CHAPTER II.
_IM_PATIENT GRISELDA.
"... fairies but seldom appear; If we do wrong we must expect That it will cost us dear!"
It was all very well for a few days. Griselda found plenty to amuseherself with while the novelty lasted, enough to prevent her missing_very_ badly the home she had left "over the sea," and the troop ofnoisy merry brothers who teased and petted her. Of course she _missed_them, but not "dreadfully." She was neither homesick nor "dull."
It was not quite such smooth sailing when lessons began. She did notdislike lessons; in fact, she had always thought she was rather fond ofthem. But the having to do them alone was not lively, and her teacherswere very strict. The worst of all was the writing and arithmeticmaster, a funny little old man who wore knee-breeches and took snuff,and called her aunt "Madame," bowing formally whenever he addressed her.He screwed Griselda up into such an unnatural attitude to write hercopies, that she really felt as if she would never come straight andloose again; and the arithmetic part of his instructions was even worse.Oh! what sums in addition he gave her! Griselda had never been partialto sums, and her rather easy-going governess at home had not, to tellthe truth, been partial to them either. And Mr.--I can't remember thelittle old gentleman's name. Suppose we call him Mr. Kneebreeches--Mr.Kneebreeches, when he found this out, conscientiously put her back tothe very beginning.
It was dreadful, really. He came twice a week, and the days he didn'tcome were as bad as those he did, for he left her a whole _row_ I wasgoing to say, but you couldn't call Mr. Kneebreeches' addition sums"rows," they were far too fat and wide across to be so spoken of!--wholeslatefuls of these terrible mountains of figures to climb wearily to thetop of. And not to climb _once_ up merely. _The_ terrible thing was Mr.Kneebreeches' favourite method of what he called "proving." I can'texplain it--it is far beyond my poor powers--but it had something to dowith cutting off the top line, after you had added it all up and hadactually done the sum, you understand--cutting off the top line andadding the long rows up again without it, and then joining it on againsomewhere else.
"I wouldn't mind so much," said poor Griselda, one day, "if it was anygood. But you see, Aunt Grizzel, it isn't. For I'm just as likely to dothe _proving_ wrong as the sum itself--more likely, for I'm always sotired when I get to the proving--and so all that's proved is that_something's_ wrong, and I'm sure that isn't any good, except to make mecross."
"Hush!" said her aunt gravely. "That is not the way for a little girl tospeak. Improve these golden hours of youth, Griselda; they will neverreturn."
"I hope not," muttered Griselda, "if it means doing sums."
Miss Grizzel fortunately was a little deaf; she did not hear thisremark. Just then the cuckoo clock struck eleven.
"Good little cuckoo," said Miss Grizzel. "What an example he sets you.His life is spent in the faithful discharge of duty;" and so saying sheleft the room.
The cuckoo was still telling the hour--eleven took a good while. Itseemed to Griselda that the bird repeated her aunt's last words."Faith--ful, dis--charge, of--your, du--ty," he said, "faith--ful."
"You horrid little creature!" exclaimed Griselda in a passion; "whatbusiness have you to mock me?"
She seized a book, the first that came to hand, and flung it at the birdwho was just beginning his eleventh cuckoo. He disappeared with a snap,disappeared without flapping his wings, or, as Griselda always fanciedhe did, giving her a friendly nod, and in an instant all was silent.
Griselda felt a little frightened. What had she done? She looked up atthe clock. It seemed just the same as usual, the cuckoo's doors closelyshut, no sign of any disturbance. Could it have been her fancy only thathe had sprung back more hastily than he would have done but for herthrowing the book at him? She began to hope so, and tried to go on withher lessons. But it was no use. Though she really gave her bestattention to the long addition sums, and found that by so doing shemanaged them much better than before, she could not feel happy or atease. Every few minutes she glanced up at the clock, as if expecting thecuckoo to come out, though she knew quite well there was no chance ofhis doing so till twelve o'clock, as it was only the hours, not the halfhours and quarters, that he told.
"I wish it was twelve o'clock," she said to herself anxiously more thanonce.
If only the clock had not been so very high up on the wall, she wouldhave been tempted to climb up and open the little doors, and peep in tosatisfy herself as to the cuckoo's condition. But there was nopossibility of this. The clock was far, very far above her reach, andthere was no high piece of furniture standing near, upon which she couldhave climbed to get to it. There was nothing to be done but to wait fortwelve o'clock.
And, after all, she did not wait for twelve o'clock, for just abouthalf-past eleven, Miss Grizzel's voice was heard calling to her to puton her hat and cloak quickly, and come out to walk up and down theterrace with her.
"It is fine just now," said Miss Grizzel, "but there is a prospect ofrain before long. You must leave your lessons for the present, andfinish them in the afternoon."
"I have finished them," said Griselda, meekly.
"_All_?" inquired her aunt.
"Yes, all," replied Griselda.
"Ah, well, then, this afternoon, if the rain holds off, we shall driveto Merrybrow Hall, and inquire for the health of your dear godmother,Lady Lavander," said Miss Grizzel.
Poor Griselda! There were few things she disliked more than a drive withher aunts. They went in the old yellow chariot, with all the windows up,and of course Griselda had to sit with her back to the horses, whichmade her very uncomfortable when she had no air, and had to sit stillfor so long.
Merrybrow Hall was a large house, quite as old and much grander, but notnearly so wonderful as the home of Griselda's aunts. It was six milesoff, and it took a very long time indeed to drive there in the rumblingold chariot, for the old horses were fat and wheezy, and the oldcoachman fat and wheezy too. Lady Lavander was, of course, old too--veryold indeed, and rather grumpy and very deaf. Miss Grizzel and MissTabitha had the greatest respect for her; she always called them "Mydear," as if they were quite girls, and they listened to all she said asif her words were of gold. For some mysterious reason she had beeninvited to be Griselda's godmother; but, as she had never shown her anyproof of affection beyond giving her a prayer-book, and hoping, whenevershe saw her, that she was "a good little miss," Griselda did not feelany particular cause for gratitude to her.
The drive seemed longer and duller than ever this afternoon, butGriselda bore it meekly; and when Lady Lavander, as usual, expressed herhopes about her, the little girl looked down modestly, feeling hercheeks grow scarlet. "I am not a good little girl at all," she feltinclined to call out. "I'm very bad and cruel. I believe I've killed thedear little cuckoo."
What _would_ the three old ladies have thought if she had called it out?As it was, Lady Lavander patted her approvingly, said she loved to seeyoung people modest and humble-minded, and gave her a slice of veryhighly-spiced, rather musty gingerbread, which Griselda couldn't bear.
All the way home Griselda felt in a fever of impatience to rush up tothe ante-room and see if the cuckoo was all right again. It was late anddark when the chariot at last stopped at the door of the old house. MissGrizzel got out slowly, and still more slowly Miss Tabitha followedher. Griselda was obliged to restrain herself and move demurely.
"It is past your supper-time, my dear," said Miss Grizzel. "Go up atonce to your room, and Dorcas shall bring some supper to you. Late hoursare bad for young people."
Griselda obediently wished her aunts good-night, and went quietlyupstairs. But once out of sight, at the first landing, she changed herpace. She turned to the left instead of to the right, which led to herown room, and flew rather than ran along the dimly-lighted passage, atthe end of which a door led into the great saloon. She opened the door.All was quite dark. It was impossible to fly or run across the greatsaloon! Even in daylight this would have been a difficult matter.
Griselda _felt_ her way as best she could, past the Chinese cabinet andthe pot-pourri jar, till she got to the ante-room door. It was open, andnow, knowing her way better, she hurried in. But what was the use? Allwas silent, save the tick-tick of the cuckoo clock in the corner. Oh, if_only_ the cuckoo would come out and call the hour as usual, what aweight would be lifted off Griselda's heart!
She had no idea what o'clock it was. It might be close to the hour, orit might be just past it. She stood listening for a few minutes, thenhearing Miss Grizzel's voice in the distance, she felt that she darednot stay any longer, and turned to feel her way out of the room again.Just as she got to the door it seemed to her that something softlybrushed her cheek, and a very, very faint "cuckoo" sounded as it were inthe air close to her.
Startled, but not frightened, Griselda stood perfectly still.
"Cuckoo," she said, softly. But there was no answer.
Again the tones of Miss Grizzel's voice coming upstairs reached herear.
"I _must_ go," said Griselda; and finding her way across the saloonwithout, by great good luck, tumbling against any of the many breakabletreasures with which it was filled, she flew down the long passageagain, reaching her own room just before Dorcas appeared with hersupper.
Griselda slept badly that night. She was constantly dreaming of thecuckoo, fancying she heard his voice, and then waking with a start tofind it was _only_ fancy. She looked pale and heavy-eyed when she camedown to breakfast the next morning; and her Aunt Tabitha, who was alonein the room when she entered, began immediately asking her what was thematter.
"I am sure you are going to be ill, child," she said, nervously. "SisterGrizzel must give you some medicine. I wonder what would be the best.Tansy tea is an excellent thing when one has taken cold, or----"
But the rest of Miss Tabitha's sentence was never heard, for at thismoment Miss Grizzel came hurriedly into the room--her cap awry, hershawl disarranged, her face very pale. I hardly think any one had everseen her so discomposed before.
"Sister Tabitha!" she exclaimed, "what can be going to happen? Thecuckoo clock has stopped."
"The cuckoo clock has stopped!" repeated Miss Tabitha, holding up herhands; "_im_possible!"
"But it has, or rather I should say--dear me, I am so upset I cannotexplain myself--the _cuckoo_ has stopped. The clock is going on, but thecuckoo has not told the hours, and Dorcas is of opinion that he left offdoing so yesterday. What can be going to happen? What shall we do?"
"What can we do?" said Miss Tabitha. "Should we send for thewatch-maker?"
Miss Grizzel shook her head.
"'Twould be worse than useless. Were we to search the world over, wecould find no one to put it right. Fifty years and more, Tabitha, fiftyyears and more, it has never missed an hour! We are getting old,Tabitha, our day is nearly over; perhaps 'tis to remind us of this."
Miss Tabitha did not reply. She was weeping silently. The old ladiesseemed to have forgotten the presence of their niece, but Griselda couldnot bear to see their distress. She finished her breakfast as quickly asshe could, and left the room.
On her way upstairs she met Dorcas.
"Have you heard what has happened, little missie?" said the old servant.
"Yes," replied Griselda.
"My ladies are in great trouble," continued Dorcas, who seemed inclinedto be more communicative than usual, "and no wonder. For fifty yearsthat clock has never gone wrong."
"Can't it be put right?" asked the child.
Dorcas shook her head.
"No good would come of interfering," she said. "What must be, must be.The luck of the house hangs on that clock. Its maker spent a good partof his life over it, and his last words were that it would bring goodluck to the house that owned it, but that trouble would follow itssilence. It's my belief," she added solemnly, "that it's a _fairy_clock, neither more nor less, for good luck it has brought there's nodenying. There are no cows like ours, missie--their milk is a proverbhereabouts; there are no hens like ours for laying all the year round;there are no roses like ours. And there's always a friendly feeling inthis house, and always has been. 'Tis not a house for wrangling andjangling, and sharp words. The 'good people' can't stand that. Nothingdrives them away like ill-temper or anger."
Griselda's conscience gave her a sharp prick. Could it be _her_ doingthat trouble was coming upon the old house? What a punishment for amoment's fit of ill-temper.
"I wish you wouldn't talk that way, Dorcas," she said; "it makes me sounhappy."
"What a feeling heart the child has!" said the old servant as she wenton her way downstairs. "It's true--she is very like Miss Sybilla."
That day was a very weary and sad one for Griselda. She was oppressed bya feeling she did not understand. She knew she had done wrong, but shehad sorely repented it, and "I do think the cuckoo might have come backagain," she said to herself, "if he is a fairy; and if he isn't, itcan't be true what Dorcas says."
Her aunts made no allusion to the subject in her presence, and almostseemed to have forgotten that she had known of their distress. They weremore grave and silent than usual, but otherwise things went on in theirordinary way. Griselda spent the morning "at her tasks," in theante-room, but was thankful to get away from the tick-tick of the clockin the corner and out into the garden.
But there, alas! it was just as bad. The rooks seemed to know thatsomething was the matter; they set to work making such a chatterimmediately Griselda appeared that she felt inclined to run back intothe house again.
"I am sure they are talking about me," she said to herself. "Perhapsthey are fairies too. I am beginning to think I don't like fairies."
She was glad when bed-time came. It was a sort of reproach to her to seeher aunts so pale and troubled; and though she tried to persuade herselfthat she thought them very silly, she could not throw off theuncomfortable feeling.
She was so tired when she went to bed--tired in the disagreeable waythat comes from a listless, uneasy day--that she fell asleep at once andslept heavily. When she woke, which she did suddenly, and with a start,it was still perfectly dark, like the first morning that she had wakenedin the old house. It seemed to her that she had not wakened ofherself--something had roused her. Yes! there it was again, a very,_very_ soft distant "cuckoo." _Was_ it distant? She could not tell.Almost she could have fancied it was close to her.
"If it's that cuckoo come back again, I'll catch him!" exclaimedGriselda.
She darted out of bed, felt her way to the door, which was closed, andopening it let in a rush of moonlight from the unshuttered passagewindow. In another moment her little bare feet were pattering along thepassage at full speed, in the direction of the great saloon.
For Griselda's childhood among the troop of noisy brothers had taughther one lesson--she was afraid of nothing. Or rather perhaps I shouldsay she had never learnt that there was anything to be afraid of! And isthere?