Part 22

“You haven’t ever seen them, of course?”

“E-es, my dear,” responded Mrs. Chaffey, with a superior air. “I do see ’em two or three times a year. I bain’t one for to bear malice. When her ’usband do drive her over on a Bank Holiday I could never have the ’eart for to shut my door i’ their faces.”

“Drive over!” exclaimed Mrs. Cross. “They must be free wi’ their dibs to go throwin’ ’em about on car-hire.”

“It don’t cost them nothin’,” said Mrs. Chaffey hastily. “’Tis their own trap.”

Mrs. Cross gasped.

“They keeps a trap! They must be pretty well off.”

Seeing that this remark was evidently unpleasing to her new friend, she obsequiously hastened to allude to what she felt sure must be a genuine grievance.

“An’ not a bit grateful, as you was a-sayin’ jist now! She don’t remember, I shouldn’t think, all what you’ve a-done for her. She don’t never make you no return I d’ ’low. She don’t never give ’ee nothin’, do she?”

“Nothin’ to speak of,” retorted the other, peevishly, and closed her mouth with a snap.

“Such as half a dozen fresh eggs, I suppose?” suggested Mrs. Cross. “She wouldn’t ever give ’ee a fowl now, would she? Would she?” she persisted, as Mrs. Chaffey did not answer. “I shouldn’t think she’d ever give ’ee a fowl. Lard, no, not a fowl--would she?”

Mrs. Chaffey was at length goaded into an answer.

“If she did it wouldn’t be so very much. I wouldn’t think meself at all beholden to her--no, that I wouldn’t. Seein’ that she’s got dozens of ’em a-runnin’ about her place, I don’t think I need be so very thankful if she do spare a couple every now an’ then, an’ a ham at Christmas, wi’ all the pigs they’ve got.”

“A ham!” ejaculated Mrs. Cross. “A _ham_! Why, they _must_ be doin’ pretty well!”

“Well--not so bad,” conceded Mrs. Chaffey, very unwillingly. “Connor, he did take a kind o’ little farm a few year ago, a kind o’ dairy farm. They’ve a-got pigs an’ chickens an’ sich-like--a deal of ’em. I hope there mayn’t be too many,” she added darkly. “I hope they mayn’t be a-livin’ too free an’ a-spendin’ too fast. I hope not. I hope there mayn’t be a day o’ reckonin’ comin’.”

She shook her head in an ominous manner, and Mrs. Cross hastened to follow her example.

“They bain’t a-layin’ anything by, ye may be sure,” she exclaimed conclusively.

A kind of spasm crossed the other lady’s face, and she rose hastily, remarking that if she didn’t begin to straighten up a bit she wouldn’t get the house put to rights before bedtime.

Mrs. Cross took the hint, rose likewise, and backed meditatively towards the door.

“Well, ’tis a strange tale what you’ve a-told I, Mrs. Chaffey, an’ I do feel for ye terr’ble. As for that there voolish----”

She paused suddenly, a slow grin dawning on her face.

“She don’t seem to ha’ done so very bad for herself, after all,” she remarked, and vanished.

SWEETBRIAR LANE.

“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.