When Miss Sharp had performed the heroical act mentioned in the
last chapter, and had seen the Dixonary, flying over the pavement
of the little garden, fall at length at the feet of the astonished
Miss Jemima, the young lady's countenance, which had before worn an
almost livid look of hatred, assumed a smile that perhaps was
scarcely more agreeable, and she sank back in the carriage in an
easy frame of mind, saying—"So much for the Dixonary; and, thank
God, I'm out of Chiswick."
Miss Sedley was almost as flurried at the act of defiance as
Miss Jemima had been; for, consider, it was but one minute that she
had left school, and the impressions of six years are not got over
in that space of time. Nay, with some persons those awes and
terrors of youth last for ever and ever. I know, for instance, an
old gentleman of sixty-eight, who said to me one morning at
breakfast, with a very agitated countenance, "I dreamed last night
that I was flogged by Dr. Raine." Fancy had carried him back
five-and-fifty years in the course of that evening. Dr. Raine and
his rod were just as awful to him in his heart, then, at
sixty-eight, as they had been at thirteen. If the Doctor, with a
large birch, had appeared bodily to him, even at the age of
threescore and eight, and had said in awful voice, "Boy, take down
your pant—"? Well, well, Miss Sedley was exceedingly alarmed at
this act of insubordination.
"How could you do so, Rebecca?" at last she said, after a
pause.
"Why, do you think Miss Pinkerton will come out and order me
back to the black-hole?" said Rebecca, laughing.
"No: but—"
"I hate the whole house," continued Miss Sharp in a fury. "I
hope I may never set eyes on it again. I wish it were in the bottom
of the Thames, I do; and if Miss Pinkerton were there, I wouldn't
pick her out, that I wouldn't. O how I should like to see her
floating in the water yonder, turban and all, with her train
streaming after her, and her nose like the beak of a wherry."
"Hush!" cried Miss Sedley.
"Why, will the black footman tell tales?" cried Miss Rebecca,
laughing. "He may go back and tell Miss Pinkerton that I hate her
with all my soul; and I wish he would; and I wish I had a means of
proving it, too. For two years I have only had insults and outrage
from her. I have been treated worse than any servant in the
kitchen. I have never had a friend or a kind word, except from you.
I have been made to tend the little girls in the lower schoolroom,
and to talk French to the Misses, until I grew sick of my mother
tongue. But that talking French to Miss Pinkerton was capital fun,
wasn't it? She doesn't know a word of French, and was too proud to
confess it. I believe it was that which made her part with me; and
so thank Heaven for French. Vive la France! Vive l'Empereur! Vive
Bonaparte!"
"O Rebecca, Rebecca, for shame!" cried Miss Sedley; for this was
the greatest blasphemy Rebecca had as yet uttered; and in those
days, in England, to say, "Long live Bonaparte!" was as much as to
say, "Long live Lucifer!" "How can you—how dare you have such
wicked, revengeful thoughts?"
"Revenge may be wicked, but it's natural," answered Miss
Rebecca. "I'm no angel." And, to say the truth, she certainly was
not.
For it may be remarked in the course of this little conversation
(which took place as the coach rolled along lazily by the river
side) that though Miss Rebecca Sharp has twice had occasion to
thank Heaven, it has been, in the first place, for ridding her of
some person whom she hated, and secondly, for enabling her to bring
her enemies to some sort of perplexity or confusion; neither of
which are very amiable motives for religious gratitude, or such as
would be put forward by persons of a kind and placable disposition.
Miss Rebecca was not, then, in the least kind or placable. All the
world used her ill, said this young misanthropist, and we may be
pretty certain that persons whom all the world treats ill, deserve
entirely the treatment they get. The world is a looking-glass, and
gives back to every man the reflection of his own face. Frown at
it, and it will in turn look sourly upon you; laugh at it and with
it, and it is a jolly kind companion; and so let all young persons
take their choice. This is certain, that if the world neglected
Miss Sharp, she never was known to have done a good action in
behalf of anybody; nor can it be expected that twenty-four young
ladies should all be as amiable as the heroine of this work, Miss
Sedley (whom we have selected for the very reason that she was the
best-natured of all, otherwise what on earth was to have prevented
us from putting up Miss Swartz, or Miss Crump, or Miss Hopkins, as
heroine in her place!) it could not be expected that every one
should be of the humble and gentle temper of Miss Amelia Sedley;
should take every opportunity to vanquish Rebecca's
hard-heartedness and ill-humour; and, by a thousand kind words and
offices, overcome, for once at least, her hostility to her
kind.
Miss Sharp's father was an artist, and in that quality had given
lessons of drawing at Miss Pinkerton's school. He was a clever man;
a pleasant companion; a careless student; with a great propensity
for running into debt, and a partiality for the tavern. When he was
drunk, he used to beat his wife and daughter; and the next morning,
with a headache, he would rail at the world for its neglect of his
genius, and abuse, with a good deal of cleverness, and sometimes
with perfect reason, the fools, his brother painters. As it was
with the utmost difficulty that he could keep himself, and as he
owed money for a mile round Soho, where he lived, he thought to
better his circumstances by marrying a young woman of the French
nation, who was by profession an opera-girl. The humble calling of
her female parent Miss Sharp never alluded to, but used to state
subsequently that the Entrechats were a noble family of Gascony,
and took great pride in her descent from them. And curious it is
that as she advanced in life this young lady's ancestors increased
in rank and splendour.
Rebecca's mother had had some education somewhere, and her
daughter spoke French with purity and a Parisian accent. It was in
those days rather a rare accomplishment, and led to her engagement
with the orthodox Miss Pinkerton. For her mother being dead, her
father, finding himself not likely to recover, after his third
attack of delirium tremens, wrote a manly and pathetic letter to
Miss Pinkerton, recommending the orphan child to her protection,
and so descended to the grave, after two bailiffs had quarrelled
over his corpse. Rebecca was seventeen when she came to Chiswick,
and was bound over as an articled pupil; her duties being to talk
French, as we have seen; and her privileges to live cost free, and,
with a few guineas a year, to gather scraps of knowledge from the
professors who attended the school.
She was small and slight in person; pale, sandy-haired, and with
eyes habitually cast down: when they looked up they were very
large, odd, and attractive; so attractive that the Reverend Mr.
Crisp, fresh from Oxford, and curate to the Vicar of Chiswick, the
Reverend Mr. Flowerdew, fell in love with Miss Sharp; being shot
dead by a glance of her eyes which was fired all the way across
Chiswick Church from the school-pew to the reading-desk. This
infatuated young man used sometimes to take tea with Miss
Pinkerton, to whom he had been presented by his mamma, and actually
proposed something like marriage in an intercepted note, which the
one-eyed apple-woman was charged to deliver. Mrs. Crisp was
summoned from Buxton, and abruptly carried off her darling boy; but
the idea, even, of such an eagle in the Chiswick dovecot caused a
great flutter in the breast of Miss Pinkerton, who would have sent
away Miss Sharp but that she was bound to her under a forfeit, and
who never could thoroughly believe the young lady's protestations
that she had never exchanged a single word with Mr. Crisp, except
under her own eyes on the two occasions when she had met him at
tea.
By the side of many tall and bouncing young ladies in the
establishment, Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. But she had the
dismal precocity of poverty. Many a dun had she talked to, and
turned away from her father's door; many a tradesman had she coaxed
and wheedled into good-humour, and into the granting of one meal
more. She sate commonly with her father, who was very proud of her
wit, and heard the talk of many of his wild companions—often but
ill-suited for a girl to hear. But she never had been a girl, she
said; she had been a woman since she was eight years old. Oh, why
did Miss Pinkerton let such a dangerous bird into her cage?
The fact is, the old lady believed Rebecca to be the meekest
creature in the world, so admirably, on the occasions when her
father brought her to Chiswick, used Rebecca to perform the part of
the ingenue; and only a year before the arrangement by which
Rebecca had been admitted into her house, and when Rebecca was
sixteen years old, Miss Pinkerton majestically, and with a little
speech, made her a present of a doll—which was, by the way, the
confiscated property of Miss Swindle, discovered surreptitiously
nursing it in school- hours. How the father and daughter laughed as
they trudged home together after the evening party (it was on the
occasion of the speeches, when all the professors were invited) and
how Miss Pinkerton would have raged had she seen the caricature of
herself which the little mimic, Rebecca, managed to make out of her
doll. Becky used to go through dialogues with it; it formed the
delight of Newman Street, Gerrard Street, and the Artists' quarter:
and the young painters, when they came to take their gin-and-water
with their lazy, dissolute, clever, jovial senior, used regularly
to ask Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton was at home: she was as well known
to them, poor soul! as Mr. Lawrence or President West. Once Rebecca
had the honour to pass a few days at Chiswick; after which she
brought back Jemima, and erected another doll as Miss Jemmy: for
though that honest creature had made and given her jelly and cake
enough for three children, and a seven-shilling piece at parting,
the girl's sense of ridicule was far stronger than her gratitude,
and she sacrificed Miss Jemmy quite as pitilessly as her
sister.
The catastrophe came, and she was brought to the Mall as to her
home. The rigid formality of the place suffocated her: the prayers
and the meals, the lessons and the walks, which were arranged with
a conventual regularity, oppressed her almost beyond endurance; and
she looked back to the freedom and the beggary of the old studio in
Soho with so much regret, that everybody, herself included, fancied
she was consumed with grief for her father. She had a little room
in the garret, where the maids heard her walking and sobbing at
night; but it was with rage, and not with grief. She had not been
much of a dissembler, until now her loneliness taught her to feign.
She had never mingled in the society of women: her father,
reprobate as he was, was a man of talent; his conversation was a
thousand times more agreeable to her than the talk of such of her
own sex as she now encountered. The pompous vanity of the old
schoolmistress, the foolish good-humour of her sister, the silly
chat and scandal of the elder girls, and the frigid correctness of
the governesses equally annoyed her; and she had no soft maternal
heart, this unlucky girl, otherwise the prattle and talk of the
younger children, with whose care she was chiefly intrusted, might
have soothed and interested her; but she lived among them two
years, and not one was sorry that she went away. The gentle
tender-hearted Amelia Sedley was the only person to whom she could
attach herself in the least; and who could help attaching herself
to Amelia?
The happiness the superior advantages of the young women round
about her, gave Rebecca inexpressible pangs of envy. "What airs
that girl gives herself, because she is an Earl's grand-daughter,"
she said of one. "How they cringe and bow to that Creole, because
of her hundred thousand pounds! I am a thousand times cleverer and
more charming than that creature, for all her wealth. I am as well
bred as the Earl's grand-daughter, for all her fine pedigree; and
yet every one passes me by here. And yet, when I was at my
father's, did not the men give up their gayest balls and parties in
order to pass the evening with me?" She determined at any rate to
get free from the prison in which she found herself, and now began
to act for herself, and for the first time to make connected plans
for the future.
She took advantage, therefore, of the means of study the place
offered her; and as she was already a musician and a good linguist,
she speedily went through the little course of study which was
considered necessary for ladies in those days. Her music she
practised incessantly, and one day, when the girls were out, and
she had remained at home, she was overheard to play a piece so well
that Minerva thought, wisely, she could spare herself the expense
of a master for the juniors, and intimated to Miss Sharp that she
was to instruct them in music for the future.
The girl refused; and for the first time, and to the
astonishment of the majestic mistress of the school. "I am here to
speak French with the children," Rebecca said abruptly, "not to
teach them music, and save money for you. Give me money, and I will
teach them."
Minerva was obliged to yield, and, of course, disliked her from
that day. "For five-and-thirty years," she said, and with great
justice, "I never have seen the individual who has dared in my own
house to question my authority. I have nourished a viper in my
bosom."
"A viper—a fiddlestick," said Miss Sharp to the old lady, almost
fainting with astonishment. "You took me because I was useful.
There is no question of gratitude between us. I hate this place,
and want to leave it. I will do nothing here but what I am obliged
to do."
It was in vain that the old lady asked her if she was aware she
was speaking to Miss Pinkerton? Rebecca laughed in her face, with a
horrid sarcastic demoniacal laughter, that almost sent the
schoolmistress into fits. "Give me a sum of money," said the girl,
"and get rid of me—or, if you like better, get me a good place as
governess in a nobleman's family—you can do so if you please." And
in their further disputes she always returned to this point, "Get
me a situation—we hate each other, and I am ready to go."
Worthy Miss Pinkerton, although she had a Roman nose and a
turban, and was as tall as a grenadier, and had been up to this
time an irresistible princess, had no will or strength like that of
her little apprentice, and in vain did battle against her, and
tried to overawe her. Attempting once to scold her in public,
Rebecca hit upon the before-mentioned plan of answering her in
French, which quite routed the old woman. In order to maintain
authority in her school, it became necessary to remove this rebel,
this monster, this serpent, this firebrand; and hearing about this
time that Sir Pitt Crawley's family was in want of a governess, she
actually recommended Miss Sharp for the situation, firebrand and
serpent as she was. "I cannot, certainly," she said, "find fault
with Miss Sharp's conduct, except to myself; and must allow that
her talents and accomplishments are of a high order. As far as the
head goes, at least, she does credit to the educational system
pursued at my establishment."
And so the schoolmistress reconciled the recommendation to her
conscience, and the indentures were cancelled, and the apprentice
was free. The battle here described in a few lines, of course,
lasted for some months. And as Miss Sedley, being now in her
seventeenth year, was about to leave school, and had a friendship
for Miss Sharp ("'tis the only point in Amelia's behaviour," said
Minerva, "which has not been satisfactory to her mistress"), Miss
Sharp was invited by her friend to pass a week with her at home,
before she entered upon her duties as governess in a private
family.
Thus the world began for these two young ladies. For Amelia it
was quite a new, fresh, brilliant world, with all the bloom upon
it. It was not quite a new one for Rebecca—(indeed, if the truth
must be told with respect to the Crisp affair, the tart-woman
hinted to somebody, who took an affidavit of the fact to somebody
else, that there was a great deal more than was made public
regarding Mr. Crisp and Miss Sharp, and that his letter was in
answer to another letter). But who can tell you the real truth of
the matter? At all events, if Rebecca was not beginning the world,
she was beginning it over again.
By the time the young ladies reached Kensington turnpike, Amelia
had not forgotten her companions, but had dried her tears, and had
blushed very much and been delighted at a young officer of the Life
Guards, who spied her as he was riding by, and said, "A dem fine
gal, egad!" and before the carriage arrived in Russell Square, a
great deal of conversation had taken place about the Drawing-room,
and whether or not young ladies wore powder as well as hoops when
presented, and whether she was to have that honour: to the Lord
Mayor's ball she knew she was to go. And when at length home was
reached, Miss Amelia Sedley skipped out on Sambo's arm, as happy
and as handsome a girl as any in the whole big city of London. Both
he and coachman agreed on this point, and so did her father and
mother, and so did every one of the servants in the house, as they
stood bobbing, and curtseying, and smiling, in the hall to welcome
their young mistress.
You may be sure that she showed Rebecca over every room of the
house, and everything in every one of her drawers; and her books,
and her piano, and her dresses, and all her necklaces, brooches,
laces, and gimcracks. She insisted upon Rebecca accepting the white
cornelian and the turquoise rings, and a sweet sprigged muslin,
which was too small for her now, though it would fit her friend to
a nicety; and she determined in her heart to ask her mother's
permission to present her white Cashmere shawl to her friend. Could
she not spare it? and had not her brother Joseph just brought her
two from India?
When Rebecca saw the two magnificent Cashmere shawls which
Joseph Sedley had brought home to his sister, she said, with
perfect truth, "that it must be delightful to have a brother," and
easily got the pity of the tender-hearted Amelia for being alone in
the world, an orphan without friends or kindred.
"Not alone," said Amelia; "you know, Rebecca, I shall always be
your friend, and love you as a sister—indeed I will."
"Ah, but to have parents, as you have—kind, rich, affectionate
parents, who give you everything you ask for; and their love, which
is more precious than all! My poor papa could give me nothing, and
I had but two frocks in all the world! And then, to have a brother,
a dear brother! Oh, how you must love him!"
Amelia laughed.
"What! don't you love him? you, who say you love everybody?"
"Yes, of course, I do—only—"
"Only what?"
"Only Joseph doesn't seem to care much whether I love him or
not. He gave me two fingers to shake when he arrived after ten
years' absence! He is very kind and good, but he scarcely ever
speaks to me; I think he loves his pipe a great deal better than
his"—but here Amelia checked herself, for why should she speak ill
of her brother? "He was very kind to me as a child," she added; "I
was but five years old when he went away."
"Isn't he very rich?" said Rebecca. "They say all Indian nabobs
are enormously rich."
"I believe he has a very large income."
"And is your sister-in-law a nice pretty woman?"
"La! Joseph is not married," said Amelia, laughing again.
Perhaps she had mentioned the fact already to Rebecca, but that
young lady did not appear to have remembered it; indeed, vowed and
protested that she expected to see a number of Amelia's nephews and
nieces. She was quite disappointed that Mr. Sedley was not married;
she was sure Amelia had said he was, and she doted so on little
children.
"I think you must have had enough of them at Chiswick," said
Amelia, rather wondering at the sudden tenderness on her friend's
part; and indeed in later days Miss Sharp would never have
committed herself so far as to advance opinions, the untruth of
which would have been so easily detected. But we must remember that
she is but nineteen as yet, unused to the art of deceiving, poor
innocent creature! and making her own experience in her own person.
The meaning of the above series of queries, as translated in the
heart of this ingenious young woman, was simply this: "If Mr.
Joseph Sedley is rich and unmarried, why should I not marry him? I
have only a fortnight, to be sure, but there is no harm in trying."
And she determined within herself to make this laudable attempt.
She redoubled her caresses to Amelia; she kissed the white
cornelian necklace as she put it on; and vowed she would never,
never part with it. When the dinner-bell rang she went downstairs
with her arm round her friend's waist, as is the habit of young
ladies. She was so agitated at the drawing-room door, that she
could hardly find courage to enter. "Feel my heart, how it beats,
dear!" said she to her friend.
"No, it doesn't," said Amelia. "Come in, don't be frightened.
Papa won't do you any harm."