The Little One

Front matter

THE LITTLE ONE BY ELEANOR C. PRICE AUTHOR OF 'ALEXIA,' ' RED TOWERS,' ETC. IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. II. LONDON RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON in fflv.tnars to gijtr tsttaj.stD th. <Q,xutn CONTENTS OF VOL. II. CHAPTER PAGE I. CHECK ----- 1 II. THE ROAD TO THE FARM - 12 III. A CONFIDANTE - - - 41 IV. NOVEMBER - - - * 64 V. ALONE - 88 VI. AT THE MOOR GATE - 117 VII. NORA - - - - 138 VIN. REMORSE - - - 166 IX. MAY ----- 193 X. BELLA VENEZIA - - 218 XI. MOONLIGHT - 241 XII. AGAIN - - - 261 XIII. ON THE WAY HOME - 280 XIV. THE END OF THE STORY - -

Chapter I Check

' The Italian saies : Sospetto licentia fede : as if Suspicion did give a Paspoit to Faith.' It was late that nisdit before Mrs. Murray was able to speak to her brother alone, and she was then rather inclined to be angry with him. Her husband had kept her talking on one subject for more than an hour after dinner, while Gilbert amused Nora in the drawing-room. To judge by the sound of their voices and laughter VOL. II. now and then, they were getting on together much better than usual, and Mrs. Murray felt pleased with Gilbert for doing his best to entertain a girl who did not interest him, till Edgar, whose vexa tion was only increased by these cheerful sounds, observed that it was mere bravado, and that Gilbert's coolness was past -all bearing. He even went so far as to say : ' He was simply insufferable this afternoon.

If he had not been your brother, I should have pitched him out of the cart.' Mrs. Murray said sharply, ' Nonsense !' after which they approached very near the edge of a serious quarrel. This was staved off, however, somehow, and Mrs. Murray confessed that her husband had a good deal of right on his side. It was hardly possible, she was obliged to acknowledge, that Gilbert could go con stantly to the Vicarage without some harmful effect, even if unconscious on his part, on the mind of little Agnes d'Alby. CHECK. 3 Mr. Murray bluntly said that he believed Gilbert was deliberately amusing himself at the girl's expense, and when his wife tried to say this was impossible, he laughed incredulously. ' Upon my word, Con,' he said, ' you might have spent your whole life in the nursery ! However, I shall stop further mischief by telling old D'Alby all about it to-morrow.' This seemed an odious plan to Mrs. Murray.

Bertie must hate it and shrink from it, she knew, even more than she did. Of course the thing would be spread all over the place ; her poor boy's affairs would be the talk of Lingholm, if not of Skafting, and all the country round. Besides, she felt sure that Edgar, blunder ing out the thing, would somehow betray his reason to Mr. d'Alby, causing terrible distress to the poor old man, perhaps even to Nora and little Agnes. And at this time she had what she called a real affection for Nora. Therefore, in the course of a long argument, she insisted that Bertie's going away would answer exactly the same purpose as publishing his history, and would save a great deal of unpleasant talk. Mr. Murray was very unwilling to be convinced. But in this case, as in most others, she had her way in the end.

Her husband yielded so far as to tell her she might give Bertie his choice ; either he should go away to-morrow — after all, only a few days before his sister — or the Vicar should hear the whole truth to-morrow mornings. O It was this alternative that Mrs. Murray laid before her brother, as they lingered together late that night over the drawing-room fire. It was difficult to be angry with Gilbert, yet now she was a little. Being a sweet tempered, easy-going woman, she hated rows ; also she hated disagreeing with Edgar, for whom, in spite of their frequent CHECK. 5 differences, she had a very real respect. It was always convenient to suppose that Bertie had this too, for Edgar's kindness to him had been unfailing. Bertie must not, it was plain, go on speaking to Edgar in the way he had spoken to-day.

No doubt he had been provoked ; but it would not do ; and in his right senses he would see that as clearly as she did. On the whole, she thought, stupid as the place would be without Bertie, there were more reasons than one for his going away to morrow. Without going much into the affair, she told him what Edgar said — that it must be one thing or the other. ' Edgar will do as he chooses,' said Gilbert, rather peevishly. ' It makes no difference to me. If it amuses him to have a story to tell, let him tell it. I should think it would bore other people. Of course I shall go away to-morrow anyhow. So it really makes no difference.' ' Now7, Bertie, don't be unreasonable. You know Edgar is not entirely wrong.' ' Of course not. He is entirely right. He is an excellent old Pharisee.' ' Don't talk like that !' said Mrs. Murray impatiently. ' My dear Con,' he said, ' don't let us have these pretences.

They are tiresome between you and me, not to say useless. The Pharisees were virtuous people ; so is Edgar. Also there is something feminine in his character — feminine of the antique sort, if you know what I mean.' ' Good gracious, Bertie !' His sister flushed a little, and bit her lip, but she could hardly help laughing. One could not quite meekly hear one's husband called ' an old woman,' though in such a pretty paraphrase, and though Gilbert in his slight irritation looked handsomer than ever, as he lounged there before the fire. ' Why are you so angry with Edgar ?' she said. ' You know he is right ; you CHECK 7 might be misunderstood. I do believe we ought to have thought more about that.' ' Perhaps the D'Alby family are not quite such fools as you take them for,' said Gilbert. ' At least, I think you have got the foolishest of them here with you.

However, that is not the point between Edgar and me. He thinks I am a sort of a villain — with no evidence to prove it. I am a walking lie, it seems, because I happen to be liked by some people I have met casually, and do not therefore tell them my whole history since I was fifteen. Well, I must leave it to him : he must tell them what he pleases. It does not matter to me. Whether he tells them or not, of course I can't stay here any longer ; this state of things is much too boring.' 1 Edgar does not wish to be disagreeable to you ; but he feels in a sort of way responsible, don't you see,' said Mrs. Murray after a pause. For once in her life, between her husband and her brother, she did not know what to say. Gilbert's influence over her was immense — it always had been : she also thought that she knew him thoroughly well, better than any one else did.

Now and then her heart positively ached for him ; it did now, as he sat there with that shadow on his face, brought by Edgar's suspicious fears, which she felt sure were exaggerated. A ruined life — a life that must always have some kind of slur upon it ; and yet it was not his own fault. He had been weak, perhaps ; but that was the worst of it. And now, possibly, the public scandal they were so anxious to escape would have been better for him in the end. Any position, Mrs. Murray almost began to think, would be better for Gilbert than such a false one as this. Yes ; they would not take Edgar's opinion ; but possibly he had been right all along. As to this tiresome business now, knowing Bertie so well, she could not bring herself to be very uneasy. CHECK. 9 She was afraid she might have been a little thoughtless — girls were so silly ; yet Agnes seemed to her almost too young for any nonsense of the kind, and Gilbert himself had always talked of her as a child.

In spite of Edgar's scorn of her trustful ness, she could not believe that there was anything more than goodnatured fun in Gilbert's friendship with Agnes, or that any deep deliberate mischief could grow out of the evenings he spent at the Vicarage. Still, of course, there was always the risk of his being misunderstood — of the girl's making herself unhappy. ' Then you think of going to London to-morrow, dear ?' she said at last, as he took no notice of her remark about Edgar's feelings of responsibility. ' Yes. Tell everybody what you please, when I am not here to be stared at.' ' I shall tell nobody anything,' said Mrs. Murray ; at the same instant it flashed across her mind that she might, before she went away, for Agnes's benefit, manage some sort of little warning to Nora. ' I wish I was going with you,' she went on. ' This is the dullest place we have ever been in.

But it is nearly over now, and we shall never come again, as Edgar is disappointed with the moor.' ' No ; I don't suppose we shall any of us see the place again.' There was a kind of relief in his tone, though it certainly was a sulky face that she watched so anxiously. She sat opposite him for a few minutes longer, but somehow talking to him became more difficult, and the silences were painful. At last, after yawning two or three times, she came round to the back of his chair, leaned over and kissed him. ' Good night, good-for-nothing !' she said. ' We won't bore each other any longer now. I dare say I shall drive you to the station to-morrow morning.' CHECK. 11 ' What time is the train ?' 'The 12.10 is the best, you know.' ' All right.' She looked back as she left the room. He had settled himself again in his chair, and was staring rather gloomily into the fire. She felt very sorry, and thought that Edgar might as well have let things alone.

Chapter II The Road To The Farm

' In mists that cling to a wild moorside.' On that morning, the old Vicar of Lingholm seemed to have grown young again. He came down quite prepared for his expedition with Gilbert Wolfe to the Danish barrow on the opposite hill, and had no misgivings as to his walking powers, though the point he meant to reach was two or three miles away. Agnes, however, was not so confident. She had tried to explain her anxieties to Gilbert in the garden the afternoon before, and had felt a shade of disappointment because he did not enter into them with ■3 quite such a perfect sympathy as usual. At least, it was sympathy of a different kind ; she could not help knowing that she herself was more interesting than her grandfather. Some of the words, spoken as Gilbert only could speak, would go on sounding in her ears, deepening that sweet, mysterious trouble without which life would seem so empty now. ' Will the walk be too rough for you ?' and then, when she laughed and shook her head : ' If you will come with us, we shall be all right.

Not coming ? But you must.' All the time, as these persuasions went on in the damp shade of the lime-trees, the scrupulous young mind of Agnes found room for a good deal of anxiety about Mr. Murray's horse and dogcart, left loose in the road. Her quick accustomed ears heard the train come slowly in, and stop at the station down below, and puff and pant and go grinding on again towards Skafting. Somehow, she could not tell Gilbert ; she was half afraid to speak at all ; and certainly she had never known such a start and thrill of terror as came with Mr. Murray's angry voice outside. She walked away, hot and trembling from head to foot, as if she had been doing something wrong. And yet, as she told herself afterwards, there was nothing new in talking to Gilbert in the garden. She ought, perhaps, to have told him that the train was in — however, it had been impossible.

That night she thought a good deal of Nora, and resolved that as soon as she came home she would tell her, would make her understand. It would be very difficult, especially if Nora was a little stupid, as she had been lately. The words would not suggest themselves. Perhaps, when Nora was at home, and saw Gilbert there and heard him talk, she would find out for herself without any telling. ' I should see it soon enough, if ■5 it was Nora !' Agnes thought ; and then she laughed at herself, and shivered all over, at the mere fancy of its being any body else. That walk to the barrow was a difficulty. Her grandfather had proposed it to Gilbert, and had arranged it quite out of his own head. He had said nothing to Agnes about going too, and now, with the consciousness of wanting to go so very much, she could not make up her mind to ask him.

It was unlike her grandfather, to wish to go anywhere without his little one ; yet Agnes could not help feeling that to-day he did not want her. The fact was, that the Vicar saw here an opportunity for prudence. Nurse's warn ings had not been utterly thrown away : he had watched the two young people since then with a little more intelligence, and could not help seeing that Gilbert liked talking to Agnes. As to her, she seemed quite happy, though a little quieter than usual. The Vicar saw no cause for worrying himself or them ; but out of respect to the opinions of Nora's friends, which he had found so irritating when Nora suggested them, he determined to do nothing at all which might throw the young people together. With this resolu tion, the old man's conscience was clear : he trusted Agnes utterly ; his affection for Gilbert went on growing every day ; and if the fancy of a possible connection crossed his mind sometimes, it could not be displeasing.

It was not a good day for the walk. There had been heavy rain in the night, and the valley was full of mist, rising and falling, creeping up the hillside, so that trees and houses and distant heights of moor were all hidden now and then, coming again into sight as the shadowy curtain glided away. A pale thin gleam of sun fell through the mist sometimes, making wet grass and bushes sparkle. Perhaps later in the day the sun might win his way more effectually, and all the red and purple and gold of that shining autumn landscape would have its hour of triumph ; but this cold, uncertain, misty morning, though not without a beauty and mystery of changing shadows, and secrets suddenly revealed, asked some courage and patience in anyone who would descend into hidden depths of valley, and climb invisible heights beyond.

Mr. d'Alby stood and looked out of his open study window, with a touch of worry in the expression of his handsome old face. It passed away with Agnes's step on the gravel walk ; she came up to the window and stood there, as she so often did, with a basket in her hand— Dandy by her side, eager for a walk ; Mimi and Smutty playing close by. To-day the childish figure had no background but mist, and the face was perhaps paler and graver than it had been a few weeks ago, though more vol. ii. beautiful, in a way difficult to understand at once. Agnes's face had been that of an innocent cherub in a picture, with something of its solemnity. The lovely features, the soft delicate outlines, were still the same ; but now the eyes and mouth could speak in silence, and the young spirit, without losing its angel innocence, had learnt something of the realities of joy and pain. ' Where are you going, little one ?' said her grandfather gently. ' To Mrs. Duck, for eggs.

Are you unhappy about the weather, grandpapa ?' ' It is disagreeable,' said the old man, shrugging his shoulders as he looked out into that dim world. ' My friend will think so too, and perhaps he won't come. He is not a dalesman, any more than I am. He does not care to fight the elements.' ' They won't actually want fighting to day ; they will only want patience,' said Agnes. ' The wind will get up presently, and the sun will shine, and the mist will go away. ' Well, patience ! We are not patient,' said Mr. d'Alby, with his faint, sweet smile. ' He won't come.' ' Oh yes, he will. He said yesterday that he would,' said Agnes ; and she smiled herself, glancing away into the valley. ' But it is not nearly time yet.' Her grandfather's heart was quite set on his walk, that was plain. And it was plain, too, that he meant to have his friend, as he called him, all to himself.

Of course she could say, ' May I go too V and it was impossible to imagine that he would say ' No ': how could he, without any reason ? But the loyal soul of Agnes whispered, ' I will not ask him.' And, after all, the walk would not be so very long ; and they would come back to luncheon. ' He will come, and the sun will shine, and the view will be lovely,' she said, looking up with encouraging eyes. The old man smiled, and shrugged his shoulders again. ' You see everything couleur de rose this morning,' he said. ' To me it is en brouillard. Well, run away to your dear Duck, and don't lose your way in the mist. I will read history till my friend appears.' He waved his hand, and went back to his chair. Agnes set off to the farm with a little sigh, Dandy dancing round her. Mimi and Smutty, not caring for the damp world outside, had one after the other jumped in at the study window.

Agnes could never go down the steps at the end of the garden, and through the gate, and round the corner of the wall, without an odd little feeling of shame ; yet not altogether an unhappy feeling, because she knew so much better now. And Gilbert had long ago forgiven that young stupidity of hers ; in fact, he had never been angry, and had made a joke of it afterwards. It would never be quite a joke to Agnes. She had not gone many yards along the rough road that led to Duck's farm, and the mist which veiled the wild ground below, hiding rocks and bushes and trees, had taken this opportunity to come sweeping up across her path, so that the high field and its stone wall were almost hidden too, when she heard somebody coming down the slope. Then a shadowy figure appeared, looking strangely tall in the mist, and climbed over a corner of the rugged wall just beyond, and in two steps more was standing before her in the road.

It was Gilbert Wolfe : but his look and manner were a little changed ; this thought followed instantly on the happy surprise of seeing him. The charming, deliberate gentleness, the undisturbed sweetness, which made him such a delightful companion, were troubled and shadowed that day. For a moment he stood before Agnes and said nothing, but took her hand in a grave, mechanical sort of way. ' You have come down very early,' Agnes said. ' But grandpapa will be so glad. He thought the weather was too bad for you to come at all.' ' Yes/ said Gilbert a little vaguely. ' But I want to see him. And where are you going ? to Mrs. Duck, as usual ? I may walk a little way with you, as it is so early.' ' It might be a pity to start too soon,' Agnes said. ' The sun will come out presently, and that is a stupid walk with no view.' ' I had been wondering if I should see you — but I never thought of meeting you here,' said Gilbert, after walking silently beside her for a few yards. ' I thought I should be back before you came,' answered the girl, a little puzzled. ' Oh, here's the sun.

What a funny day!' A sudden broad gleam fell through the clouds, shining brightly and sweetly upon them ; the mist went rolling away ; a few square yards of world — rough road, brown wall, green climbing field, reddened black berry briars clustering below, a little space of light and colour in the midst of a dim, cold, gray, almost invisible country — belonged to Gilbert and Agnes just then. There was something peculiar in the light, something unreal and dreamy in the whole scene, with its background of shifting, creeping whiteness, which would instantly have had its effect on a nature like Nora's, morbid, nervous, and suscep tible. The very feeling of the air would have given her a presentiment, would have told her that something was going to happen. But her little sister Agnes was of a much simpler organization.

Those sweeping mists and flying sungleams were not very strange in the dales ; she did not worry herself about effects and meanings ; the electric currents in the air were nothing to her, and the surroundings, wind or sun or mist, were hardly to be perceived in comparison with the centre, Gilbert : he was certainly not quite to be understood that morning. ' A funny day ; yes,' he said. ' It's always so amusing when things turn out as one does not expect. But what are you doing — walking on into the fog? Don't let us waste this patch of sunshine. May not we stand here under the wall for a few minutes, unless you are in a hurry ?' Agnes smiled. ' Oh no, I am not in a hurry,' she said. ' Then sit down on this nice stone,' said Gilbert. It was true that the grass was rather long and wet, but the great brown boulder by the wall was itself fairly dry.

Agnes sat down obediently, while her companion, leaning on the wall close by, amused him self with poking his stick into the hollows of the stones. Certainly something was the matter. He looked cross, if such a thing could be possible. His eyes had lost their usual happy softness, and he was frowning. It suddenly occurred to Agnes that he might have been quarrel ling with his brother - in - law. Mr. Murray's voice in the road yesterday was not easily to be forgotten, and Gilbert had exclaimed angrily as he left her. She could not ask, but she felt sure that Mr. Murray had been horrid. ' Don't you think it's a hateful world ?' said her friend presently, in the tones that always made the poor child's heart beat. ' " Hateful, and hating one another." Isn't that out of the Bible ? How many people do you hate, I wonder !' ' I don't think I hate anybody,' said Agnes in a low voice. ' No ; you dislike people, but that is almost as bad, you know ;' and he looked at her and laughed in his old way, bringing a sudden flush into her face. ' But look here, hateful people don't always hate.

Of course it's wrong, whatever they do. But sometimes they don't hate, you know — quite the contrary.' ' I don't understand,' said Agnes. ' Do you mean that I am hateful ?' No — I don't mean you. Some people ask rather foolish questions.' ' What do you mean ?' ' Ah — what do I mean ! Ask — no, I won't tell you, for fear you should.' Agnes sat with her hands folded on her basket. She had often failed a little to understand Gilbert, but he had never before talked to her in such an enigmatical way as this. She was almost a little frightened ; and yet, as he was standing there, safe and sound and well, choosing of his own free will to linger here with her, nothing could be very wrong. Presently, gathering her courage in silence, as he poked moodily on among the stones, she asked him, in her direct childish way : ' Please tell me — are you angry about anything ?

Is it my fault V ' Your fault — of course — you know it is,' he answered. ' Does anybody else matter ?' The mystery seemed to be deepening : yet these last words of his, and the tone in which they were said, filled Agnes with a happiness quite as deep. Yet he did not move away from the wall, or look towards her, and for a few minutes that puzzling silence came again. He was so different from his charming self, so little at his ease, that Agnes thought, with sudden shame, that she might have misunderstood him. ' What have I done ?' she murmured, half to herself. Then Gilbert turned round ; he seemed to have made a sudden effort at recovering himself. She got up from her stone at the same moment, and they stood close together on the rugged path under the wall. A thin veil of mist came swimming over them, on its way up from the valley to the moor, so that for a moment or two they could hardly see each other's face. ' Shall I really tell you what you have done ?' said Gilbert very softly. ' I ought not, you know.

I ought to go away and say nothing about it.' All his moodiness was gone now. Agnes did not speak, but her hands were in his, somehow, and they both knew, in spite of this conscientious remark of his, that it was quite im possible to stop just here. ' You have made going away a great deal too hard,' he went on. ' Why do you make it so hard ? I must go, you know — darling — I am going to-day.' Agnes gave a little start and scream — < Oh— no !' ' Are you sorry ?' he said. ' Then what must I be, do you think !' For a moment he had seemed to be quite carried away out of himself; but now, when the child snatched her hands from his, sat down again on the stone, and covered her face, he turned very pale, and stood looking at her with as much trouble as passion in his eyes. ' Listen, Agnes dear,' he said. ' I must go — and I dare not say much about coming back ; and I dare not ask you to trust me, because all my people would tell you I am not to be trusted.' Agnes's answer, borne on the breath of a sob, would hardly have reached ears less keen and intent than' his. ' But I do trust you.' Gilbert stood hesitating for a moment, and muttered something between his teeth.

Then he stooped down and lifted Agnes into his arms, and there, on the rough road, behind the sweeping curtain of mist, he kissed her for the first time, and she clung to him, and in that wild moment of new life could not believe or understand that he was really going away. Presently a small sharp bark from Dandy, who had followed Agnes, and had lain looking on with somewhat disap proving interest at this scene, reminded them both that they were on a public pathway. ' Somebody is coming,' Gilbert whispered hastily. ' We must go different ways. Will you do this for me ? — will you say nothing to anyone — not even Nora — till you hear from me or see me again ? Will you do this, my own ? — I have no time to tell you why.' ' Yes — yes ! Go ' and with no more good-bye than this Agnes sprang away from him, and vanished into the mist, running with Dandy along the road towards Duck's farm, while Mr. Wolfe walked off, in his usual deliberate way, towards the Vicarage.

He did not go up to the house ; with all his coolness, he could not face the old man now. If such an expression might be used of such a fine young gentleman, one would say that he skulked, that he slunk past the house, along the path under the wall. When he left Foss Glen that morning, he had meant to go openly to the Vicarage, on his way to the station, to excuse himself to the Vicar and say good-bye. Of course he meant to see Agnes too ; it was really impossible not to see her again ; but he had made no plan for any such encounter as they had had this morning. That was pure accident, and already Gilbert half regretted it, though at the moment he had thrown all thought to the winds. He could have said good-bye quite easily and reasonably before her grandfather, and could have hardened his heart against those wistful eyes.