Was there ever anything so lucky as this? Pamela’s situation was fast becoming the cook’s situation. The bosom of the vigourous little woman began to show signs of tender agitation—distributed over a large surface. She rolled her eyes amorously. Benjulia puffed out another mouthful of smoke. “Well,” he repeated, “who rewards Pamela?”
“Her master, sir.”
“What does he do?”
The cook’s eyes sank modestly to her lap. The cook’s complexion became brighter than ever.
“Her master marries her, sir.”
“Oh?”
That was all he said. He was not astonished, or confused, or encouraged—he simply intimated that he now knew how Pamela’s master had rewarded Pamela. And, more dispiriting still, he took the opportunity of knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and filled it, and lit it again. If the cook had been one of the few miserable wretches who never read novels, she might have felt her fondly founded hopes already sinking from under her. As it was, Richardson sustained her faith in herself; Richardson reminded her that Pamela’s master had hesitated, and that Pamela’s Virtue had not earned its reward on easy terms. She stole another look at the doctor. The eloquence of women’s eyes, so widely and justly celebrated in poetry and prose, now spoke in the cook’s eyes. They said, “Marry me, dear sir, and you shall never have underdone mutton again.” The hearts of other savages have been known to soften under sufficient influences—why should the scientific savage, under similar pressure, not melt a little too? The doctor took up the talk again: he made a kind allusion to the cook’s family circumstances.
“When you first came here, I think you told me you had no relations?”
“I am an orphan, sir.”
“And you had been some time out of a situation, when I engaged you?”