Vice and its victim: or, Phoebe, the peasant's daughter. A romantic tale of real life

Chapter I. The Dream — The Village Home And Its

INMATES.

" Away— away ! the brand o' shame and infamy be on thy brow — the bold wanton's deceptive smile be in thy looks and gestuies. Approach me not, for there be'st contaminaiion in thy touch and presence ; No. 1.

thou— thou art nae bairn c minej noa, noa, noa, she wur good and fair, pure and innocent as the first breath o' infancy, or the sweet simmer flowers, blushing and, gleaming 'neath the sun's bright beams ; but thou — thou be'st a wretched, fallen creature, vice stamped on ev'ry feature — a lost degraded, abandoned thing, for the finger o' scorn and hatred to point at wi' disgust and loathing ! Cling not to me ! thou art nae child, o' mine! — off — off!

VIOE AND ITS victim; OB, shameless wanton — accursed of heaven and man !"

" Mark, Mark, my poor o'd mon' thou dost frighten me out o' my vera senses, wi' thy wild ravings ; and thou'st so pale, an' do look so strange loike. Mark, I say, don't'ee know where thou be'st? In thine own room, in thine own bed, and wi' thine own dame. Come, come now, what do ail thee, to wake thee up in sic a freeght?"

" See — see ! she be there — that wretched emaciated form — that bold impostor, who dares to call herself our pretty bairn, our own sweet, innocent Phoebe! See, see, dame, dost thou not behold her?"

" Oh, dear, Mark, will nothing arouse thee from this? Thou'st been dreamin', my good o'd mon. But come, the o'd clock down stairs ha' struck five these ten minutes, and it be broad daylight; so it be time to rise and get to labour."

" But— but Phoebe— she— "

" She be below, good girl, preparing thy breakfast 'fore thou goest to thy daily toil, o'd mon. Hark, there be her own sweet pretty voice, that do open every morning wi' tlie little song birds in notes o' love and gladness. God bless her 1"

A flute-like, plaintive, girlish voice, merry and mellifluous, and whose every tone came laughing, thrilling, joyous to the heart, was now heard from the room below, singing the following simple words of the well known country song —

"To the fields I carried my milking-pails, On a May-day morning early;

And there I met with a smart young man, Who vow'd he loved me dearly !" The old man drew in his breath as he listened, as though fearful to lose the smallest sound of that sweet, well-loved voice. He raised himself upon his elbow in the bed, with one hand slightly extended in rapt delight, and his eyes fixed intently on the room door, that opened on the short flight of stairs leading to the little parlour. The stern, wild, agitated expression had passed away from his aged features, and a placid smile of 2:)arental love and honest pride succeeded; feelings which the mild and gentle countenance of his homely, good old dame showed that she fully participated in.

"Ees, ees," said old Mark, joyfully, and as if some terrible weight of fear was removed from his breast; "it be our own dear Phoebe's pretty voice, sure enow. Thank heaven, 'twur only a dream."

" Aye, to be sure 'twur, Mark ; did I not tell thee so ? But what did'st thou dream to frighten and agitate thee so?"

"Not noo, not noo, dame," replied her husband, with a shudder; another time, mayhap I'll tell it thee; not noo, not noo. But come, we mun be idling here, wi' the bright morning's sun a scorchin' the vera eyes out o* one's head."

And "Mark bounded out of bed as he spoke, hastening to dress himself, and was quickly followed by his wife.

' The place where this brief colloquy occurred, was the little sleeping-room in the humble but pretty cottage of honest Mark Mayfield and his motherly dame, who, with their lovely daughter Phoebe — the rustic beauty, or Village Queen, as she was familiarly called — although strangers to aught but toil and poverty, were considered the happiest and' most contented beings in bonny Dewsbury — as we shall call the pretty, romantic village in which they resided— one of the most rural and picturesque districts in Yorkshire,

The early rnorning's sun, breaking through the green foliage of the old tree, which grew in the little garden before the cottage, and the wall flowers that thickly clustered around the casement, streamed into the ch amber. The old woman threw up the window, and the fresh morning breeze impregnated with the fragrance of flowers, came balmy and grateful to the senses.

The clean and neat appearance of the simple articles of furniture which the room contained, was quite refreshing to look upon.

The plain white-washed walls were not suiJered to go entirely undecorated. Several extraordinary and eccentric — if we may so call them — little pictures, in pencil and water colours, were suspended from them at intervals. There was an old farm-house, with one of the jolliest and happiest-looking of farmers, carefully and industriously looking after his pigs, and his cows, and his poultry, the former of which were perfect monstrosities of art, and resembled anything but that which they were intended to represent; while the latter would have passed equally as well for ostriches, storks, eagles, or even zebras or camels, as geese, ducks, or fowls.

Some ambitious artist had endeavoured to depicture a moonlight view— rocks, and hills, and a silvery lake, painted in dark Indigo blue ; a monster moon in the deepest of yellow, and a solitary traveller gazing pensively and devoutly upon it, in what was intended for the foreground, his head threatening every instant to come into collision with the smiling or rather grinning face of chaste Luna.

Then there was a one-sided old water-mill, with enormous misshapen wings : a cottage, looking very like a large dog-kennel

PHOEBE, THE PEASANT'S DAUGHTER.

on an improved plan ; and last, tho;igh not least, the portrait of a jolly Jack-tar, with a face as red as a fire-bucket, a mouth extending from ear to ear in a legitimate nautical broadgrin, and a tremendous pigtail-

But there was yet another picture, upon which the eyes of poor Mark Mayfield and his wife rested with fond admiration and pride, and which really displayed considerable artistic skill, independent of the interest it excited by the . beautiful face it pourirayed.

It was the work of a young amateur painter from London — who resided some time at Dewsbury for the 'benefit of his health — and represented the graceful and sylph like lorm of a village girl, arranging flowers in the honeysuckled window of her cottage home. A sunny smile sported around her luscious lips, intelligence beamed from her full, bright, blue eyes, and love and innocence, and sweet retiring modesty shone forth in her exquisitely moulded features. The rich, glossy auburn hair, frolicked, curled, and rambled playfully over a neck and shoulders that seemed to be carved out of, and were as spotlessly fair as Parian marble.

It was intended for the poi'trait of Phoebe Mayfield, the heroine of our tale ; but though the resemblance was remarkably striking and interesting, how far — far short did it fall of the lovely original.

The doating parents prized this picture as one of the greatest of their few earthly treasures.

Tic-tac — tic-tac — tic-taic — tic-tao wen t the old grim-looking clock in the little parlour below, the same as it had ticked (in friendly chat, but wholesome warning of the rapid flight of time,) through whole generations of the family of the Mayfield's, for even more than a century; and it seemed fully prepared to go upon "tic" for the next century to come. The old clock was one of the humble family heir-looms, and right bravely and faithfully it did its duty.

"I be a sluggard this morning," observed Mark, as he walked to the room-door, " an' that be bad — vera bad, when there be work to do. Come dame, we must be jogging. Our bonny bairn, wi' her light heart and merry voice, cares little how the time do go, I reckon. Poor lass, may she ne'er ha'e cause to look back wi' feelings o' pain and regret upon that which be gone an' past."

" Amen !" ejaculated his wife, fervently ; and quitting the room they descended the stairs to the parlom-, in which Phoebe was so busily engaged in getting ready the morning meal, singing all the while as merrily and happily as the very spirit of mirth and good humour itself. They stopped a moment at the door to listen to her, and their aged hearts throbbed with emotion and afTection towards her. But she suddenly ceased, and they heard her light footstep as she glided across the room on some fresh occupation. They gently opened the door and went in / her back was towards them ; the sound of their entrance had not disturbed her; and she did not observe them.

She was tending to some beautiful but simple flowers which she had ijrranged upon the window-sill, and looked so like the picture we have described in the previous pages, that the poor old people gazed with bated breath and were moved to tears.

" How beautiful are the flowers," said the maiden, taking a heath-rose from its blooming companions, and after scenting its perfume, placing it, with an admiring look in her bosom ; " how sweet, how fresh, how lovely are the flowers, fresh from natui'e's verdant cai-pet, and weeping with the dew-drops of morn. But, alas," she sighed, pressing one of her white, small delicate hands upon her forehead, ''their sweetness must wither ere night closes around. They are beautiful, but their beauty is as short lived as the love evinced by man. Let not this, then, be the type of his attachment. Let me gather the delicate evergreen, the sweet flower that blossoms through the year, and I will say as I wreathe it in my hair, ' The violets have bloomed and died, the roses have flourished and decayed; but the evergreen is still young, and so is thy love. Friend of my heart, you cannot deceive me — I feel that I live but in you — you are my hopes, my thoughts, my existence itself. If I lose you, I lose my all — I was but a solitary wild flower in the wilderness of nature until you transplanted me to a more genial soil; and you can never break the fond heart you first taught to glow with passion."

Again the poor girl paused in deep and silent meditation. It was evident that some unusual, racking, doubtful thoughts disturbed the natural serenity of her gentle bosom — a slight, nervous tremor agitated her frame, and sighs, long and heart-drawn frequently escaped her lips. Her parents were surprised and anxious ; Mark nudged the arm of his dame, and, with a significant look, in a voice of mingled emotion, he whispered —

" She be thinking o' her lover, poor Henry, dame ; what a proud and happy lad he ought to feel himself, blest wi' the love o' sic a fond and faithful heart. He can ne'er deceive thee; good girl— good girl," lie added aloud, unable any longer to control the open expression of his feelings.

The beauteous girl beard him, and, starting, with a faint cry, and a mingled look of lovo and confusion, she burried towards them, and was quickly fondled and caressed in her aged parents' arms.

" Why should anxious thoughts and fears disturb thy breast, my own sweet bairn, my gentle Phoebe dear?'" said her father, affectionately, and kissing away a tear that trembled like a crystal drop upon her glowing cheek ; " tbou'rt sad, child — tbou'rt sad. Come, come, noo."

" Oh. no," exclaimed Phoebe, with a sudden effort of joy, " I am light— I am merry, happy, father. I should be a cruel, ungrateful thing could I be otherwise, when you and dear old mother ai'o so good, and loving, and — but," she suddenly added, pressing her hand upon her forehead, and her mind seeming to wander into another channel ; " should you deceive me — desert me. No, no, no, you can never do that. I will wander with you through the wide world, and be thy servant — thy slave, if thou wilt have it so. I will shield thee from the night winds, that they blow not too roughly on thy unprotected head. I will defend thee from the tempest that howls around; and, though the cold world may devote thy name to scorn, though friends may fall off, and associates wither in the grave, there shall be one fond heart which shall love thee better in thy misfortunes, and cherish thee, bless thee still."

"Phoebe — dear Phoebe," said her mother ansiously, and alarmed, " thou — thou art not thyself this morning, child. Some painful dream has disturbed thee in the night, the remembrance of which still agitates and bewilders thy poor brain. Come, come."

" Mother, father," cried Phoebe, again recollecting herself, and endeavouring to smile through her tears, " oh, pardon me, I knew not what I said ; 'twas but a temporary wandering of the senses; but 'tis over now. What a weak, silly girl I am. But I am happy — I am cheerful— merry now; and this will be such a joyous day in the village ; it is our harvest feast, you know, and there will be a sprightly dance at night in the Hazel Dell, beneath the silvery light of the bonny moon, and you and mother will be there, father, and all the village lads and lasses, and the fine folks will be there. And we shall be so happy, and — "

And thus crying, chatting, and laughing alternately, the beauteous girl conducted her parents to the table, But notwithstanding all their efforts, the meal passed off dull and languidly, and at its conclusion Mark arose, kissed his dame and Phoebe affectionately, shouldered his pick " and shovel, and hastened from the cottage to his daily' toil.

CHAPTER ir.

THE GA.THEEING STORM.

A lovely morning was that on which our tale commences. All beauteous nature was in one of her most cheerful moods, and the fields and meadows, hill and dale, the trees and flowers, valley and woodland, lake and streamlet all things seemed to smile and glisten in the bright flood of golden sunlight which streamed forth from the clear blue sky.

How light, how fresh, how balmy was the pui'e air, wafted o'er the lofty hills, breathing the perfume of myriads of flowers and teeming corn-fields. And from every leafy spray the birds carolled their sweetest notes, as if in joyous welcome of the happy season.

And on this fair morn of cheerfulness and sunlight, Pheobe Mayfield — shortly after the departure of her father — stepped forth from her cottage home into the green fields that stretched before it, and bounded it on every side. How lovely looked the rustic village queen as she tripped lightly on her way, amidst sweets and flowers — herself the sweetest blossom of them all — and all things beautiful. Health was on her cheek, love beamed in chastened radiance from her bright blue eyes, and a thousand graces were developed in her fairy-like form. The grass seemed scarcely to bend beneath the gentle pressure of her tiny feet, and the simple wild flowers that bloomed luxuriantly at every step, appeared to look up and smile at her, as if proud and delighted at the presence of one, like themselves, so fair and innocent.

The day was set apart for a general holiday in the village of Dewsbury, and for miles around, for the humble rustics were about to celelarate the harvest home; and mirth and revelry, sports and pastimes, games, and gambols, everywhere, and for everybody. The hours were to be absorbed in one continuous round of pleasure and innocent enjoyment, and at night there was to be a merry dance, 'neath the harvest moon, in a beautiful romantic spot, a favourite place of resort for young and old, on summer evenings, after the labom's of the day were o'er, called the Hazel Dell.

PHOEBE, THE PEASANT'S DAUGHTER.

a

And a numerous happy party was expected there, which, of course, would not be considered complete without the presence of Phoebe, and her lover and companion from the earliest days of childhood Henry Ashfoid, a handsome, manly-hearted young rustic, of strong passions, but generous feelings, who i-esided a short distance from the village, with his only sister Amy, several years his senior, lovely alike in person and in mind, but who had quaffed deep and bitterly from sorrow's jjoisoned bowl.

And poor old Mark Mayfield — whose constant lot was toil " from early dawn to closing eve," — on this particular occasion had promised the dame to leave work an hour or two earlier than usual, and, if he was not too tired, to take her to the Hazel Dell, to join their daughter and Henry, and all the rest of the smiling faces and merry hearts that were there expected to congregate.

Before we proceed further it may be perhaps as well to state that the period of which we are writing was the commencement of August, 1812.

The bells were ringing merrily, shouts of mirth and gladness broke at intervals upon the tranquil air from different happy rustic parties, who, attired in their holid^ gear were hastening on their way to the scene of festivity. But strange, Phoebe appeared carefully to avoid them — though the very soul of pleasure and innocent gaity shone forth in every expression of her beauteous face— and having traversed a broad meadow, some short distance from the cottage, she stepped across the winding road and entered upon a long narrow lane, o'ershadowed by tall trees, which led to a secluded spot, some distance to the right of the village. And here we will leave her for the present, and request the reader to accompany us to a different scene.

There was quite an aristocratic party of military gentlemen seated outside " The Plough," — a pleasant old-fashioned country inn — doing ample justice to the worthy landlord's excellent wine, laughing, chatting and joking merrily merrily, and occasionally adding to the hilarity of the hour — early as it was — by amatory or bachanalian song and chorus, to give du^effect to which each and all exerted themselves with stentorian power, if not with any great musical ability.

And old Roger Swillet the host of this unusually quiet hostelrie, and his man and factotum, the eccentric but kind hearted Giles, and the fellow-servant and sweet heart of the latter, the pretty, buxom, simple, merry-hearted Patty Pert, were as busy as bees, and in excellent spirits on the important occasion.

The party consisted of Lord Edward Selborne, a handsome, high-spirited, but rather wild and thoughtless young nobleman ; Captain ]}eaufort, his intimate friend, a reckless, unprincipled libertine and debauche, and several otherofficers of hussars, their regiment having been quartered near the village of Dewsbury for some weeks past.

At the time we introduce these gallant gentlemen to the reader, Captain Beaufort was singing the following song, in a fine manly, rolicking and musical voice, his companions — with the excepiion of Lord Selborne, who stood against the trunk of a tall poplar tree, which grew by the doorway of the old inn, a little apart from the rest, and seemed in rather a thoughtful mood— joining heartily in the chorus :

Love and war, love and war,

Are each the soldier's guiding star ;

When he quits the tented field,

To woman's magic power he'll yield.

Love and war, &c.

The hero fears no foreign foe. But bows to Cupid's power low ; Then he this toast re-echoed far, Our monarch, country, love and war !

Be this toast, &e.

Loud and enthusiastic applause followed this vocal display, in which Eoger, Giles, and Patty, who had stood admiringly by at a respectful distance, joined lustily.

" Gentlemen," said Captain Beaufort, rising, " charge your glasses ; we must do full honour to the toast I am about to propose, for it is a soldier's, and is devoted to love and loyalty. Brother officers, gallant companions in arms, upstanding, uncovered (the gentlemen rose simultaneously), we'll drink a bumper to the health of our gracious sovereign and the royal family, the bright smiles of beauty, and love and war ! Hip, hip, hip, huzza !"

Every glass was raised to the lips in an instant, and right loyally was the toast responded to. The officers then retired inside the inn, leaving Captain Beaufort and Lord Selborne to themselves.

" You are sad, colonel," said the captain, approaching his lordship jocosely; "now I am no soldier if I cannot guess the cause. Lower me to the ranks, and drum me out of the regiment if you are not in love."

" You have a keen penetration, captain," replied Selborne, affecting a laugh, "'tis true the little blind god has laid eeige to my heart, and I am fain to surrender at discretion.

" And the fair being who has excited this intense passion in youi* breast, my lord, is the pretty hedger's daughter, Phoebe Mayiield, or, as she is admiringly called, the Village Queen. Your lordship is not very ambitious, though I confess that your rustic inamorata hath charms sufficient to captivate the most cold and insensible."'

" Charms ! " exclaimed Lord Selborne, passionately, " by the gods, Beaufort, she is as bright and lovely as the rosy blush of morn. She is the beauteous representative of all the graces, so gentle, so playful, so artless, and so innocent."

Beaufort again laughed at the warmth with which his lordship spoke of the fair being who had so completely captivated • him, as he replied —

" Tou are enthusiastic, colonel. Phoebe is really a most irresistible, delectable, delightful little creature; and, egad, she would take the town by storm, and would be an admirable and exquisite companion in gig or tandem, on the Row or in the Mall, though I doubt much whether she could be warranted to go well in harness." At this part of the conversation, the busy and rather inquisitive Griles and Patty made their appearance at the door of the inn, and observing the captain and his lordship busily engaged, drew aside to listen.

" Indeed," returned Selborne, in answer to his gay and thoughtless companion's observations, " but the fire of her laughing, sparkling, wicked little eyes much deceive me, captain, if she can long resist the snare I have laid to entrap her. She is giddy and thoughtless; young, unsuspicious, and inexperienced, with sufficient vanity to court the smiles of flattery, and to be dazzled and allured by the delusive pleasures of the metropolis. The advances I have hitherto made towards her have been favourably received. She has secretly accepted my letters and my presents; already she begins to look coldly on her rustic lover, Henry Ashford, and,- if fortune does not prove a jilt to me, a few hours only shall complete my conquest. I have obtained leave of absence from the regiment, and, deceived by , a promise of marriage, the charming Phoebe Mayfield shall, on the wings of love, be hurrying with me to the gay metropolis, and far away from her native village home, where she now reigns the simple queen of beauty."

" La, Giles," said the simple Patty, in a burst of admiration, " ain't that pretty?"

"Ah, there are listeners!" said Selborne, turning hastily round and observing Giles and his sweetheart, who looked confused and stupified. " What now, boy ?" he added aloud, and angrily.

" Boy ! " repeated Giles, indignantly, " come, I like that. Patty, why doant ee speak up for I ? I ax your lordship's pardon, my lord, but I be Master Swillet's man, and pot-5oi/ Stubbles — Giles Stubbles, that be my name, an' they do reckon I the cutest lad in all the Nortih Ridin'."

" Ees, ees, zur, my lord," said Patty, curtseying; " an' please ye, I be Patty — • Patty Pert, Giles's fellow servant, and Mrs. Giles Stubbles that is to be, when we have saved money enow to be married, an' please ye, zur, my lord."

" And upon my word," said the gay young captain, smiling, " a very pretty piece of homely furniture you are for an honest man's house. I declare I must steal a kiss from those ruby, tempting little lips,"

And the libertine threw his arms around the waist of the blushing Patty, and faithfully fulfilled his promise, much to the astonishment and jealousy of the gaping Giles, who said —

" Come, come, I say, Measter Captain, that be a takin' a great liberty, I do reckon." "Lor bless ee, no it bean't Giles,'' said Patty, " it be no liberty at all. Thank'ee, zur, thank'ee," she added, laughing, and citftseying to the captain.

" But I say. Master Giles," observed Lord Selborne, "you and your fair companion were listening to mine and Captain Beaufort's conversation. What did )ou hear?"

"What, I — I, my lord,'' faltered out Giles; "why I heard nothing; thatisi — " "No equivocation," said his lordship, sternly.

" I — I — I ax your lordship's pardon," replied Giles, "it wur vara wrong o' me to listen, I know; well then, I did hear ye zay zummut 'bout taking o' the pretty Phoebe Mayfield to Lunnun, an' a makin' a fine lady on her."

" Ees," added Patty, " dressed up in silks an' satins, wi' diamond golden rings on every finger, and great big golden thingymybobs a hanging from her ears."

" An' a tall footman to walk behind her, an' carry her lap-dog, wi' a long goldheaded cane, in a cauliflower wig, sky-blua gold-laced coat, an' crimson waistcoat, an* yellow plush bteeches, and great big calves as large as bolsters. He, he, he !" laughed Giles.

" Confusion!" whispered Selborne, asidt to liis companion, "they have overheard too much ; they must be silenced. Giles," he observed, aloud, " y&u are a fine lad — a sharp lad; now, if I were to give you a guinea, what would you say ?"

" Why," answered Giles, promptly, "that

PHOEBE, THE PEASANTS DAUGHTEK.

you were otie o' the best fellows— that be, gentlemen, that I ha' zeed for many a day.''

"And suppose I were to give your pretty sweetheart here one also ?" said Beaufort.

" Odds, dickens and dasies, znr," cried the delighted Patty, " you doant mean it now, do ye ? Wliat, a real golden guinea for I, an' another for Giles? Why, that be a matter of how much money, eh ?"

'"Tis here, Giles?" said Lord Selborne, handing him the guinea.

"And here is another to match your lover's, Patty," observed the captain, giving Patty the money.

"Why, it be though," said Giles, looking joyfully at the coin, "it be a real, downright, arnest golden guinea ! Oh, thank ee, my lord, thank ee, I shall never be able to spend all this mint o' money.''

"Tou will not mention a word that you have heard me say to-day about Phoebe Mayfield, eh?" said his lordship.

" Not a word, my lord," answered Giles.

"Not a single syllabub, your lordship," added Patty, curtseying.

" Enough, keep this promise faithfully, and I will iurther reward you. Eemember, mum's the word — ^you understand? Now, captain."

With these words Lord Selborne and Beaufort quitted the inn.

" Oh, Giles," said the delighted Patty, turning the money over with great satisfaction in her hand, " ain't we rich now?"

" Ees, Patty," replied her lover ; "but I tell ee what it be, I doant half like this fine lord, wi' his gold-laced coat, an' smooth tongue ; an' what he said about Phoebe ; for she be a silly, easy, good-natured lass, an' might be led astray. Poor Henry, she do quite slight him ever since these soger chaps ha' been quartered near the village, an' if his nose ben't but out o' joint my name ben't Giles Stubbles."

At the moment the sound of numerous merry voices singing was wafted on the still morning air from a distance.

" It be the lads an' the lasses on their way to the Hazel Dell, where there is to be a merry-making, and a dance to celebrate the harvest home," remarked Giles, " an' won't we be there, too, eh, Patty?"

" Giles, Giles, I say !" now called his master from the house.

" That be measter," said Giles, " an' I know, by the sound o' bis voice, that he be getting into a passion. So we must in and attend to the customers, Patty. Come."

They quickly entered the house.

It should have been mentioned that the old inn stood upon the banks of a river, at which point it was crossed by a rustic bridge to get to the village. The sounds of mirth grew nearer and more distinct, and presently a number of male and female villagers, attired in their best, tripped gaily across the bridge, singing the following chorus —

" Harvest home — our harvest home ! The merry time of harvest home ! When nature fair more lovely seems, And all around with plenty teems.

Abundance smiles upon the poor, And lavishes its golden store ; Then join our revels — hither come, And celebrate our harvest home !"