Pearl-Fishing; Choice Stories from Dickens' Household Words; Second Series

After receiving many promises of friendship and assistance, Fanny hastened to report to Sally the success of her negotiation. Sally was sitting in their little bedroom, thoughtful, and almost sad. She listened to Fanny’s account; and replied in answer to her questions concerning Miss Laura’s way of taking her warning, “I am afraid, Fanny, you were right in thinking yourself the greatest favorite, for Miss Laura seemed almost pleased at my news; she took me by the hand, and said, ‘I am very glad to hear you are to marry such a good young man as every one acknowledges John Maythorn to be, and you may depend upon my being always ready to help you, if you want assistance.’ She then said a deal about my having lived with her six years, and not having once displeased her, and told me that master had promised my mother and yours too, that his young ladies should see after us all our lives. This was very kind, to be sure; but then Miss Isabel promised you presents whether you wanted assistance or not, and is to give you a silk gown and a white ribbon for the wedding, and is to go over to the cottage with you; now Miss Laura did not say a word of any such thing.”

Fanny tried to comfort her cousin by saying it was Miss Laura’s quiet way; but she could not help secretly rejoicing that her own mistress was so generous and affectionate.

In the evening the two sweethearts came to lead their future wives to the cottages, which were near each other, and at about a mile from the Hall. John had a happy walk. He learned from Sally that he was to “take her home” in a month, and was so pleased at the news, that he could scarcely be happier when she bustled about, exclaiming at every new sight in the pretty bright little cottage. The tea-caddy, the cupboard of china, and a large cat, each called forth a fresh burst of joy. Sally thought everything “the prettiest she had ever seen;” and when John made her sit in the arm-chair and put her feet on the fender, as if she were already mistress of the cottage, she burst into sobs of joy. We will not pause to tell how her sobs were stopped, nor what promises of unchanging kindness, were made in that bright little kitchen; but we may safely affirm that Sally and John were happier than they had ever been in their lives, and that old Mrs. Maythorn, who was keeping the cottage for Sally, felt all her fondest wishes were fulfilled as she saw the two lovers depart.

Fanny and Thomas, who had left them at the cottage door, walked on to their own future home, quite overwhelmed by the honor Miss Isabel was conferring on them by walking at their side.

“You see, Miss,” said Thomas, as he turned the key of his cottage-door, “there is nothing to speak of here, only such things as are necessary, and all of the plainest; but it will do well enough for us poor folks;” and as he threw open the door, he found to his surprise that what had seemed to him yesterday so pretty and neat, now looked indeed “all of the plainest.” The very carpet, and metal teapot, which he had intended as surprises for Fanny, he was now ashamed of pointing out to her, and he apologized to Isabel for the coarse quality of the former, telling her it was only to serve till he could get a better.

“Yes,” answered she, “this is not half good enough for my little Fanny, she must have a real Brussels carpet. I will send her one. I will make your cottage so pretty, Fanny, you shall have a nice china tea set, not these common little things, and I will give you some curtains for the window.” Thomas blushed as this deficiency was pointed out. “Why, Miss,” said he, “I meant to have trained the rose tree over the window, I thought that would be shady, and sweet in the summer, and in the winter, why, we should want all the day-light; but then to be sure, curtains will be much better.”

“Yes, Thomas,” replied the young lady, “and warm in the winter; you could not be comfortable with a few bare rose stalks before your window, when the snow was on the ground.” This had not occurred to Thomas, who now said faintly, “Oh, no, Miss,” and felt that curtains were indispensable to comfort.

Similar deficiencies or short-comings were discovered everywhere, so that even Fanny, who would at first be pleased with all she saw, in spite of the numerous defects that seemed to exist everywhere, gradually grew silent and ashamed of her cottage. She did her utmost to conceal from Thomas how entirely she agreed with her mistress, and as this generous young lady finished every remark, by saying “I will get you one,” or “I will send you another,” she felt that all would be right before long.

As Thomas closed the door, he wondered how in his wish to please Fanny he could have deceived himself so completely as to the merits of his cottage and furniture; but he too comforted himself by remembering how his kind patroness was to remedy all the defects; “though,” thought he, “I should have liked better to have done it all well myself.”

The lady and the two lovers walked homewards, almost without speaking, till they overtook John and Sally, who were whispering and laughing, talking of their cottage, Mrs. Maythorn’s joy at seeing them happy, their future plans for themselves and her, and all in so confused a way, that though twenty new subjects were started and discussed, none came to and conclusion, but that John and Sally loved each other and were very, very happy.

“What ails you, Thomas?” said John. “Has any one robbed your house? I told you it was not safe to leave it,” but seeing Miss Isabel, he touched his hat and fell back to where Fanny was talking to her cousin. Isabel, however, left them that she might take a short cut through the park, while they went round by the road.

At the end of the walk, Sally was half inclined to be dissatisfied with her furniture, so much had Fanny boasted of the improvements that were to be made in her own, but she could not get rid of the first impression it had made on her, and in a few days she quite forgot the want of curtains and carpet, and could only remember the happy time when she sat in the arm-chair with her foot on the fender.

As the month drew to a close, the two sisters made presents to their maids. Laura gave Sally a merino dress, a large piece of linen, a cellar full of coals, and a five pound note. Isabel gave Fanny a silk gown that cost three guineas, a beautiful white bonnet ribbon, a small chimney glass (for which she kindly went into debt), three left-off muslin dresses, a painting done by her own hand, in a handsome gilt frame, and a beautiful knitted purse. Besides all this, she told Fanny it was still her intention to get the other things she had promised for the cottage, as soon as she had paid for the chimney glass. “I am very sorry,” she said, “that just now I am so poor, for unfortunately, as you know, I have had to pay for those large music volumes I ordered when I was in London, and which after all I never used. It always happens that I am poor when I want to make presents.”

Fanny stopped her mistress with abundant thanks for the beautiful things she had already given her. “I am sure, Miss,” said she, “I shall scarcely dare wear these dresses, they look so lady-like and fine; Sally will seem quite strange by me. And this purse too, Miss; I never saw anything so smart.”

Isabel was quite satisfied that she had eclipsed her sister in the number and value of her gifts, but she still assured Fanny she had but made a beginning. Large and generous indeed, were this young lady’s intentions.

On the wedding morning Isabel rose early and dressed herself without assistance, then crossing to the room of the two cousins, she entered without knocking. Sally was gone, and Fanny lay sleeping alone.

“How pretty she is!” said Isabel to herself. “She ought to be dressed like a lady to-day. I will see to it;” then glancing proudly at the silk gown, which was laid out with all the other articles of dress, ready for the coming ceremony, her heart swelled with consciousness of her own generosity. “I have done nothing yet,” continued she; “she has been with me nearly six years, and always pleased me entirely, then papa promised her mother that he should befriend her as long as we both lived, and he has charged us both to do our utmost for our brides. Laura has bought Sally a shawl, I ought to give one too – what is this common thing? Fanny! Fanny! wake up. I am come to be your maid to-day, for you shall be mistress on your wedding morning and have a lady to dress you. What is this shawl? It will not do with a silk dress, wait a minute,” and off she darted, leaving Fanny sitting up and rubbing her eyes trying to remember what her young mistress had said. Before she was quite conscious, Isabel returned with a Norfolk shawl of fine texture and design, but somewhat soiled. “There,” said she, throwing it across the silk gown, “those go much better together. I will give it you, Fanny.”

“Thank you, Miss,” said Fanny, in a tone of hesitation; “but – but suppose, Miss, I was to wear Thomas’ shawl just to-day, as he gave it me for the wedding, and John got Sally one like it – I think, Miss – don’t you think, Miss, it might seem unkind to wear any other just to-day?”

“Why, it is just to-day I want to make you look like a lady, Fanny; no, no, you must not put on that white cotton-looking shawl with a silk dress, and this ribbon,” said Isabel, taking up the bonnet, proudly. Fanny looked sad, but the young mistress did not see this, for she was examining the white silk gloves that lay beside the bonnet. “These,” thought she, “are not quite right, they look servantish, but my kid gloves would not fit her, besides, I have none clean, and it is well, perhaps, that she should have a few things to mark her rank. Yes, they will do.”

There was so much confusion between the lady’s offering help, and the maid’s modestly refusing it, that the toilette was long in completing. At last, however, Isabel was in ecstasies. “Look,” said she, “how the bonnet becomes you! and the Norfolk shawl, too, no one would think you were only a lady’s-maid, Fanny. Stop, I will get a ribbon for your throat.” Off she flew, and was back again in five minutes. “But what is that for, Fanny? Are you afraid it will rain this bright morning?”

Fanny had, in Isabel’s absence, folded Thomas’ shawl, and hung it across her arm. “I thought, Miss,” answered she, blushing, “that I might just carry it to show Thomas that I did not forget his present, or think it too homely to go to church with me.”

“Impossible,” said Isabel, who, to do her justice, we must state, was far too much excited to suspect that she was making Fanny uncomfortable; “you will spoil all. There, put the shawl away, – that’s right, you look perfect. Go down to your bridegroom, I hear his voice in the hall, I will not come too, though I should like above all things to see his surprise, but I should spoil your meeting, and I am the last person in the world to do anything so selfish. One thing more, Fanny: I shall give you two guineas, that you may spend three or four days at L – , by the sea-side; no one goes home directly, you would find it very dull to settle down at once in your cottage; tell Thomas so.” Isabel then retired to her room, wishing heartily that she could part with half her prettiest things, that she might heap more favors on the interesting little bride.

Laura’s first thought that morning had also been of the little orphan, who had served her so long and faithfully, and whom her father had commended to her special care. She, too, had risen early, but without dressing herself, she went across to Sally. Sally was asleep, with the traces of tears on her cheeks; Laura looked at her for a few moments, and remembered how, when both were too young to understand the distinction of rank, they had been almost play-mates; she wiped from her own eyes a little moisture that dimmed them, then putting her hand gently on Sally’s shoulder, she said, “Wake, Sally, I call you early that you may have plenty of time to dress me first and yourself afterwards. I know you would not like to miss waiting on me, or to do it hurriedly for the last time. You have been crying, Sally, do not color about it, I should think ill of you if you were not sorry to leave us, you cannot feel the parting more than I do. I dare say I shall have hard work to keep dry eyes all day, but we must do our best, Sally, for it will not for John to think I grudge you to him, or that you like me better than you do him.”

“Oh, no, Miss!” replied Sally, who felt at that moment that she could scarcely love any one better than her kind mistress. “Still John will not be hard upon me for a few tears,” added she, putting the sheet to her eyes.

“Come, come, Sally, this will not do, jump up and dress yourself quickly, that you may be ready to brush my hair when I return from the dressing-room; you must do it well to day, for you know I am not yet suited with a maid, and do it myself to-morrow.”

This roused Sally, who dressed in great haste and was soon at her post. Laura asked her many questions about her plans for the future, and found with pleasure that most things had been well considered and arranged. “There is only one thing, Miss,” said Sally, in conclusion, “that we are sorry for, and it is that we cannot offer old Mrs. Maythorn a home. She has no child but John, and will sadly feel his leaving her.”

“But why cannot she live with you and work as she does now, so as to pay you for what she costs?”

“Why, Miss, where she is she works about the house for her board, and does a trifle outdoors besides, that gets her clothing. John says it makes him feel quite cowardly, as it were, to see his old mother working at scrubbing and scouring, making her poor back ache, when he is so young and strong; yet we scarcely know if we could undertake for her altogether. I wish we could.”

“How much would it cost you?”

“A matter of four shillings a week; besides, we must get a bed and bedding. That we could put up in the kitchen, if we bought it to shut up in the day-time, and, as John says, Mrs. Maythorn would help us nicely when we get some little ones. But it would cost a deal of money to begin and go on with.”

“I will think of this for you, Sally. It would be easy for me to give you four shillings a week now, but I may not always be able to do it. I may marry a poor man, or one who will not allow me to spend my money as I please, and were Mrs. Maythorn to give up her present employments, she would not be able to get them back again three or four years hence, nor would she, at her age, be able to meet with others; and if you would find it difficult to keep her now, you would much more when you have a little family; so we must do nothing hastily. I will consult papa; he will tell me directly whether I shall be right in promising you the four shillings a week. If I do promise it, you may depend on always having it.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Miss, for the thought: I will tell John directly I see him; the very hope will fill him with joy.”

“No,” said Laura, “do not tell him yet, Sally, for you would be sorry to disappoint him afterwards, if I could not undertake it. Wait a day or two, and I will give you an answer; or, if possible, it shall be sooner. Now, thank you for the nice brushing: I will put up my hair while you go and dress; it is getting late. If you require assistance, and Fanny is not in your room, tap at my door, for I shall be pleased to help you to-day.”

Laura was not called in; but when she thought the toilette must be nearly completed, went to Sally with the shawl which she had bought for her the day before. As she entered, Sally was folding the white one John had given her. “I have brought you a shawl,” said Laura, “which I want you to wear to-day; it is much handsomer than that you are folding. See, do you like it?”

“Yes, Miss,” said Sally, “it is a very good one, I see,” and she began to re-fold the other; but Laura noticed the expression of disappointment with which she made the change, and taking up the plain shawl, said, “I do not know whether this does not suit your neat muslin dress better than mine. Did you buy it yourself, Sally?”

“No, Miss, it was John’s present; but I will put on yours this morning, if you please, Miss, and I can wear John’s any day.”

“No, no,” replied Laura, “you must put on John’s to-day. It matters but little to me when you wear mine, so long as it does you good service; but John will feel hurt if you cast his present aside on your wedding-day, because some one else has given you a shawl worth a few shillings more.” So Laura put the white shawl on the shoulders of Sally, who valued it more than the finest Cashmere in the world.

As Sally went down stairs, she saw Fanny in tears on the landing. “I cannot think how it is,” answered she, in reply to Sally’s questioning, “but just on this day, when I thought to feel so happy, I am quite low. Miss Isabel has been so kind, she has dressed me, and quite flustered me with her attentions. See what nice things she has given me – this shawl – though for that matter, I’d rather have worn Thomas’s. Oh, how nice you look. Dear, so neat and becoming your station, and with John’s shawl, too, but then Miss Laura has made you no present.”

“Yes, a good shawl and a promise besides, but I well tell you about that another time. Let us go in now, they must be waiting for us.”

Fanny felt so awkward in her fine clothes, that she could scarcely be prevailed on to encounter the gaze of the servants; but her good-natured cousin promising to explain that all her dress was given and chosen by her mistress, she at last went into the hall. Sally’s explanation was only heard by a few of the party, and as Fanny, in trying to conceal herself from the gaze of the astonished villagers, slunk behind old Mrs. Maythorn, she had the mortification of hearing her say to John, in the loud whisper peculiar to deaf people, “I am so glad, John, the neat one is yours; I should be quite frightened to see you take such a fine lady as Fanny to the altar; it makes me sorry for Thomas to see her begin so smart.”

When the ceremony was over, the party returned to the Hall, where a hospitable meal had been provided for all the villagers of good character who chose to partake of it. It was a merry party, for even Fanny, when every one had seen her finery long enough to forget it, forgot it herself. Thomas was very good-natured about the shawl, and delighted at the prospect of spending a few days at L – . He and Fanny talked of the boat-excursions they would have, the shells they would gather for a grotto in their garden, and the long rambles they would take by the sea-side, till they wondered how ever they could have been contented with the prospect of going to their cottage at once.

As the pony-chaise which the good baronet had lent for the day, drove up to take the bridal party to L – , for John and Sally were also to spend one day there, the two young ladies came to take leave of their protégées. Laura said, “Good-bye, Sally, I have consulted papa, and will undertake to allow you four shillings a week as long as Mrs. Maythorn lives. Here is a sovereign towards expenses; you will not, I am sure, mind changing your five pound note for the rest.”

Isabel said, “Good-bye, Fanny. I am very, very sorry to disappoint you of your treat at L – , but I intended to have borrowed the two pounds of Miss Laura, and I find she cannot lend them to me. Never mind, I am sure you will be happy enough in your little cottage. I never saw such a sweet little place as it is.” So the bridal party drove away.

In less than a week the cousins were established in their new abode. Sally settled and happy; but Fanny, unsettled, always expected the new carpet, the china tea-set, and the various other alterations that Isabel had suggested and promised to make. The young lady, however, was unfortunate with her money. At one time she lost a bank-note; at another, just as she was counting out money for the Brussels carpet, the new maid entered to tell her that sundry articles of dress were “past mending,” and must be immediately replaced. One thing after another nipped her generous intentions in the bud, and at last she was obliged to set out for her long-expected journey to France without having done more towards the fulfilment of her promises than call frequently on Fanny, to remind her that all her present arrangements were temporary, and that she should shortly have almost everything new. “Good-bye, Fanny,” said she at parting; “I shall often write to you, and send you money. I will not make any distinct promise, for I dare say I shall be able to do more than I should like to say now.”

Laura had given Sally a great many useful things for her cottage, but made no promise at parting. She said, “Be sure you write to me, Sally, from time to time, to say how you are going on, and tell me if you want help.”

When Isabel was gone, Fanny saw that she must accustom herself to her cottage as it was, and banish from her mind the idea of the long-anticipated improvements. It was, however, no easy task. The window once regarded as bare and comfortless still seemed so, in spite of Fanny’s reasoning that it was no worse than Sally’s, which always looked cheerful and pretty. To be sure, John, who did not think of getting curtains, had trained a honeysuckle over it, still that made but little show at present. The carpet, too, so long regarded as a coarse temporary thing, never regained the beauty it first had to the eye of Thomas, as he laid it down the evening before he took Fanny to the cottage; and Fanny could never forget, as she arranged her tea-things, that Miss Isabel had called them “common little things;” so of all the other pieces of furniture that the young lady had remarked upon. Sally’s house was, in reality, more homely than her cousin’s, yet as she had never entertained a wish that it should be better, and as Laura had been pleased with all its arrangements, she bustled about it with perfect satisfaction; and even to Fanny it seemed replete with the comfort her own had always wanted.

At the end of three months Isabel enclosed an order for three pounds to Fanny, desiring her to get a Brussels carpet, and if there was a sufficient remainder, to replace the tea seat.

“I would rather,” said Fanny to her cousin, “put up with the old carpet and china, and get a roll of fine flannel, some coals, an extra blanket or two, and a cradle for the little one that’s coming, for it will be cold weather when I am put to bed; but I suppose as Miss Isabel has set her mind on the carpet and china, I must get them.”

A week or two after John was invited, with his wife and mother, to drink tea from Fanny’s new china. It was very pretty, so was the carpet, and so was Fanny making tea, elated with showing her new wealth.

“Is not Miss Isabel generous?” asked she, as she held the milk-pot to be admired.

“I sometimes wish Miss Laura had as much money to spare,” replied Sally; “for she lets me lay it out as I please, and I could get a number of things for three guineas.”

“Fie, Sally,” said her husband; “are not three shillings to spend as one pleases, better than three guineas laid out to please some one else?”

“Nonsense, John,” said Fanny, pettishly; “how can a carpet for my kitchen be bought to please any one but me?”

“John isn’t far wrong either,” answered her husband; “but the carpet is very handsome, and does please you and me too, now it is here.”

Time passed on, and Fanny gave birth to a little girl. Isabel stood sponsor for her by proxy, sending her an embroidered cloak and lace cap, and desiring that she should be called by her own name. Little Bella was very sickly, and as her mother had not been able to procure her good warm clothing, or lay in a large stock of firing, she suffered greatly from cold during the severe winter that followed her birth. The spring and summer did not bring her better health; and as Fanny always attributed her delicacy to the want of proper warmth in her infancy, she took a great dislike to the Brussels carpet, which now lay in a roll behind a large chest, having been long ago taken up as a piece of inconvenient luxury in a kitchen. “I wish you could find a corner for it in your cottage, Sally,” said she, “for I never catch a sight of it without worrying myself to think how much flannels and coals I might have bought with the money it cost.”

Laura frequently sent Sally small presents of money, but Isabel, though not so regular as her sister, surprised every one by the splendor of her presents, when they did come. As Bella entered her second year she received from her godmother a beautiful little carriage, which Thomas said must have “spoilt a five-pound note.” This was Isabel’s last gift, for it was at about this time that she accepted an offer from a French count, and became so absorbed in her own affairs, that she forgot Fanny and Bella too. Poor Bella grew more and more sickly every month; the apothecary ordered her beef tea, arrowroot, and other strengthening diet, but work was slack with Thomas, and it was with difficulty that he could procure her the commonest food. “I am sure,” said Fanny to her cousin, as little Bella was whining on her knee, “that if only Miss Isabel were here, she would set us all right. She never could bear to see even a stranger in distress.”