In a few minutes, however, she came back again, lumbering a bath after her and looking rather cross.

'How different she is from Kezia,' I thought to myself. 'I would not have minded anything as much if she had come with us.'

Still, I was sensible enough to know that it was no use making the worst of things, and I think I must have looked rather pleasanter and more cheerful than the evening before, when I tapped at grandmamma's door and went downstairs to breakfast holding her hand.

_She_ had much more to think of and trouble about than I, and if I had not been so selfish I was quite sensible enough to have understood this.

A great many things required rearranging and overlooking in the household, for, though the servants were good on the whole, it was long since they had had a mistress's eye over them, and without that, even the best servants are pretty sure to get into careless ways. And grandmamma was so very conscientious that she felt even more anxious about all these things for Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur's sake, than if it had been her own house and her own servants. Besides, though she was so clever and experienced, it was a good many years since she had had a large house to look after, as our little home at Middlemoor had been so very, very simple. Yes, I see now it must have been very hard upon her, for, instead of doing all I could to help her, I was quite taken up with my own part of it, and ready to grumble at and exaggerate every little difficulty or disagreeableness.

I think grandmamma tried for some time not to see the sort of humour I was in, and how selfish and spoilt I had become. She excused me to herself by saying I was tired, and that such a complete change of life was trying for a child, and by kind little reasons of that sort.

'I shall be rather busy this morning,' she said to me that first day at breakfast, 'but if it keeps fine we can go out a little in the afternoon, and let you have your first peep of London. Let me see, what can you do with yourself this morning? You have your things to unpack still, and I daresay you would like to put out your ornaments and books in your own room.'

'I don't mean to put them out,' I said, 'it's not worth while. I will keep my books in one of the boxes and just get one out when I want it, and as for the ornaments, they wouldn't look anything in that big, bare room.'

But as I said this I caught sight of grandmamma's face, and I felt ashamed of being so grumbling when I was really feeling more cheerful and interested in everything than the night before. So I changed my tone a little.

'I will unpack all my things,' I said, 'and see how they look, anyway.

Perhaps I'd better hang up my new frocks, I wouldn't like them to get crushed.'

'I should think Belinda would have unpacked your clothes by this time,'

said grandmamma, 'but no doubt you'll find something to do. But, by the bye, they may not have lighted a fire in your room, don't stay upstairs long if you feel chilly, but bring your work down to the library.' I went upstairs. In the full daylight, though it was a dull morning, I liked my room even less than the night before. There was nothing in it bright or fresh, though I daresay it had looked much nicer, years before, when Cousin Agnes was a little girl, for the cretonne curtains must once have been very pretty, with bunches of pink roses, which now, however, were faded, as well as the carpet on the floor, and the paper on the walls, to an over-all dinginess such as you never see in a country room even when everything in it is old.

I sat down on a chair and looked about me disconsolately. Belinda had unpacked my clothes and arranged them after her fashion. My other possessions were still untouched, but I did not feel as if I cared to do anything with them.

'I shall never be at home here,' I said to myself, 'but I suppose I must just try to bear it for the time, for grandmamma's sake.'

Silly child that I was, as if grandmamma ever thought of herself, or her own likes and dislikes, before what she considered right and good for me. But the idea of being something of a martyr pleased me. I got out my work, not my fancy-work--I was in a mood for doing disagreeable things--but some plain sewing that I had not touched for some time, and took it downstairs to the library. I heard voices as I opened the door, grandmamma was sitting at the writing-table speaking to the cook, who stood beside her, a rather fat, pleasant-looking woman, who made a little curtsey when she saw me. But grandmamma looked up, for her, rather sharply--

'Why, have you finished upstairs already, Helena?' she said. 'You had better go into the dining-room for a few minutes, I am busy just now.'

I went away immediately, but I was very much offended, it just seemed the beginning of what I was fancying to myself. The dining-room door was ajar, and I caught sight of the footman looking over some spoons and forks.

'I won't go in there,' I said to myself, and upstairs I mounted again.

On the first landing, where grandmamma's room was, there were several other doors. All was perfectly quiet--there seemed no servants about, so I thought I would amuse myself by a little exploring. The first room I peeped into was large--larger than grandmamma's, but all the furniture was covered up. The only thing that interested me was a picture in pastelles hanging up over the mantelpiece. It caught my attention at once, and I stood looking up at it for some moments.

CHAPTER XI

AN ARRIVAL

It was the portrait of a young girl,--a very sweet face with soft, half-timid looking eyes.

[Ill.u.s.tration: It was the portrait of a young girl.--P. 139.]

'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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s; 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; n.o.body 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 antic.i.p.ation 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, pa.s.sed 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.'