CHAPTER VI.
RUBBED THE WRONG WAY.
"For now and then there comes a day When everything goes wrong."
Griselda's cold _was_ much better by "to-morrow morning." In fact, Imight almost say it was quite well.
But Griselda herself did not feel quite well, and saying this reminds methat it is hardly sense to speak of a _cold_ being better or well--for acold'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 anythingabout it? Children, I feel quite in a hobble--I cannot get my mindstraight about it--please think it over and give me your opinion. Inthe meantime, I will go on about Griselda.
She felt just a little ill--a sort of feeling that sometimes is rathernice, sometimes "very extremely" much the reverse! She felt in thehumour for being petted, and having beef-tea, and jelly, and sponge cakewith 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 spongecakes, and everything nice, for her aunts, as you must have seen by thistime, were really very, very kind to her in every way in which theyunderstood how to be so.
But after a few days of the continued petting, and the beef-tea and thejelly and all the rest of it, it occurred to Miss Grizzel, who had agood large bump of "common sense," that it might be possible to overdothis sort of thing.
"Tabitha," she said to her sister, when they were sitting together inthe evening after Griselda had gone to bed, "Tabitha, my dear, I thinkthe child is quite well again now. It seems to me it would be well tosend a note to good Mr. Kneebreeches, to say that she will be able toresume her studies the day after to-morrow."
"The day after to-morrow," repeated Miss Tabitha. "The day afterto-morrow--to say that she will be able to resume her studies the dayafter to-morrow--oh yes, certainly. It would be very well to send a noteto good Mr. Kneebreeches, my dear Grizzel."
"I thought you would agree with me," said Miss Grizzel, with a sigh ofrelief (as if poor Miss Tabitha during all the last half-century hadever ventured to do anything else), getting up to fetch her writingmaterials as she spoke. "It is such a satisfaction to consult togetherabout what we do. I was only a little afraid of being hard upon thechild, but as you agree with me, I have no longer any misgiving."
"Any misgiving, oh dear, no!" said Miss Tabitha. "You have no reasonfor any misgiving, I am sure, my dear Grizzel."
So the note was written and despatched, and the next morning when, abouttwelve o'clock, Griselda made her appearance in the little drawing-roomwhere her aunts usually sat, looking, it must be confessed, very plumpand rosy for an invalid, Miss Grizzel broached the subject.
"I have written to request Mr. Kneebreeches to resume his instructionsto-morrow," she said quietly. "I think you are quite well again now, soDorcas 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 herillness, had sent her by post, and she was looking forward to thetempting plateful of jelly which Dorcas had brought her for luncheonevery day since she had been ill. Altogether, she was feeling very"lazy-easy" and contented. Her aunt's announcement felt like a suddendownpour of cold water, or rush of east wind. She sat straight up in hersofa, 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 remindedGriselda of the cuckoo's favourite "obeying orders." Just then, too, inthe 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. Shemuttered 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 manypages before she began to yawn, and she was delighted to be interruptedby Dorcas and the jelly.
But the jelly was not as nice as she had expected, either. She tastedit, and thought it was too sweet; and when she tasted it again, itseemed too strong of cinnamon; and the third taste seemed too strong ofeverything. She laid down her spoon, and looked about herdiscontentedly.
"What is the matter, my dear?" said Miss Grizzel. "Is the jelly not toyour liking?"
"I don't know," said Griselda shortly. She ate a few spoonfuls, and thentook up her book again. Miss Grizzel said nothing more, but to herselfshe thought that Mr. Kneebreeches had not been recalled any too soon.
All day long it was much the same. Nothing seemed to come right toGriselda. It was a dull, cold day, what is called "a black frost;" not abright, clear, _pretty_, cold day, but the sort of frost that reallymakes the world seem dead--makes it almost impossible to believe thatthere will ever be warmth and sound and "growing-ness" again.
Late in the afternoon Griselda crept up to the ante-room, and sat downby the window. Outside it was nearly dark, and inside it was not muchmore 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 againstthe colder window-pane, "I hate winter, and I hate lessons. I would giveup being a _person_ in a minute if I might be a--a--what would I bestlike 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. Ihate _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 thecuckoo was back behind his doors again in an instant, just as usual.There was nothing for Griselda to feel offended at, but somehow she gotquite angry.
"I don't care what you think, cuckoo!" she exclaimed defiantly. "I knowyou 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 abutterfly than a little girl."
In her secret heart I fancy she was half in hopes that the cuckoo wouldcome out again, and talk things over with her. Even if he were to scoldher, she felt that it would be better than sitting there alone withnobody to speak to, which was very dull work indeed. At the bottom ofher conscience there lurked the knowledge that what she _should_ bedoing was to be looking over her last lessons with Mr. Kneebreeches, andrefreshing her memory for the next day; but, alas! knowing one's duty isby no means the same thing as doing it, and Griselda sat on by thewindow doing nothing but grumble and work herself up into a belief thatshe was one of the most-to-be-pitied little girls in all the world. Sothat by the time Dorcas came to call her to tea, I doubt if she had asingle pleasant thought or feeling left in her heart.
Things grew no better after tea, and before long Griselda asked if shemight go to bed. She was "so tired," she said; and she certainly lookedso, for ill-humour and idleness are excellent "tirers," and will soontake the roses out of a child's cheeks, and the brightness out of hereyes. She held up her face to be kissed by her aunts in a meeklyreproachful 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 herstitches, and did not give full attention to Miss Grizzel's observation,so she just repeated placidly, "Oh yes, Sister Grizzel, you may be sureyou have done right in recalling Mr. Kneebreeches."
"I am glad you think so," said Miss Tabitha, with again a little sigh ofrelief. "I was only distressed to see the child looking so white andtired."
Upstairs Griselda was hurry-scurrying into bed. There was a lovely firein her room--fancy that! Was she not a poor neglected little creature?But even th
is did not please her. She was too cross to be pleased withanything; too cross to wash her face and hands, or let Dorcas brush herhair out nicely as usual; too cross, alas, to say her prayers! She justhuddled 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 wouldnot look into herself, was the truth of it; she shrank from doing sobecause she _knew_ things had been going on in that silly little heartof hers in a most unsatisfactory way all day, and she wanted to go tosleep 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. Whenshe woke up she felt so refreshed and rested that she fancied it must bemorning. It was dark, of course, but that was to be expected inmid-winter, especially as the shutters were closed.
"I wonder," thought Griselda, "I wonder if it really _is_ morning. Ishould like to get up early--I went so early to bed. I think I'll justjump out of bed and open a chink of the shutters. I'll see at once ifit'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 ofmorning to be seen. There was moonlight, but nothing else, and not sovery much of that, for the clouds were hurrying across the "orbedmaiden's" face at such a rate, one after the other, that the light wasmore like a number of pale flashes than the steady, cold shining of mostfrosty moonlight nights. There was going to be a change of weather, andthe cloud armies were collecting together from all quarters; that wasthe real explanation of the hurrying and skurrying Griselda sawoverhead, but this, of course, she did not understand. She only saw thatit 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 bitsleepy."
She was just drawing-to the shutter again, when something caught hereye, and she stopped short in surprise. A little bird was outside on thewindowsill--a tiny bird crouching in close to the cold glass.Griselda's kind heart was touched in an instant. Cold as she was, shepushed back the shutter again, and drawing a chair forward to thewindow, managed to unfasten it--it was not a very heavy one--and to openit wide enough to slip her hand gently along to the bird. It did notstart 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 itin, and to her delight she felt that it was soft and warm, and it evengave a gentle peck on her thumb.
"Poor little bird, how cold you must be," she said kindly. But, to heramazement, no sooner was the bird safely inside the room, than itmanaged cleverly to escape from her hand. It fluttered quietly up on toher 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 inferthat 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 sorryto see me. What's the matter?"
"Nothing's the matter," replied Griselda, feeling a little ashamed ofher want of civility; "only, you see, if I had known it was _you_----" Shehesitated.
"You wouldn't have clambered up and hurt your poor fingers in openingthe 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 totell just what she was thinking.
"No, I wouldn't have _needed_ to open the window," she said. "_You_ canget in or out whenever you like; you're not like a real bird. Ofcourse, you were just tricking me, sitting out there and pretending tobe a starved robin."
There was a little indignation in her voice, and she gave her head atoss, which nearly upset the cuckoo.
"Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed the cuckoo. "You have a great deal tocomplain of, Griselda. Your time and strength must be very valuable foryou 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 howyesterday 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 veryfoolish. Is a kind thought or action _ever_ wasted? Can your eyes seewhat such good seeds grow into? They have wings, Griselda--kindnesseshave wings and roots, remember that--wings that never droop, and rootsthat never die. What do you think I came and sat outside your windowfor?"
"Cuckoo," said Griselda humbly, "I am very sorry."
"Very well," said the cuckoo, "we'll leave it for the present. I havesomething 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'dlike to come in and get warm."
"There are other ways of getting warm besides going to bed," said thecuckoo. "A nice brisk walk, for instance. I was going to ask you to comeout into the garden with me."
Griselda almost screamed.
"Out into the garden! _Oh_, cuckoo!" she exclaimed, "how can you thinkof such a thing? Such a freezing cold night. Oh no, indeed, cuckoo, Icouldn't possibly."
"Very well, Griselda," said the cuckoo; "if you haven't yet learnt totrust me, there's no more to be said. Good-night."
He flapped his wings, cried out "Cuckoo" once only, flew across theroom, and almost before Griselda understood what he was doing, haddisappeared.
She hurried after him, stumbling against the furniture in her haste, andby the uncertain light. The door was not open, but the cuckoo had gotthrough it--"by the keyhole, I dare say," thought Griselda; "he can'scrooge' himself up any way"--for a faint "Cuckoo" was to be heard onits other side. In a moment Griselda had opened it, and was speedingdown the long passage in the dark, guided only by the voice from time totime heard before her, "Cuckoo, cuckoo."
She forgot all about the cold, or rather, she did not feel it, thoughthe floor was of uncarpeted old oak, whose hard, polished surface wouldhave usually felt like ice to a child's soft, bare feet. It was a verylong passage, and to-night, somehow, it seemed longer than ever. Infact, Griselda could have fancied she had been running along it for halfa mile or more, when at last she was brought to a standstill by findingshe could go no further. Where was she? She could not imagine! It mustbe a part of the house she had never explored in the daytime, shedecided. In front of her was a little stair running downwards, andending in a doorway. All this Griselda could see by a bright light thatstreamed in by the keyhole and through the chinks round the door--alight so brilliant that the little girl blinked her eyes, and for amoment felt quite dazzled and confused.
"It came so suddenly," she said to herself; "some one must have lighteda lamp in there all at once. But it can't be a lamp, it's too brightfor a lamp. It's more like the sun; but how ever could the sun beshining in a room in the middle of the night? What shall I do? Shall Iopen 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 herroom a shiver of cold made her teeth chatter and her skin feel creepy.
"Cuckoo, cuckoo," sounded again, nearer this time, it seemed toGriselda.
"He's waiting for me. I _will_ trust him," she said resolutely. "He hasalways been good and kind, and it's horrid of me to think he's going totrick me."
She ran down the little stair, she seized the handle of the door. Itturned easily; the door opened--opened, and closed again noiselesslybehind her, and what do you think she saw?
"Shut your eyes for a minute, Griselda," said the cuckoo's voice besideher; "the light will dazzle you at first. Shut them, and I
will brushthem with a little daisy dew, to strengthen them."
Griselda did as she was told. She felt the tip of the cuckoo's softestfeather pass gently two or three times over her eyelids, and a deliciousscent 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," sheexclaimed, dancing about with her hands clasped in entreaty, but hereyes still firmly closed. "Don't say that, and I'll promise to believewhatever 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 takeeffect," said the cuckoo. "Here goes--one--two--three. There, now."
Griselda opened her eyes.
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