HARRY
In spite of all that was on my mind I slept soundly, waking the next
morning a little after my usual hour. Very quickly, so much was it
impressed on my brain, I suppose, I recollected the determination with
which I had gone to bed the night before.
I hurried to the window and drew up the blind, for I had made one
condition with myself--I would not attempt to carry out my plan if the
fog was still there! But it had gone. Whether I was glad or sorry I
really can't say. I dressed quickly, thinking or planning all the time.
When I got downstairs to the dining-room it was empty, but on the table
were the traces of some one having breakfasted there.
Just then the footman came in--
'I was to tell you, miss,' he said, 'that Mrs. Wingfield won't be down
to breakfast; it's to be taken upstairs to her.'
'And Mr. Vandeleur has had his, I suppose?' I said.
'Yes, miss,' he replied, clearing the table of some of the plates and
dishes.
I went on with my breakfast, eating as much as I could, for being what
is called an 'old-fashioned' child, I thought to myself it might be some
time before I got a regular meal again. Then I went upstairs, where,
thanks to Belinda's turn-out of the day before, my room was already in
order and the fire lighted. I locked the door and set to work.
About an hour later, having listened till everything seemed quiet about
the house, I made my way cautiously and carefully downstairs, carrying
my own travelling-bag stuffed as full as it would hold and a brown paper
parcel. When I got to the first bedroom floor, where grandmamma's room
was, a sudden strange feeling came over me. I felt as if I _must_ see
her, even if she didn't see me. Her door was ajar.
'Very likely,' I thought, 'she will be writing in there.'
For, lately, I knew she had been there almost entirely, when not
actually in Cousin Agnes's room, so as to be near her.
'I will peep in,' I said to myself.
I put down what I was carrying and crept round the door noiselessly. At
first I thought there was no one in the room, then to my surprise I saw
that the position of the bed had been changed. It now stood with its
back to the window, but the light of a brightly burning fire fell
clearly upon it. There was some one in bed! Could it be grandmamma? If
so, she must be really ill, it was so unlike her ever to stay in bed. I
stepped forward a little--no, the pale face with the pretty bright hair
showing against the pillows was not grandmamma, it was some one much
younger, and with a sort of awe I said to myself it must be Cousin
Agnes.
So it was, she had been moved into grandmamma's room a day or two before
for a little change.
It could not have been the sound I made, for I really made none, that
roused her; it must just have been the _feeling_ that some one had
entered the room. For all at once she opened her eyes, such very sweet
blue eyes they were, and looked at me, at first in a half-startled way,
but then with a little smile.
'I thought I was dreaming,' she whispered. 'I have had such a nice
sleep. Is that you, little Helena? I'm so glad to see you; I wanted you
to come before, often.'
I stood there trembling.
What would grandmamma or Mr. Vandeleur think if they came in and found
me there? But yet Cousin Agnes was so very sweet, her voice so gentle
and almost loving, that I felt I could not run out of the room without
answering her.
'Thank you,' I said, 'I do hope you are better.'
'I am going to be better very soon, I feel almost sure,' she said, but
her voice was already growing weaker. 'Are you going out, dear?' she
went on. 'Good-bye, I hope you will have a nice walk. Come again to see
me soon.'
'Thank you,' I whispered again, something in her voice almost making the
tears come into my eyes, and I crept off as quietly as possible, with a
curious feeling that if I delayed I should not go at all.
By this time you will have guessed what my plan was. I think I will not
go into all the particulars of how I made my way to Paddington in a
hansom, which I picked up just outside the square, and how I managed to
take my ticket, a third class one this time, for though I had brought
all my money--a few shillings of my own and a sovereign which Cousin
Cosmo had sent me for a Christmas box--I saw that care would be needed
to make it take me to my journey's end. Nor, how at last, late in the
afternoon, I found myself on the platform at Middlemoor Station.
I was very tired, now that the first excitement had gone off.
'How glad I shall be to get to Windy Gap,' I thought, 'and to be with
Kezia.'
I opened my purse and looked at my money. There were three shillings and
some coppers, not enough for a fly, which I knew cost five shillings.
'I can't walk all the way,' I said to myself. 'It's getting so late
too,' for I had had to wait more than an hour at Paddington for a train.
Then a bright idea struck me. There was an omnibus that went rather more
than half-way, if only I could get it I should be able to manage. I went
out of the station and there, to my delight, it stood; by good luck I
had come by a train which it always met. There were two other passengers
in it already, but of course there was plenty of room for me and my bag
and my parcel, so I settled myself in a corner, not sorry to see that my
companions were perfect strangers to me. It was now about seven in
the evening, the sky was fast darkening. Off we jogged, going at a
pretty good pace at first, but soon falling back to a very slow one as
the road began to mount. I fancy I dozed a little, for the next thing I
remember was the stopping of the omnibus at the little roadside inn,
which was the end of its journey.
I got out and paid my fare, and then set off on what was really the
worst part of the whole, for I was now very tired and my luggage, small
as it was, seemed to weigh like lead. I might have looked out for a boy
to carry it for me, but that idea didn't enter my head, and I was very
anxious not to be noticed by any one who might have known me.
[Illustration: It was all uphill too.--P. 173.]
I seemed to have no feeling now except the longing to be 'at home' and
with Kezia. I almost forgot why I had come and all about my unhappiness
in London; but, oh dear! how that mile stretched itself out! It was all
uphill too; every now and then I was forced to stop for a minute and to
put down my packages on the ground so as to rest my aching arms, so my
progress was very slow. It was quite dark when at last I found myself
stumbling up the bit of steep path which lay between the end of the road
where Sharley's pony-cart used to wait and our own little garden-gate.
If I hadn't known my way so well I could scarcely have found it, but at
last my goal was reached. I stood at the door for a moment or two
without knocking, to recover my breath, and indeed my wits, a little. It
all seemed so strange, I felt as if I were dreaming. But soon the fresh
sweet air, which was almost like native air to me, made me feel more
like myself--made me realise that here I was again at dear old Windy
Gap. More than that, I would not let my mind dwell upon, except to think
over what should be my first words to Kezia.
I knocked at last, and then for the first time I noticed that there was
a light in the drawing-room shining through the blinds.
'Dear me,' I thought, 'how strange,' and then a terror came over
me--supposing the house was let to strangers! I had quite forgotten that
this was possible.
But before I had time to think of what I could in that case do, the door
was opened.
'Kezia,' I gasped, but looking up, my new fears took shape.
It was not Kezia who stood there, it was a boy; a boy about two or three
years older than I, not as tall as Gerard Nestor, though strong and
sturdy looking, and with--even at that moment I thought so to
myself--the very nicest face I had ever seen. He was sunburnt and ruddy,
with short dark hair and bright kind-looking eyes, which when he smiled
seemed to smile too. I daresay I did not see all that just then, but it
is difficult now to separate my earliest remembrance of him from what I
noticed afterwards, and there never was, there never has been, anything
to contradict or confuse the first feeling, or instinct, that he was as
good and true as he looked, my dear old Harry!
Just now, of course, his face had a very surprised expression.
'Kezia?' he repeated. 'I am sorry she is not in just now.'
It was an immense relief to gather from his words that she was not away.
'Will she be in soon?' I said, eagerly; 'I didn't know there was any one
else in the house. May I--do you mind--if I come in and wait till Kezia
returns?'
'Certainly,' said the boy, and as he spoke he stooped to pick up the bag
and parcel which his quick eyes had caught sight of. 'My brother and I
are staying here,' he said, as he crossed the little hall to the
drawing-room door. 'We are alone here except for Kezia; we came here a
fortnight ago from school, it was broken up because of illness.'
I think he went on speaking out of a sort of friendly wish to set me at
my ease, and I listened half stupidly, I don't think I quite took in
what he said. A younger boy was sitting in my own old corner, by the
window, and a little table with a lamp on it was drawn up beside him.
'Lindsay,' said my guide, and the younger boy, who was evidently very
well drilled by his brother, started up at once. 'This--this young
lady,' for by this time he had found out I was a lady in spite of my
brown paper parcel, 'has come to see Kezia. Put some coal on the fire,
it's getting very low.'
Lindsay obeyed, eyeing me as he did so. He was smaller and slighter than
his brother, with fair hair and a rather girlish face.
'Won't you sit down?' said Harry, pushing a chair forward to me.
I was dreadfully tired and very glad to sit down, and now my brain began
to work a little more quickly. The name 'Lindsay' had started some
recollection.
'Are you--' I began, 'is your name Vandeleur; are you the boys at school
with Gerard Nestor?'
'Yes,' said Harry, opening his eyes very wide, 'and--would you mind
telling me who you are?' he added bluntly.
'I'm Helena Wingfield,' I said. 'This is my home. I have come back
alone, all the way from London, because----' and I stopped short.
'Because?' repeated Harry, looking at me with his kind, though searching
eyes. Something in his manner made me feel that I must answer him. He
was only a boy, not nearly as 'grown-up' in manners or appearance as
Gerard Nestor; there was something even a little rough about him, but
still he seemed at once to take the upper hand with me; I felt that I
must respect him.
'Because--' I faltered, feeling it very difficult to keep from
crying--'because I was so miserable in London in your--in Cousin Cosmo's
house. He is my cousin, you know,' I went on, 'though his name is
different.'
'I know,' said Harry, quietly, 'he's our cousin too, and our guardian.
But you're better off than we are--you've got your grandmother. I know
all about you, you see. But how on earth did she let you come away like
this alone? Or is she--no, she can't be with you, surely?'
'No,' I replied, 'I'm alone, I thought I told you so; and grandmamma
doesn't know I've come away, of course she wouldn't have let me. Nobody
does know.'
Harry's face grew very grave indeed, and Lindsay raised himself from
stooping over the fire, and stood staring at me as if I was something
very extraordinary.
'Your grandmother doesn't know?' repeated Harry, 'nobody knows? How
could you come away like that? Why, your grandmother will be nearly out
of her mind about you!'
'No, she won't,' I replied, 'she doesn't care for me now, it's all quite
different from what it used to be. Nobody cares for me, they'll only be
very glad to be rid of the trouble of me.'
The tears had got up into my eyes by this time, and as I spoke they
began slowly to drop on to my cheeks. Harry saw them, I knew, but I
didn't feel as if I cared, though I think I wanted him to be sorry for
me, his kind face looked as if he would be. So I was rather surprised
when, instead of saying something sympathising and gentle, he answered
rather abruptly--
'Helena, I don't mean to be rude, for of course it's no business of
mine, but I think you must know that you are talking nonsense. I don't
mean about Mr. Vandeleur, or any one but your grandmother; but as for
saying that she has left off caring for you, that's all--perfectly
impossible. _I_ know enough for that; you've been with her all your
life, and she's been most awfully good to you----'
'I know she has,' I interrupted, 'that makes it all the worse to bear.'
'We'll talk about that afterwards,' said Harry, 'it's your grandmother
you should think of now--what do you mean to do?'
I stared at him, not quite understanding.
'I meant to stay here,' I said, 'with Kezia. If I can't--if you count it
your house and won't let me stay, I must go somewhere else. But you
can't stop my staying here till I've seen Kezia.'
Harry gave an impatient exclamation.
'Can't you understand,' he said, 'that I meant what are you going to do
about letting your grandmother know where you are?'
'I hadn't thought about it,' I said; 'perhaps they won't find out till
to-morrow morning.'
And then in my indignation I went on to tell him about the lonely life I
had had lately, ending up with an account of my fall down the stairs
and what I had overheard about being sent away to school.
'Poor Helena,' said Lindsay.
Harry, too, was sorry for me, I know, but just then he did not say much.
'All the same,' he replied, after listening to me, 'it wouldn't be right
to risk your grandmother's being frightened, any longer. I'll send a
telegram at once.'
The village post and telegraph office was only a quarter of a mile from
our house. Harry turned to leave the room as he spoke.
'Lindsay, you'll look after Helena till I come back,' he said. 'I
daresay Kezia won't be in for an hour or so.'
I stopped him.
'You mustn't send a telegram without telling me what you are going to
say,' I said.
He looked at me.
'I shall just put--"Helena is here, safe and well,"' he replied, and to
this I could not make any reasonable objection.
'I may be safe, but I don't think I am well,' I said grumblingly when he
had gone. 'I'm starving, to begin with. I've had nothing to eat all day
except two buns I bought at Paddington Station, and my head's aching
dreadfully.'
'Oh, dear,' said Lindsay, who was a soft-hearted little fellow, and most
ready to sympathise, especially in those troubles which he best
understood, 'you must be awfully hungry. We had our tea some time ago,
but Kezia always gives us supper. Come into the kitchen and let's see
what we can find--or no, you're too tired--you stay here and I'll forage
for you.'
He went off, returning in a few minutes with a jug of milk and a big
slice of one of Kezia's own gingerbread cakes. I thought nothing had
ever tasted so good, and my headache seemed to get better after eating
it and drinking the milk.
I was just finishing when Harry came in again.
'That's right,' he said, 'I forgot that you must be hungry.'
Then we all three sat and looked at each other without speaking.
'Lindsay,' said Harry at last, 'you'd better finish that exercise you
were doing when Helena came in,' and Lindsay obediently went back to the
table.
I wanted Harry to speak to me. After all I had told him I thought he
should have been sorry for me, and should have allowed that I had right
on my side, instead of letting me sit there in silence. At last I could
bear it no longer.
'I don't think,' I said, 'that you should treat me as if I were too
naughty to speak to. I know quite well that you are not at all fond of
Mr. Vandeleur yourself, and that should make you sorry for me.'
'I suppose you're thinking of what Gerard Nestor said,' Harry replied.
'It's true I know very little of Mr. Vandeleur, though I daresay he has
meant to be kind to us. But what I can't make out is how you could treat
your grandmother so. Lindsay and I have never had any one like what
she's been to you.'
His words startled me.
'If I had thought,' I began, 'that she would really care--or be
frightened about me--perhaps I--' but I had no time to say more, there
came a knock at the front door and Lindsay started up.
'It's Kezia,' he said, 'she locks the back-door when she goes out in the
evening and we let her in. She's been to church,' so off he flew, eager
to be the one to give her the news of my unexpected arrival.
But I did not rush out to meet her, as I would have done at first.
Harry's words had begun to make me a little less sure than I had been as
to how even Kezia would look upon my conduct.