She gave me a triumphant glance in passing me, as
if she rejoiced that my hands were so coarse and my
boots were so thick, and she opened the gate, and
stood holding it. I was passing out without
looking at her, when she touched me with a taunting
hand.
“Why don’t you cry?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“You do,” said she. “You have
been crying till you are half blind, and you are near
crying again now.”
She laughed contemptuously, pushed me out, and locked
the gate upon me. I went straight to Mr. Pumblechook’s,
and was immensely relieved to find him not at home.
So, leaving word with the shopman on what day I was
wanted at Miss Havisham’s again, I set off on
the four-mile walk to our forge; pondering, as I went
along, on all I had seen, and deeply revolving that
I was a common labouring-boy; that my hands were coarse;
that my boots were thick; that I had fallen into a
despicable habit of calling knaves Jacks; that I was
much more ignorant than I had considered myself last
night, and generally that I was in a low-lived bad
way.
When I reached home, my sister was very curious to
know all about Miss Havisham’s, and asked a
number of questions. And I soon found myself
getting heavily bumped from behind in the nape of the
neck and the small of the back, and having my face
ignominiously shoved against the kitchen wall, because
I did not answer those questions at sufficient length.
If a dread of not being understood be hidden in the
breasts of other young people to anything like the
extent to which it used to be hidden in mine —
which I consider probable, as I have no particular
reason to suspect myself of having been a monstrosity
— it is the key to many reservations.
I felt convinced that if I described Miss Havisham’s
as my eyes had seen it, I should not be understood.
Not only that, but I felt convinced that Miss Havisham
too would not be understood; and although she was perfectly
incomprehensible to me, I entertained an impression
that there would be something coarse and treacherous
in my dragging her as she really was (to say nothing
of Miss Estella) before the contemplation of Mrs.
Joe. Consequently, I said as little as I could,
and had my face shoved against the kitchen wall.
The worst of it was that that bullying old Pumblechook,
preyed upon by a devouring curiosity to be informed
of all I had seen and heard, came gaping over in his
chaise-cart at tea-time, to have the details divulged
to him. And the mere sight of the torment, with
his fishy eyes and mouth open, his sandy hair inquisitively
on end, and his waistcoat heaving with windy arithmetic,
made me vicious in my reticence.
“Well, boy,” Uncle Pumblechook began,
as soon as he was seated in the chair of honour by
the fire. “How did you get on up town?”
I answered, “Pretty well, sir,” and my
sister shook her fist at me.
