Part 23
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.
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THE ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS LIMITED
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.