might almost say it was quite well.
But Griselda herself did not feel quite well, and saying this reminds me
that it is hardly sense to speak of a _cold_ being better or well--for a
cold's being "well" means that it is not there at all, out of existence,
in short, and if a thing is out of existence how can we say anything
about it? Children, I feel quite in a hobble--I cannot get my mind
straight about it--please think it over and give me your opinion. In the
meantime, I will go on about Griselda.
She felt just a little ill--a sort of feeling that sometimes is rather
nice, sometimes "very extremely" much the reverse! She felt in the
humour for being petted, and having beef-tea, and jelly, and sponge cake
with her tea, and for a day or two this was all very well. She _was_
petted, and she had lots of beef-tea, and jelly, and grapes, and sponge
cakes, and everything nice, for her aunts, as you must have seen by this
time, were really very, very kind to her in every way in which they
understood how to be so.
But after a few days of the continued petting, and the beef-tea and the
jelly and all the rest of it, it occurred to Miss Grizzel, who had a
good large bump of "common sense," that it might be possible to overdo
this sort of thing.
"Tabitha," she said to her sister, when they were sitting together in
the evening after Griselda had gone to bed, "Tabitha, my dear, I think
the child is quite well again now. It seems to me it would be well to
send a note to good Mr. Kneebreeches, to say that she will be able to
resume her studies the day after to-morrow."
"The day after to-morrow," repeated Miss Tabitha. "The day after
to-morrow--to say that she will be able to resume her studies the day
after to-morrow--oh yes, certainly. It would be very well to send a note
to good Mr. Kneebreeches, my dear Grizzel."
"I thought you would agree with me," said Miss Grizzel, with a sigh of
relief (as if poor Miss Tabitha during all the last half-century had
ever ventured to do anything else), getting up to fetch her writing
materials as she spoke. "It is such a satisfaction to consult together
about what we do. I was only a little afraid of being hard upon the
child, but as you agree with me, I have no longer any misgiving."
"Any misgiving, oh dear, no!" said Miss Tabitha. "You have no reason
for any misgiving, I am sure, my dear Grizzel."
So the note was written and despatched, and the next morning when, about
twelve o'clock, Griselda made her appearance in the little drawing-room
where her aunts usually sat, looking, it must be confessed, very plump
and rosy for an invalid, Miss Grizzel broached the subject.
"I have written to request Mr. Kneebreeches to resume his instructions
to-morrow," she said quietly. "I think you are quite well again now, so
Dorcas must wake you at your usual hour."
Griselda had been settling herself comfortably on a corner of the sofa.
She had got a nice book to read, which her father, hearing of her
illness, had sent her by post, and she was looking forward to the
tempting plateful of jelly which Dorcas had brought her for luncheon
every day since she had been ill. Altogether, she was feeling very
"lazy-easy" and contented. Her aunt's announcement felt like a sudden
downpour of cold water, or rush of east wind. She sat straight up in her
sofa, and exclaimed in a tone of great annoyance--
"_Oh_, Aunt Grizzel!"
"Well, my dear?" said Miss Grizzel, placidly.
"I _wish_ you wouldn't make me begin lessons again just yet. I _know_
they'll make my head ache again, and Mr. Kneebreeches will be _so_
cross. I know he will, and he is so horrid when he is cross."
"Hush!" said Miss Grizzel, holding up her hand in a way that reminded
Griselda of the cuckoo's favourite "obeying orders." Just then, too, in
the distance the ante-room clock struck twelve. "Cuckoo! cuckoo!
cuckoo!" on it went. Griselda could have stamped with irritation, but
_somehow_, in spite of herself, she felt compelled to say nothing. She
muttered some not very pretty words, coiled herself round on the sofa,
opened her book, and began to read.
But it was not as interesting as she had expected. She had not read many
pages before she began to yawn, and she was delighted to be interrupted
by Dorcas and the jelly.
But the jelly was not as nice as she had expected, either. She tasted
it, and thought it was too sweet; and when she tasted it again, it
seemed too strong of cinnamon; and the third taste seemed too strong of
everything. She laid down her spoon, and looked about her
discontentedly.
"What is the matter, my dear?" said Miss Grizzel. "Is the jelly not to
your liking?"
"I don't know," said Griselda shortly. She ate a few spoonfuls, and then
took up her book again. Miss Grizzel said nothing more, but to herself
she thought that Mr. Kneebreeches had not been recalled any too soon.
All day long it was much the same. Nothing seemed to come right to
Griselda. It was a dull, cold day, what is called "a black frost"; not a
bright, clear, _pretty_, cold day, but the sort of frost that really
makes the world seem dead--makes it almost impossible to believe that
there will ever be warmth and sound and "growing-ness" again.
Late in the afternoon Griselda crept up to the ante-room, and sat down
by the window. Outside it was nearly dark, and inside it was not much
more cheerful--for the fire was nearly out, and no lamps were lighted;
only the cuckoo clock went on tick-ticking briskly as usual.
"I hate winter," said Griselda, pressing her cold little face against
the colder window-pane, "I hate winter, and I hate lessons. I would give
up being a _person_ in a minute if I might be a--a--what would I best
like to be? Oh yes, I know--a butterfly. Butterflies never see winter,
and they _certainly_ never have any lessons or any kind of work to do. I
hate _must_-ing to do anything."
"Cuckoo," rang out suddenly above her head. It was only four o'clock
striking, and as soon as he had told it the cuckoo was back behind his
doors again in an instant, just as usual. There was nothing for
Griselda to feel offended at, but somehow she got quite angry.
"I don't care what you think, cuckoo!" she exclaimed defiantly. "I know
you came out on purpose just now, but I don't care. I _do_ hate winter,
and I _do_ hate lessons, and I _do_ think it would be nicer to be a
butterfly than a little girl."
In her secret heart I fancy she was half in hopes that the cuckoo would
come out again, and talk things over with her. Even if he were to scold
her, she felt that it would be better than sitting there alone with
nobody to speak to, which was very dull work indeed. At the bottom of
her conscience there lurked the knowledge that what she _should_ be
doing was to be looking over her last lessons with Mr. Kneebreeches, and
refreshing her memory for the next day; but, alas! knowing one's duty is
by no means the same thing as doing it, and Griselda sat on by the
window doing nothing but grumble and work herself up into a belief that
she was one of the most-to-be-pitied little girls in all the world. So
that by the time Dorcas came to call her to tea, I doubt if she had a
single pleasant thought or feeling left in her heart.
Things grew no better after tea, and before long Griselda asked if she
might go to bed. She was "so tired," she said; and she certainly looked
so, for ill-humour and idleness are excellent "tirers," and will soon
take the roses out of a child's cheeks, and the brightness out of her
eyes. She held up her face to be kissed by her aunts in a meekly
reproachful way, which made the old ladies feel quite uncomfortable.
"I am by no means sure that I have done right in recalling Mr.
Kneebreeches so soon, Sister Tabitha," remarked Miss Grizzel, uneasily,
when Griselda had left the room. But Miss Tabitha was busy counting her
stitches, and did not give full attention to Miss Grizzel's observation,
so she just repeated placidly, "Oh yes, Sister Grizzel, you may be sure
you have done right in recalling Mr. Kneebreeches."
"I am glad you think so," said Miss Grizzel, with again a little sigh of
relief. "I was only distressed to see the child looking so white and
tired."
Upstairs Griselda was hurry-scurrying into bed. There was a lovely fire
in her room--fancy that! Was she not a poor neglected little creature?
But even this did not please her. She was too cross to be pleased with
anything; too cross to wash her face and hands, or let Dorcas brush her
hair out nicely as usual; too cross, alas, to say her prayers! She just
huddled into bed, huddling up her mind in an untidy hurry and confusion,
just as she left her clothes in an untidy heap on the floor. She would
not look into herself, was the truth of it; she shrank from doing so
because she _knew_ things had been going on in that silly little heart
of hers in a most unsatisfactory way all day, and she wanted to go to
sleep and forget all about it.
She did go to sleep, very quickly too. No doubt she really was tired;
tired with crossness and doing nothing, and she slept very soundly. When
she woke up she felt so refreshed and rested that she fancied it must be
morning. It was dark, of course, but that was to be expected in
mid-winter, especially as the shutters were closed.
"I wonder," thought Griselda, "I wonder if it really _is_ morning. I
should like to get up early--I went so early to bed. I think I'll just
jump out of bed and open a chink of the shutters. I'll see at once if
it's nearly morning, by the look of the sky."
She was up in a minute, feeling her way across the room to the window,
and without much difficulty she found the hook of the shutters,
unfastened it, and threw one side open. Ah no, there was no sign of
morning to be seen. There was moonlight, but nothing else, and not so
very much of that, for the clouds were hurrying across the "orbed
maiden's" face at such a rate, one after the other, that the light was
more like a number of pale flashes than the steady, cold shining of most
frosty moonlight nights. There was going to be a change of weather, and
the cloud armies were collecting together from all quarters; that was
the real explanation of the hurrying and skurrying Griselda saw
overhead, but this, of course, she did not understand. She only saw that
it looked wild and stormy, and she shivered a little, partly with cold,
partly with a half-frightened feeling that she could not have explained.
"I had better go back to bed," she said to herself; "but I am not a bit
sleepy."
She was just drawing-to the shutter again, when something caught her
eye, and she stopped short in surprise. A little bird was outside on the
window-sill--a tiny bird crouching in close to the cold glass.
Griselda's kind heart was touched in an instant. Cold as she was, she
pushed back the shutter again, and drawing a chair forward to the
window, managed to unfasten it--it was not a very heavy one--and to
open it wide enough to slip her hand gently along to the bird. It did
not start or move.
"Can it be dead?" thought Griselda anxiously.
But no, it was not dead. It let her put her hand round it and draw it
in, and to her delight she felt that it was soft and warm, and it even
gave a gentle peck on her thumb.
"Poor little bird, how cold you must be," she said kindly. But, to her
amazement, no sooner was the bird safely inside the room, than it
managed cleverly to escape from her hand. It fluttered quietly up on to
her shoulder, and sang out in a soft but cheery tone, "Cuckoo,
cuckoo--cold, did you say, Griselda? Not so very, thank you."
Griselda stept back from the window.
"It's _you_, is it?" she said rather surlily, her tone seeming to infer
that she had taken a great deal of trouble for nothing.
"Of course it is, and why shouldn't it be? You're not generally so
sorry to see me. What's the matter?"
"Nothing's the matter," replied Griselda, feeling a little ashamed of
her want of civility; "only, you see, if I had known it was _you_----"
She hesitated.
"You wouldn't have clambered up and hurt your poor fingers in opening
the window if you had known it was me--is that it, eh?" said the cuckoo.
Somehow, when the cuckoo said "eh?" like that, Griselda was obliged to
tell just what she was thinking.
"No, I wouldn't have _needed_ to open the window," she said. "_You_ can
get in or out whenever you like; you're not like a real bird. Of course,
you were just tricking me, sitting out there and pretending to be a
starved robin."
There was a little indignation in her voice, and she gave her head a
toss, which nearly upset the cuckoo.
"Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed the cuckoo. "You have a great deal to
complain of, Griselda. Your time and strength must be very valuable for
you to regret so much having wasted a little of them on me."
Griselda felt her face grow red. What did he mean? Did he know how
yesterday had been spent? She said nothing, but she drooped her head,
and one or two tears came slowly creeping up to her eyes.
"Child!" said the cuckoo, suddenly changing his tone, "you are very
foolish. Is a kind thought or action _ever_ wasted? Can your eyes see
what such good seeds grow into? They have wings, Griselda--kindnesses
have wings and roots, remember that--wings that never droop, and roots
that never die. What do you think I came and sat outside your window
for?"
"Cuckoo," said Griselda humbly, "I am very sorry."
"Very well," said the cuckoo, "we'll leave it for the present. I have
something else to see about. Are you cold, Griselda?"
"_Very_," she replied. "I would very much like to go back to bed,
cuckoo, if you please; and there's plenty of room for you too, if you'd
like to come in and get warm."
"There are other ways of getting warm besides going to bed," said the
cuckoo. "A nice brisk walk, for instance. I was going to ask you to come
out into the garden with me."
Griselda almost screamed.
"Out into the garden! _Oh_, cuckoo!" she exclaimed, "how can you think
of such a thing? Such a freezing cold night. Oh no, indeed, cuckoo, I
couldn't possibly."
"Very well, Griselda," said the cuckoo; "if you haven't yet learnt to
trust me, there's no more to be said. Good-night."
He flapped his wings, cried out "Cuckoo" once only, flew across the
room, and almost before Griselda understood what he was doing, had
disappeared.
She hurried after him, stumbling against the furniture in her haste, and
by the uncertain light. The door was not open, but the cuckoo had got
through it--"by the keyhole, I dare say," thought Griselda; "he can
'scrooge' himself up any way"--for a faint "Cuckoo" was to be heard on
its other side. In a moment Griselda had opened it, and was speeding
down the long passage in the dark, guided only by the voice from time to
time heard before her, "Cuckoo, cuckoo."
She forgot all about the cold, or rather, she did not feel it, though
the floor was of uncarpeted old oak, whose hard, polished surface would
have usually felt like ice to a child's soft, bare feet. It was a very
long passage, and to-night, somehow, it seemed longer than ever. In
fact, Griselda could have fancied she had been running along it for half
a mile or more, when at last she was brought to a standstill by finding
she could go no further. Where was she? She could not imagine! It must
be a part of the house she had never explored in the daytime, she
decided. In front of her was a little stair running downwards, and
ending in a doorway. All this Griselda could see by a bright light that
streamed in by the keyhole and through the chinks round the door--a
light so brilliant that the little girl blinked her eyes, and for a
moment felt quite dazzled and confused.
"It came so suddenly," she said to herself; "some one must have lighted
a lamp in there all at once. But it can't be a lamp, it's too bright for
a lamp. It's more like the sun; but how ever could the sun be shining in
a room in the middle of the night? What shall I do? Shall I open the
door and peep in?"
"Cuckoo, cuckoo," came the answer, soft but clear, from the other side.
"Can it be a trick of the cuckoo's to get me out into the garden?"
thought Griselda; and for the first time since she had run out of her
room a shiver of cold made her teeth chatter and her skin feel creepy.
"Cuckoo, cuckoo," sounded again, nearer this time, it seemed to
Griselda.
"He's waiting for me. I _will_ trust him," she said resolutely. "He has
always been good and kind, and it's horrid of me to think he's going to
trick me."
She ran down the little stair, she seized the handle of the door. It
turned easily; the door opened--opened, and closed again noiselessly
behind her, and what do you think she saw?
"Shut your eyes for a minute, Griselda," said the cuckoo's voice beside
her; "the light will dazzle you at first. Shut them, and I will brush
them with a little daisy dew, to strengthen them."
Griselda did as she was told. She felt the tip of the cuckoo's softest
feather pass gently two or three times over her eyelids, and a delicious
scent seemed immediately to float before her.
"I didn't know _daisies_ had any scent," she remarked.
"Perhaps you didn't. You forget, Griselda, that you have a great----"
"Oh, please don't, cuckoo. Please, please don't, _dear_ cuckoo," she
exclaimed, dancing about with her hands clasped in entreaty, but her
eyes still firmly closed. "Don't say that, and I'll promise to believe
whatever you tell me. And how soon may I open my eyes, please, cuckoo?"
"Turn round slowly, three times. That will give the dew time to take
effect," said the cuckoo. "Here goes--one--two--three. There, now."
Griselda opened her eyes.
[Illustration]
VII
BUTTERFLY-LAND
[Illustration]
"I'd be a butterfly."
Griselda opened her eyes.
What did she see?
The loveliest, loveliest garden that ever or never a little girl's eyes
saw. As for describing it, I cannot. I must leave a good deal to your
fancy. It was just a _delicious_ garden.
There was a charming mixture of all that is needed to make a garden
perfect--grass, velvety lawn rather; water, for a little brook ran
tinkling in and out, playing bopeep among the bushes; trees, of course,
and flowers, of course, flowers of every shade and shape. But all these
beautiful things Griselda did not at first give as much attention to as
they deserved; her eyes were so occupied with a quite unusual sight that
met them.
This was butterflies! Not that butterflies are so very uncommon; but
butterflies, as Griselda saw them, I am quite sure, children, none of
you ever saw, or are likely to see. There were such enormous numbers of
them, and the variety of their colours and sizes was so great. They were
fluttering about everywhere; the garden seemed actually alive with them.
Griselda stood for a moment in silent delight, feasting her eyes on the
lovely things before her, enjoying the delicious sunshine which kissed
her poor little bare feet, and seemed to wrap her all up in its warm
embrace. Then she turned to her little friend.
"Cuckoo," she said, "I thank you _so_ much. This _is_ fairyland, at
last!"
The cuckoo smiled, I was going to say, but that would be a figure of
speech only, would it not? He shook his head gently.
"No, Griselda," he said kindly; "this is only butterfly-land."
"_Butterfly_-land!" repeated Griselda, with a little disappointment in
her tone.
"Well," said the cuckoo, "it's where you were wishing to be yesterday,
isn't it?"
Griselda did not particularly like these allusions to "yesterday." She
thought it would be as well to change the subject.
"It's a beautiful place, whatever it is," she said, "and I'm sure,
cuckoo, I'm _very_ much obliged to you for bringing me here. Now may I
run about and look at everything? How delicious it is to feel the warm
sunshine again! I didn't know how cold I was. Look, cuckoo, my toes and
fingers are quite blue; they're only just beginning to come right again.
I suppose the sun always shines here. How nice it must be to be a
butterfly; don't you think so, cuckoo? Nothing to do but fly about."
She stopped at last, quite out of breath.
"Griselda," said the cuckoo, "if you want me to answer your questions,
you must ask them one at a time. You may run about and look at
everything if you like, but you had better not be in such a hurry. You
will make a great many mistakes if you are--you have made some already."
"How?" said Griselda.
"_Have_ the butterflies nothing to do but fly about? Watch them."
Griselda watched.
"They do seem to be doing something," she said, at last, "but I can't
think what. They seem to be nibbling at the flowers, and then flying
away something like bees gathering honey. _Butterflies_ don't gather
honey, cuckoo?"
"No," said the cuckoo. "They are filling their paint-boxes."
"What _do_ you mean?" said Griselda.
"Come and see," said the cuckoo.
He flew quietly along in front of her, leading the way through the
prettiest paths in all the pretty garden. The paths were arranged in
different colours, as it were; that is to say, the flowers growing along
their sides were not all "mixty-maxty," but one shade after another in
regular order--from the palest blush pink to the very deepest damask
crimson; then, again, from the soft greenish blue of the small grass
forget-me-not to the rich warm tinge of the brilliant cornflower.
_Every_ tint was there; shades, to which, though not exactly strange to
her, Griselda could yet have given no name, for the daisy dew, you see,
had sharpened her eyes to observe delicate variations of colour, as she
had never done before.
"How beautifully the flowers are planned," she said to the cuckoo. "Is
it just to look pretty, or why?"
"It saves time," replied the cuckoo. "The fetch-and-carry butterflies
know exactly where to go to for the tint the world-flower-painters
want."
"Who are the fetch-and-carry butterflies, and who are the
world-flower-painters?" asked Griselda.
"Wait a bit and you'll see, and use your eyes," answered the cuckoo.
"It'll do your tongue no harm to have a rest now and then."
Griselda thought it as well to take his advice, though not particularly
relishing the manner in which it was given. She did use her eyes, and as
she and the cuckoo made their way along the flower alleys, she saw that
the butterflies were never idle. They came regularly, in little parties
of twos and threes, and nibbled away, as she called it, at flowers of
the same colour but different shades, till they had got what they
wanted. Then off flew butterfly No. 1 with perhaps the palest tint of
maize, or yellow, or lavender, whichever he was in quest of, followed by
No. 2 with the next deeper shade of the same, and No. 3 bringing up the
rear.
Griselda gave a little sigh.
"What's the matter?" said the cuckoo.
"They work very hard," she replied, in a melancholy tone.
"It's a busy time of year," observed the cuckoo, drily.
After a while they came to what seemed to be a sort of centre to the
garden. It was a huge glass house, with numberless doors, in and out of
which butterflies were incessantly flying--reminding Griselda again of
bees and a beehive. But she made no remark till the cuckoo spoke again.
"Come in," he said.
Griselda had to stoop a good deal, but she did manage to get in without
knocking her head or doing any damage. Inside was just a mass of
butterflies. A confused mass it seemed at first, but after a while she
saw that it was the very reverse of confused. The butterflies were all
settled in rows on long, narrow, white tables, and before each was a
tiny object about the size of a flattened-out pin's head, which he was
most carefully painting with one of his tentacles, which, from time to
time, he moistened by rubbing it on the head of a butterfly waiting
patiently behind him. Behind this butterfly again stood another, who
after a while took his place, while the first attendant flew away.
"To fill his paint-box again," remarked the cuckoo, who seemed to read
Griselda's thoughts.
"But what _are_ they painting, cuckoo?" she inquired eagerly.
"All the flowers in the world," replied the cuckoo. "Autumn, winter, and
spring, they're hard at work. It's only just for the three months of
summer that the butterflies have any holiday, and then a few stray ones
now and then wander up to the world, and people talk about 'idle
butterflies'! And even then it isn't true that they are idle. They go up
to take a look at the flowers, to see how their work has turned out, and
many a damaged petal they repair, or touch up a faded tint, though no
one ever knows it."