When Osborne heard that his friend had found her,
he made hot and anxious inquiries regarding the poor
child. How was she? How did she look?
What did she say? His comrade took his hand,
and looked him in the face.
“George, she’s dying,” William Dobbin
said—and could speak no more.
There was a buxom Irish servant-girl, who performed
all the duties of the little house where the Sedley
family had found refuge: and this girl had in
vain, on many previous days, striven to give Amelia
aid or consolation. Emmy was much too sad to answer,
or even to be aware of the attempts the other was
making in her favour.
Four hours after the talk between Dobbin and Osborne,
this servant-maid came into Amelia’s room,
where she sate as usual, brooding silently over her
letters—her little treasures. The
girl, smiling, and looking arch and happy, made many
trials to attract poor Emmy’s attention, who,
however, took no heed of her.
“Miss Emmy,” said the girl.
“I’m coming,” Emmy said, not looking
round.
“There’s a message,” the maid went
on. “There’s something—
somebody—sure, here’s a new letter
for you—don’t be reading them old
ones any more.” And she gave her a letter,
which Emmy took, and read.
“I must see you,” the letter said.
“Dearest Emmy—dearest love—
dearest wife, come to me.”
George and her mother were outside, waiting until
she had read the letter.
Miss Crawley at Nurse
We have seen how Mrs. Firkin, the lady’s maid,
as soon as any event of importance to the Crawley
family came to her knowledge, felt bound to communicate
it to Mrs. Bute Crawley, at the Rectory; and have
before mentioned how particularly kind and attentive
that good-natured lady was to Miss Crawley’s
confidential servant. She had been a gracious
friend to Miss Briggs, the companion, also; and had
secured the latter’s good-will by a number of
those attentions and promises, which cost so little
in the making, and are yet so valuable and agreeable
to the recipient. Indeed every good economist
and manager of a household must know how cheap and
yet how amiable these professions are, and what a
flavour they give to the most homely dish in life.
Who was the blundering idiot who said that “fine
words butter no parsnips”? Half the parsnips
of society are served and rendered palatable with
no other sauce. As the immortal Alexis Soyer
can make more delicious soup for a half-penny than
an ignorant cook can concoct with pounds of vegetables
and meat, so a skilful artist will make a few simple
and pleasing phrases go farther than ever so much
substantial benefit-stock in the hands of a mere bungler.
Nay, we know that substantial benefits often sicken
some stomachs; whereas, most will digest any amount
of fine words, and be always eager for more of the
same food. Mrs. Bute had told Briggs and Firkin
so often of the depth of her affection for them; and
what she would do, if she had Miss Crawley’s
fortune, for friends so excellent and attached, that
the ladies in question had the deepest regard for
her; and felt as much gratitude and confidence as
if Mrs. Bute had loaded them with the most expensive
favours.
