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[Illustration]
THE CUCKOO CLOCK
SIXTH IMPRESSION
"Stories All Children Love"
A SET OF CHILDREN'S CLASSICS THAT SHOULD BE IN EVERY WINTER HOME AND
SUMMER COTTAGE
Cornelli
By JOHANNA SPYRI
Translated by ELISABETH P. STORK
A Child's Garden of Verses
By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
The Little Lame Prince & OTHER STORIES
By MISS MULOCK
Gulliver's Travels
By JONATHAN SWIFT
The Water Babies
By CHARLES KINGSLEY
Pinocchio
By C. COLLODI
Robinson Crusoe
By DANIEL DEFOE
Heidi By JOHANNA SPYRI
Translated by ELISABETH P. STORK
The Cuckoo Clock
By MRS. MOLESWORTH
The Swiss Family Robinson
Edited by G. E. MITTON
The Princess and Curdie
By GEORGE MACDONALD
The Princess and the Goblin
By GEORGE MACDONALD
At the Back of the North Wind
By GEORGE MACDONALD
A Dog of Flanders By "OUIDA"
Bimbi By "OUIDA"
Mopsa, the Fairy By JEAN INGELOW
The Chronicles of Fairyland
By FERGUS HUME
Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales
_Each Volume Beautifully Illustrated in Color._
_Decorated Cloth. Other Books in This Set are in Preparation._
[Illustration: A LITTLE GIRL DANCED INTO THE ROOM _Page 107_]
THE CUCKOO CLOCK
BY
MRS. MOLESWORTH
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY_
MARIA L. KIRK
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.
To
MARY JOSEPHINE
AND TO THE DEAR MEMORY OF HER BROTHER
THOMAS GRINDAL
BOTH FRIENDLY LITTLE CRITICS OF MY CHILDREN'S STORIES
_Edinburgh, 1877_
CONTENTS
THE CUCKOO CLOCK
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Old House 11
II. _Im_patient Griselda 30
III. Obeying Orders 48
IV. The Country of the Nodding Mandarins 70
V. Pictures 95
VI. Rubbed the Wrong Way 120
VII. Butterfly-Land 140
VIII. Master Phil 163
IX. Up and Down the Chimney 184
X. The Other Side of the Moon 209
XI. "Cuckoo, Cuckoo, Good-bye!" 227
THE CASTLE IN THE LOUGH
A Legend of Donegal 247
ILLUSTRATIONS
A Little Girl Danced Into the Room _Frontispiece_
"Have You Got a Cuckoo in a Cage?" 19
She Could Not Help Very Softly Clapping Her Hands 51
"Are You Comfortable?" Inquired the Cuckoo 71
He Flapped His Wings, And Instantly a Palanquin
Appeared at the Foot of the Steps 88
She Peered in with Great Satisfaction 153
"But I May See You Again," Said Phil 177
It Was Rowed by a Little Figure 224
"Now, these little folks, like most girls and boys,
Loved fairy tales even better than toys.
* * * * *
And they knew that in flowers on the spray
Tiny spirits are hidden away,
That frisk at night on the forest green,
When earth is bathed in dewy sheen--
And shining halls of pearl and gem,
The Regions of Fancy--were open to them."
"... just as any little child has been guided towards the true
paradise by its fairy dreams of bliss."--E. A. Abbott.
I
THE OLD HOUSE
[Illustration]
"Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country seat."
Once upon a time in an old town, in an old street, there stood a very
old house. Such a house as you could hardly find nowadays, however you
searched, for it belonged to a gone-by time--a time now quite passed
away.
It stood in a street, but yet it was not like a town house, for though
the front opened right on to the pavement, the back windows looked out
upon a beautiful, quaintly terraced garden, with old trees growing so
thick and close together that in summer it was like living on the edge
of a forest to be near them; and even in winter the web of their
interlaced branches hid all clear view behind.
There was a colony of rooks in this old garden. Year after year they
held their parliaments and cawed and chattered and fussed; year after
year they built their nests and hatched their eggs; year after year, I
_suppose_, the old ones gradually died off and the young ones took their
place, though, but for knowing this _must_ be so, no one would have
suspected it, for to all appearance the rooks were always the same--ever
and always the same.
Time indeed seemed to stand still in and all about the old house, as if
it and the people who inhabited it had got _so_ old that they could not
get any older, and had outlived the possibility of change.
But one day at last there did come a change. Late in the dusk of an
autumn afternoon a carriage drove up to the door of the old house, came
rattling over the stones with a sudden noisy clatter that sounded quite
impertinent, startling the rooks just as they were composing themselves
to rest, and setting them all wondering what could be the matter.
A little girl was the matter! A little girl in a grey merino frock, and
grey beaver bonnet, grey tippet and grey gloves--all grey together, even
to her eyes, all except her round rosy face and bright brown hair. Her
name even was rather grey, for it was Griselda.
A gentleman lifted her out of the carriage and disappeared with her into
the house, and later that same evening the gentleman came out of the
house and got into the carriage which had come back for him again, and
drove away. That was all that the rooks saw of the change that had come
to the old house. Shall we go inside to see more?
Up the shallow, wide, old-fashioned staircase, past the wainscoted
walls, dark and shining like a mirror, down a long narrow passage with
many doors, which but for their gleaming brass handles one would not
have known were there, the oldest of the three old servants led little
Griselda, so tired and sleepy that her supper had been left almost
untasted, to the room prepared for her. It was a queer room, for
everything in the house was queer; but in the dancing light of the fire
burning brightly in the tiled grate, it looked cheerful enough.
"I am glad there's a fire," said the child. "Will it keep alight till
the morning, do you think?"
The old servant shook her head.
"'Twould not be safe to leave it so that it would burn till morning,"
she said. "When you are in bed and asleep, little missie, you won't want
the fire. Bed's the warmest place."
"It isn't for that I want it," said Griselda; "it's for the light I like
it. This house all looks so dark to me, and yet there seem to be lights
hidden in the walls too, they shine so."
The old servant smiled.
"It will all seem strange to you, no doubt," she said; "but you'll get
to like it, missie. 'Tis a _good_ old house, and those that know best
love it well."
"Whom do you mean?" said Griselda. "Do you mean my great-aunts?"
"Ah, yes, and others beside," replied the old woman. "The rooks love it
well, and others beside. Did you ever hear tell of the 'good people,'
missie, over the sea where you come from?"
"Fairies, do you mean?" cried Griselda, her eyes sparkling. "Of course
I've _heard_ of them, but I never saw any. Did you ever?"
"I couldn't say," answered the old woman. "My mind is not young like
yours, missie, and there are times when strange memories come back to me
as of sights and sounds in a dream. I am too old to see and hear as I
once could. We are all old here, missie. 'Twas time something young came
to the old house again."
"How strange and queer everything seems!" thought Griselda, as she got
into bed. "I don't feel as if I belonged to it a bit. And they are all
_so_ old; perhaps they won't like having a child among them?"
The very same thought that had occurred to the rooks! They could not
decide as to the fors and againsts at all, so they settled to put it to
the vote the next morning, and in the meantime they and Griselda all
went to sleep.
I never heard if _they_ slept well that night; after such unusual
excitement it was hardly to be expected they would. But Griselda, being
a little girl and not a rook, was so tired that two minutes after she
had tucked herself up in bed she was quite sound asleep, and did not
wake for several hours.
"I wonder what it will all look like in the morning," was her last
waking thought. "If it was summer now, or spring, I shouldn't
mind--there would always be something nice to do then."
As sometimes happens, when she woke again, very early in the morning,
long before it was light, her thoughts went straight on with the same
subject.
"If it was summer now, or spring," she repeated to herself, just as if
she had not been asleep at all--like the man who fell into a trance for
a hundred years just as he was saying "it is bitt--" and when he woke up
again finished the sentence as if nothing had happened--"erly cold." "If
only it was spring," thought Griselda.
Just as she had got so far in her thoughts, she gave a great start. What
was it she heard? Could her wish have come true? Was this fairyland
indeed that she had got to, where one only needs to _wish_, for it to
_be_? She rubbed her eyes, but it was too dark to see; _that_ was not
very fairyland like, but her ears she felt certain had not deceived her:
she was quite, quite sure that she had heard the cuckoo!
She listened with all her might, but she did not hear it again. Could
it, after all, have been fancy? She grew sleepy at last, and was just
dropping off when--yes, there it was again, as clear and distinct as
possible--"Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!" three, four, _five_ times, then
perfect silence as before.
"What a funny cuckoo," said Griselda to herself. "I could almost fancy
it was in the house. I wonder if my great-aunts have a tame cuckoo in a
cage? I don't _think_ I ever heard of such a thing, but this is such a
queer house; everything seems different in it--perhaps they have a tame
cuckoo. I'll ask them in the morning. It's very nice to hear, whatever
it is."
[Illustration: "HAVE YOU GOT A CUCKOO IN A CAGE?"]
And, with a pleasant feeling of companionship, a sense that she was not
the only living creature awake in this dark world, Griselda lay
listening, contentedly enough, for the sweet, fresh notes of the
cuckoo's friendly greeting. But before it sounded again through the
silent house she was once more fast asleep. And this time she slept
till daylight had found its way into all but the _very_ darkest nooks
and crannies of the ancient dwelling.
She dressed herself carefully, for she had been warned that her aunts
loved neatness and precision; she fastened each button of her grey
frock, and tied down her hair as smooth as such a brown tangle _could_
be tied down; and, absorbed with these weighty cares, she forgot all
about the cuckoo for the time. It was not till she was sitting at
breakfast with her aunts that she remembered it, or rather was reminded
of it, by some little remark that was made about the friendly robins on
the terrace walk outside.
"Oh, aunt," she exclaimed, stopping short half-way the journey to her
mouth of a spoonful of bread and milk, "have you got a cuckoo in a
cage?"
"A cuckoo in a cage," repeated her elder aunt, Miss Grizzel; "what is
the child talking about?"
"In a cage!" echoed Miss Tabitha, "a cuckoo in a cage!"
"There is a cuckoo somewhere in the house," said Griselda; "I heard it
in the night. It couldn't have been out-of-doors, could it? It would be
too cold."
The aunts looked at each other with a little smile. "So like her
grandmother," they whispered. Then said Miss Grizzel--
"We have a cuckoo, my dear, though it isn't in a cage, and it isn't
exactly the sort of cuckoo you are thinking of. It lives in a clock."
"In a clock," repeated Miss Tabitha, as if to confirm her sister's
statement.
"In a clock!" exclaimed Griselda, opening her grey eyes very wide.
It sounded something like the three bears, all speaking one after the
other, only Griselda's voice was not like Tiny's; it was the loudest of
the three.
"In a clock!" she exclaimed; "but it can't be alive, then?"
"Why not?" said Miss Grizzel.
"I don't know," replied Griselda, looking puzzled.
"I knew a little girl once," pursued Miss Grizzel, "who was quite of
opinion the cuckoo _was_ alive, and nothing would have persuaded her it
was not. Finish your breakfast, my dear, and then if you like you shall
come with me and see the cuckoo for yourself."
"Thank you, Aunt Grizzel," said Griselda, going on with her bread and
milk.
"Yes," said Miss Tabitha, "you shall see the cuckoo for yourself."
"Thank you, Aunt Tabitha," said Griselda. It was rather a bother to have
always to say "thank you," or "no, thank you," twice, but Griselda
thought it was polite to do so, as Aunt Tabitha always repeated
everything that Aunt Grizzel said. It wouldn't have mattered so much if
Aunt Tabitha had said it _at once_ after Miss Grizzel, but as she
generally made a little pause between, it was sometimes rather awkward.
But of course it was better to say "thank you" or "no, thank you" twice
over than to hurt Aunt Tabitha's feelings.
After breakfast Aunt Grizzel was as good as her word. She took Griselda
through several of the rooms in the house, pointing out all the
curiosities, and telling all the histories of the rooms and their
contents; and Griselda liked to listen, only in every room they came to,
she wondered _when_ they would get to the room where lived the cuckoo.
Aunt Tabitha did not come with them, for she was rather rheumatic. On
the whole, Griselda was not sorry. It would have taken such a _very_
long time, you see, to have had all the histories twice over, and
possibly, if Griselda had got tired, she might have forgotten about the
"thank you's" or "no, thank you's" twice over.
The old house looked quite as queer and quaint by daylight as it had
seemed the evening before; almost more so indeed, for the view from the
windows added to the sweet, odd "old-fashionedness" of everything.
"We have beautiful roses in summer," observed Miss Grizzel, catching
sight of the direction in which the child's eyes were wandering.
"I wish it was summer. I do love summer," said Griselda. "But there is a
very rosy scent in the rooms even now, Aunt Grizzel, though it is
winter, or nearly winter."
Miss Grizzel looked pleased.
"My pot-pourri," she explained.
They were just then standing in what she called the "great saloon," a
handsome old room, furnished with gold-and-white chairs, that must once
have been brilliant, and faded yellow damask hangings. A feeling of awe
had crept over Griselda as they entered this ancient drawing-room. What
grand parties there must have been in it long ago! But as for dancing in
it _now_--dancing, or laughing, or chattering--such a thing was quite
impossible to imagine!
Miss Grizzel crossed the room to where stood in one corner a marvellous
Chinese cabinet, all black and gold and carving. It was made in the
shape of a temple, or a palace--Griselda was not sure which. Any way, it
was very delicious and wonderful. At the door stood, one on each side,
two solemn mandarins; or, to speak more correctly, perhaps I should say,
a mandarin and his wife, for the right-hand figure was evidently
intended to be a lady.
Miss Grizzel gently touched their heads. Forthwith, to Griselda's
astonishment, they began solemnly to nod.
"Oh, how do you make them do that, Aunt Grizzel?" she exclaimed.
"Never you mind, my dear; it wouldn't do for _you_ to try to make them
nod. They wouldn't like it," replied Miss Grizzel mysteriously. "Respect
to your elders, my dear, always remember that. The mandarins are _many_
years older than you--older than I myself, in fact."
Griselda wondered, if this were so, how it was that Miss Grizzel took
such liberties with them herself, but she said nothing.
"Here is my last summer's pot-pourri," continued Miss Grizzel, touching
a great china jar on a little stand, close beside the cabinet. "You may
smell it, my dear."
Nothing loth, Griselda buried her round little nose in the fragrant
leaves.
"It's lovely," she said. "May I smell it whenever I like, Aunt Grizzel?"
"We shall see," replied her aunt. "It isn't _every_ little girl, you
know, that we could trust to come into the great saloon alone."
"No," said Griselda meekly.
Miss Grizzel led the way to a door opposite to that by which they had
entered. She opened it and passed through, Griselda following, into a
small ante-room.
"It is on the stroke of ten," said Miss Grizzel, consulting her watch;
"now, my dear, you shall make acquaintance with our cuckoo."
The cuckoo "that lived in a clock!" Griselda gazed round her eagerly.
Where was the clock? She could see nothing in the least like one, only
up on the wall in one corner was what looked like a miniature house, of
dark brown carved wood. It was not so _very_ like a house, but it
certainly had a roof--a roof with deep projecting eaves; and, looking
closer, yes, it _was_ a clock, after all, only the figures, which had
once been gilt, had grown dim with age, like everything else, and the
hands at a little distance were hardly to be distinguished from the
face.
Miss Grizzel stood perfectly still, looking up at the clock; Griselda
beside her, in breathless expectation. Presently there came a sort of
distant rumbling. _Something_ was going to happen. Suddenly two little
doors above the clock face, which Griselda had not known were there,
sprang open with a burst and out flew a cuckoo, flapped his wings, and
uttered his pretty cry, "Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!" Miss Grizzel counted
aloud, "Seven, eight, nine, ten." "Yes, he never makes a mistake," she
added triumphantly. "All these long years I have never known him wrong.
There are no such clocks made nowadays, I can assure you, my dear."
"But _is_ it a clock? Isn't he alive?" exclaimed Griselda. "He looked at
me and nodded his head, before he flapped his wings and went in to his
house again--he did indeed, aunt," she said earnestly; "just like
saying, 'How do you do?' to me."
Again Miss Grizzel smiled, the same odd yet pleased smile that Griselda
had seen on her face at breakfast. "Just what Sybilla used to say," she
murmured. "Well, my dear," she added aloud, "it is quite right he
_should_ say, 'How do you do?' to you. It is the first time he has seen
_you_, though many a year ago he knew your dear grandmother, and your
father, too, when he was a little boy. You will find him a good friend,
and one that can teach you many lessons."
"What, Aunt Grizzel?" inquired Griselda, looking puzzled.
"Punctuality, for one thing, and faithful discharge of duty," replied
Miss Grizzel.
"May I come to see the cuckoo--to watch for him coming out, sometimes?"
asked Griselda, who felt as if she could spend all day looking up at the
clock, watching for her little friend's appearance.
"You will see him several times a day," said her aunt, "for it is in
this little room I intend you to prepare your tasks. It is nice and
quiet, and nothing to disturb you, and close to the room where your Aunt
Tabitha and I usually sit."
So saying, Miss Grizzel opened a second door in the little ante-room,
and, to Griselda's surprise, at the foot of a short flight of stairs
through another door, half open, she caught sight of her Aunt Tabitha,
knitting quietly by the fire, in the room in which they had breakfasted.
"What a _very_ funny house it is, Aunt Grizzel," she said, as she
followed her aunt down the steps. "Every room has so many doors, and you
come back to where you were just when you think you are ever so far off.
I shall never be able to find my way about."
"Oh yes, you will, my dear, very soon," said her aunt encouragingly.
"She is very kind," thought Griselda; "but I wish she wouldn't call my
lessons tasks. It makes them sound so dreadfully hard. But, any way, I'm
glad I'm to do them in the room where that dear cuckoo lives."
[Illustration]
II
_IM_PATIENT GRISELDA
[Illustration]
"... 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 amuse
herself with while the novelty lasted, enough to prevent her missing
_very_ badly the home she had left "over the sea," and the troop of
noisy 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 not
dislike lessons; in fact, she had always thought she was rather fond of
them. But the having to do them alone was not lively, and her teachers
were very strict. The worst of all was the writing and arithmetic
master, 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 her
copies, that she really felt as if she would never come straight and
loose again; and the arithmetic part of his instructions was even worse.
Oh! what sums in addition he gave her! Griselda had never been partial
to sums, and her rather easy-going governess at home had not, to tell
the truth, been partial to them either. And Mr.--I can't remember the
little old gentleman's name. Suppose we call him Mr. Kneebreeches--Mr.
Kneebreeches, when he found this out, conscientiously put her back to
the very beginning.
It was dreadful, really. He came twice a week, and the days he didn't
come were as bad as those he did, for he left her a whole _row_, I was
going 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!--whole
slatefuls of these terrible mountains of figures to climb wearily to the
top of. And not to climb _once_ up merely. _The_ terrible thing was Mr.
Kneebreeches' favourite method of what he called "proving." I can't
explain it--it is far beyond my poor powers--but it had something to do
with cutting off the top line, after you had added it all up and had
actually done the sum, you understand--cutting off the top line and
adding the long rows up again without it, and then joining it on again
somewhere else.
"I wouldn't mind so much," said poor Griselda, one day, "if it was any
good. But you see, Aunt Grizzel, it isn't. For I'm just as likely to do
the _proving_ wrong as the sum itself--more likely, for I'm always so
tired 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 me
cross."
"Hush!" said her aunt gravely. "That is not the way for a little girl to
speak. Improve these golden hours of youth, Griselda; they will never
return."
"I hope not," muttered Griselda, "if it means doing sums."
Miss Grizzel fortunately was a little deaf; she did not hear this
remark. 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 she
left the room.
The cuckoo was still telling the hour--eleven took a good while. It
seemed 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; "what
business have you to mock me?"
She seized a book, the first that came to hand, and flung it at the bird
who was just beginning his eleventh cuckoo. He disappeared with a snap,
disappeared without flapping his wings, or, as Griselda always fancied
he 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 at
the clock. It seemed just the same as usual, the cuckoo's doors closely
shut, no sign of any disturbance. Could it have been her fancy only that
he had sprung back more hastily than he would have done but for her
throwing the book at him? She began to hope so, and tried to go on with
her lessons. But it was no use. Though she really gave her best
attention to the long addition sums, and found that by so doing she
managed them much better than before, she could not feel happy or at
ease. Every few minutes she glanced up at the clock, as if expecting
the cuckoo to come out, though she knew quite well there was no chance
of his doing so till twelve o'clock, as it was only the hours, not the
half hours and quarters, that he told.
"I wish it was twelve o'clock," she said to herself anxiously more than
once.
If only the clock had not been so very high up on the wall, she would
have been tempted to climb up and open the little doors, and peep in to
satisfy herself as to the cuckoo's condition. But there was no
possibility of this. The clock was far, very far above her reach, and
there was no high piece of furniture standing near, upon which she could
have climbed to get to it. There was nothing to be done but to wait for
twelve o'clock.
And, after all, she did not wait for twelve o'clock, for just about
half-past eleven, Miss Grizzel's voice was heard calling to her to put
on her hat and cloak quickly, and come out to walk up and down the
terrace with her.
"It is fine just now," said Miss Grizzel, "but there is a prospect of
rain before long. You must leave your lessons for the present, and
finish 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 drive
to 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 with
her 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, which
made her very uncomfortable when she had no air, and had to sit still
for so long.
Merrybrow Hall was a large house, quite as old and much grander, but not
nearly so wonderful as the home of Griselda's aunts. It was six miles
off, and it took a very long time indeed to drive there in the rumbling
old chariot, for the old horses were fat and wheezy, and the old
coachman fat and wheezy too. Lady Lavander was, of course, old too--very
old indeed, and rather grumpy and very deaf. Miss Grizzel and Miss
Tabitha had the greatest respect for her; she always called them "My
dear," as if they were quite girls, and they listened to all she said as
if her words were of gold. For some mysterious reason she had been
invited to be Griselda's godmother; but, as she had never shown her any
proof of affection beyond giving her a prayer-book, and hoping, whenever
she saw her, that she was "a good little miss," Griselda did not feel
any particular cause for gratitude to her.
The drive seemed longer and duller than ever this afternoon, but
Griselda bore it meekly; and when Lady Lavander, as usual, expressed her
hopes about her, the little girl looked down modestly, feeling her
cheeks grow scarlet. "I am not a good little girl at all," she felt
inclined to call out. "I'm very bad and cruel. I believe I've killed the
dear 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 see
young people modest and humble-minded, and gave her a slice of very
highly-spiced, rather musty gingerbread, which Griselda couldn't bear.
All the way home Griselda felt in a fever of impatience to rush up to
the ante-room and see if the cuckoo was all right again. It was late and
dark when the chariot at last stopped at the door of the old house. Miss
Grizzel got out slowly, and still more slowly Miss Tabitha followed her.
Griselda was obliged to restrain herself and move demurely.
"It is past your supper-time, my dear," said Miss Grizzel. "Go up at
once to your room, and Dorcas shall bring some supper to you. Late hours
are bad for young people."
Griselda obediently wished her aunts good-night, and went quietly
upstairs. But once out of sight, at the first landing, she changed her
pace. She turned to the left instead of to the right, which led to her
own room, and flew rather than ran along the dimly-lighted passage, at
the 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 great
saloon! Even in daylight this would have been a difficult matter.
Griselda _felt_ her way as best she could, past the Chinese cabinet and
the pot-pourri jar till she got to the ante-room door. It was open, and
now, knowing her way better, she hurried in. But what was the use? All
was 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 a
weight would be lifted off Griselda's heart!
She had no idea what o'clock it was. It might be close to the hour, or
it might be just past it. She stood listening for a few minutes, then
hearing Miss Grizzel's voice in the distance, she felt that she dared
not 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 softly
brushed her cheek, and a very, very faint "cuckoo" sounded, as it were,
in the 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 her ear.
"I _must_ go," said Griselda; and finding her way across the saloon
without, by great good luck, tumbling against any of the many breakable
treasures with which it was filled, she flew down the long passage
again, reaching her own room just before Dorcas appeared with her
supper.
Griselda slept badly that night. She was constantly dreaming of the
cuckoo, fancying she heard his voice, and then waking with a start to
find it was _only_ fancy. She looked pale and heavy-eyed when she came
down to breakfast the next morning; and her Aunt Tabitha, who was alone
in the room when she entered, began immediately asking her what was the
matter.
"I am sure you are going to be ill, child," she said, nervously. "Sister
Grizzel 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 this
moment Miss Grizzel came hurriedly into the room--her cap awry, her
shawl disarranged, her face very pale. I hardly think any one had ever
seen her so discomposed before.
"Sister Tabitha!" she exclaimed, "what can be going to happen? The
cuckoo clock has stopped."
"The cuckoo clock has stopped!" repeated Miss Tabitha, holding up her
hands; "_im_possible!"
"But it has, or rather I should say--dear me, I am so upset I cannot
explain myself--the _cuckoo_ has stopped. The clock is going on, but the
cuckoo has not told the hours, and Dorcas is of opinion that he left off
doing so yesterday. What can be going to happen? What shall we do?"
"What can we do?" said Miss Tabitha. "Should we send for the
watch-maker?"
Miss Grizzel shook her head.
"'Twould be worse than useless. Were we to search the world over, we
could find no one to put it right. Fifty years and more, Tabitha, fifty
years 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 ladies
seemed to have forgotten the presence of their niece, but Griselda could
not bear to see their distress. She finished her breakfast as quickly as
she 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 inclined
to be more communicative than usual, "and no wonder. For fifty years
that 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 part
of his life over it, and his last words were that it would bring good
luck to the house that owned it, but that trouble would follow its
silence. 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 no
denying. There are no cows like ours, missie--their milk is a proverb
hereabouts; 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 in
this house, and always has been. 'Tis not a house for wrangling and
jangling, and sharp words. The 'good people' can't stand that. Nothing
drives them away like ill-temper or anger."
Griselda's conscience gave her a sharp prick. Could it be _her_ doing
that trouble was coming upon the old house? What a punishment for a
moment's fit of ill-temper.
"I wish you wouldn't talk that way, Dorcas," she said; "it makes me so
unhappy."
"What a feeling heart the child has!" said the old servant as she went
on 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 by
a feeling she did not understand. She knew she had done wrong, but she
had sorely repented it, and "I do think the cuckoo might have come back
again," she said to herself, "if he _is_ a fairy; and if he isn't, it
can't be true what Dorcas says."
Her aunts made no allusion to the subject in her presence, and almost
seemed to have forgotten that she had known of their distress. They were
more grave and silent than usual, but otherwise things went on in their
ordinary way. Griselda spent the morning "at her tasks," in the
ante-room, but was thankful to get away from the tick-tick of the clock
in the corner and out into the garden.
But there, alas! it was just as bad. The rooks seemed to know that
something was the matter; they set to work making such a chatter
immediately Griselda appeared that she felt inclined to run back into
the house again.
"I am sure they are talking about me," she said to herself. "Perhaps
they 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 see
her aunts so pale and troubled; and though she tried to persuade herself
that she thought them very silly, she could not throw off the
uncomfortable feeling.
She was so tired when she went to bed--tired in the disagreeable way
that comes from a listless, uneasy day--that she fell asleep at once and
slept heavily. When she woke, which she did suddenly, and with a start,
it was still perfectly dark, like the first morning that she had wakened
in the old house. It seemed to her that she had not wakened of
herself--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!" exclaimed
Griselda.
She darted out of bed, felt her way to the door, which was closed, and
opening it let in a rush of moonlight from the unshuttered passage
window. In another moment her little bare feet were pattering along the
passage at full speed, in the direction of the great saloon.
For Griselda's childhood among the troop of noisy brothers had taught
her one lesson--she was afraid of nothing. Or rather perhaps I should
say she had never learnt that there was anything to be afraid of! And is
there?
[Illustration]
III
OBEYING ORDERS
[Illustration]
"Little girl, thou must thy part fulfil,
If we're to take kindly to ours:
Then pull up the weeds with a will,
And fairies will cherish the flowers."
There was moonlight, though not so much, in the saloon and the
ante-room, too; for though the windows, like those in Griselda's
bed-room, had the shutters closed, there was a round part at the top,
high up, which the shutters did not reach to, and in crept, through
these clear uncovered panes, quite as many moonbeams, you may be sure,
as could find their way.
Griselda, eager though she was, could not help standing still a moment
to admire the effect.
"It looks prettier with the light coming in at those holes at the top
than even if the shutters were open," she said to herself. "How
goldy-silvery the cabinet looks; and, yes, I do declare, the mandarins
are nodding! I wonder if it is out of politeness to me, or does Aunt
Grizzel come in last thing at night and touch them to make them keep
nodding till morning? I _suppose_ they're a sort of policemen to the
palace; and I dare say there are all sorts of beautiful things inside.
How I should like to see all through it!"
But at this moment the faint tick-tick of the cuckoo clock in the next
room, reaching her ear, reminded her of the object of this midnight
expedition of hers. She hurried into the ante-room.
It looked darker than the great saloon, for it had but one window. But
through the uncovered space at the top of this window there penetrated
some brilliant moonbeams, one of which lighted up brightly the face of
the clock with its queer over-hanging eaves.
Griselda approached it and stood below, looking up.
"Cuckoo," she said softly--very softly.
But there was no reply.
"Cuckoo," she repeated rather more loudly. "Why won't you speak to me? I
know you are there, and you're not asleep, for I heard your voice in my
own room. Why won't you come out, cuckoo?"
"Tick-tick," said the clock, but there was no other reply.
Griselda felt ready to cry.
"Cuckoo," she said reproachfully, "I didn't think you were so
hard-hearted. I have been _so_ unhappy about you, and I was so pleased
to hear your voice again, for I thought I had killed you, or hurt you
very badly; and I didn't _mean_ to hurt you, cuckoo. I was sorry the
moment I had done it, _dreadfully_ sorry. Dear cuckoo, won't you forgive
me?"
[Illustration: SHE COULD NOT HELP VERY SOFTLY CLAPPING HER HANDS]
There was a little sound at last--a faint _coming_ sound, and by the
moonlight Griselda saw the doors open, and out flew the cuckoo. He stood
still for a moment, looked round him as it were, then gently flapped his
wings, and uttered his usual note--"Cuckoo."
Griselda stood in breathless expectation, but in her delight she could
not help very softly clapping her hands.
The cuckoo cleared his throat. You never heard such a funny little noise
as he made; and then, in a very clear, distinct, but yet "cuckoo-y"
voice, he spoke.
"Griselda," he said, "are you truly sorry?"
"I told you I was," she replied. "But I didn't _feel_ so very naughty,
cuckoo. I didn't, really. I was only vexed for one minute, and when I
threw the book I seemed to be a very little in fun, too. And it made me
so unhappy when you went away, and my poor aunts have been dreadfully
unhappy too. If you hadn't come back I should have told them tomorrow
what I had done. I would have told them before, but I was afraid it
would have made them more unhappy. I thought I had hurt you dreadfully."
"So you did," said the cuckoo.
"But you _look_ quite well," said Griselda.
"It was my _feelings_," replied the cuckoo; "and I couldn't help going
away. I have to obey orders like other people."
Griselda stared. "How do you mean?" she asked.
"Never mind. You can't understand at present," said the cuckoo. "You can
understand about obeying _your_ orders, and you see, when you don't,
things go wrong."
"Yes," said Griselda humbly, "they certainly do. But, cuckoo," she
continued, "I never used to get into tempers at home--_hardly_ never, at
least; and I liked my lessons then, and I never was scolded about them."
"What's wrong here, then?" said the cuckoo. "It isn't often that things
go wrong in this house."
"That's what Dorcas says," said Griselda. "It must be with my being a
child--my aunts and the house and everything have got out of children's
ways."
"About time they did," remarked the cuckoo drily.
"And so," continued Griselda, "it is really very dull. I have lots of
lessons, but it isn't so much that I mind. It is that I've no one to
play with."
"There's something in that," said the cuckoo. He flapped his wings and
was silent for a minute or two. "I'll consider about it," he observed at
last.
"Thank you," said Griselda, not exactly knowing what else to say.
"And in the meantime," continued the cuckoo, "you'd better obey present
orders and go back to bed."
"Shall I say good-night to you, then?" asked Griselda somewhat timidly.
"You're quite welcome to do so," replied the cuckoo. "Why shouldn't
you?"
"You see I wasn't sure if you would like it," returned Griselda, "for
of course you're not like a person, and--and--I've been told all sorts
of queer things about what fairies like and don't like."
"Who said I was a fairy?" inquired the cuckoo.
"Dorcas did, and, _of course_, my own common sense did too," replied
Griselda. "You must be a fairy--you couldn't be anything else."
"I might be a fairyfied cuckoo," suggested the bird.
Griselda looked puzzled.
"I don't understand," she said, "and I don't think it could make much
difference. But whatever you are, I wish you would tell me one thing."
"What?" said the cuckoo.
"I want to know, now that you've forgiven me for throwing the book at
you, have you come back for good?"
"Certainly not for evil," replied the cuckoo.
Griselda gave a little wriggle. "Cuckoo, you're laughing at me," she
said. "I mean, have you come back to stay and cuckoo as usual and make
my aunts happy again?"
"You'll see in the morning," said the cuckoo. "Now go off to bed."
"Good night," said Griselda, "and thank you, and please don't forget to
let me know when you've considered."
"Cuckoo, cuckoo," was her little friend's reply. Griselda thought it was
meant for good night, but the fact of the matter was that at that exact
second of time it was two o'clock in the morning.
She made her way back to bed. She had been standing some time talking to
the cuckoo, but, though it was now well on in November, she did not feel
the least cold, nor sleepy! She felt as happy and light-hearted as
possible, and she wished it was morning, that she might get up. Yet the
moment she laid her little brown curly head on the pillow, she fell
asleep; and it seemed to her that just as she dropped off a soft
feathery wing brushed her cheek gently and a tiny "Cuckoo" sounded in
her ear.
When she woke it was bright morning, really bright morning, for the
wintry sun was already sending some clear yellow rays out into the pale
grey-blue sky.
"It must be late," thought Griselda, when she had opened the shutters
and seen how light it was. "I must have slept a long time. I feel so
beautifully unsleepy now. I must dress quickly--how nice it will be to
see my aunts look happy again! I don't even care if they scold me for
being late."
But, after all, it was not so much later than usual; it was only a much
brighter morning than they had had for some time. Griselda did dress
herself very quickly, however. As she went downstairs two or three of
the clocks in the house, for there were several, were striking eight.
These clocks must have been a little before the right time, for it was
not till they had again relapsed into silence that there rang out from
the ante-room the clear sweet tones, eight times repeated, of "Cuckoo."
Miss Grizzel and Miss Tabitha were already at the breakfast-table, but
they received their little niece most graciously. Nothing was said about
the clock, however, till about half-way through the meal, when Griselda,
full of eagerness to know if her aunts were aware of the cuckoo's
return, could restrain herself no longer.
"Aunt Grizzel," she said, "isn't the cuckoo all right again?"
"Yes, my dear. I am delighted to say it is," replied Miss Grizzel.
"Did you get it put right, Aunt Grizzel?" inquired Griselda, slyly.
"Little girls should not ask so many questions," replied Miss Grizzel,
mysteriously. "It _is_ all right again, and that is enough. During fifty
years that cuckoo has never, till yesterday, missed an hour. If you, in
your sphere, my dear, do as well during fifty years, you won't have done
badly."
"No, indeed, you won't have done badly," repeated Miss Tabitha.
But though the two old ladies thus tried to improve the occasion by a
little lecturing, Griselda could see that at the bottom of their hearts
they were both so happy that, even if she had been very naughty indeed,
they could hardly have made up their minds to scold her.
She was not at all inclined to be naughty this day. She had something to
think about and look forward to, which made her quite a different little
girl, and made her take heart in doing her lessons as well as she
possibly could.
"I wonder when the cuckoo will have considered enough about my having no
one to play with?" she said to herself, as she was walking up and down
the terrace at the back of the house.
"Caw, caw!" screamed a rook just over her head, as if in answer to her
thought.
Griselda looked up at him.
"Your voice isn't half so pretty as the cuckoo's, Mr. Rook," she said.
"All the same, I dare say I should make friends with you, if I
understood what you meant. How funny it would be to know all the
languages of the birds and the beasts, like the prince in the fairy
tale! I wonder if I should wish for that, if a fairy gave me a wish? No,
I don't think I would. I'd _far_ rather have the fairy carpet that would
take you anywhere you liked in a minute. I'd go to China to see if all
the people there look like Aunt Grizzel's mandarins; and I'd first of
all, of course, go to fairyland."
"You must come in now, little missie," said Dorcas's voice. "Miss
Grizzel says you have had play enough, and there's a nice fire in the
ante-room for you to do your lessons by."
"Play!" repeated Griselda indignantly, as she turned to follow the old
servant. "Do you call walking up and down the terrace 'play,' Dorcas? I
mustn't loiter even to pick a flower, if there were any, for fear of
catching cold, and I mustn't run for fear of overheating myself. I
declare, Dorcas, if I don't have some play soon, or something to amuse
me, I think I'll run away."
"Nay, nay, missie, don't talk like that. You'd never do anything so
naughty, and you so like Miss Sybilla, who was so good."
"Dorcas, I'm tired of being told I'm like Miss Sybilla," said Griselda,
impatiently. "She was my grandmother; no one would like to be told they
were like their grandmother. It makes me feel as if my face must be all
screwy up and wrinkly, and as if I should have spectacles on and a wig."
"_That_ is not like what Miss Sybilla was when I first saw her," said
Dorcas. "She was younger than you, missie, and as pretty as a fairy."
"_Was_ she?" exclaimed Griselda, stopping short.
"Yes, indeed she was. She might have been a fairy, so sweet she was and
gentle--and yet so merry. Every creature loved her; even the animals
about seemed to know her, as if she was one of themselves. She brought
good luck to the house, and it was a sad day when she left it."
"I thought you said it was the cuckoo that brought good luck?" said
Griselda.
"Well, so it was. The cuckoo and Miss Sybilla came here the same day. It
was left to her by her mother's father, with whom she had lived since
she was a baby, and when he died she came here to her sisters. She
wasn't _own_ sister to my ladies, you see, missie. Her mother had come
from Germany, and it was in some strange place there, where her
grandfather lived, that the cuckoo clock was made. They make wonderful
clocks there, I've been told, but none more wonderful than our cuckoo,
I'm sure."
"No, I'm _sure_ not," said Griselda, softly. "Why didn't Miss Sybilla
take it with her when she was married and went away?"
"She knew her sisters were so fond of it. It was like a memory of her
left behind for them. It was like a part of her. And do you know,
missie, the night she died--she died soon after your father was born, a
year after she was married--for a whole hour, from twelve to one, that
cuckoo went on cuckooing in a soft, sad way, like some living creature
in trouble. Of course, we did not know anything was wrong with her, and
folks said something had caught some of the springs of the works; but
_I_ didn't think so, and never shall. And----"
But here Dorcas's reminiscences were abruptly brought to a close by Miss
Grizzel's appearance at the other end of the terrace.
"Griselda, what are you loitering so for? Dorcas, you should have
hastened, not delayed Miss Griselda."
So Griselda was hurried off to her lessons, and Dorcas to her kitchen.
But Griselda did not much mind. She had plenty to think of and wonder
about, and she liked to do her lessons in the ante-room, with the
tick-tick of the clock in her ears, and the feeling that _perhaps_ the
cuckoo was watching her through some invisible peep-hole in his closed
doors.
"And if he sees," thought Griselda, "if he sees how hard I am trying to
do my lessons well, it will perhaps make him be quick about
'considering.'"
So she did try very hard. And she didn't speak to the cuckoo when he
came out to say it was four o'clock. She was busy, and he was busy. She
felt it was better to wait till he gave her some sign of being ready to
talk to her again.