Emmy gave a little start, but said nothing.
"Hullo!" Georgy continued, "there's Francis coming out with the portmanteaus, and Kunz, the one-eyed postilion, coming down the market with three schimmels.
Look at his boots and yellow jacket--ain't he a rum one?
Why--they're putting the horses to Dob's carriage.
Is he going anywhere?"
"Yes," said Emmy, "he is going on a journey."
"Going on a journey; and when is he coming back?"
"He is--not coming back," answered Emmy.
"Not coming back!" cried out Georgy, jumping up.
"Stay here, sir," roared out Jos.
"Stay, Georgy," said his mother with a very sad face.
The boy stopped, kicked about the room, jumped up and down from the window-seat with his knees, and showed every symptom of uneasiness and curiosity.
The horses were put to.
The baggage was strapped on.
Francis came out with his master's sword, cane, and umbrella tied up together, and laid them in the well, and his desk and old tin cocked-hat case, which he placed under the seat.
Francis brought out the stained old blue cloak lined with red camlet, which had wrapped the owner up any time these fifteen years, and had manchen Sturm erlebt, as a favourite song of those days said.
It had been new for the campaign of Waterloo and had covered George and William after the night of Quatre Bras.
Old Burcke, the landlord of the lodgings, came out, then Francis, with more packages--final packages--then Major William--Burcke wanted to kiss him. The Major was adored by all people with whom he had to do.
It was with difficulty he could escape from this demonstration of attachment.
"By Jove, I will go!" screamed out George.
"Give him this," said Becky, quite interested, and put a paper into the boy's hand.
He had rushed down the stairs and flung across the street in a minute--the yellow postilion was cracking his whip gently.
William had got into the carriage, released from the embraces of his landlord.
George bounded in afterwards, and flung his arms round the Major's neck (as they saw from the window), and began asking him multiplied questions.
Then he felt in his waistcoat pocket and gave him a note.
William seized at it rather eagerly, he opened it trembling, but instantly his countenance changed, and he tore the paper in two and dropped it out of the carriage.
He kissed Georgy on the head, and the boy got out, doubling his fists into his eyes, and with the aid of Francis.
He lingered with his hand on the panel.
Fort, Schwager! The yellow postilion cracked his whip prodigiously, up sprang Francis to the box, away went the schimmels, and Dobbin with his head on his breast.
He never looked up as they passed under Amelia's window, and Georgy, left alone in the street, burst out crying in the face of all the crowd.
Emmy's maid heard him howling again during the night and brought him some preserved apricots to console him.
She mingled her lamentations with his.
All the poor, all the humble, all honest folks, all good men who knew him, loved that kind-hearted and simple gentleman.
As for Emmy, had she not done her duty?
She had her picture of George for a consolation.
CHAPTER LXVII
Which Contains Births, Marriages, and Deaths
Whatever Becky's private plan might be by which Dobbin's true love was to be crowned with success, the little woman thought that the secret might keep, and indeed, being by no means so much interested about anybody's welfare as about her own, she had a great number of things pertaining to herself to consider, and which concerned her a great deal more than Major Dobbin's happiness in this life.
She found herself suddenly and unexpectedly in snug comfortable quarters, surrounded by friends, kindness, and good-natured simple people such as she had not met with for many a long day; and, wanderer as she was by force and inclination, there were moments when rest was pleasant to her.
As the most hardened Arab that ever careered across the desert over the hump of a dromedary likes to repose sometimes under the date-trees by the water, or to come into the cities, walk into the bazaars, refresh himself in the baths, and say his prayers in the mosques, before he goes out again marauding, so Jos's tents and pilau were pleasant to this little Ishmaelite.
She picketed her steed, hung up her weapons, and warmed herself comfortably by his fire.
The halt in that roving, restless life was inexpressibly soothing and pleasant to her.
So, pleased herself, she tried with all her might to please everybody; and we know that she was eminent and successful as a practitioner in the art of giving pleasure.
As for Jos, even in that little interview in the garret at the Elephant Inn, she had found means to win back a great deal of his good-will.
In the course of a week, the civilian was her sworn slave and frantic admirer.
He didn't go to sleep after dinner, as his custom was in the much less lively society of Amelia.
He drove out with Becky in his open carriage.
He asked little parties and invented festivities to do her honour.
Tapeworm, the Charge d'Affaires, who had abused her so cruelly, came to dine with Jos, and then came every day to pay his respects to Becky.
Poor Emmy, who was never very talkative, and more glum and silent than ever after Dobbin's departure, was quite forgotten when this superior genius made her appearance.