“There they go,” said Grandmother Legg, “a-marchin’ off together so
happy as a king and a queen.”
Susan Ball, a visitor from the town, craned her head round the
door-post and gazed after the young couple with interest. David Samson,
a big broad-shouldered, rather awkward looking young fellow was walking
arm-in-crook with Rebecca Yeatman, Mrs. Legg’s orphan granddaughter.
A little slender fair-haired thing, lissom and graceful in all her
movements was Rebecca--she looked like an elf as she paced along beside
her cumbersome lover.
“They’ve a-been a-courtin’ a long time, haven’t they, mum?” queried
Miss Ball.
“They’ve a-been coortin’,” responded Grandmother Legg emphatically,
“since they was no higher than nothin’ at all. Dear, yes! he’d come
Sunday after Sunday same as if they was reg’lar coortin’ folk, an’
Rebecca, she’d lay down her doll, and fetch her hat, an’ walk off so
serious as a grown-up maid. Poor Legg--he had all his senses then same
as anybody else--he’d laugh fit to split he would.”
Miss Ball looked towards the chimney corner where Grandfather Legg
was now installed and received from that worthy old gentleman a smile
calculated to give any weak-minded person a “turn,” accompanied by
some unintelligible remark delivered in a quavering treble. Miss
Ball, who was not troubled with nerves, smiled back at him and nodded
cheerfully.
“He haven’t got no wits at all now, mum, have he?” she inquired
parenthetically of Mr. Legg’s better-half. “But we was a-talkin’ of
Rebecca. I do ’low she an’ David ’ull be gettin’ married one o’ these
days?”
Grandmother Legg screwed up her mouth and shook her head dubiously.
“I don’t know I’m sure,” she replied. “David he’s not earnin’ more nor
ten shillin’ a week, nor likely to for a good bit, and Rebecca, she
wouldn’t be much good at keepin’ house on such a little money. ’Tis a
child, Miss Ball, nothin’ but a child. There, if you was to see the
antics she do carry on wi’ David! I do truly wonder the chap has so
much patience wi’ her. Sweetbriar Lane is where they do always go. ’Tis
Coortin’ Lane, you know--so they do call it hereabouts--and a-many
do go a-walkin’ there of a Sunday an’ they do tell I that Rebecca do
seem to care for nothin’ but teasin’ and tormentin’ the poor boy. Mary
Vacher--e-es, ’twas Mary--did tell I last week as she an’ her young
man was a-walkin’ in Sweetbriar Lane o’ Sunday and she did see our
little maid a-playin’ all manner o’ tricks on Davy. One minute she’d
be runnin’ round a haystack, then when the poor chap ’ud run after her
she’d trip off and hide behind an elder-bush. Mary did say she’d go
dancin’ from one place to another just lettin’ him nearly catch her but
poppin’ off the minute he’d come close.”
“Well, there now,” commented Susan, “it do seem childish, don’t it?”
“It be reg’lar nonsense I do tell her,” said Mrs. Legg severely; then
relaxing--“but Mary Vacher did say ’twas really so good as a play to
watch ’em. Her an’ her own young man stood lookin’ arter ’em a long
while, she said. There, Rebecca ’ud go flyin’ up the path same as a
bird or a butterfly; an’ every now an’ again she’d stop and smile round
at Davy an’ beckon him, an’ off ’ud run poor Davy, hammerin’ arter
her so hard as he could, an’ just as he’d be holdin’ out them great
long arms o’ his off she’d go again. An’ she’s real fond o’ him, mind
ye--’tisn’t as if she looked at anybody else.”
“Ye did ought to speak to her a bit sharp, mum,” said Miss Ball
severely, “you did ought to scold her for it. They bain’t sensible,
sich goin’s on.”
“Scold her!” ejaculated the other. “I mid just so well speak to the
wall. I mid just so well expect that there settle to hear reason. She
don’t mind me, what’s her own grandmother, no more nor if I was the
cat. She haven’t got no respect for nothin’. I’ve see’d her pinch
David’s arm when they was a-walkin’ up the church steps one day----”
“Never!” ejaculated the scandalised Susan.
“She did though! And she’ll carry on her antics up in the churchyard
yonder--you know the churchyard up Sweetbriar Lane?--she’d as soon
play off her tricks there as on the Downs. Even when she was a little
bit of a maid she’d never run past the lychgate same as the other
children--she’d go a-swingin’ round the pillars or a-climbin’ on the
trestles, or she’d maybe pop through the gate and put her face up again
the bars and dare David to kiss her. He dursn’t go nigh the place, poor
boy, an’ she knowed that very well.”
“Well, well!” sighed Susan Ball, “I wouldn’t like to say nothin’ unkind
o’ your granddaughter, Mrs. Legg, but ’tis to be hoped as she’ll not
come to a bad end, mum.”
“’Tis to be hoped so,” agreed Mrs. Legg, “but there’s no knowin’.” She
echoed Susan’s sigh but smiled the while; indeed it was evident that
she looked on the misdemeanours of Rebecca with a certain tolerance,
one might almost say satisfaction, as distinguishing her from the
ordinary run of maidens.
Meanwhile Rebecca and David, having finished a somewhat discursive
progress up Sweetbriar Lane, emerged on the Downs beyond. Here Rebecca
took up a position on a sunny little gorse-crowned hillock and
despatched him to a neighbouring copse with orders to collect some of
the wild strawberries which grew there in abundance.
Nearly a score of journeys did David make to and from that copse, while
Rebecca fanned herself with a beech-branch and gibed at him for his
slowness.
“I do ’low you do eat more nor you do pick,” she remarked at last.
David stood stock still, indignant and disheartened.
“There’s no pleasin’ ye!” he cried. “I haven’t so much as ate one.”
“No more have I then!” exclaimed Rebecca; and uplifting her beechen fan
she proudly showed him a pile of the ruddy berries neatly arranged on a
flat stone beside her.
“There, you be to eat ’em all!” she announced with an imperative wave
of the hand, “I did save ’em up for ye.”
“You must have half,” said he.
But Rebecca shook her head.
He sat down beside her on the short turf and placed the stone between
them.
“Certain sure you must have some of ’em,” he cried. “I shan’t care to
eat ’em if you don’t.”
“You be to eat ’em all,” reiterated Rebecca; “I’d like to watch ye.”
“Nay now, you must taste one,” said David, and leaning forward tenderly
he endeavoured to force one into her mouth. But thereupon Rebecca set
her little white teeth, jerked back her head, and uplifting a small but
vigorous hand slapped his face with all her might.
“I won’t have ’em neither then!” cried he, flushing hotly and
clambering to his feet. “You do go too far, you do.”
“I do go too far, do I?” retorted the freakish sprite. “Let’s go home
then.”
Too much wounded to protest, David turned about and walked sulkily
beside her as she tripped down the lane.
“A body never knows where to have ’ee, maidie,” he complained after
a pause. “There’s times when you do seem so sweet as honey, and next
minute I fair wonder if you do care a pin for me.”
The two were now walking under a hedge so tall that it almost arched
over their heads; it grew on the summit of the high bank which bordered
one side of the lane. A serried mass of greenery was this hedge; the
star-like foliage of maple mingling with the rougher, darker green of
hazel and guelder, while amid the stronger growths, delicate trailing
wreaths of dog rose and sturdy bushes of wild sweetbriar flourished
side by side. It was from this latter that the winding path took its
name. The sweetbriar, indeed, grew so freely about the place that in
the summer time all the air was filled with fragrance.
Rebecca seemed not at all moved by her lover’s lament; she gave a
little laugh and continued the song she had been humming to herself.
“There’s times,” continued David warmly, “when I do truly think I’d do
better to go off and coort some other maid.”
“Well, and why don’t ye?” inquired Rebecca blithely.
“I don’t know but what I will,” cried he. “Most maids ’ud give ye a
kind word back when ye speak ’em fair, and ’ud say thank ye when ye do
make ’em a present, and ’ud not go for to rub their cheeks after their
sweetheart had given them a kiss.”
This was indeed an offence which Rebecca committed but too often. She
darted from him now, and, approaching the bank, made two little upward
springs at the hedge, bringing down with each a small trophy. One was a
wild rose, the other a tuft of sweetbriar.
“Look ye, David,” said she, “which do ye like best of these two?”
“The sweetbriar o’ course,” cried he, recovering his spirits at once
at what he took to be a sign of softening on her part, and his face
wreathing itself with smiles as he stretched out his hand for the
little sprig.
Rebecca waited till he had taken hold of it, and then with a sudden
malicious squeeze of both her little hands, pressed his fingers close
about the prickly stem.
“Ha’ done,” cried he in real displeasure, “that were a spiteful trick
and one as I didn’t expect from ’ee, Rebecca. I d’ ’low I _will_ go off
and ha’ done wi’ it.”
As he spoke, however, he fastened the bit of sweetbriar in his
button-hole. Rebecca laughed and pointed to it.
“Sweetbriar has twice so many thorns as wild rose,” said she, “but ye
like it best for all that. An’ if ye do go a-courtin’ any other maid
’twill be just the same. Ye’ll come back to I.”
Taking hold of the lappet of his coat she sniffed at the little sprig.
“Bain’t it sweet?” said she.
“’Tis sweet indeed,” returned he earnestly, and emboldened by her
unwonted softness he did what any other lover under the circumstances
would have done, and Rebecca, after a pause, loosed his coat and
deliberately polished her cheek with her handkerchief.
Yet for all that David did not court another maid.
Not long after this the young pair were unexpectedly parted. David
had an uncle who was a large sheep-farmer in Westmorland, and it
was thought by all his family a great opening for the lad when this
well-to-do and childless relative offered to take him into his
employment. Every one rejoiced at David’s good fortune except David
himself and his poor little sweetheart. Even he was not so much
broken-hearted as Rebecca. David scarcely knew whether to be more
afflicted or elated at the girl’s despair.
“I never reckoned you cared for I that much,” said he, as they went for
their farewell stroll up the lane.
She looked at him reproachfully without speaking, her pretty blue eyes
were drowned in tears, her mouth drooped, her little face looked very
white and pitiful.
“There I shouldn’t ha’ said that,” cried he remorsefully. “Ye never
loved anybody but me, did ye? An’ you’ll always be true--won’t ye?”
“Always! always!” she sobbed--“faithful an’ true, David. Whenever you
do think of me you must always say that to yoursel’. Rebecca was a
teasin’ maid, you may think, but she loved me an’ she’ll always love
me--faithful and true.”
Then David in a kind of rapture of anguish, felt her arms about his
neck--such little, light, slender arms--and her golden head sank upon
his breast.
Before that time he had had many misgivings in thinking of the two
years that must elapse before they again met, and had wondered to
himself often if Rebecca would be likely to stick to him when he was no
longer at hand; but now all such ignoble doubts died within him, and in
spite of the knowledge that the morrow must part him from her, he was a
proud and happy lad as he folded her in his arms.
In two years he would come back--his uncle had said he might come
home for a holiday after two years. He would earn a lot of money and
meanwhile they would write. They would often write; Rebecca wouldn’t be
too partic’lar about blots or spellin’, would she? No, Rebecca was not
in the mood to be particular about anything. Then David would give his
word to write often.
“An’ whenever ye see a bit o’ sweetbriar, ye’ll think o’ me?” said
Rebecca.
Yes, he would think of her then and always.
“I do want the sweetbriar to remind you o’ me,” went on the girl,
“because--because--I reckon it’s like me--full of prickles. I’ve often
been a bad maid to ye, Davy, haven’t I? Often an’ often I’ve pricked ye
and hurt ye, but I’ve loved ye all the time.”
And thereupon David assured her he didn’t mind the prickles, and that
there was nothing in all the world so sweet as the sweetbriar, and then
having reached the top of the lane they kissed each other again and
came home through the scented dusk full of a melancholy happiness.
The memory of that hour comforted David during the first weeks of
separation, but as time went on the old habit of jealous distrust
reasserted itself in some measure. Rebecca was a bad correspondent. The
wilful little maid had never taken much pains to make herself a scholar
and letter-writing was to her a matter of difficulty. David would brood
over each scanty ill-spelt scrawl, torturing himself with doubts:
Rebecca said so little--was she already beginning to forget him? She
was so pretty, so gay--surely somebody else would “snap her up” while
his back was turned.
Yet now and then a little word in one of Rebecca’s letters would make
his heart thrill afresh with hope and love, and he would be filled with
remorse for his unworthy suspicions. And when towards the end of autumn
she sent him a sprig of sweetbriar saying that “it would mind him of
her,” he carried the thorny trophy in his breast till it shrivelled and
fell to pieces.
The northern winter was long and cold and the lad thought regretfully
many a time of genial Dorset with its unseasonable flowers peeping
out at all manner of times, its gleams of sunshine and blue sky even
on the shortest days, the breeze rushing over the Downs, mild for all
its freshness, and carrying with it always a hint of the sea not far
distant. He dreamed of Dorset often, of his father’s little homestead,
of the farm on which he had used to work, of the animals he had been
wont to tend, of the church to which he had betaken himself Sunday
after Sunday--but strangely enough, though he longed and almost prayed
to dream of Rebecca, the vision which haunted his thoughts by day kept
aloof from his pillow.
One night, however, he did dream of Rebecca, and his dream was so
vivid that he could hardly believe that it was not indeed reality. He
thought he saw her standing in the sunshine on the Downs at the top
of Sweetbriar Lane; he was toiling up this lane at some distance from
her, running, but after the manner of dreams, not seeming to make much
progress, and she kept afar off, waving one little slender arm and
calling:--
“I want you, David!” she cried. “Davy--Davy--I want you!”
Her voice was ringing in his ears when he woke; the sweat stood on his
brow, and his heart was thumping violently.
“If she do want me, I’ll go,” he said.
It was not yet six months since he had left home; according to his
contract another eighteen should elapse before he took a holiday, yet
he did not hesitate for a moment. An unendurable longing was upon him;
he was drawn by an inexplicable force. Without pausing to reflect on
the possible consequences which might ensue, he rose, dressed and set
forth on his journey before any one, even in that early household, was
astir.
He had but little money, and his progress was necessarily slow, his
resources only permitting him to travel a part of the way by train. He
walked the rest, begging occasional “lifts” from good-natured waggoners.
It was nearly a week after that dream had come to him when he arrived
late one afternoon at his native place. So travel-stained was he, so
haggard and gaunt with fatigue and privations, that his old friends
would have found it difficult to recognise him had he traversed the
village; but Rebecca’s home lay on the outskirts and he made his way
there immediately.
His heart had been torn by a thousand conflicting hopes and fears
during his long journey. What if Rebecca did not want him at all? What
if she should laugh at him for his pains? What if she should join in
the chorus of disapproval which would, he knew, greet his foolhardy
undertaking? His uncle had probably written home to announce his
disappearance; his parents would have plenty to say on the subject,
but for that he cared little. What would Rebecca say? what would she
think? And then he remembered her parting words: “She’ll always love
me faithful and true,” and he seemed again to feel her arms about his
neck.
His heart leaped up within him as he approached the cottage, for he
half-expected to see the elfin shape come flitting forth to greet
him; and then he chid himself for his folly. How could she be on the
look-out for him? he had sent her no word of his coming.
It was a frosty night, clear and unusually cold. The moon had already
risen and the sky was spangled with stars. He could see the withered
hollyhocks standing stiff on either side of the whitewashed flagged
path, and observed that the door was fast closed. A little glimmer of
firelight came through the kitchen window, but otherwise there was no
sign of life about the place.
Three strides carried David up the garden path and in another instant
his hand rattled at the latch; but the door did not yield to his
hand--it was bolted within and no sound broke the succeeding stillness
except the barking of a distant dog and the tremulous beating of his
own heart.
“Rebecca!” he cried. His voice was hoarse and his great frame trembled
like a leaf. “Rebecca! I’m here. I be come.”
A shrill cackle from within--Grandfather Legg’s unmistakable laugh--was
the only response.
David’s hand dropped from the latch and he darted to the kitchen window
and peered in the room.
By the dim light of the fire he could make out the old man’s form in
its accustomed place, and rapped sharply at the pane.
“Eh?” cried Grandfather Legg.
“Be every one out?” shouted David. “Where’s Rebecca?”
The old man leaned forward so that the firelight fell full upon his
shrivelled face; his habitually vacant eyes wore a cunning look and he
laughed again, as though amused by some secret joke.
David uplifted his voice once more and in his excitement shook the
little casement. “Look at me!” he cried. “Don’t ye know me, Mr. Legg?
It’s me--David Samson.”
“Oh, I know ye,” chuckled Mr. Legg. “I know ye, David.”
“Right!” cried David, delighted at having extracted an intelligible
response. “Then tell me where’s Rebecca? I’ve come a long way to see
her. Which way has she gone? I be talkin’ of _Rebecca_, Mr. Legg.”
“E-es,” rejoined the other, still chuckling; “oh, e-es, Rebecca--surely.”
“Where is she, I say?” shouted David.
Grandfather Legg lifted a lean hand and jerked his thumb expressively
in the direction of Sweetbriar Lane.
“Rebecca,” said he, “Rebecca be yon.”
David stepped back from the window and stood a moment paralysed. The
eager excitement of a few moments before left him all in a minute and
he became suddenly cold. Rebecca was out at this hour--Rebecca had gone
a-walkin’ in Sweetbriar Lane with another man. That dream which told
him she craved for him was but a mockery.
After a pause he began to walk rapidly away in the direction indicated
by the old man. He would see for himself; he would find Rebecca and
tax her with her infidelity; he would--here he drew in his breath and
clenched his hands--he would reckon with the other fellow.
Now the lane lay before him, winding upwards between its shadowy hedges
silent and deserted. His steps rang sharply on the frozen surface; deep
shadows lay beneath the hedgerows but the path itself gleamed silvery
white in the moonlight. Up, up--there was never a soul in sight--if
Grandfather Legg spoke truth Rebecca must have wandered on a long way
with that new sweetheart of hers. He pressed forward with what speed he
might, he would come upon them sooner or later and then!
Yonder at the turn of the lane, the outline of the lychgate was
visible, and, topping the churchyard wall the dark heads of a group
of cypresses; his eyes wandered absently over them, insensibly taking
note of how bravely the frost-encased needles gleamed; the hoar lay
thick on the ancient tiles of the lychgate roof too, and even edged
the time-worn pillars which supported it. As he brought his absent
gaze down to these pillars he saw a face peep out at him from behind
one. The moonlight fell full upon it and he recognised at once that it
was Rebecca’s. Very small and pale it looked, and yet it wore a smile,
tender and a little sad.
David with an inarticulate cry rushed towards her. But before he could
reach it the little figure came gliding forth from its ambush and went
fluttering up the path before him as it had so often done in former
days. She paused every now and then to turn round with the arch smile
which he knew so well, and to beckon, but she spoke no word, and her
feet fell so lightly on the stony track that they made no sound. She
wore a cotton dress familiar to David, and no wrap of any kind in
spite of the cold; her fair hair, too, glistened in the silvery light
unshaded by a hat.
“Rebecca! Rebecca!” cried David, lumbering in pursuit of her, a prey
to such a tumult of emotions that he almost wept. “Rebecca, come back,
love. I came because ye did call me. Ye must have a word to say to me
sure. Ye’ll never go for to treat me so foolish now I have come all
this way to see ye.”
But the little figure only waved its arms for all response and went
gliding on--on, always out of reach, now lost to sight at the turn of
the lane, now in obedience to some such freakish impulse as had often
roused his ire long ago, darting behind a clump of bushes, now peering
down at him from the top of a high bank. Always tantalising, always
elusive, but his own Rebecca for all that--his Rebecca who had never
given a thought to any other man. She would surely soon tire of her
play and run to his arms.
Here were the Downs at last, and Rebecca, as though in answer to his
yearning, paused, turning towards him and beckoning. For a moment he
saw her thus almost as he had seen her in his dream, save that the
light which bathed her slight figure was not the noonday glow of his
fancy but the ethereal radiance of the winter’s night, and that no word
passed her smiling lips. As he gazed upon her the dream powerlessness
came upon him, his feet remained rooted to the ground, his arms hung
useless by his side, he tried to call her name aloud but his tongue
clove to his palate. Only a moment did this nightmare-like oppression
endure and then, with a cry, he rushed towards the spot where she had
stood--but Rebecca had vanished.
His arms closed upon the empty air, his dazzled eyes beheld only the
frost-bound Downs, the clump of firs against which he had seen her
form outlined--there was no trace of her anywhere. Calling upon her
frantically, first in anger, then with anguish, then in wild terror, he
searched about the place, but all was silence--desolation.
He came down the hilly path at last slowly, looking neither to right
nor to left, his head sunk upon his breast and his figure swaying.
Here was the bank where she had picked that sprig of sweetbriar to
which she had likened herself; the leafless bush coated with frost like
its fellows gave forth no perfume as he passed, and he did not even
pause.
Now the lychgate came in sight once more, and David quickening his
pace ran unsteadily towards it. The gate yielded to his hand, but no
fairy form lay in ambush behind it, no arch mocking face peered at him
through the bars. Yet as it swung to behind him David stood still,
catching his breath with a gasp; a rush of overpowering perfume greeted
his nostrils, here in the dead of the winter’s night the frozen air
was heavy with the scent of sweetbriar. As he staggered forward with a
choking cry his feet sank deep in the soft mould of a newly-made grave.
* * * * *