"CUCKOO, CUCKOO, GOOD-BYE!"
"Children, try to be good!
That is the end of all teaching;
Easily understood,
And very easy in preaching.
And if you find it hard,
Your efforts you need but double;
Nothing deserves reward
Unless it has given as trouble."
--When she forgot everything, and fell fast, fast asleep, to wake, of
course, in her own little bed as usual!
"One of your tricks again, Mr. Cuckoo," she said to herself with a
smile. "However, I don't mind. It _was_ a short cut home, and it was
very comfortable in the boat, and I certainly saw a great deal last
night, and I'm very much obliged to you--particularly for making it all
right with Phil about not coming to play with me to-day. Ah! that
reminds me, I'm in disgrace. I wonder if Aunt Grizzel will really make
me stay in my room all day. How tired I shall be, and what will Mr.
Kneebreeches think! But it serves me right. I _was_ very cross and
rude."
There came a tap at the door. It was Dorcas with the hot water.
"Good morning, missie," she said gently, not feeling, to tell the truth,
very sure as to what sort of a humour "missie" was likely to be found in
this morning. "I hope you've slept well."
"Exceedingly well, thank you, Dorcas. I've had a delightful night,"
replied Griselda amiably, smiling to herself at the thought of what
Dorcas would say if she knew where she had been, and what she had been
doing since last she saw her.
"That's good news," said Dorcas in a tone of relief; "and I've good
news for you, too, missie. At least, I hope you'll think it so. Your
aunt has ordered the carriage for quite early this morning--so you see
she really wants to please you, missie, about playing with little Master
Phil; and if to-morrow's a fine day, we'll be sure to find some way of
letting him know to come."
"Thank you, Dorcas. I hope it will be all right, and that Lady Lavander
won't say anything against it. I dare say she won't. I feel ever so much
happier this morning, Dorcas; and I'm very sorry I was so rude to Aunt
Grizzel, for of course I know I _should_ obey her."
"That's right, missie," said Dorcas approvingly.
"It seems to me, Dorcas," said Griselda dreamily, when, a few minutes
later, she was standing by the window while the old servant brushed out
her thick, wavy hair, "it seems to me, Dorcas, that it's _all_ 'obeying
orders' together. There's the sun now, just getting up, and the moon
just going to bed--_they_ are always obeying, aren't they? I wonder why
it should be so hard for people--for children, at least."
"To be sure, missie, you do put it a way of your own," replied Dorcas,
somewhat mystified; "but I see how you mean, I think, and it's quite
true. And it _is_ a hard lesson to learn."
"I want to learn it _well_, Dorcas," said Griselda, resolutely. "So will
you please tell Aunt Grizzel that I'm very sorry about last night, and
I'll do just as she likes about staying in my room or anything. But, if
she _would_ let me, I'd far rather go down and do my lessons as usual
for Mr. Kneebreeches. I won't ask to go out in the garden; but I would
like to please Aunt Grizzel by doing my lessons _very_ well."
Dorcas was both delighted and astonished. Never had she known her little
"missie" so altogether submissive and reasonable.
"I only hope the child's not going to be ill," she said to herself. But
she proved a skilful ambassadress, notwithstanding her misgivings; and
Griselda's imprisonment confined her only to the bounds of the house and
terrace walk, instead of within the four walls of her own little room,
as she had feared.
Lessons _were_ very well done that day, and Mr. Kneebreeches' report was
all that could be wished.
"I am particularly gratified," he remarked to Miss Grizzel, "by the
intelligence and interest Miss Griselda displays with regard to the
study of astronomy, which I have recently begun to give her some
elementary instruction in. And, indeed, I have no fault to find with the
way in which any of the young lady's tasks are performed."
"I am extremely glad to hear it," replied Miss Grizzel graciously, and
the kiss with which she answered Griselda's request for forgiveness was
a very hearty one.
And it was "all right" about Phil.
Lady Lavander knew all about him; his father and mother were friends of
hers, for whom she had a great regard, and for some time she had been
intending to ask the little boy to spend the day at Merrybrow Hall, to
be introduced to her god-daughter Griselda. So, _of course_, as Lady
Lavander knew all about him, there could be no objection to his playing
in Miss Grizzel's garden!
And "to-morrow" turned out a fine day. So altogether you can imagine
that Griselda felt very happy and light-hearted as she ran down the
wood-path to meet her little friend, whose rosy face soon appeared among
the bushes.
"What did you do yesterday, Phil?" asked Griselda. "Were you sorry not
to come to play with me?"
"No," said Phil mysteriously, "I didn't mind. I was looking for the way
to fairyland to show you, and I do believe I've found it. Oh, it _is_
such a pretty way."
Griselda smiled.
"I'm afraid the way to fairyland isn't so easily found," she said. "But
I'd like to hear about where you went. Was it far?"
"A good way," said Phil. "Won't you come with me? It's in the wood. I
can show you quite well, and we can be back by tea-time."
"Very well," said Griselda; and off they set.
Whether it was the way to fairyland or not, it was not to be wondered at
that little Phil thought so. He led Griselda right across the wood to a
part where she had never been before. It was pretty rough work part of
the way. The children had to fight with brambles and bushes, and here
and there to creep through on hands and knees, and Griselda had to
remind Phil several times of her promise to his nurse that his clothes
should not be the worse for his playing with her, to prevent his
scrambling through "anyhow" and leaving bits of his knickerbockers
behind him.
But when at last they reached Phil's favourite spot all their troubles
were forgotten. Oh, how pretty it was! It was a sort of tiny glade in
the very middle of the wood--a little green nest enclosed all round by
trees, and right through it the merry brook came rippling along as if
rejoicing at getting out into the sunlight again for a while. And all
the choicest and sweetest of the early summer flowers seemed to be
collected here in greater variety and profusion than in any other part
of the wood.
"_Isn't_ it nice?" said Phil, as he nestled down beside Griselda on the
soft, mossy grass. "It must have been a fairies' garden some time, I'm
sure, and I shouldn't wonder if one of the doors into fairyland is
hidden somewhere here, if only we could find it."
"If only!" said Griselda. "I don't think we shall find it, Phil; but,
any way, this is a lovely place you've found, and I'd like to come here
very often."
Then at Phil's suggestion they set to work to make themselves a house in
the centre of this fairies' garden, as he called it. They managed it
very much to their own satisfaction, by dragging some logs of wood and
big stones from among the brushwood hard by, and filling the holes up
with bracken and furze.
"And if the fairies _do_ come here," said Phil, "they'll be very pleased
to find a house all ready, won't they?"
Then they had to gather flowers to ornament the house inside, and dry
leaves and twigs all ready for a fire in one corner. Altogether it was
quite a business, I can assure you, and when it was finished they were
very hot and very tired and _rather_ dirty. Suddenly a thought struck
Griselda.
"Phil," she said, "it must be getting late."
"Past tea-time?" he said coolly.
"I dare say it is. Look how low down the sun has got. Come, Phil, we
must be quick. Where is the place we came out of the wood at?"
"Here," said Phil, diving at a little opening among the bushes.
Griselda followed him. He had been a good guide hitherto, and she
certainly could not have found her way alone. They scrambled on for some
way, then the bushes suddenly seemed to grow less thick, and in a minute
they came out upon a little path.
"Phil," said Griselda, "this isn't the way we came."
"Isn't it?" said Phil, looking about him. "Then we must have comed the
wrong way."
"I'm afraid so," said Griselda, "and it seems to be so late already. I'm
so sorry, for Aunt Grizzel will be vexed, and I did so want to please
her. Will your nurse be vexed, Phil?"
"I don't care if she are," replied Phil valiantly.
"You shouldn't say that, Phil. You know we _shouldn't_ have stayed so
long playing."
"Nebber mind," said Phil. "If it was mother I would mind. Mother's so
good, you don't know. And she never 'colds me, except when I _am_
naughty--so I _do_ mind."
"She wouldn't like you to be out so late, I'm sure," said Griselda in
distress, "and it's most my fault, for I'm the biggest. Now, which way
_shall_ we go?"
They had followed the little path till it came to a point where two
roads, rough cart-ruts only, met; or, rather, where the path ran across
the road. Right, or left, or straight on, which should it be? Griselda
stood still in perplexity. Already it was growing dusk; already the
moon's soft light was beginning faintly to glimmer through the branches.
Griselda looked up to the sky.
"To think," she said to herself--"to think that I should not know my way
in a little bit of a wood like this--I that was up at the other side of
the moon last night."
The remembrance put another thought into her mind.
"Cuckoo, cuckoo," she said softly, "couldn't you help us?"
Then she stood still and listened, holding Phil's cold little hands in
her own.
She was not disappointed. Presently, in the distance, came the
well-known cry, "cuckoo, cuckoo," so soft and far away, but yet so
clear.
Phil clapped his hands.
"He's calling us," he cried joyfully. "He's going to show us the way.
That's how he calls me always. Good cuckoo, we're coming;" and, pulling
Griselda along, he darted down the road to the right--the direction from
whence came the cry.
They had some way to go, for they had wandered far in a wrong direction,
but the cuckoo never failed them. Whenever they were at a loss--whenever
the path turned or divided, they heard his clear, sweet call; and,
without the least misgiving, they followed it, till at last it brought
them out upon the high-road, a stone's throw from Farmer Crouch's gate.
"I know the way now, good cuckoo," exclaimed Phil. "I can go home alone
now, if your aunt will be vexed with you."
"No," said Griselda, "I must take you quite all the way home, Phil dear.
I promised to take care of you, and if nurse scolds any one it must be
me, not you."
There was a little bustle about the door of the farmhouse as the
children wearily came up to it. Two or three men were standing together
receiving directions from Mr. Crouch himself, and Phil's nurse was
talking eagerly. Suddenly she caught sight of the truants.
"Here he is, Mr. Crouch!" she exclaimed. "No need now to send to look
for him. Oh, Master Phil, how could you stay out so late? And to-night
of all nights, just when your--I forgot, I mustn't say. Come in to the
parlour at once--and this little girl, who is she?"
"She isn't a little girl, she's a young lady," said Master Phil, putting
on his lordly air, "and she's to come into the parlour and have some
supper with me, and then some one must take her home to her auntie's
house--that's what I say."
More to please Phil than from any wish for "supper," for she was really
in a fidget to get home, Griselda let the little boy lead her into the
parlour. But she was for a moment perfectly startled by the cry that
broke from him when he opened the door and looked into the room. A lady
was standing there, gazing out of the window, though in the quickly
growing darkness she could hardly have distinguished the little figure
she was watching for so anxiously.
The noise of the door opening made her look round.
"Phil," she cried, "my own little Phil; where have you been to? You
didn't know I was waiting here for you, did you?"
"Mother, mother!" shouted Phil, darting into his mother's arms.
But Griselda drew back into the shadow of the doorway, and tears filled
her eyes as for a minute or two she listened to the cooings and
caressings of the mother and son.
Only for a minute, however. Then Phil called to her.
"Mother, mother," he cried again, "you must kiss Griselda, too! She's
the little girl that is so kind, and plays with me; and she has no
mother," he added in a lower tone.
The lady put her arm round Griselda, and kissed her, too. She did not
seem surprised.
"I think I know about Griselda," she said very kindly, looking into her
face with her gentle eyes, blue and clear like Phil's.
And then Griselda found courage to say how uneasy she was about the
anxiety her aunts would be feeling, and a messenger was sent off at once
to tell of her being safe at the farm.
But Griselda herself the kind lady would not let go till she had had
some nice supper with Phil, and was both warmed and rested.
"And what were you about, children, to lose your way?" she asked
presently.
"I took Griselda to see a place that I thought was the way to fairyland,
and then we stayed to build a house for the fairies, in case they come,
and then we came out at the wrong side, and it got dark," explained
Phil.
"And _was_ it the way to fairyland?" asked his mother, smiling.
Griselda shook her head as she replied--
"Phil doesn't understand yet," she said gently. "He isn't old enough.
The way to the true fairyland is hard to find, and we must each find it
for ourselves, mustn't we?"
She looked up in the lady's face as she spoke, and saw that _she_
understood.
"Yes, dear child," she answered softly, and perhaps a very little sadly.
"But Phil and you may help each other, and I perhaps may help you both."
Griselda slid her hand into the lady's. "You're not going to take Phil
away, are you?" she whispered.
"No, I have come to stay here," she answered, "and Phil's father is
coming too, soon. We are going to live at the White House--the house on
the other side of the wood, on the way to Merrybrow. Are you glad,
children?"
* * * * *
Griselda had a curious dream that night--merely a dream, nothing else.
She dreamt that the cuckoo came once more; this time, he told her, to
say "good-bye."
"For you will not need me now," he said.
"I leave you in good hands, Griselda. You have friends now who will
understand you--friends who will help you both to work and to play.
Better friends than the mandarins, or the butterflies, or even than your
faithful old cuckoo."
And when Griselda tried to speak to him, to thank him for his goodness,
to beg him still sometimes to come to see her, he gently fluttered away.
"Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo," he warbled; but somehow the last "cuckoo"
sounded like "good-bye."
In the morning, when Griselda awoke, her pillow was wet with tears. Thus
many stories end. She was happy, very happy in the thought of her kind
new friends; but there were tears for the one she felt she had said
farewell to, even though he was only a cuckoo in a clock.
London: Printed by William Clowes and Sons, Limited,
Stamford Street and Charing Cross.