The Cuckoo Clock | Page 6

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