# The Cuckoo Clock/Chapter 9

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CHAPTER IX.
UP AND DOWN THE CHIMNEY.
"Helper. Well, but if it was all dream, it would be the same as if it was all real, would it not?
Keeper. Yes, I see. I mean, Sir, I do not see."—A Liliput Revel.
Not having "just had her dinner," and feeling very much inclined for her tea, Griselda ran home at a great rate.
She felt, too, in such good spirits; it had been so delightful to have a companion in her play.
"What a good thing it was I didn't make Phil run away before I found out what a nice little boy he was," she said to herself. "I must look out my old reading books to-night. I shall so like ​teaching him, poor little boy, and the cuckoo will be pleased at my doing something useful, I'm sure."
Tea was quite ready, in fact waiting for her, when she came in. This was a meal she always had by herself, brought up on a tray to Dorcas's little sitting-room, where Dorcas waited upon her. And sometimes when Griselda was in a particularly good humour she would beg Dorcas to sit down and have a cup of tea with her—a liberty the old servant was far too dignified and respectful to have thought of taking, unless specially requested to do so.
This evening, as you know, Griselda was in a very particularly good humour, and besides this, so very full of her adventures, that she would have been glad of an even loss sympathising listener than Dorcas was likely to be.
"Sit down, Dorcas, and have some more tea, do," she said coaxingly. "It looks ever so much more comfortable, and I'm sure you could eat a ​little more if you tried, whether you've had your tea in the kitchen or not. I'm fearfully hungry, I can tell you. You'll have to cut a whole lot more bread and butter, and not 'ladies' slices' either."
"How your tongue does go, to be sure, Miss Griselda," said Dorcas, smiling, as she seated herself on the chair Griselda had drawn in for her.
"And why shouldn't it?" said Griselda saucily. "It doesn't do it any harm. But oh, Dorcas, I've had such fun this afternoon—really, you couldn't guess what I've been doing."
"Very likely not, missie," said Dorcas.
"But you might try to guess. Oh no, I don't think you need—guessing takes such a time, and I want to tell you. Just fancy, Dorcas, I've been playing with a little boy in the wood."
"Playing with a little boy, Miss Griselda!" exclaimed Dorcas, aghast.
"Yes, and he's coming again to-morrow, and ​the day after, and every day, I dare say," said Griselda. "He is such a nice little boy."
"But, missie," began Dorcas.
"Well? What's the matter? You needn't look like that—as if I had done something naughty," said Griselda sharply.
"But you'll tell your aunt, missie?"
"Of course," said Griselda, looking up fearlessly into Dorcas's face with her bright grey eyes. "Of course; why shouldn't I? I must ask her to give the little boy leave to come into our grounds; and I told the little boy to be sure to tell his nurse, who takes care of him, about his playing with me."
"His nurse," repeated Dorcas, in a tone of some relief. "Then he must be quite a little boy, perhaps Miss Grizzel would not object so much in that case."
"Why should she object at all? She might know I wouldn't want to play with a naughty rude boy," said Griselda.
​"She thinks all boys rude and naughty. I'm afraid, missie," said Dorcas. "All, that is to say, excepting your dear papa. But then, of course, she had the bringing up of him in her own way from the beginning."
"Well, I'll ask her, any way," said Griselda, "and if she says I'm not to play with him, I shall think—I know what I shall think of Aunt Grizzel, whether I say it or not."
And the old look of rebellion and discontent settled down again on her rosy face.
"Be careful, missie, now do, there's a dear good girl," said Dorcas anxiously, an hour, later, when Griselda, dressed as usual in her little white muslin frock, was ready to join her aunts at dessert.
But Griselda would not condescend to make any reply.
"Aunt Grizzel," she said suddenly, when she had eaten an orange and three biscuits and drunk half a glass of home-made elder-berry wine, ​"Aunt Grizzel, when I was out in the garden to-day—down the woodpath, I mean—I met a little boy, and he played with me, and I want to know if he may come every day to play with me."
Griselda knew she was not making her request in a very amiable or becoming manner; she knew indeed, that she was making it in such a way as was almost certain to lead to its being refused; and yet, though she was really so very, very anxious to get leave to play with little Phil, she took a of spiteful pleasure in injuring her own cause
How foolish ill-temper makes us! Griselda had allowed herself to get so angry at the thought of being thwarted that had her aunt looked up quietly and said at once, "Oh yes, you may have the little boy to play with you whenever you like," she would really, in a strange distorted sort of way, have been disappointed.
But, of course, Miss Grizzel made no such reply. Nothing less than a miracle could have made her ​answer Griselda otherwise than as she did. Like Dorcas, for an instant, she was utterly "flabbergasted," if you know what that means. For she was really quite an old lady, you know, and sensible as she was, things upset her much more easily than when she was younger.
Naughty Griselda saw her uneasiness, and enjoyed it.
"Playing with a boy!" exclaimed Miss Grizzel. "A boy in my grounds, and you, my niece, to have played with him! "
"Yes," said Griselda coolly, "and I want to play with him again."
"Griselda," said her aunt, "I am too astonished to say more at present. Go to bed."
"Why should I go to bed? It is not my bed-time," cried Griselda, blazing up. ""What have I done to be sent to bed as if I were in disgrace?"
"Go to bed," repeated Miss Grizzel. "I will speak to you to-morrow."
​"You are very unfair and unjust," said Griselda, starting up from her chair. "That's all the good of being honest and telling everything. I might have played with the little boy every day for a month and you would never have known, if I hadn't told you."
She banged across the room as she spoke, and out at the door, slamming it behind her rudely. Then upstairs like a whirlwind; but when she got to her own room, she sat down on the floor and burst into tears, and when Dorcas came up, nearly half an hour later, she was still in the same place, crouched up in a little heap, sobbing bitterly.
"Oh, missie, missie," said Dorcas, "it's just what I was afraid of!"
As Griselda rushed out of the room Miss Grizzel leant back in her chair and sighed deeply.
"Already," she said faintly. "She was never so violent before. Can one afternoon's ​companionship with rudeness have already contaminated her? Already, Tabitha—can it be so?"
"Already," said Miss Tabitha, softly shaking her head, which somehow made her look wonderfully like an old cat, for she felt cold of an evening and usually wore a very fine woolly shawl of a delicate grey shade, and the borders of her cap and the ruffles round her throat and wrists were all of fluffy, downy white—"already," she said.
"Yet," said Miss Grizzel, recovering herself a little, "it is true what the child said. She might have deceived us. Have I been hard upon her, Sister Tabitha?"
"Hard upon her! Sister Grizzel," said Miss Tabitha with more energy than usual; "no, certainly not. For once, Sister Grizzel, I disagree with you. Hard upon her! Certainly not."
But Miss Grizzel did not feel happy.
When she went up to her own room at night she ​was surprised to find Dorcas waiting for her, instead of the younger maid.
"I thought you would not mind having me, instead of Martha, to-night, ma'am," she said, "for I did so want to speak to you about Miss Griselda. The poor, dear young lady has gone to bed so very unhappy."
"But do you know what she has done, Dorcas?" said Miss Grizzel. "Admitted a boy, a rude, common, impertinent boy, into my precincts, and played with him—with a boy, Dorcas."
"Yes, ma'am," said Dorcas. "I know all about it, ma'am. Miss Griselda has told me all. But if you would allow me to give an opinion, it isn't quite so bad. He's quite a little boy, ma'am—between five and six—only just about the age Miss Griselda's dear papa was when he first came to us, and, by all I can hear, quite a little gentleman."
"A little gentleman," repeated Miss Grizzel, "and not six years old! That is less objectionable ​than I expected. What is his name, as you know so much, Dorcas?"
"Master Phil," replied Dorcas. "That is what he told Miss Griselda, and she never thought to ask him more. But I'll tell you how we could get to hear more about him, I think, ma'am. From what Miss Griselda says, I believe he is staying at Mr. Crouch's farm, and that, you know, ma'am, belongs to my Lady Lavander, though it is a good way from Merrybrow Hall. My lady is pretty sure to know about the child, for she knows all that goes on among her tenants, and I remember hearing that a little gentleman and his nurse had come to Mr. Crouch's to lodge for six months."
Miss Grizzel listened attentively.
"Thank you, Dorcas," she said, when the old servant had left off speaking. "You have behaved with your usual discretion. I shall drive over to Merrybrow to-morrow, and make inquiry. And you may tell Miss Griselda in the morning what I ​purpose doing; but tell her also that, as a punishment for her rudeness and ill-temper, she must have breakfast in her own room to-morrow, and not see me till I send for her. Had she restrained her temper and explained the matter, all this distress might have been saved."
Dorcas did not wait till "to-morrow morning;" she could not bear to think of Griselda's unhappiness. From her mistress's room she went straight to the little girl's, going in very softly, so as not to disturb her should she be sleeping.
"Are you awake, missie?" she said gently. Griselda started up.
"Yes," she exclaimed. "Is it you, cuckoo? I'm quite awake."
"Bless the child," said Dorcas to herself, "how her head does run on Miss Sybilla's cuckoo. It's really wonderful. There's more in such things than some people think."
But aloud she only replied—
​"It's Dorcas, missie. No fairy, only old Dorcas come to comfort you a bit. Listen, missie. Your auntie is going over to Merrybrow Hall to-morrow to inquire about this little Master Phil from my Lady Lavander, for we think it's at one of her ladyship's farms that he and his nurse are staying, and if she hears that he's a nice-mannered little gentleman, and comes of good parents—why, missie, there's no saying but that you'll get leave to play with him as much as you like."
"But not to-morrow, Dorcas," said Griselda. "Aunt Grizzel never goes to Merrybrow till the afternoon. She won't be back in time for me to play with Phil to-morrow."
"No, but next day, perhaps," said Dorcas.
​Dorcas saw that the little girl was worn out and excited, and not yet inclined to take a reasonable view of things.
"Go to sleep, missie," she said kindly, "and don't think anything more about it till to-morrow. It'll be all right, you'll see."
Her patience touched Griselda.
"You are very kind, Dorcas," she said. "I don't mean to be cross to you; but I can't bear to think of poor little Phil. Perhaps he'll sit down on my mossy stone and cry. Poor little Phil!"
But notwithstanding her distress, when Dorcas had left her she did feel her heart a little lighter, and somehow or other before long she fell asleep.
When she awoke it seemed to be suddenly, and she had the feeling that something had disturbed her. She lay for a minute or two perfectly still—listening. Yes; there it was—the soft, faint rustle in the air that she knew so well. It seemed as if something was moving away from her.
​"Cuckoo," she said gently, "is that you?"
A moment's pause, then came the answer—the pretty greeting she expected.
"Cuckoo, cuckoo," soft and musical. Then the cuckoo spoke.
"Well, Griselda," he said, "and how are you? It's a good while since we have had any fun together."
"That's not my fault," said Griselda sharply. She was not yet feeling quite as amiable as might have been desired, you see. "That's certainly not my fault," she repeated.
"I never said it was," replied the cuckoo. "Why will you jump at conclusions so? It's a very bad habit, for very often you jump over them, you see, and go too far. One should always walk up to conclusions, very slowly and evenly, right foot first, then left, one with another—that's the way to get where you want to go, and feel sure of your ground. Do you see?"
​"I don't know whether I do or not, and I'm not going to speak to you if you go on at me like that. You might see I don't want to be lectured when I am so unhappy."
"What are you unhappy about?"
"About Phil, of course. I won't tell you, for I believe you know," said Griselda. "Wasn't it you that sent him to play with me? I was so pleased, and I thought it was very kind of you; but it's all spoilt now."
"But I heard Dorcas saying that your aunt is going over to consult my Lady Lavander about it," said the cuckoo. "It'll be all right; you needn't be in such low spirits about nothing."
"Were you in the room then?" said Griselda. "How funny you are, cuckoo. But it isn't all right. Don't you see, poor little Phil will be coming up the wood-path to-morrow afternoon to meet me, and I won't be there! I can't bear to think of it."
​"Is that all?" said the cuckoo. "It really is extraordinary how some people make troubles out of nothing! We can easily tell Phil not to come till the day after. Come along."
"Come along," repeated Griselda; "what do you mean?"
"Oh, I forgot," said the cuckoo. "You don't understand. Put out your hand. There, do you feel me?"
"Yes," said Griselda, stroking gently the soft feathers which seemed to be close under her hand. "Yes, I feel you."
"Well, then," said the cuckoo, "put your arms round my neck, and hold me firm. I'll lift you up."
"How can you talk such nonsense, cuckoo?" said Griselda. "Why, one of my little fingers would clasp your neck. How can I put my arms round it?"
"Try," said the cuckoo.
​Somehow Griselda had to try.
She held out her arms in the cuckoo's direction, as if she expected his neck to be about the size of a Shetland pony's, or a large Newfoundland dog's; and, to her astonishment, so it was! A nice, comfortable, feathery neck it felt—so soft that she could not help laying her head down upon it, and nestling in the downy cushion.
"That's right," said the cuckoo.
Then he seemed to give a little spring, and Griselda felt herself altogether lifted on to his back. She lay there as comfortably as possible—it felt so firm as well as soft. Up he flew a little way—then stopped short.
"Are you all right?" he inquired. "You're not afraid of falling off?"
"Oh no," said Griselda; "not a bit."
"You needn't be," said the cuckoo, "for you couldn't if you tried. I'm going on, then."
""Where to?" said Griselda.
​"Up the chimney first," said the cuckoo.
"But there'll never be room," said Griselda. "I might perhaps crawl up like a sweep, hands and knees, you know, like going up a ladder. But stretched out like this—it's just as if I were lying on a sofa—I couldn't go up the chimney."
"Couldn't you?" said the cuckoo. "We'll see. I intend to go, any way, and to take you with me. Shut your eyes—one, two, three—here goes—we'll be up the chimney before you know."
It was quite true. Griselda shut her eyes tight. She felt nothing but a pleasant sort of rush. Then she heard the cuckoo's voice, saying—
"Well, wasn't that well done? Open your eyes and look about you."
Griselda did so. Where were they?
They were floating about above the top of the house, which Griselda saw down below them, looking dark and vast. She felt confused and bewildered.
​"Cuckoo," she said, "I don't understand. Is it I that have grown little, or you that have grown big?"
"Whichever you please," said the cuckoo. "You have forgotten. I told you long ago it is all a matter of fancy."
"Yes, if everything grew little together," persisted Griselda; "but it isn't everything. It's just you or me, or both of us. No, it can't be both of us. And I don't think it can be me, for if any of me had grown little all would, and my eyes haven't grown little, for everything looks as big as usual, only you a great deal bigger. My eyes can't have grown bigger without the rest of me, surely, for the moon looks just the same. And I must have grown little, or else we couldn't have got up the chimney. Oh, cuckoo, you have put all my thinking into such a muddle!"
"Never mind," said the cuckoo. "It'll show you how little consequence big and little are of. ​Make yourself comfortable all the same. Are you all right? Shut your eyes if you like. I'm going pretty fast."
"Where to?" said Griselda.
"To Phil, of course," said the cuckoo. "What a bad memory you have! Are you comfortable?"
"Very, thank you," replied Griselda, giving the cuckoo's neck an affectionate hug as she spoke.
"That'll do, thank you. Don't throttle me, if it's quite the same to you," said the cuckoo. "Here goes—one, two, three," and off he flew again.
Griselda shut her eyes and lay still. It was delicious—the gliding, yet darting motion, like nothing she had ever felt before. It did not make her the least giddy, either; but a slightly sleepy feeling came over her. She felt no inclination to open her eyes; and, indeed, at the rate they were going, she could have distinguished very little had she done so.
​Suddenly the feeling in the air about her changed. For an instant it felt more rushy than before, and there was a queer, dull sound in her ears. Then she felt that the cuckoo had stopped.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"We've just come down a chimney again," said the cuckoo. "Open your eyes and clamber down off my back, but don't speak loud, or you'll waken him, and that wouldn't do. There you are—the moonlight's coming in nicely at the window—you can see your way."
Griselda found herself in a little bedroom, quite a tiny one, and by the look of the simple furniture and the latticed window, she saw that she was not in a grand house. But everything looked very neat and nice, and on a little bed in one corner lay a lovely sleeping child. It was Phil! He looked so pretty asleep—his shaggy curls all tumbling about, his rosy mouth half open as if smiling, one little hand tossed over his head, the other ​tight clasping a little basket which he had insisted on taking to bed with him, meaning as soon as he was dressed the next morning to run out and fill it with flowers for the little girl he had made friends with.
Griselda stepped up to the side of the bed on tiptoe. The cuckoo had disappeared, but Griselda heard his voice. It seemed to come from a little way up the chimney.
"Don't wake him," said the cuckoo, "but whisper what you want to say into his ear, as soon as I have called him. He'll understand; he's accustomed to my ways."
Then came the old note, soft and musical as ever—
"Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. Listen, Phil," said the cuckoo, and without opening his eyes a change passed over the little boy's face. Griselda could see that he was listening to hear her message.
"He thinks he's dreaming, I suppose," she said ​to herself with a smile. Then she whispered softly—
"Phil, clear, don't come to play with me to-morrow, for I can't come. But come the day after. I'll be at the wood-path then."
"Welly well," murmured Phil. Then he put out his two arms towards Griselda, all without opening his eyes, and she, bending down, kissed him softly.
"Phil's so sleepy," he whispered, like a baby almost. Then he turned over and went to sleep more soundly than before.
"That'll do," said the cuckoo. "Come along, Griselda."
Griselda obediently made her way to the place whence the cuckoo's voice seemed to come.
"Shut your eyes and put your arms round my neck again," said the cuckoo.
She did not hesitate this time. It all happened just as before. There came the same sort of rushy ​sound; then the cuckoo stopped, and Griselda opened her eyes.
They were up in the air again—a good way up, too, for some grand old elms that stood beside the farmhouse were gently waving their topmost branches a yard or two from where the cuckoo was poising himself and Griselda.
"Where shall we go to now?" he said. "Or would you rather go home? Are you tired?"
"Tired!" exclaimed Griselda. "I should rather think not. How could I be tired, cuckoo?"
"Very well, don't excite yourself about nothing, whatever you do," said the cuckoo. "Say where you'd like to go."
"How can I?" said Griselda. "You know far more nice places than I do."
"You don't care to go back to the mandarins, or the butterflies, I suppose?" asked the cuckoo.
"TIRED! HOW COULD I BE TIRED, CUCKOO?" [Page 204.
"I can't do that, you know," said the cuckoo.
Just then a faint "soughing" sound among the branches suggested another idea to Griselda.
"Cuckoo," she exclaimed, "take me to the sea. It's such a time since I saw the sea. I can fancy I hear it; do take me to see it."