Phœbe : or, The Miller's maid. A romance of deep interest

Front matter

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Preface

. We have now coma to the end of oar labours, by putting be fore the Public the domestic Romance of Phœbe ; or, the Milleb's Maid, in a complete form, and we trust we have acquitted ourselves of our pleasant task to the satisfaction of our indulgent readers. If we may julge of the appreciation of our endeavours by the popula-ity the work has attained during the time it has been issuing to the public in a serial form, we may reasonably opine that the complete novel will meet its reward from our discerning readers. Our study from tho beginning has been to put real incidents before our readers in as pleasing a manner as our ability enabled us to do, without obliterating those salient points in our sttry which are founded on our experience in real life. We tender our heartfelt thanks to our numerous patrons for the support they have given us.

London, 1853. PHOEB E; OK, THE MILLER'S MAID A ROMANCE OF DEEP INTEREST. •HO-BE RESCUED FROM THE STOBMj CHAPTER t morning juSt _11 right, like . Dost itiiMi nnt- 1-S--_-* tlint i~Li 1 Kurt "•> '' T is ft fearsome night, dame, and the old mill shakes at every gust. Pray Heaven it stands the storm. The mill is thou not hear that, Gilbert?" A clap of thunder, so loud, long, and terrible, now shook the Heavens, that the miller and his wife, who were sitting by the cheerful blaze of a wood fire, in their little cottage, which joined the milL looked at each other in fear and consternation, and were too rr.uch alarmed, for some minutes, to speak. 7S\ijjfc3&//E_[ an °'^ friend, dame. _W-»flS-^Kl_3_M My 'at her, and his father »>!___i__St^--_ssf afore hjm) OWned the old mill; bnt it be like us, dame, getting past work.

Ah! well, well, I should grieve to 6ee it stopped. We have had our trou bles, dame ; but the mill — the dear old mill — it's an old friend, and I tell 'e, I would not see it down for — no, not for a—a—" "Was ever the like," exclaimed the miller's homely, but good-hearted help mate, "was ever the like 'o that, Gilbert?" " Why, dame, dame, what 'e frightened at? Theo's heard thunder afore belike, and now t' hee trembletit like — a — a — " "Thee tremblest, too, Gilbert — thee "Now, don't 'e take on about the old mill, Gilbert. Thee'll find it, man, in the No. 1. PHŒBE; OR, 2 Mdo.., and tface can hardly speak. Oh! H Gilbert, Gilbert ! there may be some poor I souls without a home, a morsel of bread , or la roof to shelter them in such a storm as ■ this." H "Thee says true, dame ; thee says true; Hthere may, indeed.

God help them." H "As He has helped us," replied the Hdamc with a tear glistening in her eye; H"thee hast worked hard, Gilbert, early H and late, for me and mine, and the poor I never pass empty-handed by the door. I Thee bast been a good husband, Gilbert, ■ to me." H " Well, well, don't 'e take on so. I— I H — I declare thee, foolish old dame — thee — Hthec be'st a going to cry now — don't 'e; I now, don't _." I " Ah, Gilbert, I see the tear is in thy H own eye. Take thy pipe, and make thy- H self happy.'* I " Don't be faint-hearted, dame; the ■ storm will blow over; can't 'e behave thy - Hselt like a man?" ■ _ " What! hast lost thy wits, Gilbert, that m'e tells me to behave myself like a man ?" I " Nay, dame, I want 'e not to be afeard ■ like — Goodness gracious!" I A slash of lightning at this moment, so I vivid and intense, that it for an instant lit I up the little cottage with an awful light, I in spite of the fire and the candle which I burnt npon the table, caused the honest ■ miller and his wife to shake with appre- I hension.

I They looked at each other without ■ speaking, and the old dame made a trem ■ bling effort to reach the old family Bible I which stood on a shelf hard by. I Before they had time to recover from ■ their fear, a clap of thunder seemed to I shake the very earth on which the cottage and the mill stood, and then died away in the distance in endless reverberations. The mill of the worthy couple whom we have introduced to the reader, was situated on a little eminence, adjoining a lovely valley in one of the richest corn counties of England. The mill had descended from generation to generation. It had been for many years in the possession of Gilbert, the present miller, and he and his good dame were as respected as they were well known for many a mile round their happy, though humble home. The day had been cloudy and unusually close for the season of the year, for the winter was rapidly approaching; but towards evening a cold wind had set in, which was quickly followed by the storm, which now howled and roared round the old mill.

When the thnnder for a moment died away the wind might be heard sweeping along in violent gusts, which threatened destruction to everything that opposed its furious progress. For a moment there would be a lull in the tempest, and the silence of the elements permitted Gilbert and his alarmed dame to exchange a few cheering words ; but then again, with alow moaning noise, as coming afar off, the wind would make known its approach, and in a few moments the gale would sweep, howling and tearing round the mill and the cottage, like some wild animal seeking for prey. The mill creaked and shook at every gust, and the terrified and afflicted Gilbert expected nothing less than that his old friend, which had supported so many happy and contented families so long, must yield to the fury of the storm, and be swept from the little knoll on which it stood.

" Dame, dame," he cried, " thee art the same to me; but thee art not young; and in all thee life did thee ever hear a storm like this? The poor old mill ; it must go at last. Father would have broke his heart had he lived to see an end to the old mill." "Dost thee not remember a storm, Gilbert, thirty-eight years ago, when we were courting, Gilbert? Oh, good man, you were a comely youth, though I say it, and faith you're not the worst of the grist now, for when you stand upright, Gilbert, rnd call ' Giles, GUes, put a hand to the hopper,' I just think you young again, not that you are old, though, now." Gilbert smiled and shook his head, but the smile was one of pleasure, and the shake of the head only implied a modest doubt on the subject of his age. "Ay, ay, dame,'' he said, " thee would flatter your old num.

Heaven bless you, dame ; you — you are the same merry, light-hearted, fairhaired Mary, that I lent my jacket to in the storm you speak of. I remember it well. Ah, yes, — weil, well. And you crept under a hedge. — Oh ! yes, it seems but yesterday. Don't 'e fear, my pretty Mary, the storm were at the worst that ever blew o' tbe earth, could not have the heart to injure you." "Ah, Gilbert! Gilbert! those were, indeed, the very words you said. Bless you, Gilbert ! — bless you !" The good dame was quite overcome by her recollection of former years, and she bent her head upon her husband's should«r, and sobbed loudly. "Well— well, dame," saft the happy, good man ; " you are—no— you— I declare, your tears have just wetted my face — you — you see." " Ab, Gilbert, bless you! they are your own tears.

You have a good heart. And have we not much to thank Providence for, Gilbert?" ing, in spotless order, on the shelves ofthe humble dwelling. The lightning and thunder had now considerably abated, and it was only occasionally that a brilliant flash for a moment shot across the latticed window of the cottage, and was succeeded at a longer interval by the solemn boom of the thunder in the distance. The storm of wind and hail, and the noise was so great sometimes, that the honest miller and his dame could hardly hear each other speak. The miller sat down by the fire-side, and listened for some time in silence to the storm, while his wife pursued her knitting opposite to him; and, between them, on the hearth, sat a large black cat, which kept up a gentle purring, and continually winked at the fire, as if very sleepy, but determined not to give way to it till itmaster and mistress retired to rest.

Stretched partly under the old-fashioned arm-chair on which Gilbert sat, and partly on the hearth, was a large handsome dog; but he was fast asleep, and the c_t now and then seemed to peer at him out of her half-closed eyes, and with a drowsy shake of the head, reprove him for his laziness. Occasionally, she would bob her 'head foiwards quite overcome by her disposition to sleep, and bringher nose in close contact with one of the hot logs — then a sneeze would ensue, and a violent rubbing on the injured nose with one of her fore-paws ; and the dog would open his eyes for a moment and look at her, as much as to say, — "there, now; don't you see you can't keep up. You'd better be down at once." " Much, mnch, indeed, dame ! But, hark 'e ; the storm seems to get worse ; and I bear the hail pattering like stones upon the window."

"It can't last long," replied the dame; "but there's no telling, everything is altered; and storms are not like they were in our young days." "Oh, wife! wife! that's your outcry. The corn is not so full, and the winters get colder, somehow, I think ; but storms are much alike, and yet this be no more like the storm we were in so long ago, than — than — a — a — " " Ha ! Gilbert, man, you are always just comparing things to something, and 'a forgets what it is." " Well — well, dame, I'll just pnt my head out at the door, and take a look at the old mill. It stands the wind as bravely as an oak tree. There never was such a mill, dame, and I very much doubt if there ever will be such another." The miller walked to the door of his cottage, and carefully opened it to a small extent; but, the moment that he did so, he encountered such a volley of hail, rain, and sleet, which was driven in upon him by the wind which still raged aroundhis dwelling, that after one slight glance up at the mill, which satisfied him that it still stood, he was fain to use all his strength against the wind to shut again his cottage-door, and he returned to his fire-side, half-blinded and dripping from tlie storm.

"I'm thinking, Gilbert," said the dame, "upon who'll ,have the old mill when we are gone." "But we are not going, dame; and such another storm as this, and we may last out the old mill after all. Dost hear? — the wind is worse and worse, dame, only more steady like." "God help whoever is out to-night!" cried Gilbert, as he threw another log on the fire; " the old mill stands, dame; but 'tis an awful night, surely." "It be, Gilbert; it be, indeed. Here's some hail-stones that have bounced in to the very hearth.'' Suddenly, as if both were actuated by one impulse, the dame dropped her knit ting, and Gilbert started up from his arm chair, and stood erect on his feet. They neither of them spoke for several moments, and the miller held up his finger as if enjoining silence. " Listen, dame," he cried ; " didst hear nothing?"

"Ay, dame, I see! we'll just bar the door and go to rest; and somehow, dame, I don't know how it is, but I feel as if I had something to do, and ought to keep up." " What dost mean, Gilbert? Thou hast nothing to do, man." " Not that I know of, dame; but I feel a sort uneasy like; and I'll just sit a little longer." The miller, as he spoke, stirred the fire, and a warm, dancing flame lit up the snug little cottage, and was reflected brightly from the highly-polished pots and pans which the dame prided herself upon arrang- " Oh, Gilbert ! I thought I heard a cry, but it might be the wind. It do cry and howl for all the world like a christian." " No, dame; I tell'e no;— it be not the wind. Look— look at Andy; he knows it be not the wind. See, dame." Andy, for so the large dog was named, PHŒBE; OR, 4 bless her heart, poor thing!— how she must have suffered!" had risen to his t _.t, and walked to the door of the cottage, where he stood and appeared to listen attentively.

"Hark! there, again dame," cried the miller in a loud voice; " I tell 'e it be not the wind. There be some poor soul calling for help in the storm." The dog now commenced a low whining sound, and scratched with his foot at the door. " Don't 'e say another word," cried the miller. " Get thee some cordial, dame. The poor dear thing has fainted. How pale and ill she do look to be sure ; and as cold as an icicle. Dame ! dame! it was the Almighty that kept me from going to bed, that I might be a help to this poor unfortunate child." "Oh! Gilbert, I heard it then," said the dame; " it seemed like a child crying." "My staff, dam.- — quick ! there be some one in trouble. Dost hear? There again. Quiet, Andy — quiet; thou see'st I be coming." A low plaintive, wailing cry now might be distinctly he ird accompanying the wind, as it howled and moaned round the cottage.

" It was, indeed, you may depend, Gil bert," replied the dame. "Poor dear thing ! how fair and beautiful she be, to be sure." And, in truth, she was a fair and beautiful child. Her features were thin and pale, but there was a world of sweetness and beauty in her innocent face— her long flaxen hair hung in luxuriance, although it was soaked by the sleet and rain, upon her neck and shoulders— her eyes were closed, but her long silken lashes hung upon her cheeks, which were as white as marble. It was a cry of deep distress. It was not a shout Cor hilp, but it sounded like a cry wrung from n despairing heart, amid the terrors of the fearful storm. The dame hauled her husband bis hat, and after much lugging and struggling, he was equip, ei in a large coat, and grasping his staff firmly in his hand, he was ready to brave tbe fur; of the tempest, at the call of humanity.

Again and again they heard the cry, and each time it sounded nearer and nearer, as if the person who was in distress were rapidly approhing the cottage. The dog baiked loudly, and the miller in a moment opened the door of his dwelling. He was almost staggered by the torrent ot hail, rain, and sleet, which he encoantered ; but he stepped forward accompanied by Andy, who, with a loud bark, bounded through the open door. " Dame !— dame!" cried the miller from the outside of the door; " dame, I say, will 'e come hither? Don't 'e cry, poor thing! don't 'e cry. I will carry thee in." The dame, as she was hurrying to the door, heard a low, but extremely sweet and plaintive voice, say, " Oh ! good sir, have pity on a poor orphan. I have no home, and am cold and weary. Good sir, have pity on a poor orphan."

" If I don't relieve and pity thee," said the miller, in accents of emotion, " may Heaven, which pities all, forget me!" In a moment he met the dame at the door of the cottage, and in his arms he carefully and tenderly carried a little girl, who had fainted on his breast The miller carried his insensible burthen direct to the fire-side, and placed the immoveable child in his own great chair. "Alack! alack I poor child," cried the dame. ''To be oat such a night os this ! There was an expression upon the deli cate and beautiful lace of the child of suffering and privation which was heart rending to behold ; and the good dame's tears dropped upon the little sulleter's pallid cheek as she hung over her endeavouring to administer to her a tew drops of reviving cordial, which was the manufacture of her own hands.

The Uttle stranger seemed to be about eleven or twelve years old, and her dress was tattered and torn in many places. It would seem as if harshness, misery, and absolute want, had long been familiar to that fair and gentle looking child. "Poor thing! poor thing!" cried the miller, " my heart do bleed for thee. If thee art as good as thee art fair, thee shall be as a treasure to us, bestowed by the hand of Heaven." "Who," said the good dame— "oh! who, Gilbert, could be other than kind to this sweet Uttle creature? Bless her heart, poor thing !" " She said she was an orphan, dame. It seems to me as if the Almighty had sent her to us. And— and, dame, 1 feel happy as I look at her." The miller stooped as he spoke, and kissed the pale cheek of the little sutforer, while a tear gathered in his eye.

"To think, Gdbert, that this deUeate Uttle creature should have been in 6uch a storm ! But see, bless her, she opens her dear eyes— see, Gilbert, see !" "She does ! she does!" cried the miller, joyfully. "My poor thing, look up; you are with friends. How dost thee, my dear?" ' s the good dame took down her bible, and thanked God that bad brought the little stranger to their door. The miller drew a chair opposite to bis usual seat, on which reposed the child, and there he sat and watched her as she slept, and wondered much as he gazed upon her slender, delicate form, and pale, though beautiful features, what train ot circum stances could have heaped misfortune and destitution upon so young a bead, and who could have had the heart to expose her to all the horrors of homeless want. " Poor thing ! poor thing!" he said, in a low tone.

"Thee art an orphan, thee says. Well, well, 'tis better that thee should suffer from the want of a father and mother, than that they had been unkind to thee. I have found thee, poor young thing; I have taken thee from the storm. Thee art the gift of Heaven, and I will make much of thee; thee shall not want; and I hope to see thee smile the whole day long. Thee art an orphan, and thee art friendless, or thee would not have been out in the storm. Dame, dame, we will be the father and mother to this poor child, and no one can take her from us." " We will, Gilbert ; we will," replied the dame. " And see, even Andy has taken to the sweet young thing." The little white hand of the child hung over one of the arms of her chair, and the large faithful dog, Andy, had sat by the side of the miller, watching with the greatest attention the slumbering girl, and he now, with a low whine of affection, rose and licked the little hand which might have belonged to a child of half her age, it was so small and fair.

With the action the child awoke, and for a moment she looked alarmed, for she forgot her situation; but when she saw the honest miller seated opposite to her, and watching her, with anxious kindness depicted in his face, she remembered all that had occurred, and clasping together her little hands, she cried, while the tears coursed each other down her cheeks— " Oh, sir, and you, madam, do not send me away ; let me work for you. I can work ; indeed I can, the whole day long— I shall never complain— I am an orphan— do not, oh! do not turn me away." "Thee hast neither father nor mother?" " Oh, no," answered the child. " They are both gone — gone." " Nor friends who love thee?" " Love me! Oh, no— no one ever loved me but my poor mother, and — and she is dead !" "Then," cried the miller, joyfully, " thee art mina— thee shalt be my child, " Oh, what sweet eyes!" cried the dame.

"Did you ever, Gilbert, see such?" " Never mind the eyes, dame. It be the pure heart that shines through them that be truly beautiful !" The child moaned as she opened her sweet blue eyes and said, in heart-rending ; accents,— "Oh! mercy — mercy. Do not beat me any more." "Beat thee !" cried the miller; " who could — who would beat thee ? I could as soon beat a little gentle lamb that scarcely knew its mother, as thee. No, no— no one shall beat thee while the old mill goes round in a merry gale." "Oh! sir, I am a poor orphan — I am, indeed. You — you will not turn me out?" " Turn thee out ! — no. Thee shalt stay here and be happy. Thee art not an orphan, for thee hast a Father above who has sent thee here. Bless thee sweet pretty face!" The dame was most assiduous in her kind attentions, and after swallowing a small drop of the cordial, the child seemed much revived.

The warmth and comfort of the fire had soon a beneficial effect upon the child; and a slight tinge of colour returned to her pale cheeks. She was about to speak again, but the good dame imposed immediate silence. " Thee be'st tired and hungry, little one, I tell 'e, and thee must eat and sleep before thee tell us thee story." "Ay, ay, that be the best," said the miller. "Thee must get strong and hearty. My heart seems to warm to thee; and — and if thee stay with us, I think thee will be the darling of Gilbert, the old miller; I am sure thee will." Tbe child smiled as she looked np in the honest miller's good-humoured and kind lace, beaming as it was with benevolence and good-feeling. It was a smile that flitted across the fair child's face like a gleam of bright sunshine upon a wintry heath.

In a moment it was gone, and the features of the gentle girl resumed their pale, melancholy expression. It would seem that such smiles were unfrequent guests ; but the words of the miller had broken through the gloom of the young thing's heart, and that one sweet smile was the harbinger of suture happiness — the beginning of a new existence to the child. Slowly she closed her eyes, and sinking far down into the miller's arm-chair, she dropt into a quiet slumber, and happy visions of joy and hope seemed to visit her repose, for the smile of dawning happiness again and again played upon her lips, and PHŒBE; OR, 6 my own, my darling child. God bless thee, and as I hope for peace, I will never desert thee." As he sDoke, he upset the seat on which he had sat, and catching the orphan child in his arms, he kissed her tenderly.

" Here, dame, here dame," he continued, "she is ours— our own. Take her, good wife, and as we do by her, may Heaven do by us. Ha! ha ! ha ! I could laugb, dame, with joy. Let's see thee smile again, Uttle one. What's 'e name?" " Phœbe," answered the child, and she smiled amid her tears. '■ Then thee shalt be called Phœbe Marks, for my name be Gilbert Marks, aud thee shalt be named after us — but thee hast another name?" tho full supposition that his master was about to engage in single combat with somebody, and he was determined to be in the fray. "Why, Gilbert! Gilbert!" cried the dame; "what dost 'e mean? Thee act beside thyself." "Never mind," said the miller, laying down the poker; " beat thee, did they? — never mind. Andy, dost see that be thy young mistress." Andy shook his tail, and whining, he crept to the side of the dame, and laid his Jread on Phœbe's knees.

" We will all love thee, Phœbe," con tinued the miller, " and no one shall lay a finger on thee but in kindness while I livo." The child looked from one to the other, with a face beaming with happiness, and said, in her soft silvery voice — " I love yon — aU of you; I do love you; you will never beat me, and I will do any thing; indeed I will; you look so kind. Since mother died, nobody looked kind at poor Phœbe." The old-fashioned clock which had ticked for many years in one corner of the cottage, now struck twelve. "Why, dame," cried Gilbert, "it be twelve o'clock; thee shall make a warm bed for Phcebe, and Andy will take care of her." " Phœbe Grainger," said the child. The good deme had taken the young thing on her knee, and was parting from her fair forehead the luxuriant and beautiful flaxen hair. ' Ha !" she cried, " my dear child, thee will turn all the young men's heads in the village, if thee grow up half so beautiful as thee art now.

Bless thee ! Wilt thou be my dear child?" " Oh, yes, yes, I will, indeed I wiU — I will be good always. I can work — I can —you — you make me think of — of " The child burst into tears, and hid her cherub face upon the good dame's bosom. " Of who, my dear?— of who?" said the dame, tenderly. "Of— of my poor mother; for she used to speak to me and look as you do now." " And hast thee had no one to he ever kind to thee but thy poor mother, my darling Phœbe?" said the miller, much affected. " The storm be gone quite a/fay," said the ilame. " Indeed it be passed," replied the miller. He opened the door of the cottage and looked out as he spoke. The skf was clear and serene, and spangled with stars. Not a breath of wind was stirring, and nature seemed to be resting after the war with the elements.