Amy Thornton; or, the Curate's daughter

Front matter

■ Va ■ I I ■ Sam here walked towards Amy, and took hold of heu hand " In a Cottage with my own sweet Wife. LONDON: SIMPK1N, MARSHALL, AND CO OR, THE CURATE'S DAUGHTER. BY EDWARD BURLEND. ** Let not ambition mock tbeir useful toil, Their homely joys or destiny obscure; Nor grandeur bear, with a. -disdainful sraile. The short and simple annals of the poor." LONDON; SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO. LEEDS : ALICE MANN, DUNCAN-STBEET [Entered at Stationers' Hall.] CONTENTS. V.i, _ Chapter I.— The Parentage of the Curate's Daughter. . . 1 Chapter II.— Of " Ills that flesh is heir to." •. . . . II Chapter III. — How Amy gets on at the Workhouse. , . . 24 Chapter IV.— A firm will in a frail form. . . . . :'H Chapter V. — " Honour and fame with no condition rise." . 6a Chapter VI. — Amy's new situation described 78 Chapter VII.— Some little difficulties in matters of dress. , Hit t'n uter VIIL— Sam's early history 106 Chapter IX. — Matthias Abbott's ovation. . .124 Chapter X.— Sam tells Amy a secret 140 Chapter XI. — A dark page in Amy's history 152 Chapter XII. — Necessity the mother of invention. . . . 1 7 It Chapter XIII. — The scene changes. ..... 188 Chapter XIV. — "Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it." . 20ft Chapter XV. — A stranger settles at Whitford 22rt i 1 1 \ iter XVI. — " We are all odd fellows, when we do the thing that is right." 241 Chapter XVII. — Tho horizon brightens 259 Chapter XVIII. — " Scis bene cui dicam, positis pro nomina signis." 270 Chapter XIX. — "Hope springs eternal in the human breast. . 288 Chapter XX. — " Love aud life are mysteries." . . . . 307 Chapter XXI. — New difficulties rise. 325 Chapter XXII.—" I do uot like thee, Doctor Fell." . . . 851 Chapter XXIII. — " There's a divinity diat shapes our ends." . on, THE CURATE'S DAUGHTER.

A TALE OF YORKSHIRE LIFE.'

Chapter I. The Parentage Of The Curate's Daughter

A T the distauce of about ten minutes' walk from the village of Elmwood, -*-*- are two little thatched cottages, known in the neighbourhood, on account of their sequestered situation, as the Owlet Houses ; or, as the people express it, "t'Hullet Houses." About sixty years ago these cottages were inhabited by two labourers, named Henry Morrit and George Benton ; the former was a wood-cutter and charcoal-burner, the latter merely a farm labourer, but an excellent workman. At the time when these two men were in their full bodily vigour, few rustic dwellings had a more pleasing appearance. They had each a little garden, iu which, in summer time, Henry and George, often accompanied by their wives, used to spend their leisure evening hours. — now digging or weeding their gardens, and now resting on rustic benches they had severally constructed, enjoying the balmy breezes' of the gentle zephyrs, or comparing and contrasting the varying beauties of their favourite flowers, for which both families had a cultivated taste.

These were the golden hours of the occupiers of Owlet Houses. At the period where our story commences, Henry, George, aud Henry's wife, were among the grass-covered tenants of the village church-yard. George's wid>->w, and ouly daughter, and Henry's daughter, alone survive. The two girls, daughters of the above, claim a short notice. George Benton, as was said, being a good workman, and of thrifty habits, was in a position to give his daughter a better education than usually falls to the lot of peasants' children. She was, indeed, a quick and intelligent child ; and on an evening, after spending the day at the village school, she was always ready with her book to show " daddy" some little discovery she had made, either in the figures of tlie wood-cuts, with which her school-books were embellished, or in the mode of spelling some long and difficult word with which she had recently formed an acquaintance.

Benton loved his dear little '* Sally " fondly, and never thought anything too dearly earned B ■J amy thornto^; on, the curate's DxUjghtei.. that contributed to what he considered necessary to her happiness. In short, Sally Benton, in process of time, became a well-educated and a very agreeable young person; and, after she had reached her nineteenth year, was engaged by tlie village schoolmaster as sewing-mistress in the estab lishment, at only a small salary, but where she was iu a respectable position; henceforward endowed with the tide of Miss Benton. Her promotion did not end here. The parson of Elmwood kept a curate, partly because bis parish was extensive, and required coustaut attention, and partly because his health had latterly been in a precarious state. The curate's name was Mr. Thornton, a young man of about twenty-five years of age, who, in his frequent visits to the village school, perceived some thing in the rustic simplicity and winning modest smile of Miss Benton, that made him a more frequent visitor at the school than usual; and, in fact, the schoolmaster, Mr. Wilson, declared that he did more harm than good in the school, and intended further mischief, as he was sure Miss Benton would soon be Mrs. Thornton.

The master's prophecies were realized. Mr. Thornton having procured a substitute for about six weeks, suddenly left the village ; and Miss Benton. was missing at the same time. At the end of the six weeks Mr. Thornton returned, and, as the Fleece borough journals had announced in the meantime, Miss Benton, now Mrs. Thornton, was recognised as his wife. No external manifestations of joy marked die event. The papers announced the fact of the marriage in the simplest style, thus: — "Same day, the Eev. Walter Hubert Thornton, Curate of Elmwood, to Sarah, only daughter of Mr. George Benton, of Owlet Houses, in the said parish." Even on the following Sunday, when the curate led bis graceful bride to the church for the first time, the bells did not celebrate the marriage by an extra peal ; but it was known that Mr. Thornton was a gentleman of unostentatious manners, and conse quently no one expressed any surprise.

The daughter of the other cottager was less fortunate. It was generally rumoured in the neighbourhood that her mother sustained a fright during the period of her pregnancy ; indeed, she herself had named and explained the circumstance before the chdd was born ; but whether that had any influence on the future condition and destiny of her offspring, it is not for us to determine. This, however, is certain : Morrit's daughter has always been peculiar. In some respects she is, indeed, surprisingly sagacious ; and if a pers^p wishes to cheat her, she may allow him to succeed just once; but he will be under a woful mistake if he imagine she remains ignorant of the trick. Aud with regard to her moral nature, her love of truth, her invariable constancy in friendship, her incorruptibility, and her self-command and firmness when entrusted with a secret, she is a very model of excellence.

And yet Martha Morrit is eccentric, — so much so in many respects as to warrant the doubt of her perfect sanity. She was now, at the OR, THE CURATE'S DAUGHTER. 3 time of the marriage of her early companion and protectress, Mrs. Thornton, twenty years of age ; and yet she had her hair cut quite short like that of a boy. She dressed, likewise, differently from any other young female, wearing, instead of a bonnet, a man's hat ; and, if not positively a man's coat, one made with pockets in the side and buttons down the front, exactly after the mode of male attire; only it was not fitted closely to her figure, as men usually have theirs, but loose and easy. Some features in these peculiarities are perhaps due to her occupation. She lost her father when she was only twelve years old, and her mother about sour years afterwards ; and as it appeared never likely that Martha could be established in life as other young women, her mother taught her to make blacking, aud sent her to sell it in the neighbouring villages.

Martha Morrit's blacking soon became famous, and now that she has lost both parents, she still carries on the business, and makes a satisfactory livelihood thereby. She is, however, not known in the villages, where her figure is as well known as the bellman's, by her own name, but by a nick name. Sometimes it is " Matty Blackey," at others " Matty Music." The former is due to#her calling, the latter to her propensity for singing and oral poetry. Oral poetrv we say, for Matty cannot read. Her mother had a Watts's hymn book, which Matty was very much attached to, and for all she could not tell one letter from another, she would ever be nursing this hymn book, and singing or repeating such hymns as she knew by heart, with the book open before her, as if she knew all about it. Sally Benton used to read them to her ; and hours together have the two girls sat upon the green hillocks around their secluded homes, the one listening and the other reading these pretty effusions of religious poetry.

By careful notice, Matty knew the very page on which any of her favourite compositions were printed ; and so strong was the association between the repetitions and the book, that she could always do better with it than without it. With regard to the tunes, she has a discriminating ear and a sweet voice, and although she never attends public worship, she delights to steal towards the door of the church or chapel during service, and listen to the singing, and when she has heard a tuue once or twice it is her own, and she uses it not a little, being an incessant warbler. The personal appearance of a female who entirely disregards it, and adopts a costume different from that of her sex, it is not easy to criticise. Matty's figure may be considered sligh* and her stature below an average; but her countenance betrays a mental constitution that, no one can doubt, is uncommon.

Poor Matty is the reverse of pretty. She has a kind of nervous twitching on one side of her mouth, that strikes a stranger, and gives him the idea that she is in constant pain. Her eyes are dark, but powerful ; and when she looks steadily at a person, as she is in the habit of doing, he feels the glance somewhat unpleasant, as it is more penetrating AUT THORNTON : OF., THE CURATE'S DAUGHTER. than ordinary glances. In fact, Matty makes good use of her dark eyes. She has the habit of holding her chin in her band, and taking a careful survey of every new acquaintance. What her ideas are on such occasions, no one ever heard her declare ; but certain it is. individuals thus looked upon have passed under an ordeal from which, as far as Matty is concerned, there is no appeal. She views them carefully, looks again, as if undecided on some point, finishes her observations, and hor mind is made up.

If she augurs well of a person after such a scrutiny, she will address him with the freedom of an old companion, but if otherwise, there is no mistaking her convictions. " I have read your disposition, — I do not like it, and the less I have to do with you and better," appears to be her settled determina tion on such occasions. And here, for the present, we leave Matty. The village of Elmwood has two short branches separating from the main street at the cross hill. In one of these, about sixty yards from the said junction, stands a small detached house, with oue end to the road, and a small garden to its front. The house has only one entrance, and to this you have to go through the said garden, which is fenced from the road by a high wall, and a neat little green gate. The garden too small for kitchen produce ; but although it is nearly ou the north side of the house and door, it is well adapted for a few small shrubs and flowers.

Here there is a beautiful mezereon, that, clad in early spring with clustered blossoms of pale crimson, gives the garden an appearance of life and warmth, very grateful at a time when the cold winds of surviving winter still assure the traveller that he must wait many weeks longer before his thick winter garments will feel a cumbrance to him. There is likewise a fine dark green lilac tree, which, when covered with its thick bunches of flowers, is an interesting object ; and in a far corner stands a solitary apple tree, between which and the said lilac, a curious old seat bas been constructed of oak branches, fastened together in such a manner as to give the impression that it is something of nature's own workmanship. A very small rockery is in front of the seat, and among the rough and stalactic blocks of stone of which the rockery is formed, many cheerful little plants have gained a settlement.

The bright blue periwinkle, and the hardy saxifrage, together with various specimens of stonecrop and yellow moss, thrive abundantly. Along the front of the house, in two beds specially devoted to flowers of rarer kinds, may be noticed, as tbe^easons come round, fine specimens of gorgeous plants, from the time when the golden crocus ventures forth to see whether the snows are melted, to the dull and sober December clay, when all but the vigorous chrysanthemum have sickened before the icy blast, and, collecting their remains of vitality about their roots, are qu'etly waiting till another spring shall infuse renewed warmth into their structure, and call them forth to blossom and to decline as their constitutional destiny may determine. ; OR, THE CURATE's DAUGHTER. 5 This was the house, then, near which two or three labourers' wives were stauding one morning in winter, in a pensive altitude, remarking to each other "that the light which for several nights had been seen burning in one of the chambers was not burning when their husbands had got up before the break of day, and that as the blind was then down, and the doctor iu his late visits had given no hopes of recovery, and very little even of a prolonged existence, the probability was that the head of the family was dead."

These conjectures were confirmed by a neighbour of theirs who had been engaged to assist Mrs. Thornton to wait upon her sick husband, and who, while the women were deliberating together, came from the house, and told them in a low, sad tone, that Mr. Thornton had died that morning at two o'clock. The gossips, on hearing this, looked significantly at one another, as if to say, " We felt sine it was so," and slowly separated to their respective homes. Ill a few days after the above sad event, a funeral was seen slowly moving towards Elmwood church-yard. Elmwood being an extensive parish, funerals are not uncommon, and as this passed along there was nothing to denote an extraordinary event. The people stood at their doors, or looked through their windows, as the coffin was borne along by a few of their better class neighbours ; but this was their usual practice.

Mr. Thornton had, indeed, been a kind and an attentive curate; but as bis long illness had gradually prepared the parishioners for his death, and as his means were known to be nearly exhausted, external solemnities seemed out of place. There is nothing like poverty for securing a quiet, private funeral. On this occasion there were only two mourners — his widow and only daughter, a child about nine years of age ; and when the coffin was lowered into the grave, and the service was being read by Mr. Thornton's successor, there were heard no deep groans of distress. Tho village school master had left bis school a few minutes out of respect for one with whom he had been long associated, and gazed with sad concern on the quiet mourners that stood looking ou the coffin with feelings too deep to be expressed by sobs and tears; and the hardy sexton, as he scattered a small handful of mould on the coffin lid while the curate was pronouncing the words " earth to earth," was observed to wipe away one or two tears from his cheek, remembering that he who was below had' often assisted a* a similar ceremony, and perhaps reflecting that be, too, who had been long familiar with such scenes, would one day have to be in the position of tho departed.

After the funeral, Mrs. Thornton and her daughter returned to their cottage, and passed the remainder of the day in a manner not readily described. To some people the widow would have appeared somewhat indifferent as to the loss she had sustained. Nobody had seen her weep, and any expressions of sympathy from her neighbours appeared equally uninvited and unnecessary. Yet the blow had reached her heart, and iu ; OR, THE CURATE'S DAUGHTER. her quiet manner and silent sadness the observing eye might have marked real pent-up distress. She wished not to add to the grief her little daughter felt by exhibiting her own ; and, therefore; the evening passed away with out any of the signs of sorrow that the loss of a near and dear relative usually awakens. Mrs. Thornton, however, had no inclination for food ; but this did not surprise Amy, as she had often declined her tea; but when the time for retiring to rest arrived, she told Amy to say her prayers to herself, and not aloud, that night, as was her wont ; but this the chdd had occasionally done before.

The cause was, however, now a new one. Mrs. Thornton felt that were her little daughter to kneel by her side, and repeat the prayers which she and her father had taught her, and often listened to under other and happier circumstances, her fortitude would give way, and, therefore, she shrank fiom the trial. The child was consequently allowed to go to her own little crib alone, and Mrs. Thornton retired to her room. Her situation here may be more easily conceived than described. It was now that the full force of her loss made itself understood. The couch was there on which her husband had breathed his last. His medicine bottles and boxes were before her on the dressing-table, which, with trembling hopes, she had used as directed ; but now they were not wanted. The soft chair at the head of the bed, in which he had occasionally sat while bis couch was renewed, was there; but he, the fondly-beloved occu pant, was gone.

Everything, in fact, here pointed out a state of things, of bygone endearments which were to be known no more. Overcome with these painful associations, without either bending her knees or undressing herself, she threw herself upon the bed and groaned in anguish. The night v. as dark and gloomy, and she lay on her couch in a kind of half stupor, melancholy, but not musing. The wind murmured loudly about her chamber window, but she heard it not. The hour of midnight had passed, but the anguish of the bereaved had found no relief in sleep, for which, in fact, she had no inclination. While, however, in this state of melancholy abstraction, she heard, or thought she heard, the voice of a female singing — When the weary fall asleep, Why should ling'ring mortals weep _ Boused by these unusual sounds, she raised her head, and the voice, though from a different place, proceeded — When we've finished life's career, What should make us tarry here ?

There was another break iu the music, and all was again silent save the gentle murmur of the breeze. It, however, recommenced, but apparently at the back of the house — A31V THORNTONj OR, THE CURATE'S DAUGHTER. 7 To a world of grief and pain Would you have him back again ? Live to join him with the blest ■ Let the quiet sleeper rest. These words, though in themselves so simple and commonplace, fell on the car of Mrs. Thornton with a superhuman power. They appeared at once adapted to her situation, and expressive of sympathy, and, for the first time, Mrs. Thornton had the power to weep ; tears now ran down her cheeks from apparently inexhaustible fountains, and administered to her relief. She stept upon the floor of her room, and buried her face in the counterpane, while she knelt by the side of her couch, and tried to raise her heart to Him who, " beneath a frowning Providence, bides a smiliug face."

She had not, however, the power to utter a prayer ; but she knelt and wept, and, having thus derived a soothing influence to her fevered feelings, she undressed, and, aftei' a while, fell asleep on her couch. The next morning found Mrs. Thornton and Amy in better spirits than could have been expected from the quiet sadness of the previous evening. " Poverty," it has often been said, " is no man's friend." We are not quite sure of this. When the rich suffer bereavement, they find it desirable to leave the neighbourhood in which their calamity befalls them, and, by a chauge of scenery and new associations, prevent their minds from brooding over a bereavement which no anxieties can repair. The indigent have not this solace ; but nature has provided them with another. The poor widow, left with the charge of a small hungry family, has something to do beside nursing her grief; and thus it was with Mrs. Thornton.

During the period when her husband was in full health, and the receipt of his £80 a-year, she had been, in a secular point of view, in happy circumstances ; but the. long-wasting disease, pulmonary consumption, of which he had died, had made them feel their position one of a manifold misfortune. Till the period arrived when all hope of Mr. Thornton's recovery was abandoned, he had himself provided a substitute, at a cost that left nothing for his own main tenance, and, when he had relieved himself of all responsibility connected with his situation by fully resigning it, he was entirely dependent on what their previous economy had reserved from a scanty income. His early days, he admitted, had given promise of a better position, but as he was a stranger in the neighbourhood, and, as all his near relatives were dead except a brother, of whom he bad heard nothing for years before his marriage, and who, he believed, if alive, was not in England, he was, under these circumstances, obliged to run into debt.

Mrs. Thornton's situation, therefore, was not to be envied. She had been fortunate in marriage, apparently, and, whenever fortune makes a favourite of an individual, she creates, at the same time, an object of OR, THE CURATE'S DAUGHTER. envy. The neighbours had never forgiven Sally Benton for marrying tlie curate; and now, when a reverse of fortune overtook her, they felt littio disposed to condole with her on account of the change. Being, however, in the prime of life, and, although she had latterly been troubled with a dry tickling cough, in moderate health, she resolved to make an effort to gam a livelihood. Something, however, must be done in the meantime, as her creditors had grown quite angry, and not only refused further credit, but threatened legal proceedings unless their demands were speedily satisfied.

She resolved, therefore, to sell such portions of her furniture as, in her altered circum stances, had become unnecessary. She accordingly advertised to sell by auction the furniture of her parlour, and a few other extra commodities up stairs, and leave only such articles as would be absolutely necessary for herself and child. This plan had two advantages. Perceiving no other method of earning a comfortable livelihood than her old occupation of teacher, she saw it would be necessary to use the parlour as a school room, which, when deprived of its present furniture, would comfortably accommodate a limited number of pupils. These determinations, therefore, wero carried into effect as soon as possible ; but partly by the expenses of the sale, and partly because there was little competition, she realized considerably less than she had expected.

Her debts at the shop, and for her husband's funeral, amounted to a little over £2S; and, after these were discharged, she found herself in possession of the small sum of £C> 5s. Her half-year's rent would likewise ba due in about a month, and the doctor's bill had not yet been sent in, so that poor Mrs. Thornton felt herself beset with difficulties. She, however, stood well once more with the shopkeeper, and her orders were received with a smile, and at once attended to. Having got a circular printed announcing that she would open a day-school for the instruction of young ladies ou the Monday sennight after the sale, she got a few benches made, and purchased such other little articles in the stationery and book department as were absolutely necessary for her new undertaking; and thus we find Mrs. Thornton again nearly penniless, and about to open a day-school, from which her hopes were not very sanguine as to speedy results.

It is the opinion of a certain class of speculative theologians, that after the final judgment there will be " two wonders in heaven," — one, that certain parties are there who had not been expected ; and the other, that some who had been fully looked for as distinguished occupants of these peaceful abodes, are shut out. This opinion has its origin in sublunary things. Whoever sets on foot a new concern, will find sunport where he did not expect it, and disappointment where be had expp^ issistauce. This was Mrs. Thornton's experience. "Monday, tlie e.eveflth inst," arrived— the da>" announced for the opening of her school, and she and | OR, THE CURATE'S DAUGHTER. 9 her daughter had risen early and got the room warmed and set in order, hoping to obtain patronage from their more wealthy neighbours.

Nine o'clock was the time when they might be expected to be dropping in. While it yet wanted a quarter to the time, however, a knock was heard at. the door, and who should be there but Mrs. Chislem, with her two daughters. Now, Mrs. Chislem was one of the people from whom Mrs. Thornton expected no patronage, aud one, indeed, from whom she did not want any. The fact was, she knew her character ; she knew that she was in everybody's debt that would allow her the opportunity. She knew that her children had been sent from the village school simply because the master could get no money. Here, however, she was as polite and full of smiles as possible, remarking, with every mark of patronising assurance, "' I have brought my girls, aud I hope you will find them quick at their books, aud good children ; get them anything you see they require, and I will make it ad right at the end of tho quarter."

" Would it not be better and more convenient to yourself, Mrs. Chislem, to send them by week?" said Mrs. Thornton. "You would perceive that I take pupils by week as well as by quarter." " Yes, mum ; we noticed this in your circular ; but Mr. Chislem and me considered they had better come by quarter ; and then it would be reglar, like, and'no stops. We want 'em on, ye see, Mrs. Thornton. I wish you good morning, mum." " A pretty beginning ! " said Mrs. Thornton to herself, as she shut the door after Mrs. Chislem, and sent the new pupils into the school-room. " I have got these two, for one quarter certain, to occupy my benches, hut ." A tap at the door, and in walked Mr. Samuel Vickers, holding his only little girl by the hand. " I have brought you a scholar, mam. She's nivver been at school before ; I nawnt how ye'll manage her, but I thowt I'd better bring her to see what you can mak on her."

" Thank you, sir ; I have no doubt we shall find her a good child," at the same time loosing her bonnet and hanging it up. " I have bowt her a Reading-niade-Easy. She naws most of her letters. I mean her to come by week, 'at we may see how she sattles. Come, Lizzy, kiss daddy." Another knock at the door, and Mrs. Jackson presents herself, with her two children, a girl aud a little boy. " Good rooming, Mrs. Thornton; I thought I would just look in to see how you were getting on, and whether your new school is likely to be select, as I should not like to place Master and Miss Jackson among rude childer. Yon see, mam, they are apt to pick up vulgar sayings. Who Jias come ? " ; OR, THE CURATE'S DAUGHTER. 10 Saying this, she walked into the school-room, where Mary and Sarah Chislem and Elizabeth Vickers were already seated.

" Those unfortunate Chislems ! " ejaculated Mrs. Thornton, the moment she saw Mrs. Jackson enter the room. " Three already, I perceive," said Mrs. Jackson, somewhat recoiling as she fixed her keen eyes on the two Miss Chislems. "Three already! Well, it is a pleasant, clean room. I hope you wtll succeed ; I do really. A good school is much wanted ; very much wanted, indeed ; but I — I think I sha'nt leave my childer at present ; I'll wait a week or so and see what class of pupils you are likely to get ; and if they are sufficiently select, I'll give you my patronage." After Mrs. Jackson had departed no one else seemed about to come that morning, and Mrs. Thornton, certainly not in the best spirits, began to attend to their lessons. Her own girl, Amy, was in the room, but she was considerably in advance of the rest.