXXV

It was the first time that a grave had opened in my road of life,

and the gap it made in the smooth ground was wonderful. The figure

of my sister in her chair by the kitchen fire, haunted me night and

day. That the place could possibly be, without her, was something

my mind seemed unable to compass; and whereas she had seldom or

never been in my thoughts of late, I had now the strangest ideas

that she was coming towards me in the street, or that she would

presently knock at the door. In my rooms too, with which she had

never been at all associated, there was at once the blankness of

death and a perpetual suggestion of the sound of her voice or the

turn of her face or figure, as if she were still alive and had been

often there.

Whatever my fortunes might have been, I could scarcely have

recalled my sister with much tenderness. But I suppose there is a

shock of regret which may exist without much tenderness. Under its

influence (and perhaps to make up for the want of the softer

feeling) I was seized with a violent indignation against the

assailant from whom she had suffered so much; and I felt that on

sufficient proof I could have revengefully pursued Orlick, or any

one else, to the last extremity.

Having written to Joe, to offer him consolation, and to assure him that

I would come to the funeral, I passed the intermediate days in the

curious state of mind I have glanced at. I went down early in the

morning, and alighted at the Blue Boar in good time to walk over to

the forge.

It was fine summer weather again, and, as I walked along, the times

when I was a little helpless creature, and my sister did not spare

me, vividly returned. But they returned with a gentle tone upon

them that softened even the edge of Tickler. For now, the very

breath of the beans and clover whispered to my heart that the day

must come when it would be well for my memory that others walking

in the sunshine should be softened as they thought of me.

At last I came within sight of the house, and saw that Trabb and

Co. had put in a funereal execution and taken possession. Two

dismally absurd persons, each ostentatiously exhibiting a crutch

done up in a black bandage,—as if that instrument could possibly

communicate any comfort to anybody,—were posted at the front door;

and in one of them I recognized a postboy discharged from the Boar

for turning a young couple into a sawpit on their bridal morning,

in consequence of intoxication rendering it necessary for him to

ride his horse clasped round the neck with both arms. All the

children of the village, and most of the women, were admiring these

sable warders and the closed windows of the house and forge; and as

I came up, one of the two warders (the postboy) knocked at the door,

—implying that I was far too much exhausted by grief to have

strength remaining to knock for myself.

Another sable warder (a carpenter, who had once eaten two geese for

a wager) opened the door, and showed me into the best parlor.

Here, Mr. Trabb had taken unto himself the best table, and had got

all the leaves up, and was holding a kind of black Bazaar, with the

aid of a quantity of black pins. At the moment of my arrival, he

had just finished putting somebody’s hat into black long-clothes,

like an African baby; so he held out his hand for mine. But I,

misled by the action, and confused by the occasion, shook hands

with him with every testimony of warm affection.

Poor dear Joe, entangled in a little black cloak tied in a large

bow under his chin, was seated apart at the upper end of the room;

where, as chief mourner, he had evidently been stationed by Trabb.

When I bent down and said to him, “Dear Joe, how are you?” he said,

“Pip, old chap, you knowed her when she were a fine figure of a—”

and clasped my hand and said no more.

Biddy, looking very neat and modest in her black dress, went

quietly here and there, and was very helpful. When I had spoken to

Biddy, as I thought it not a time for talking I went and sat down

near Joe, and there began to wonder in what part of the house it—

she—my sister—was. The air of the parlor being faint with the

smell of sweet-cake, I looked about for the table of refreshments;

it was scarcely visible until one had got accustomed to the gloom,

but there was a cut-up plum cake upon it, and there were cut-up

oranges, and sandwiches, and biscuits, and two decanters that I

knew very well as ornaments, but had never seen used in all my

life; one full of port, and one of sherry. Standing at this table,

I became conscious of the servile Pumblechook in a black cloak and

several yards of hatband, who was alternately stuffing himself, and

making obsequious movements to catch my attention. The moment he

succeeded, he came over to me (breathing sherry and crumbs), and

said in a subdued voice, “May I, dear sir?” and did. I then

descried Mr. and Mrs. Hubble; the last-named in a decent speechless

paroxysm in a corner. We were all going to “follow,” and were all

in course of being tied up separately (by Trabb) into ridiculous

bundles.

“Which I meantersay, Pip,” Joe whispered me, as we were being what

Mr. Trabb called “formed” in the parlor, two and two,—and it was

dreadfully like a preparation for some grim kind of dance; “which I

meantersay, sir, as I would in preference have carried her to the

church myself, along with three or four friendly ones wot come to

it with willing harts and arms, but it were considered wot the

neighbors would look down on such and would be of opinions as it

were wanting in respect.”

“Pocket-handkerchiefs out, all!” cried Mr. Trabb at this point, in a

depressed business-like voice. “Pocket-handkerchiefs out! We are

ready!”

So we all put our pocket-handkerchiefs to our faces, as if our

noses were bleeding, and filed out two and two; Joe and I; Biddy

and Pumblechook; Mr. and Mrs. Hubble. The remains of my poor sister

had been brought round by the kitchen door, and, it being a point

of Undertaking ceremony that the six bearers must be stifled and

blinded under a horrible black velvet housing with a white border,

the whole looked like a blind monster with twelve human legs,

shuffling and blundering along, under the guidance of two keepers,—

the postboy and his comrade.

The neighborhood, however, highly approved of these arrangements,

and we were much admired as we went through the village; the more

youthful and vigorous part of the community making dashes now and

then to cut us off, and lying in wait to intercept us at points of

vantage. At such times the more exuberant among them called out in

an excited manner on our emergence round some corner of expectancy,

“Here they come!” “Here they are!” and we were all but cheered. In

this progress I was much annoyed