“No: but – ”

“I hate the whole house,” continued Miss Sharp in a fury. “I hope I may never set eyes on it again.

“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. I have been treated worse than any servant in the kitchen. I have never had a friend or a kind word, except from you. 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, 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. 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.

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 do a good action for anybody.

Miss Sharp’s father was an artist, and had given lessons of drawing at Miss Pinkerton’s school. He was a clever man; a pleasant companion; a careless student. 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. He was married to a young woman of the French nation, who was by profession an opera-girl.

Rebecca’s mother had had some education somewhere, and her daughter spoke French with purity and a Parisian accent. When her mother died, her father wrote a letter to Miss Pinkerton, recommending the orphan child to her protection and died too. Rebecca was seventeen when she came to Chiswick; her duties being to talk French, 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. By the side of many tall and bouncing young ladies in the establishment, Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. But she had the dismal experience of poverty. She talked to tradesmen to have a free meal granted, chatted with her father, who was very proud of her wit, and heard the talk of his wild companions – often 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. The rigid formality of the place suffocated her. She had a little room, where the maids heard her walking and sobbing at night; but it was with rage, and not with grief.

She had never mingled in the society of women. The gentle tender-hearted Amelia Sedley was the only person to whom she could attach herself in the least. The advantages of the young women round her gave Rebecca pangs of envy.

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.

Miss Pinkerton noticed her level of music performance and said to Miss Sharp that she was to instruct the children in music for the future.

The girl refused: “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. 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.”

Having Miss Pinkerton to attempt once to scold her in public, Rebecca hit upon the before-mentioned plan of answering Miss Pinkerton in French, which she couldn’t speak. [2] In order to maintain authority in her school, it became necessary to remove this rebel, this monster, this serpent 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.

Miss Sharp was invited by her friend Amelia 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.

At all events, if Rebecca was not beginning the world, she was beginning it over again. 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.

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. 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.”