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    Little Miss Joy
    Little Miss Joy
    Little Miss Joy
    Ebook139 pages2 hours

    Little Miss Joy

    By Emma Marshall

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    About this ebook

    Emma Marshall (1830–1899) was an English children's author who wrote more than 200 novels.

    She was the youngest daughter of Simon Martin, a partner in Gurney's Norwich bank, who married, at St Michael-at-Plea, Norwich, in 1809, Hannah (Ransome), a quakeress. She was born at Northrepps Hill House, near Cromer, in 1830. The family soon removed to Norwich. Miss Martin has depicted her early childhood verv faithfully in one of her first stories, The Dawn of Life (1867). She was educated at a private school until the age of sixteen.[2]

    The proximity of Norwich Cathedral and its precincts strongly influenced her subsequent line of thought. When as a girl she read Longfellow's Evangeline, she was so much impressed with it that she wrote to the poet, and thus began a correspondence that lasted until her death. About 1849, she left Norwich with her mother to live at Clifton, Bristol, where acquaintance with Dr. Addington Symonds gave them a passport to the society of the place.

    She finally settled at Clifton, and began to write from a desire to amuse and instruct young people. Her first story, Happy Days at Fernbank, was published in 1861. Between that date and her death she wrote over two hundred stories. This enormous production was stimulated by heavy losses in 1878, when the failure of the West of England bank not only swept away her husband's income and position, but involved him as a shareholder in certain liabilities. These Mrs. Marshall cleared off with indefatigable courage.

    Marshall died at home in Clifton on 4 May 1899 from Pneumonia, and was buried on the 9th in the cemetery of Long Ashton.Her method was to pick a historic character or famous building and weave a story around it, her best selling books were Under Salisbury Spire, Penshurst Castle and Winchester Meads. Of Life's Aftermath (1876), perhaps the most popular of her novels, thirteen thousand copies have been issued. She had a special faculty for turning to account dim legend or historical incident, and her books generally have some celebrated historical character for the central figure round whom the story is woven; in Under Salisbury Spire (1890) it is George Herbert, in Penshurst Castle (1894) it is Sir Philip Sidney. Her last book, The Parson's Daughter, was finished by her daughter Beatrice after her mother's death, and published in 1899. All her tales have a high moral and religious tone. Many have been translated; several were included in the Tauchnitz Library. John Nichol and J. A. Symonds, among others, were warm in their praises of them. Canon Ainger, when advocating that a memorial, which ultimately took the form of a brass, with an inscription by him, should be placed in Bristol Cathedral, spoke of 'the high and pure quality of her literary work,' and declared that her stories 'have been the means of awakening and cultivating a taste for history and literature throughout the English-speaking world.' (font: Wikipedia)
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherEmma Marshall
    Release dateNov 13, 2015
    ISBN9788892517295
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      Book preview

      Little Miss Joy - Emma Marshall

      Little Miss Joy

      Emma Marshall

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER I.

      WAITING AND WATCHING

      CHAPTER II.

      LITTLE MISS JOY

      CHAPTER III.

      AN HONEST BOY

      CHAPTER IV.

      HIS OWN WAY

      CHAPTER V.

      A TEA-PARTY IN THE ROW

      CHAPTER VI.

      A VISIT TO THE SKINNERS

      CHAPTER VII.

      DARK DOINGS

      CHAPTER VIII.

      IN PERIL OF THE SEA

      CHAPTER IX.

      ON THE WIDE, WIDE SEA

      CHAPTER X.

      ONLY A LITTLE BOX

      CHAPTER XI.

      MR. SKINNER IN COMMAND

      CHAPTER XII.

      THE SPIRIT OF PEACE

      CHAPTER XIII.

      A TOKEN AT LAST

      CHAPTER XIV.

      THE WAITING IS OVER

      CHAPTER XV.

      THE HERITAGE OF PEACE

      CHAPTER I.

      WAITING AND WATCHING.

      The sea lay calm and still under a cloudless sky. The tide was out, and there was only a faint murmur like the whisper of gentle voices, as the little waves told to the sands that they were coming back soon, for the tide had turned.

      It was yet early morning, and the old town of Great Yarmouth was asleep. The fishing boats had been out all night, and were lying like so many black birds with folded wings, waiting for the flow of the water to bring them to the beach. All the blinds were down in the houses facing the level strand. There was no one moving yet, for the resonant clock of Saint Nicholas Church had only just struck four.

      The children of visitors to Yarmouth, tired with their exertions on the sand the evening before, were all wrapt in profound slumber.

      Happy seaside children, who had paddled and delved on the beach to their hearts' content, who had braved all the reproaches of mothers and nurses, and had gone home with their buckets full of seaweed, pebbles, and shells, looking like the veriest little ragged waifs and strays, who were known as the beach children, and who were an ever-moving population gathered from the depths of the town, pattering with naked feet round the boats as they came to shore, to pick up odd fish which fell from the nets as they were spread out to dry.

      A great expanse of sand stretches out from Yarmouth, and over this the wind whistles through the long parched grass which grows in patches, interspersed with the little pink mallow and stunted thistles, which are not discouraged by their surroundings, and flourish in spite of difficulties. This wide expanse of sand and sand-mounds is called the Denes; and as little weary feet plod over it, it seems in its vastness a very desert of Sahara. Yet there is a charm about the Denes which the children feel. A sense of freedom, and a power to deal with the sand after their own will, were checked by repeated exhortations from governess or nurse to take care of their clothes. Yet the soft silvery sand can do no harm, and a prick from a blade of the pointed grass, or a scratch from a thistle, are the only dangers that beset it.

      The town of Yarmouth lies at some distance from the sea, and possesses one feature of rather unusual interest. There is a fine quay, shaded by trees, alongside which many large ships from all countries lie. There is a wide market-place and several good streets. But the heart and core of the old town is to be found in the rows, narrow thoroughfares with tall houses on either side, where many a competency, if not a fortune, has been made in days past.

      Very little sunshine or light penetrates the rows, and some of the inhabitants have a faded, washed-out look, like that of a plant shut in a dark place, which shows but a faint colour of either leaves or blossom.

      Perhaps the pale woman standing by the door of a small shop, the shutters of which were not yet taken down, was a fair specimen of her neighbours. She was tall, but drooped so much that her real height was lost. She had a sad face, where lines of care and anxiety had made a network perhaps earlier in life than wrinkles had any right to appear, if they should be traced by time rather than by sorrow. For Patience Harrison was not an old woman, and had scarcely entered her thirty-sixth year.

      As she stood at the narrow entry of the shop, her hands folded, her head bent forward, she might well attract any passer-by, while she looked right and left, as if in hopes of seeing a well-known figure come into the row, from either end.

      Up and down, up and down, that eager, hungry glance, with an infinite pathos in the dark eyes, scanned the narrow passage; and grew more pathetic and more hungry every moment.

      At last footsteps were heard on the pavement. Patience started, and took a step forward, only to draw back again disappointed.

      The top of the morning to you, Mrs. Harrison. You are about early. It is as fine a summer morning as I ever was out in.

      The speaker was a tall, well-knit young man of two or three and thirty, with a fine open countenance, and a broad square brow, round which thick light curls clustered. No contrast could be greater than between Patience Harrison and George Paterson: the man so full of life, and the enjoyment of life; the woman so languid and weary-looking. He seemed as if the world were a pleasant place to him, she as if it were a waste and a wilderness.

      You are up and about early, George repeated. Indeed, you look as if you hadn't been to bed. I hope you haven't been up all night. Have you, now?

      Yes. How could I sleep? How could I rest? There was a worse storm than ever last night at supper-time, and—and—Jack ran away out of the house, and has never come back.

      The young rascal! George exclaimed. I'd like to thrash him!

      Oh, don't say so! Don't say so! If ever a boy is scourged by a tongue, Jack is. I mean to leave this house; I can't—I can't bear it any longer.

      Well, George said, his eyes shining with a bright light—the light of hope—well, there's a home ready for you, you know that. The sooner you come, the better.

      You know I can't do it. Why do you ask me? I wonder you should ask me.

      I see no wonder in it, was the answer. You've watched and waited for eleven years; sure that's long enough! He will never come back.

      Yes, she said sadly; yes. I have waited and watched, as you say. It is the business of my life. I shall watch and wait to the end.

      George Paterson gave an impatient gesture, and settled the workman's basket on his broad shoulders, as if he were going to walk on. But after a pace or two he seemed to change his mind, and stopping, he said—

      But what about Jack? How did it happen?

      He offended her yesterday. He brought dirty boots into the parlour; and he blew a tune on the little cornet you gave him, when she told him to be quiet. He upset a jug of water on the table, and he made a face at her, and he called her 'an old cat.' He had no business to call her names.

      George laughed.

      A very fitting name, I think; he has felt her claws often enough. Well, what then?

      Then she boxed his ears—it was at supper—and he flew into a rage, and he would not listen to me, but tore out of the room, out of the house, and has never come back. Oh, George, what if there should be two to wait and watch for, instead of one! Jack! Jack! How could he leave me?

      He can't have gone far; and, as to being out all night, why, that won't hurt him. The young rascal, to give you all this trouble! Yes, I'll go and hunt for him; and if I catch him, won't I give it to him!

      No, George; no. Remember his provocation. Remember he has had no father, only a mother like me to control him.

      Only a mother like you! I should like to know where a better could be found! I am sorry for the boy that he has had to live with a cross-grained old maid, but for your sake he ought to have put up with it.

      She means well. She took us in for my father's sake, and she has kept me and the boy from starving.

      You have earned your living; you have worked well for her, and she knows it. But I will go and hunt for Master Jack. See! I will leave my basket of tools here as an assurance that I am coming back. You go and lie down, and I'll have the young master back before an hour is over. Come, go indoors; you look ready to drop.

      But Patience shook her head.

      I am used to waiting and watching, she said again; it's nothing new.

      Then her eyes began their search up and down the row, with the same wistful, eager gaze.

      George Paterson had put the basket of tools just within the doorway, and turning to her said—

      Look up at that strip of blue sky, Patience; look up, not downward so much.

      As he spoke he raised his head, and pointed to the narrow bit of sky which made a deeply blue line above the tops of the tall houses.

      That tells of love, he said—God's love which is over us. Take heart, and lift it up to Him in your trouble.

      George spoke out of the fulness of his own heart: not in any way as if he set himself up to lecture his listener, but just simply to try to raise her thoughts from the gnawing anxiety which had laid hold on her.

      Yes, she said, "the bit of sky is beautiful, but it is so far off; and—don't be angry

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