Vanity Fair (2 page)

"Well, sister, it's only two-and-ninepence, and poor Becky will be
miserable if she don't get one."

"Send Miss Sedley instantly to me," said Miss Pinkerton. And so
venturing not to say another word, poor Jemima trotted off,
exceedingly flurried and nervous.

Miss Sedley's papa was a merchant in London, and a man of some
wealth; whereas Miss Sharp was 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.

Although schoolmistresses' letters are to be trusted no more nor
less than churchyard epitaphs; yet, as it sometimes happens that a
person departs this life who is really deserving of all the praises
the stone cutter carves over his bones; who IS a good Christian, a
good parent, child, wife, or husband; who actually DOES leave a
disconsolate family to mourn his loss; so in academies of the male
and female sex it occurs every now and then that the pupil is fully
worthy of the praises bestowed by the disinterested instructor.
Now, Miss Amelia Sedley was a young lady of this singular species;
and deserved not only all that Miss Pinkerton said in her praise,
but had many charming qualities which that pompous old Minerva of a
woman could not see, from the differences of rank and age between
her pupil and herself.

For she could not only sing like a lark, or a Mrs. Billington, and
dance like Hillisberg or Parisot; 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 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 (Lord Dexter's granddaughter)
allowed that her figure was genteel; and as for Miss Swartz, the
rich woolly-haired mulatto from St. Kitt's, 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 (who paid double) of
St. Kitt's. Such luxury of grief, however, is only allowed to
parlour-boarders. Honest Jemima had all the bills, and the washing,
and the mending, and the puddings, and the plate and crockery, and
the servants to superintend. But why speak about her? It is
probable that we shall not hear of her again from this moment to the
end of time, and that when the great filigree iron gates are once
closed on her, she and her awful sister will never issue therefrom
into this little world of history.

But as we are to see a great deal of Amelia, there is no harm in
saying, at the outset of our acquaintance, that she was a dear
little creature; and a great mercy it is, both in life and in
novels, which (and the latter especially) abound in villains of the
most sombre sort, that we are to have for a constant companion so
guileless and good-natured a person. As she 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 and godlike
woman, ceased scolding her after the first time, and though she no
more comprehended sensibility than she did 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 grandpapa,
the Earl of Dexter," said Miss Saltire (who, by the way, was rather
shabby). "Never mind the postage, but write every day, you dear
darling," said the impetuous and woolly-headed, but generous and
affectionate Miss Swartz; and the orphan little Laura Martin (who
was just in round-hand), 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 which details, I have no doubt, JONES, who reads this
book at his Club, will pronounce to be excessively foolish, trivial,
twaddling, and ultra-sentimental. Yes; I can see Jones at this
minute (rather flushed with his joint of mutton and half pint of
wine), taking out his pencil and scoring under the words "foolish,
twaddling," &c., and adding to them his own remark of "QUITE TRUE."
Well, he is a lofty man of genius, and admires the great and heroic
in life and novels; and so had better take warning and go elsewhere.

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 cow's-
skin 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, pompous, and tedious; and having the fear of her
schoolmistress greatly before her eyes, Miss Sedley did not venture,
in her presence, to give way to any ebullitions 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-by to Miss Pinkerton, Becky!" said Miss
Jemima to a 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; she only directed those
who did: but biting her lips and throwing up her venerable and
Roman-nosed head (on the top of which figured a large and solemn
turban), she said, "Miss Sharp, I wish you a good morning." As the
Hammersmith Semiramis 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
Semiramis 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," said she,
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 for ever.

Then came the struggle and parting below. Words refuse to tell it.
All the servants were there in the hall—all the dear friend—all
the young ladies—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 Swartz, the parlour-boarder, from her room,
as no pen can depict, and as the tender heart would fain 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," said she 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-by. 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 put her pale
face out of the window and actually flung the book back into the
garden.

This almost caused Jemima to faint with terror. "Well, I never"—
said she—"what an audacious"—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.

In Which Miss Sharp and Miss Sedley Prepare to Open the Campaign

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.