My New Home Part 8

Grandmamma came into the drawing-room a moment or two after that and stood behind me, looking out at the window.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 'I do wonder why they are so late.'--P. 82.]

'Not that I could see them coming,' she said, 'till they are up the hill and close to us. But I do wonder why they are so late--half an hour late,' and she glanced at the little clock on the mantelpiece. 'I hope there is nothing the matter.'

I looked at her as she said that, for I felt rather surprised. It was never granny's way to expect trouble before it comes. I saw that her face was rather anxious. But just as I was going to speak, to say some little word about its not being likely that anything was wrong, I gave one other glance towards Waving View. This time I was not disappointed.

'Oh, granny,' I exclaimed, 'there they are! I am sure it is them--I know the way they jog along so well--only, grandmamma, they are not waving?'

And I think the anxious look must have come into my own face, for I remember saying, almost in a whisper, 'I do hope there is nothing the matter'--granny's very words.

CHAPTER VII

THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES

Grandmamma was the one to rea.s.sure me.

'I scarcely think there can be anything wrong, as they are coming,' she said. 'You did not wave to them, either?'

'No,' I said, 'I _did_ wave, but I got tired of it. And it's always they who do it first. You see there's no use doing it except at that place.'

'Well, they will be here directly, and then I must give them a little scolding for being so unpunctual,' said grandmamma, cheerfully.

But that little scolding was never given.

When the governess-cart stopped at our path there were only two figures in it--no, three, I should say, for there was the groom, and the two others were Nan and Vallie--Sharley was not there.

I ran out to meet them.

'Is Sharley ill?' I called out before I got to them.

Nan shook her head.

'No,' she was beginning, but Vallie, who was much quicker, took the words out of her mouth--that was a way of Vallie's, and sometimes it used to make Nan rather vexed. But this morning she did not seem to notice it; she just shut up her lips again and stood silent with a very grave expression, while Vallie hurried on--

'Sharley's not ill, but mother kept her at home, and we're late because we went first to the telegraph office at Yukes'--Yukes is a _very_ tiny village half a mile on the other side of Moor Court, where there is a telegraph office. 'Father's ill, Helena, and I'm afraid he's very ill, for as soon as Dr. Cobbe saw him this morning he said he must telegraph for another doctor to London.'

'Oh, dear,' I exclaimed, 'I am so sorry,' and turning round at the sound of footsteps behind me I saw grandmamma, who had followed me out of the house. 'Granny,' I said, 'there _is_ something the matter. Their father is very ill,' and I repeated what Vallie had just said.

'I am very grieved to hear it,' said grandmamma. Afterwards she told me she had had a sort of presentiment that something was the matter. 'I am so sorry for your mother,' she went on. 'I wonder if I can be of use to her in any way.'

Then Nan spoke, in her slow but very exact way.

'Mother said,' she began, 'would you come to be with her this afternoon late, when the London doctor comes? She will send the brougham and it will bring you back again, if you would be so very kind. Mother is so afraid what the London doctor will say,' and poor Nan looked as if it was very difficult for her not to cry.

'Certainly, I will come,' said grandmamma at once. 'Ask Mrs. Nestor to send for me as soon as you get home if she would like to have me. I suppose--' she went on, hesitating a little, 'you don't know what is the matter with your father?'

'It is a sort of a cold that's got very bad,' said Vallie, 'it hurts him to breathe, and in the night he was nearly choking.'

Granny looked grave at this. She knew that Mr. Nestor had not been strong for some time, and he was a very active man, who looked after everything on his property himself, and hunted a good deal, and thought nothing about taking care of himself. He was a nice kind man, and all his people were very fond of him.

But she tried to cheer up the little girls and gave them their lesson as usual. It was much better to do so than to let them feel too unhappy.

And I tried to be very kind and bright too--I saw that grandmamma wanted me to be the same way to them that she was.

But after they were gone she spoke to me pretty openly about her fears for Mr. Nestor.

'Dr. Cobbe would not have sent for a London doctor without good cause,'

she said. 'All will depend on his opinion. It is possible that I may have to stay all night, Helena dear. You will not mind if I do?'

I _did_ mind, very much. But I tried to say I wouldn't. Still, I felt pretty miserable when the Moor Court carriage came to fetch grandmamma, and she drove away, leaving me for the first time in my life, or rather the first time I could remember, alone with Kezia.

Kezia was very kind. She offered me to come into the kitchen and make cakes. But I was past eleven now--that is very different from being only eight. I did not care much for making cakes--I never have cared about cooking as some girls do, though I know it is a very good thing to understand about it, and grandmamma says I am to go through a regular course of it when I get to be seventeen or eighteen. But I knew Kezia's cakes were much better than any I could make, so I thanked her, but said no--I would rather read or sew.

I had my tea all alone in the dining-room. Kezia was always so respectful about that sort of thing. Though she had been a nurse when I was only a tiny baby, she never forgot, as some old servants do, to treat me quite like a young lady, now I was growing older. She brought in my tea and set it all out just as carefully as when grandmamma was there, even more carefully in some ways, for she had made some little scones that I was very fond of, and she had got out some strawberry jam.

But I could not help feeling melancholy. I know it is wrong to believe in presentiments, or at least to think much about them, though _sometimes_ even very wise people like grandmamma cannot help believing in them a little. But I really do think that there are times in one's life when a sort of sadness about the future does seem _meant_.

And I had been so happy for so long. And troubles must come.

I said that over to myself as I sat alone after tea, and then all of a sudden it struck me that I was very selfish. This trouble was far, far worse for the Nestors than for me. Possibly by this time the London doctor had had to tell them that their father would never get better, and here was I thinking more, I am afraid, of the dulness of being one night without dear granny than of the sorrow that was perhaps coming over Sharley and the others of being without their father for always.

For I scarcely think my 'presentiments' would have troubled me much except for the being alone and missing granny so.

I made up my mind to be sensible and not fanciful. I got out what I called my 'secret work,' which was at that time a footstool I was embroidering for grandmamma's next birthday, and I did a good bit of it.

That made me feel rather better, and when my bedtime came it was nice to think I had nothing to do but to go to sleep and stay asleep to make to-morrow morning come quickly.

I fell asleep almost at once. But when I woke rather with a start--and I could not tell what had awakened me--it was still quite, quite dark, certainly not to-morrow morning.

'Oh, dear!' I thought, 'what a bother! Here I am as wide awake as anything, and I so seldom wake at all. Just this night when I wanted to sleep straight through.'

I lay still. Suddenly I heard some faint sounds. Some one was moving about downstairs. Could it be Kezia up still? It must be very late--quite the middle of the night, I fancied.

The sounds went on--doors shutting softly, then a slight creak on the stairs, as if some one were coming up slowly. I was not exactly frightened. I never thought of burglars--I don't think there has been a burglary at Middlemoor within the memory of man--but my heart did beat rather faster than usual and I listened, straining my ears and scarcely daring to breathe.

Then at last the steps stopped at my door, and some one began to turn the handle. I _almost_ screamed. But--in one instant came the dear voice--

'Is my darling awake?' so gently, it was scarcely above a whisper.

'Oh, granny, dear, dear granny, is it you?' I said, and every bit of me, heart and ears and everything, seemed to give one throb of delight. I shall never forget it. It was like the day I ran into her arms down the steep garden-path.

'Did I startle you?' she went on. 'Generally you sleep so soundly that I hoped I would not awake you.'

'I was awake, dear grandmamma,' I said, 'and oh, I am so glad you have come home.'

I clung to her as if I would never let her go, and then she told me the news from Moor Court. The London doctor had spoken gravely, but still hopefully. With great care, the greatest care, he trusted Mr. Nestor would quite recover.