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.