P.S.--Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley. It is particularly requested
that Miss Sharp's stay in Russell Square may not exceed ten days.
The family of distinction with whom she is engaged as governess desire
to avail themselves of her services as soon as possible.
* * * * *
This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to write her own name and
Miss Sedley's in the fly-leaf of a Johnson's Dictionary, the interesting
work which she invariably presented to her scholars on their departure
from the Mall. On the cover was inserted a copy of "Lines addressed to a
young lady on quitting Miss Pinkerton's school, at the Mall; by the late
revered Dr. Samuel Johnson." In fact, the Lexicographer's name was always
on the lips of this majestic woman, and a visit he had paid to her was
the cause of her reputation and her fortune.
Being commanded by her elder sister to get The Dixonary from the
cupboard, Miss Jemima had extracted two copies of the book from the
receptacle in question. When Miss Pinkerton had finished the
inscription in the first, Jemima, with rather a dubious and timid air
handed her the second.
"For whom is this, Miss Jemima?" said Miss Pinkerton, with awful
coldness.
"For Becky Sharp," answered Jemima, trembling very much, and blushing
over her withered face and neck, as she turned her back on her sister.
"For Becky Sharp. She's going, too."
"MISS JEMIMA!" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the largest capitals. "Are
you in your senses? Replace the Dixonary in the closet, and never venture
to take such a liberty in future."
"Well, sister, it's only two and nine-pence, and poor Becky will be
miserable if she don't get one."
"Send Miss Sedley instantly to me," was Miss Pinkerton's only answer.
And, venturing not to say another word, poor Jemima trotted off,
exceedingly flurried and nervous, while the two pupils, Miss Sedley and
Miss Sharp, were making final preparation for their departure for Miss
Sedley's home.
Now, Miss Sedley's papa was a merchant in London, and a man of some
wealth, whereas Miss Sharp was only an articled pupil, for whom Miss
Pinkerton had done, as she thought, quite enough, without conferring
upon her at parting the high honour of the dixonary. Miss Sharp's father
had been an artist, and in former years had given lessons in 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. 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, who had had
some education somewhere, and her daughter Rebecca 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
fatally ill, as a consequence of his bad habits, 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
almost habitually cast down. When they looked up, they were very large,
odd, and attractive. 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 had sat
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 had never been a girl, she said; she had been a woman since
she was eight years old.
Miss Jemima, however, believed her to be the most innocent creature in
the world, so admirably did Rebecca play the part of a child on the
occasions when her father brought her to Chiswick as a young girl, and
only a year before her father's death, and when she 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, and how Miss Pinkerton would have raged had she seen the
caricature of herself which the little mimic, Rebecca, managed to make
out of the doll. Becky used to go through dialogues with it; it formed
the delight of the circle of young painters who frequented the studio,
who used regularly to ask Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton was at home. Once
Rebecca had the honour to pass a few days at Chiswick, after which she
brought back another doll which she called Miss Jemmy; for, though that
honest creature had made and given her jelly and cake enough for three
children, and a seven-shillings piece at parting, the girl's sense of
ridicule was far stronger than her gratitude; and she sacrificed Miss
Jemmy as pitilessly as her sister.
Then came the ending of Becky's studio days, and, an orphan, she was
transplanted to the Mall as her home.
The rigid formality of the place suffocated her; the prayers and meals,
the lessons and the walks, which were arranged with the regularity of a
convent, oppressed her almost beyond endurance; and she looked back to
the freedom and the beggary of her father's old studio with bitter
regret. 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 silly chat and scandal of the
schoolgirls, and the frigid correctness of the governesses equally
annoyed her. She had no soft maternal heart, this unlucky girl. The
prattle of the younger children, with whose care she was chiefly
entrusted, 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 granddaughter," she said of
one. "How they cringe and bow to the 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 granddaughter, for all her fine pedigree; and yet everyone
passes me by here."
She determined 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 considered necessary for ladies
in those days. Her music she practised incessantly; and one day, when the
girls were out, and she remained at home, she was overheard to play a
piece so well that Miss 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."
Miss 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, who was 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. "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--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 plan of answering her in
French, which quite routed the old woman, who did not understand or speak
that language. In order to maintain authority in her school, it became
necessary to remove this rebel, 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 apprentice was free. 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 Miss
Minerva, "which has not been satisfactory to her mistress"), Miss Sharp
was invited by her friend to pass a week with her in London, before Becky
entered upon her duties as governess in a private family; which
thoughtfulness on the part of Amelia was only an additional proof of the
girl's affectionate nature. In fact, Miss Amelia Sedley was a young lady
who deserved not only all that Miss Pinkerton said in her praise, but had
many charming qualities which that pompous old woman could not see, from
the differences of rank and age between her pupil and herself. She could
not only sing like a lark, and dance divinely, and embroider beautifully,
and spell as well as a "Dixonary" itself, but she had such a kindly,
smiling, tender, gentle, generous heart of her own as won the love of
everybody who came near her, from Miss Minerva herself down to the poor
girl in the scullery and the one-eyed tart woman's daughter, who was
permitted to vend her wares once a week to the young ladies in the Mall.
She had twelve intimate and bosom friends out of the twenty-four young
ladies. Even envious Miss Briggs never spoke ill of her: high and mighty
Miss Saltire allowed that her figure was genteel; and as for Miss Swartz,
the rich woolly-haired mulatto from St. Kitts, on the day Amelia went
away she was in such a passion of tears that they were obliged to send
for Dr. Floss, and half-tipsify her with salvolatile. Miss Pinkerton's
attachment was, as may be supposed, from the high position and eminent
virtues of that lady, calm and dignified; but Miss Jemima had already
whimpered several times at the idea of Amelia's departure; and but for
fear of her sister would have gone off in downright hysterics, like the
heiress of St. Kitts.
As Amelia is not a heroine, there is no need to describe her person;
indeed I am afraid that her nose was rather short than otherwise, and
her cheeks a great deal too round and red for a heroine; but her face
blushed with rosy health, and her lips with the freshest of smiles, and
she had a pair of eyes which sparkled with the brightest and honestest
good-humour, except indeed when they filled with tears, and that was a
great deal too often; for the silly thing would cry over a dead canary
bird; or over a mouse that the cat haply had seized upon; or over the
end of a novel, were it ever so stupid; and as for saying an unkind word
to her, were any persons hard-hearted enough to do so--why so much the
worse for them. Even Miss Pinkerton, that austere woman, ceased scolding
her after the first time, and, though she no more comprehended
sensibility than she did capital Algebra, gave all masters and teachers
particular orders to treat Miss Sedley with the utmost gentleness, as
harsh treatment was injurious to her.
So that when the day of departure came, between her two customs of
laughing and crying, Miss Sedley was greatly puzzled how to act. She was
glad to go home, and yet most woefully sad at leaving school. For three
days before, little Laura Martin, the orphan, followed her about like a
little dog. She had to make and receive at least fourteen presents, to
make fourteen solemn promises of writing every week.
"Send my letters under cover to my grandpa, the Earl of Dexter," said
Miss Saltire.
"Never mind the postage, but write every day, you dear darling," said the
impetuous and woolly-headed, but generous and affectionate, Miss
Schwartz; and little Laura Martin took her friend's hand and said,
looking up in her face wistfully, "Amelia, when I write to you I shall
call you mamma."
All of these details, foolish and sentimental as they may seem, go to
show the extreme popularity and personal charm of Amelia.
Well then. The flowers, and the presents, and the trunks, and
bonnet-boxes of Miss Sedley having been arranged by Mr. Sambo in the
carriage, together with a very small and weather-beaten old cowskin trunk
with Miss Sharp's card neatly nailed upon it, which was delivered by
Sambo with a grin, and packed by the coachman with a corresponding sneer,
the hour for parting came; and the grief of that moment was considerably
lessened by the admirable discourse which Miss Pinkerton addressed to her
pupil. Not that the parting speech caused Amelia to philosophise, or that
it armed her in any way with a calmness, the result of argument; but it
was intolerably dull, and having the fear of her schoolmistress greatly
before her eyes, Miss Sedley did not venture, in her presence, to give
way to any ablutions of private grief. A seed-cake and a bottle of wine
were produced in the drawing-room, as on the solemn occasions of the
visits of parents, and these refreshments being partaken of, Miss Sedley
was at liberty to depart.
"You'll go in and say good-bye to Miss Pinkerton, Becky!" said Miss
Jemima to that young lady, of whom nobody took any notice, and who was
coming downstairs with her own bandbox.
"I suppose I must," said Miss Sharp calmly, and much to the wonder of
Miss Jemima; and the latter, having knocked at the door, and receiving
permission to come in, Miss Sharp advanced in a very unconcerned manner,
and said in French, and with a perfect accent, _"Mademoiselle, je viens
vous faire mes adieux."_
Miss Pinkerton did not understand French, as we know; she only directed
those who did; but biting her lips and throwing up her venerable and
Roman-nosed head, she said: "Miss Sharp, I wish you a good-morning." As
she spoke, she waved one hand, both by way of adieu and to give Miss
Sharp an opportunity of shaking one of the fingers of the hand, which was
left out for that purpose.
Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with a very frigid smile and bow,
and quite declined to accept the proffered honour; on which Miss
Pinkerton tossed up her turban more indignantly than ever. In fact, it
was a little battle between the young lady and the old one, and the
latter was worsted. "Heaven bless you, my child," she exclaimed,
embracing Amelia, and scowling the while over the girl's shoulder at
Miss Sharp.
"Come away, Becky," said Miss Jemima, pulling the young woman away in
great alarm, and the drawing-room door closed upon them forever.
Then came the struggle and parting below. Words refuse to tell it. All
the servants were there in the hall--all the dear friends--all the young
ladies--even the dancing master, who had just arrived; and there was such
a scuffling, and hugging, and kissing, and crying, with the hysterical
_yoops_ of Miss Schwartz, the parlour boarder, from her room, as no pen
can depict, and as the tender heart would feign pass over. The embracing
was over; they parted--that is, Miss Sedley parted from her friends. Miss
Sharp had demurely entered the carriage some minutes before. Nobody
cried for leaving _her_.
Sambo of the bandy legs slammed the carriage door on his young weeping
mistress. He sprang up behind the carriage.
"Stop!" cried Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a parcel.
"It's some sandwiches, my dear," she called to Amelia. "You may be
hungry, you know; ... and Becky--Becky Sharp--here's a book for you, that
my sister--that is, I--Johnson's Dixonary, you know; ... you mustn't
leave us without that! Good-bye! Drive on, coachman!--God bless you!"
And the kind creature retreated into the garden, overcome with emotion.
But, lo! and just as the coach drove off, Miss Sharp suddenly put her
pale face out of the window, and flung the book back into the
garden--flung it far and fast--watching it fall at the feet of astonished
Miss Jemima; then sank back in the carriage, exclaiming: "So much for the
'Dixonary'; and, thank God, I am out of Chiswick!"
The shock of such an act almost caused Jemima to faint with terror.
"Well, I never--" she began. "What an audacious--" she gasped.
Emotion prevented her from completing either sentence.
The carriage rolled away; the great gates were closed; the bell rang for
the dancing lesson. The world is before the two young ladies; and so,
farewell to Chiswick Mall.