CHAPTER XI
AN ARRIVAL
It was the portrait of a young girl, – a very sweet face with soft, half-timid looking eyes.
'I wonder who it is,' I thought to myself, 'I wonder if it is Mrs. Vandeleur. If it is, she must be nice. I almost think I should like her very much.'
A door in this room led into a dressing-room, which next caught my attention. Here, too, the only thing that struck me was a portrait. This time, a photograph only, of a boy. Such a nice, open face! For a moment or two I thought it must be Cousin Cosmo, but looking more closely I saw written in one corner the name 'Paul' and the date 'July 1865.' I caught my breath, as I said to myself —
'It must be papa! I wonder if granny knows – she has none of him as young as that, I am sure. Oh, dear, how I do wish he was alive!'
But it was with a softened feeling towards both of my unknown cousins that I stepped out on to the landing again.
It did seem as if Mr. Vandeleur must have been very fond of my father for him to have kept this photograph all these years, hanging up where he must see it every time he came into his room.
Unluckily, just as I was thinking this, Belinda made her appearance through a door leading on to the backstairs.
'What are you doing here, miss?' she said. 'I don't think Hales would be best pleased to find you wandering about through these rooms.'
'I don't know what you mean,' I said, frightened, yet indignant too. 'I was only looking at the pictures. In grandmamma's house at home I go into any room I like.'
She gave a little laugh.
'Oh, but you see, miss, you are not at your own home now,' she said, 'that makes all the difference,' and she passed on, closing the door I had left open, as if to say, 'you can't go in there again!'
I made my way up to my own room, all the doleful feelings coming back.
'Really,' I said, as I curled myself up at the foot of the bed, 'there seems no place for me in the world, it's "move on – move on," like the poor boy in the play grandmamma once told me about.'
And I sat there in the cold, nursing my bitter and discontented thoughts, as if I had nothing to be grateful or thankful for in life.
Grandmamma did not come up to look for me, as in my secret heart I think I hoped she would. She was very, very busy, busier than I could have understood if she had told me about it, for though he did not at all mean to put too much upon her, Mr. Vandeleur had such faith in her good sense and judgment, that he had left everything to be settled by her when we came.
I do not know if I fell asleep; I think I must have dozed a little, for the next thing I remember is rousing up, and feeling myself stiff and cramped, and not long after that the gong sounded again. I got down from my bed and looked at myself in the glass; my face seemed very pinched and miserable. I made my hair neat and washed my hands, for I would not have dared to go downstairs untidy to the dining-room. But I was not at all sorry when grandmamma looked at me anxiously, exclaiming —
'My dear child, how white you are! Where have you been, and what have you been doing with yourself?'
'I've been up in my own room,' I said, and just then grandmamma said nothing more, but when we were alone again she spoke to me seriously about the foolishness of risking making myself ill for no reason.
'There
is
reason,' I said crossly, 'at least there's no reason why I shouldn't be ill; nobody cares how I am.'
For all answer grandmamma drew me to her and kissed me.
'My poor, silly, little Helena,' she said.
I was touched and ashamed, but irritated also; grandmamma understood me better than I understood myself.
'We are going out now,' she said, 'put on your things as quickly as you can. I have several shops to go to, and the afternoons close in very early in London just now.'
That walk with grandmamma – at least it was only partly a walk, for she took a hansom to the first shop she had to go to, – and I had never been in a hansom before, so you can fancy how I enjoyed it – yes, that first afternoon in London stands out very happily. Once I had grandmamma quite to myself everything seemed to come right, and I could almost have skipped along the street in my pleasure and excitement. The shops were already beginning to look gay in anticipation of Christmas, to me – country child that I was, they were bewilderingly magnificent. Grandmamma was careful not to let me get too tired, we drove home again in another hansom, carrying some of our purchases with us. These were mostly things for the house, and a few for ourselves, and shopping was so new to me, that I took the greatest interest even in ordering brushes for the housemaid, or choosing a new afternoon tea-service for Cousin Agnes.
That evening, too, passed much better than the morning. Grandmamma spoke to me about how things were likely to be and what I myself should try to do.
'I cannot fix anything about lessons for you,' she said, 'till after Cosmo and Agnes return, for I do not know how much time I shall have free for you. But you are well on for your age, and I don't think a few weeks without regular lessons will do you any harm, especially here in London, where there is so much new and interesting. But I think you had better make a plan for yourself – I will help you with it – for doing something every morning while I am busy.'
'But I may be with you in the afternoons, mayn't I?' I said.
'Of course, at least generally,' said grandmamma, 'whenever the weather is fine enough I will take you out. It would never do to shut you up when you have been so accustomed to the open air. Some days, perhaps, we may go out in the mornings. All I want you to understand now, is that plans cannot possibly be settled all at once. You must be patient and cheerful, and if there are things that you don't like just now, in a little while they will probably disappear.'
I felt pleased at grandmamma talking to me more in her old consulting way, and for the time it seemed as if I could do as she wished without difficulty.
And for some days and even weeks things went on pretty well. I used to get cross now and then when grandmamma could not be with me as much as I wanted, but so far, there was no
person
to come between her and me, it was only her having so much to do; and whenever we were together she was so sweet and understanding in every way, that it made up for the lonely hours I sometimes had to spend.
But in myself I am afraid there was not really any improvement, it was only on the surface. There was still the selfishness underneath, the readiness to take offence and be jealous of anything that seemed to put me out of my place as first with grandmamma. All the unhappy feelings were there, smouldering, ready to burst out into fire the moment anything stirred them up.
Christmas came and went. It was very unlike any of the Christmases I had ever known, and of course it could not but seem rather lonely. Grandmamma still had some old friends in London, but she had not tried to see them, as she had been so busy, and not knowing as yet when Cousin Agnes would be returning. It seemed a sort of waiting time altogether. Now and then grandmamma would allude cheerfully to Cousin Cosmo and his wife coming home, hoping that it would be soon, as every letter brought better accounts of Mrs. Vandeleur's health. I certainly did not share in these hopes, I would rather have gone on living for ever as we were if only I could have had grandmamma to myself.
I think it was about the 8th of January that there came one morning a letter which made grandmamma look very grave, and when she had finished reading it she sat for a moment or two without speaking. Then she said, as if thinking aloud —
'Dear me, this is very disappointing.'
'Is anything the matter?' I asked. 'Can't you tell me what it is, grandmamma?'
'Oh yes, dear,' she said, 'it is only what I have been looking forward to so much – but it has come in such a different way. Your cousins are returning almost immediately, but only, I am sorry to say, because poor Agnes is so ill that the London doctor says she must be near him. They are bringing her up in an invalid carriage the first mild day, so I must have everything ready for them. It will probably be many weeks before she can leave her room,' and poor grandmamma sighed.
This news was far from welcome to me, but I am afraid what I cared for had only to do with myself. I didn't feel very sorry for poor Cousin Agnes. Partly, perhaps, because I was too young to understand how seriously ill she was, but chiefly, I am afraid, because I immediately began to think how much of grandmamma's time would be taken up by her, and how dull it would be for me in consequence. And when grandmamma turned to me and said —
'I'm sure I shall find you a help and comfort, Helena,' it almost startled me.
I murmured something about wishing there was anything I could do, and I did feel ashamed.
'I'm afraid there will not be much for you actually to do,' said grandmamma, 'and I don't think you need warning to be very quiet in a house with an invalid. You are never noisy,' and she smiled a little; 'but you must try to be bright and not to mind if for a little while you have to be left a good deal to yourself. I must speak to Hales about going out with you sometimes, for you must have a walk every day.'
And within a week of receiving this bad news there came one morning a telegram to say that Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur would be arriving that afternoon.
'Oh, dear, dear,' I thought to myself when I heard it. 'I wish I were – oh, anywhere except here!'
I spent the hours till luncheon – which was of course my dinner – as usual, doing some lessons and needlework. Hitherto, grandmamma had corrected my lessons in the evening.
'I don't believe she'll have time to look over my exercises now,' I thought to myself, 'but I suppose I must go on doing them all the same.'
I have forgotten to say that I did my lessons at a side table in the dining-room, where there was always a large fire burning. It did not seem worth while to have another room given up to me while grandmamma and I were alone in the house.
I did not see grandmamma till luncheon, and then she told me that she was obliged to go out immediately to some distance, as Mrs. Vandeleur's invalid couch or table, I forget which, was not the kind ordered.
'But mayn't I come with you?' I asked.
Grandmamma shook her head. No, she was in a great hurry, and the place she was going to was in the city, it would do me no good, and it was a damp, foggy day. I might go into the Square garden for a little if I would promise to come in at once if it rained.
There was nothing very inviting in this prospect. I liked the Square gardens well enough to walk up and down in with grandmamma, but alone was a very different matter. Still, it was better than staying in all the afternoon. And I spent an hour or more in pacing along the paths enjoying my self-pity to the full.
There were a few other children playing together; how I envied them!
'If I had even a little dog,' I said to myself, 'it would be something. But of course there's no chance of that – he would disturb Cousin Agnes.'
I went back to the house an hour or so before the expected arrival. Grandmamma had already returned. She was in her own room, I peeped in on my way upstairs.
'What do you want me to do, grandmamma?' I said.
She glanced at me.
'Change your frock, dear, and come down to the library with your work. Of course Cosmo will want to see you, once Cousin Agnes is settled in her room. Dear me, I do hope she will have stood the journey pretty well!'
I came downstairs again with mixed feelings. I should rather have enjoyed making a martyr of myself by staying up in my own room. But, on the other hand, I had a good deal of curiosity on the subject of my unknown cousins.
'I wonder if Cousin Agnes will be able to walk,' I thought to myself, 'or if they will carry her in. I should like to see what an invalid carriage is like!'
I think I pictured to myself a sort of palanquin, and eager to be on the spot at the moment of the arrival I changed my frock very quickly and hastened downstairs with my knitting in my hand – a model of propriety.
'Do I look nice, grandmamma?' I asked. 'It is the first time I have had this frock on, you know.'
For besides the new clothes grandmamma had ordered from Windy Gap, she had got me some very nice ones since we came to London. And this new one I thought the prettiest of all. It was brown velveteen with a falling collar of lace, with which I was especially pleased, for though my clothes had been always very neatly made, they had been very plain, the last two or three years more especially. So I stood there pleasantly expecting grandmamma's approval. But she scarcely glanced at me, I doubt if she heard what I said, for she was busy writing a note about something or other which had been forgotten, and almost as I spoke the footman came into the room to take it.
'What were you saying, my dear?' she said quickly. 'Oh yes, very nice – Be sure, William, that this is sent at once.'
I crossed the room and sat down in the farthest corner, my heart swelling. It was not
all
spoilt temper, I was really terribly afraid that grandmamma was beginning to care less for me. But before there had been time for her to notice my disappointment, there came the sound of wheels stopping at the door, and then the bell rang loudly. Grandmamma started up. If I had been less taken up with myself, I could easily have entered into her feelings. It was the first time for more than twelve years that she had seen her nephew, and think of all that had happened to her since then! But none of these thoughts came into my mind just then, it was quite filled with myself and my own troubles, and but for my curiosity I think I would have hidden myself behind the window-curtains.
Grandmamma went out into the hall and I followed her. The door was already opened, as the servants had been on the look-out.
The first thing I saw was a tall, slight figure coming very slowly up the steps on the arm of a dark, grave-looking man. Behind them came a maid laden with shawls and cushions. They came quietly into the hall, grandmamma moving forward a little to meet them, though without speaking.
A smile came over Cousin Agnes's pale face as she caught sight of her, but Mr. Vandeleur looked up almost sharply.
'Wait till we get her into the library,' he said.
Evidently coming up those few steps had almost been too much for his wife, for I saw her face grow still paler. I was watching with such interest that I quite forgot that where I stood I was partially blocking up the doorway. Without noticing who I was, so completely absorbed was he with Cousin Agnes, Mr. Vandeleur stretched out his hand and half put me aside.
'Take care,' he said quickly, and before there was time for more – 'Helena, do get out of the way,' said grandmamma.
That was the last straw for me. I did get out of the way. I turned and rushed across the hall, and upstairs to my own room without a word.
CHAPTER XII
A CATASTROPHE
No one came up to look for me; I don't know that I expected it, but still I was disappointed and made a fresh grievance of this neglect, as I considered it. The truth was, nobody was thinking of me at all, for Cousin Agnes had fainted when she got into the library and everybody was engrossed in attending to her.
Afternoon tea time came and passed, and still I was alone. It was quite dark when at last Belinda came up to draw down the blinds, and was startled by finding me in my usual place when much upset – curled up at the foot of the bed.
'Whatever are you doing here, miss?' she said, sharply. 'There's your tea been waiting in the dining-room for ever so long.'
The fact was, she had been told to call me but had forgotten it.
'I don't want any,' I said, shortly.
'Nonsense, miss,' said the girl, 'you can't go without eating. And when there's any one ill in the house you must just make the best of things.'
'Mrs. Vandeleur didn't seem so very ill,' I said, 'she was able to walk.'
'Ah, but she's been worse since then – they had to fetch the doctor, and now she's in bed and better, and your grandmamma's sitting beside her.'
I did feel sorry for Cousin Agnes when I heard this, though the sore feeling still remained that I wasn't wanted, and was of no use to any one. I was almost glad to escape seeing grandmamma, so I went downstairs quietly to the dining-room and had my tea, for I was very hungry. Just as I had finished, and was crossing the hall to go upstairs again, a tall figure came out of the library. I knew in a moment who it was, but Cousin Cosmo stared at me as if he couldn't imagine what child it could be, apparently at home in his house.
'Who – what?' he began, but then corrected himself. 'Oh, to be sure,' he added, holding out his hand, 'you're Helena of course. I wasn't sure if you were at school or not.'
'At school,' I repeated, 'grandmamma would never send me to school.'
He smiled a little, or meant to do so, but I thought him very grim and forbidding.
'I don't wonder at those boys not liking him for their guardian,' I said to myself as I looked up at him.
'Ah, well,' he replied, 'so long as you remember to be a very quiet little girl, especially when you pass the first landing, I daresay it will be all right.'
I didn't condescend to answer, but walked off with my most dignified air, which no doubt was lost upon my cousin, who, I fancy, had almost forgotten my existence before he had closed the hall door behind him, for he was just going out.
I did not see grandmamma that evening, and I did not know that she saw me, for when she at last was free to come up to my room, I was in bed and fast asleep, and she was careful not to wake me. She told me this the next morning, and also that Belinda had said I had had my tea and supper comfortably. But – partly from pride, and partly from better motives – I did not tell her that I had cried myself to sleep.
I need not go into the daily history of the next few weeks, indeed I don't wish to do so. They were the most miserable time of my whole life. Now that all is happy I don't want to dwell upon them. Dear grandmamma says, whenever we do speak about that time, that she really does not think it was
all
my fault, and that comforts me. It was certainly not her fault, nor anybody's in one way, except of course mine. Things happened in a trying way, as they must do in life sometimes, and I don't think it was wrong of me to feel unhappy. We
have
to be unhappy sometimes; but it was wrong of me not to bear it patiently, and to let myself grow bitter, and worst of all, to do what I did – what I am now going to tell about.
Those dreary weeks went on till it was nearly Easter, which came very early that year. After my cousins' return home the weather got very bad and added to the gloom of everything.
It was not so very cold, but it was
so
dull! Fog more or less, every day, and if not fog, sleety rain, which generally began by trying to be snow, and for my part I wished it had been – it would have made the streets look clean for a few hours.
There were lots of days on which I couldn't go out at all, and when I did go out, with Belinda as my companion, I did not enjoy it. She was a silly, selfish girl, though rather good-natured once she felt I was in some way dependent on her, but her ideas of amusing talk were not the same as mine. The only shop-windows she cared to look at were milliners' and drapers', and she couldn't understand my longing to read the names of the tempting volumes in the booksellers, and feeling so pleased if I saw any of my old friends among them.
Indoors, my life was really principally spent in my own room, where, however, I always had a good big fire, which was a comfort. There were many days on which I scarcely saw grandmamma, a few on which I actually did not see her at all. For all this time Cousin Agnes was really terribly ill – much worse than I knew – and Mr. Vandeleur was nearly out of his mind with grief and anxiety, and self-reproach for having brought her up to London, which he had done rather against the advice of her doctor in the country, who, he now thought, understood her better than the great doctor in London. And grandmamma, I believe, had nearly as much to do in comforting him and keeping him from growing quite morbid, as in taking care of Cousin Agnes. All the improvement in her health which they had been so pleased at during the first part of the winter had gone, and I now know that for a great part of those weeks there was very little hope of her living. I saw Cousin Cosmo sometimes at breakfast but never at any other hour of the day, unless I happened to pass him on the staircase, which I avoided as much as possible, you may be sure, for if he did speak to me it was as if I were about three years old, and he was sure to say something about being very quiet. I don't think I could have been expected to like him, but I'm afraid I almost hated him then. It would have been better – that is one of the things grandmamma now says – to have told me more of their great anxiety, and it certainly would have been better to send me to school, to some day-school even, for the time.
As it was, day by day I grew more miserable, for you see I had nothing to look forward to, no actual reason for hoping that my life would ever be happier again, for, not knowing but that poor Cousin Agnes might die any day, grandmamma did not like to speak of the future at all.
I never saw her – Cousin Agnes I mean – never except once, but I have not come to that yet. At last, things came to a crisis with me. One day, one morning, Belinda told me that I must not stay in my room as it was to be what she called 'turned out,' by which she meant that it was to undergo an extra thorough cleaning. She had forgotten to tell me this the night before, so that when I came up from breakfast, which I had had alone, intending to settle down comfortably with my books before the fire, I found there was no fire and everything in confusion.
'What am I to do?' I said.
'You must go down to the dining-room and do your lessons there,' said Belinda. 'There will be no one to disturb you, once the breakfast things are taken away.'
'Has Mr. Vandeleur had his breakfast?' I asked.
'I don't know,' said Belinda, shortly, for she had been told not to tell me that Cousin Agnes had been so ill in the night that the great doctor had been sent for, and they were now having a consultation about her in the library.
'I'll help you to get your things together,' she went on, 'and you must go downstairs as quietly as possible.'
We collected my books. It made me melancholy to see them, there were such piles of exercises grandmamma had never had time to look over! Belinda heaped them all on to the top of my atlas, the glass ink-bottle among them.
'Are they quite steady?' I said. 'Hadn't I better come up again and only take half now?'
'Oh, dear, no,' said Belinda,'they are right enough if you walk carefully,' for in her heart she knew that she should have helped me to carry them down, herself.
But I had got used to her careless ways, and I didn't seem to mind anything much now, so I set off with my burden. It was all right till I got to the first floor – the floor where grandmamma's and Cousin Agnes's rooms were. Then, as ill luck would have it – just from taking extra care, I suppose – somehow or other I lost my footing and down I went, a regular good bumping roll from top to bottom of one flight of stairs, books, and slate, and glass ink-bottle all clattering after me! I'm quite sure that in all my life before or since I never made such a noise!
I hurt myself a good deal, though not seriously; but before I had time to do more than sit up and feel my arms and legs to be sure that none of them were broken, the library door below was thrown open, and up rushed two or three – at first sight I thought them still more – men! Cousin Cosmo the first.
'In heaven's name,' he exclaimed, though even then he did not speak loudly, 'what is the matter? This is really inexcusable!'
He meant, I think, that there should have been some one looking after me! But I took the harsh word to myself.
'I – I've fallen downstairs,' I said, which of course was easy to be seen. There was a dark pool on the step beside me, and in spite of his irritation Cousin Cosmo was alarmed.
'Have you cut yourself?' he said, 'are you bleeding?' and he took out his handkerchief, hardly knowing why, but as he stooped towards me it touched the stain.
'Ink!' he said, in a tone of disgust. 'Really, even a child might have more sense!'
Then the older of the two men who were with him came forward. He had a very grave but kind face.
'It is very unfortunate,' he said,'I hope the noise has not startled Mrs. Vandeleur. You must really,' he went on, turning to Cousin Cosmo, but then stopping – 'I must have a word or two with you about this before I go. In the meantime we had better pick up this little person.'
I got up of myself, though something in the doctor's face prevented my feeling vexed at his words, as I might otherwise have been. But just as I was stooping to pick up my books and to hide the giddy, shaky feeling which came over me, a voice from the landing above made me start. It was grandmamma herself; she hastened down the flight of stairs, looking extremely upset.
'Helena!' she exclaimed, and I think her face cleared a little when she saw me standing there,'you have not hurt yourself then? But what in the world were you doing to make such a terrific clatter? I never knew her do such a thing before,' she went on.
'Did Agnes hear it?' said Cousin Cosmo, sharply.
'I'm afraid it did startle her,' grandmamma replied, 'but fortunately she thought it was something in the basement. I must go back to her at once,' and without another word to me she turned upstairs again.
I can't tell what I felt like; even now I hate to remember it. My own grandmamma to speak to me in that voice and not to care whether I was hurt or not! I think some servant was called to wipe up the ink, and I made my way, stiff and bruised and giddy, to the dining-room – I had not even the refuge of my own room to cry in at peace – while Cousin Cosmo and the doctors went back to the library. And not long after, I heard the front door close and a carriage drive away.
I thought my cup was full, but it was not, as you shall hear. I didn't try to do any lessons. My head was aching and I didn't feel as if it mattered what I did or didn't do.
'If only my room was ready,' I thought, half stupidly, 'I wouldn't mind so much.'
I think I must have cried a good deal almost without knowing it, for after a while, when the footman came into the room, I started up with a conscious feeling of not wanting to be seen, and turned towards the window, where I stood pretending to look out. Not that there was anything to be seen; the fog was getting so thick that I could scarcely distinguish the railings a few feet off.
The footman left the room again, but I felt sure he was coming back, so I crept behind the shelter of the heavy curtains and curled myself up on the floor, drawing them round me