“Are you alone?” asked Agnes.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, kissing her hand, “quite alone.”
We sat him between us, not knowing how to give him welcome enough; and as I began to listen to his old familiar voice, I could have fancied he was still pursuing his long journey in search of his darling niece.
“It’s a mort of water,” said Mr. Peggotty, “fur to come across, and on’y stay a matter of fower weeks. But water (’specially when ’tis salt) comes nat’ral to me; and friends is dear, and I am heer.—Which is verse,” said Mr. Peggotty, surprised to find it out, “though I hadn’t such intentions.”
“Are you going back those many thousand miles, so soon?” asked Agnes.
“Yes, ma’am,” he returned. “I giv the promise to Em’ly, afore I come away. You see, I doen’t grow younger as the years comes round, and if I hadn’t sailed as ’twas, most like I shouldn’t never have done ’t. And it’s allus been on my mind, as I must come and see Mas’r Davy and your own sweet blooming self, in your wedded happiness, afore I got to be too old.”
He looked at us, as if he could never feast his eyes on us sufficiently. Agnes laughingly put back some scattered locks of his grey hair, that he might see us better.
“And now tell us,” said I, “everything relating to your fortunes.”
“Our fortuns, Mas’r Davy,” he rejoined, “is soon told. We haven’t fared nohows, but fared to thrive. We’ve allus thrived. We’ve worked as we ought to ’t, and maybe we lived a leetle hard at first or so, but we have allus thrived. What with sheep-farming, and what with stock-farming, and what with one thing and what with t’other, we are as well to do, as well could be. Theer’s been kiender a blessing fell upon us,” said Mr. Peggotty, reverentially inclining his head, “and we’ve done nowt but prosper. That is, in the long run. If not yesterday, why then to-day. If not to-day, why then to-morrow.”
“And Emily?” said Agnes and I, both together.