_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 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?