The Wood-Pigeons and Mary

Mary trotted along beside her godmother in silent satisfaction, though beneath her quiet appearance she was bubbling over with excitement.

To get into the forest – into a real big forest! – and above all, the forest where her Cooies lived – she could imagine nothing more interesting. And though she had felt disappointed at not getting there earlier in the day, she could not help agreeing with Miss Verity when, after a minute or two’s silence on her side too, she said, —

“The forest, to my mind, is always fascinating, but after all, I don’t know that you could make acquaintance with it better than on an afternoon like this. The autumn feeling, this sort of almost solemn quiet, without wind, and the light already beginning to fade – all adds to the mystery of it. And the mystery is one of the greatest charms of a forest.” She stood still for a moment. They had entered the trees’ home by the little path from the garden – a private way of Miss Verity’s, though there was a gate which could be locked when she thought well, in case of tramps, though one of the nice things about Dove’s Nest was that tramps very seldom came that way – and by which you found yourself in quite a thick part of the wood almost at once. Mary stood still too, listening and gazing. I think her godmother had forgotten that she was talking to a child, but it did not matter – Mary understood.

And when she did speak, her words showed this. “Mystery means secrets, doesn’t it?” she said. “Nice secrets. Yes, it does feel like that. The trees look as if they talked to each other when there is nobody there.”

Her godmother smiled.

“And when there is a little wind,” she said as they walked on again, “up among their tops, it looks still more as if they were talking and nodding to each other over their secrets. It is really quite comical. Then another charming thing in a forest is when the sunshine comes through in quivering rays, lighting up the green till it looks like emeralds. That is more in the spring-time – when the new leaves are coming out. But there is no end to the beauties of a forest. It is never two days quite the same. I daresay you will always remember this grey day the best – one seldom forgets the first impression, as it is called, of a place, however many different feelings one may come to have about it afterwards, and – ”

But a sudden little joyful exclamation from Mary interrupted her.

“Look, godmother, look!” she cried, and she pointed before them; “just what you were saying.”

The sun was setting, and some very clear rays had pierced through the grey, and right in front made a network of the branches against the brightness. It was very pretty, and rare too, so late in the day and in the year. They both stood still to admire.

“How dark the trees look where the light stops,” said Mary. “Are they thicker there?”

“Yes,” Miss Verity replied. “That is a part that I call to myself one of the forest’s secrets. For some reason the trees are allowed to grow very thick there, and it is impossible to get in among them without tearing one’s clothes and scratching one’s face and hands. But it is a favourite haunt of the birds. I often stand near there to watch them flying in and out – pigeons especially. I could fancy it was a very favourite meeting-place for them. You can hear their murmuring voices even now.”

Mary held her breath to listen. They were at some little distance from the spot her godmother was speaking of, and though the cooing was to be heard, it sounded muffled and less distinct than she had ever noticed it before. The foliage, of which a good deal still remained on the trees, dulled the sound.

“It seems as if they were talking in whispers,” she said to her godmother, smiling.

“Or as if they were all half asleep,” Miss Verity added, “which I daresay they are. It is getting late, Mary; the light will soon be gone, and we have walked farther than you would think. We had better turn.”

They did so. Mary took good notice, by her godmother’s wish, of the paths they came by. Not that there was any real fear of her getting lost in the forest, but it was better for her to know her way about.

“That dark place can be seen so far off,” said Mary, “that I should always know pretty well whereabouts I was.”

“I think,” said Miss Verity, “I think I shall tell Pleasance to ring the big bell for you, if you are strolling about alone, and it is getting time for you to come in. You can hear it a long way off – farther off than you would ever care to go: sounds carry far in the forest.”

“That would be a very good plan,” said Mary, thinking to herself that it would be lovely to get the “run” of the forest, so as sometimes to meet her Cooies without fear of interruption.

They walked on, not speaking much. Mary was thinking of her feathered friends, and her godmother, from living so much alone, perhaps, was at no times a great talker. And the evening feeling in the air – the autumn evening feeling – seemed to make one silent. The feeling that children sometimes describe as being “as if we were in church.”

And then through the cool clear air came a soft rushing sound – nearer and nearer. There is no sound quite like it – the soft rush of many little wings. Without saying anything to each other, Mary and Miss Verity stood still and listened, looking upwards.

“It is the wood-pigeons,” said Miss Verity; “but what a quantity! I have often seen them flying together in the evening – going home, I suppose, but never so many together. And they are coming from the dark planting, as it is called. I have often wondered if they roosted there, but it does not look like it.”

Mary gazed still – even after her godmother had walked on a few paces; and just as she was turning to run after her, a sound still nearer at hand stopped her again. One of the birds had swooped downwards, and its murmured “coo-coo” made her stop.

“Mary,” said the little voice, “be at your window early to-morrow morning. We want to talk to you.”

“Yes,” whispered Mary in return; “yes, Cooie, dear, I will be there.”

And then, full of pleasure, she hastened to overtake her godmother.

“You are not cold, dear, at all, are you?” Miss Verity asked.

“Oh no, not the least, thank you,” said Mary. “I’m just – ” and she gave a little skip.

“What?” asked her godmother, smiling.

“As happy as anything” replied Mary, with another hop.

Miss Verity smiled with pleasure.

“I think Levinside is the beautifulest place in the world,” said Mary. “And oh, godmother, I do hope you will let me go about here in the forest by myself. I know I won’t get lost.”

“I don’t think you would,” said Miss Verity. “I have a feeling that the forest is half a fairy place. I don’t think any harm could come to you in it.”

Chapter Seven.

“There are Rules, you see, Mary.”

There was a red glow in the sky where the sun had disappeared, as Mary and her godmother came out from the shade of the trees, and stood for a moment or two on the lawn at the side of the house, before going indoors. I think one is often inclined to do this in the country, especially when it is no longer summer, and the evenings are less warm and mild – it is a sort of “good-night” to the outside world before you have to close the doors and windows of your own nest, hoping that all the furred and feathered friends are snug and cosy in theirs.

“It will be fine to-morrow, I feel pretty sure,” said Miss Verity, “and perhaps milder. I hope so, for my own sake as well as yours, Mary, for I have to drive rather a long way. Now run upstairs and take off your things quickly, for tea will be quite ready, I am sure.”

Mary was down again in a minute: she was not tempted to linger at her window, as she knew the Cooies would not come there till the morning. She only thought to herself that she would be very glad if Miss Verity proposed her staying at home the next day, while she herself went the long drive she had spoken of.

“I could be in the forest all the afternoon,” she thought.

And that evening, just before she went to bed, it seemed as if her wish had found its way into her godmother’s mind.

“Would you like to go with me to Metherley – the place I have to drive to,” she said, “or would you rather stay at home and amuse yourself? Do you think you could do so? Tell me truly.”

“I’m sure I could,” said Mary. Then, fearing that her wish to be left behind might not sound very polite, she added, “I don’t mean that I would not like the drive with you, godmother, but I know I should be quite happy if I might go into the forest.”

“There is no reason why you should not do so, dear, if it is a fairly good, dry day – and in the forest it dries so quickly; the moisture soaks through the ‘fir needles’ carpet almost at once. And I will tell Pleasance to ring the big bell now and then, so that if you should possibly feel at a loss as to your whereabouts, you would soon know.”

“Oh thank you,” said Mary, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, “that would be beautiful I might fix with Pleasance to ring it twice, perhaps – once at three o’clock, and once at four. Wouldn’t that be a good plan?”

“A very good plan,” said Miss Verity. “And you will promise to come home after you hear the second bell, for it will be getting late and chilly. I shall be back by half-past four or so and quite ready for tea.”

“Yes,” said Mary. “I’ll run home when I hear the four o’clock bell. It will be like Cinderella.” Then came bed-time, and Mary was glad to go to sleep “for the morning to come sooner.”

And when it did come, she jumped out of bed the instant Pleasance awoke her, and hurried to get dressed as quickly as possible, so that she might have a few minutes at the window with her faithful little friends.

They were true to their promise. Mary had scarcely pushed up the sash when she heard their voices, and in another moment they had both hopped on to the sill.

“Coo-coo,” they began, “good-morning, Mary dear. We have been watching for you.”

“Good-morning, dear Cooies,” she said. “I have only a very few minutes before the breakfast-bell rings, but this afternoon – ”

“We know,” interrupted Mr Coo. “You are to be alone, and you have got leave to be in the forest.”

“How do you know?” said Mary, opening her eyes very wide.

Mr Coo shook his head; Mrs Coo held hers on one side.

“Never mind how we know,” said Mr Coo. “To begin with, we are ‘little birds’ – ”

“Not so very little,” Mary interrupted.

” – And,” Mr Coo continued, without noticing what Mary said, “everybody knows that little birds hear more than any one else. Besides, we are such near neighbours.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Mary, “that was what I wanted so much to ask you. Do you live in that dark place in the forest? I mean do you roost there?”

Both the wood-pigeons put their heads on one side and looked at her – “rather funnily,” Mary thought to herself, afterwards.

“We roost close to your garden,” said Mr Coo. “What you call the dark place in the forest is not what you think it.”

Mary listened eagerly.

“Do tell me about it,” she said.

“There is not time just now,” Mrs Coo replied. “Besides – ” and she glanced at Mr Coo.

“We hope to do much better than tell you about it,” he said. “We mean to show it to you – that is what we want to settle about. You must meet us in the forest as soon as you go out this afternoon.”

“Yes,” said Mary. She was beginning to find out that the best way with the Cooies was to agree with their plans and never to argue with them. For sooner or later, somehow or other, they carried out what they settled, and as she was by no means sure that they were not half or three-quarters “fairies,” she did not mind giving in to them, little birds though they were.

So “yes,” she said, “I have got leave to go into the forest immediately after luncheon, and if you will tell me where to meet you – ”

“You need do nothing but walk straight on through the gate from this garden,” said Mr Coo. “We shall manage all the rest. It is not going to rain, you need not be afraid,” he added, seeing that Mary was glancing up rather anxiously at the sky.

“I’m so glad,” she replied, with a sigh of relief, and just then the breakfast-bell rang.

“Good-bye, dear Cooies, good-bye till this afternoon,” she exclaimed as she ran off, and the soft coo-coo sounded in her ears on her way downstairs.

“Dear me,” said Myrtle to Pleasance, as they met on the landing, “just hearken to those wood-pigeons. They might be living in the house. I never, no never, have known them come about so, as just lately. They seem as if they knew Miss Mary was here, and were particular friends of hers,” and the old servant laughed at her own joke.

The morning passed as usual. Mary did her best to give her attention to her lessons, which as a rule she found no difficulty in doing, for her godmother’s pleasant teaching was so interesting and often indeed so amusing that it did not seem like lessons at all. But this morning her head was running so much on what her Cooies had said and promised, that more than once Miss Verity had to ask her what she was thinking about.

“Is it your afternoon in the forest that you are dreaming of?” said her godmother. “Are you intending to explore it and make wonderful discoveries?”

Mary grew rather pink.

“Godmother,” she replied, “you have such a way of guessing what I am thinking about! I never knew any one like you for that.”

Miss Verity smiled.

“You need not mind,” she said. “I have not forgotten about my own dreams and fancies when I was a little girl like you. Perhaps they were not altogether dreams and fancies, after all. However that may have been, they did me no harm, and I don’t think yours will do you any harm either.”

“Were some of them about the forest?” asked Mary, rather shyly.

Miss Verity nodded.

“Yes,” she replied, “I think they nearly all had to do with the forest. You know – or perhaps you don’t know – that this was my own old home, long, long ago, when I was a very little girl. Then, when I was nearly grown-up, we left it, and I did not see it again for many years. But it always seemed ‘home’ to me, and you can imagine my delight when I heard it was again to be sold and I was able to buy it for my very own. And I hope to end my days here, at the edge of the dear forest I love so well.”

Mary listened with great interest. She thought to herself that she would soon get to feel just as her godmother did about Dove’s Nest.

“Especially,” she added in her own mind, “as the forest is the Cooies’ home.”

“Now, let me hear you go over that page of French again,” said Miss Verity. “You will enjoy your afternoon all the more if you have done your best this morning.”

As she said this, a low “coo-coo” caught Mary’s ear. It was soft and faint – perhaps it came from some little distance – perhaps it was very low on purpose, so that no one but herself should hear it. But she knew whose voice it was; she knew too what the Cooies’ advice would be, so, though it called for some effort on her part, she determined to leave off thinking of anything but the matter in hand, and gave her full attention to her French reading. And by the end of her lesson time she felt well rewarded when her godmother told her she had done “very well indeed.”

The day had grown steadily brighter. When luncheon was over, Miss Verity went upstairs almost immediately to put on her out-door things, and Mary waited in the porch to watch for the ponies coming round and to see her godmother start.

Jackdaw and Magpie seemed very bright and eager to be off, and they looked so pretty that for a moment or two Mary half regretted that she had asked to be left behind. But just as she was thinking this, she heard again the voice from the trees, “coo-coo,” and she looked up with a smile.

“Oh my dear Cooies,” she said, “you are getting too clever! I believe you know what I am thinking even – but you need not remind me of our plans, and you needn’t be afraid that I really want to go a drive instead of staying with you.”

Then she heard her godmother coming downstairs, and as Miss Verity got into the pony-carriage she nodded brightly to Mary.

“Good-bye, dear,” she said. “Be sure you enjoy yourself, but don’t forget to run home when you hear the bell for the second time.”

Mary nodded. “I won’t forget,” she said.

Then the ponies tossed their heads, as if to say good-bye, and started off briskly, their bells tinkling clearly at first, then more and more faintly as they trotted away, till at last they were not to be heard at all.

Mary gave herself a little shake. She had been standing listening in a half dreamy way. Now she ran across the lawn and through the wicket-gate and into the wood as quickly as she could go. But once she was well among the trees she walked more slowly; somehow she never felt inclined to run very fast in the forest or to talk loudly. There was something soft and soothing in the air, in the gentle rustle high up among the branches and the uncertain light, a feeling of “mystery,” to put it shortly.

“I wonder,” said the little girl to herself, “I wonder if it all looked just as it does now when godmother was like me and strolled about the paths. I wonder if it will look just the same when I get to be quite old, as old as dear godmother is now. I wonder if it will look the same – let me see – a hundred years from now.”

“It will not take a hundred years for you to be an old woman,” said a voice close to her ear.

Mary gave a little start. Then, glancing up, she saw the two wood-pigeons perched on a low-growing branch just where she was passing. They had not been there a moment or two before, she was certain, and she felt a little vexed with them – with Mr Coo, at least, for she now knew their voices well enough to distinguish that it was he who had spoken to her – for startling her.

“Of course it won’t,” she replied rather crossly. “I am not so silly as all that. I shall be quite old in fifty years, or less than that I wasn’t thinking of godmother’s age when I wondered about a hundred years from now, nor about myself either, and if you please, Cooies, when you guess what I am thinking in my own mind, please guess the whole, and not odd bits.”

“All right,” said Mr Coo.

“No,” said Mary, “I think it’s all wrong when you get into that teasing way.”

“He doesn’t mean it, my dear,” said Mrs Coo, who was always a peacemaker, “but perhaps you are tired to-day. Would you rather not – ”

“Oh,” interrupted Mary, “if you are going to say would I rather not go to see that secret part of the forest, please don’t say it. Of course I’m not tired or anything. I’ve just been longing to come.”

“Well then,” said Mr Coo, “listen, Mary, and I will tell you exactly what to do. Walk straight on till you come to the place where you stood still with your godmother yesterday and looked at the dark part among the trees. Then glance about you on the left, and after a little you will perceive lying on the ground a small grey feather. Note well the spot where it lies, then pick it up and fasten it on to your cap in the front.”

“My cap,” exclaimed Mary, putting up her hand to her head, “my hat, you mean – oh no, by the bye, I have my little fur cap on. How quickly you notice everything, dear Cooie! I remember thinking that my cap would be more comfortable for getting in and out among the bushes.”

The Cooies did not answer, but Mary felt sure that both their heads were well on one side, which she had found out for them meant a kind of smile, and when she glanced at them she saw that it was so.

“Well then,” she went on, “I beg your pardon for interrupting you – after I have stuck the grey feather in my cap?”

“Walk on seven paces from the exact spot – right foot one – left foot two —exactly seven, you understand. Then stand still and you will see a very small opening in the brushwood and bushes, by this time very thick and close, you know. It will seem almost too small an opening for you to push into, but don’t be afraid. You shall neither scratch your face nor tear your clothes, I promise you. The only thing you may dislike will be that for a little way it may be very dark – darker the farther you go, till – ”

Mary felt a tiny bit frightened, and this made her interrupt again —

“I wouldn’t mind if you were with me,” she exclaimed. “Why can’t you stay with me now? You might perch on my shoulders, both of you – or I will carry you very carefully if you like.”

“No,” said both the wood-pigeons together, so that their voices sounded like one, “that would not do. There are rules, you see, Mary. You must do part of it for yourself. Don’t be afraid – the darkness won’t hurt you, and after a bit you will get out of it, and then – ”

“Then, what?”

“You will see us, and – a good deal more,” was the reply, followed by a slight flutter, and when Mary looked up, both her friends had disappeared!

Chapter Eight.

“A Little White Gate.”

Mary stood still for a moment or two, gazing after them, or rather gazing at the place where they had been. She felt, as she would have said herself, “rather funny”; not frightened exactly, and certainly very curious to see what was going to happen next, but just a little timid about making the plunge into the dark mysterious depths of the forest.

But it was now or never.

“If I let myself get silly and run back home, or anything like that,” she thought, “I daresay the Cooies will never care for me again, or come to see me or show me things. For I can see they are rather obstinate, and of course if they are fairies, or partly fairies, they like to be obeyed – fairies always do. And godmother too – I believe she understands about fairies much more than she says – and she always is sure no harm can come to me in the forest. So I’d better be quick and look out carefully for the little grey feather.”

She walked on therefore, not too fast, for fear of passing the signal, and with her eyes fixed on the bushes on the left. But it seemed to her that she had walked a good long way, farther than she expected, before she felt satisfied that she had got to the place where Miss Verity and she had stood the day before.

“Can I have passed it?” she asked herself, “and can I possibly have missed the feather, or can it have blown away?” and she stopped short, feeling a little anxious.

But just then a very faint “coo” reached her ears; it was scarcely to be heard, more like the shadow of the sound, but still it was plainly in front of her, and it encouraged Mary. She had not come too far, and stepping on again, she soon recognised the spot, and – a little bit on again, and she gave a tiny cry – there, safely nestling among the branches, within reach of her hand – was the wee grey, or rather “dove-coloured” feather.

“I might have known it would be all right – and of course anything fairy-ish couldn’t blow away,” she thought.

She picked up the feather, and took off her little fur cap, into which she fastened it without any difficulty, for though she had no pin – it isn’t often, is it, that little girls have pins “handy” when wanted? – it seemed to catch into the skin of the fur, all of itself.

“It reminds me,” thought Mary, “of ‘Up the airy mountain – ’ that part about bed jacket, green cap, and white owl’s feather – though I certainly don’t want to be stolen away, like little Bridget, for seven years long, even by the Cooies. But I can trust them.”

Then she placed her foot exactly below the branch where she had found the feather and stepped forward carefully, one, two, three, four – up to seven, and then stood still again.

At first she really thought for a moment or two that the wood-pigeons had been playing her a trick. The bushes and trees on both sides seemed to have got so very thick and close; she could not see the least sign of an opening for even a rabbit to get through on either the left or the right! And it felt so cold; so much colder, suddenly, it had become.

“I must go home,” thought Mary, feeling ready to cry. “I believe the Cooies are imps after all, and not nice fairies. Yes, I’d better go home,” and just at that moment came the sound of the big bell, not very loud, but quite distinct Pleasance had not forgotten to ring it. “Three o’clock,” thought Mary, “I had no idea I had been so long. Yes, I must turn back.”