“I thankee, sir,” he answered. “’Twas kind of you to meet me. ’Twas kind of you to bear him company down. Mas’r Davy, I unnerstan’ very well, though my aunt will come to Lon’on afore they sail, and they’ll unite once more, that I am not like to see him agen. I fare to feel sure on’t. We doen’t say so, but so ’twill be, and better so. The last you see on him—the very last—will you give him the lovingest duty and thanks of the orphan, as he was ever more than a father to?”
This I also promised, faithfully.
“I thankee again, sir,” he said, heartily shaking hands. “I know wheer you’re a going. Good bye!”
With a slight wave of his hand, as though to explain to me that he could not enter the old place, he turned away. As I looked after his figure, crossing the waste in the moonlight, I saw him turn his face towards a strip of silvery light upon the sea, and pass on, looking at it, until he was a shadow in the distance.
The door of the boat-house stood open when I approached; and, on entering, I found it emptied of all its furniture, saving one of the old lockers, on which Mrs. Gummidge, with a basket on her knee, was seated, looking at Mr. Peggotty. He leaned his elbow on the rough chimney-piece, and gazed upon a few expiring embers in the grate; but he raised his head, hopefully, on my coming in, and spoke in a cheery manner.
“Come, according to promise, to bid farewell to ’t, eh, Mas’r Davy!” he said, taking up the candle. “Bare enough now, an’t it?”
“Indeed you have made good use of the time,” said I.
“Why we have not been idle, sir. Missis Gummidge has worked like a—I doen’t know what Missis Gummidge ain’t worked like,” said Mr. Peggotty, looking at her, at a loss for a sufficiently-approving simile.
Mrs. Gummidge, leaning on her basket, made no observation.
“Theer’s the very locker that you used to sit on, ’long with Em’ly!” said Mr. Peggotty, in a whisper. “I’m a going to carry it away with me, last of all. And heer’s your old little bedroom, see, Mas’r Davy! A’most as bleak to-night, as ’art could wish!”