This did not seem to affect Emmy. She even smiled
a little. Perhaps she figured Jos to herself
panting up the stair.
“She’s beside herself with grief,”
he resumed. “The agonies that woman has
endured are quite frightful to hear of. She had
a little boy, of the same age as Georgy.”
“Yes, yes, I think I remember,” Emmy remarked.
“Well?”
“The most beautiful child ever seen,”
Jos said, who was very fat, and easily moved, and
had been touched by the story Becky told; “a
perfect angel, who adored his mother. The ruffians
tore him shrieking out of her arms, and have never
allowed him to see her.”
“Dear Joseph,” Emmy cried out, starting
up at once, “let us go and see her this minute.”
And she ran into her adjoining bedchamber, tied on
her bonnet in a flutter, came out with her shawl on
her arm, and ordered Dobbin to follow.
He went and put her shawl—it was a white
cashmere, consigned to her by the Major himself from
India—over her shoulders. He saw there
was nothing for it but to obey, and she put her hand
into his arm, and they went away.
“It is number 92, up four pair of stairs,”
Jos said, perhaps not very willing to ascend the steps
again; but he placed himself in the window of his
drawing-room, which commands the place on which the
Elephant stands, and saw the pair marching through
the market.
It was as well that Becky saw them too from her garret,
for she and the two students were chattering and laughing
there; they had been joking about the appearance of
Becky’s grandpapa—whose arrival and
departure they had witnessed—but she had
time to dismiss them, and have her little room clear
before the landlord of the Elephant, who knew that
Mrs. Osborne was a great favourite at the Serene Court,
and respected her accordingly, led the way up the stairs
to the roof story, encouraging Miladi and the Herr
Major as they achieved the ascent.
“Gracious lady, gracious lady!” said the
landlord, knocking at Becky’s door; he had called
her Madame the day before, and was by no means courteous
to her.
“Who is it?” Becky said, putting out her
head, and she gave a little scream. There stood
Emmy in a tremble, and Dobbin, the tall Major, with
his cane.
He stood still watching, and very much interested
at the scene; but Emmy sprang forward with open arms
towards Rebecca, and forgave her at that moment, and
embraced her and kissed her with all her heart.
Ah, poor wretch, when was your lip pressed before by
such pure kisses?
Amantium Irae
Frankness and kindness like Amelia’s were likely
to touch even such a hardened little reprobate as
Becky. She returned Emmy’s caresses and
kind speeches with something very like gratitude, and
an emotion which, if it was not lasting, for a moment
was almost genuine. That was a lucky stroke
of hers about the child “torn from her arms
shrieking.” It was by that harrowing misfortune
that Becky had won her friend back, and it was one
of the very first points, we may be certain, upon
which our poor simple little Emmy began to talk to
her new-found acquaintance.
