The Wood-Pigeons and Mary

But – what was that other sound? Again, from among the bushes on the left, came the soft, encouraging little voice, “coo-coo,” – “don’t be so distrustful, Mary; try again,” it seemed to say, and as the little girl still hesitated a sudden glimmer of light flickered for a moment through the branches somehow, down to the ground, and then faded as quickly as it had come.

Mary stooped, and with her hands, well protected in their thick winter gloves, tried to push back some of the leaves. To her surprise they, or rather the branches on which they were growing, yielded to her touch in a wonderful way, as if they had been waiting to be put aside, and then she saw before her a very narrow, very dark little path, but a path, though it scarcely looked as if even a little doggie could have made its way along it! But her spirits had got up again by this time, and she pressed on bravely. It took some courage – it was like walking through the very high corn in a very fully grown corn-field, if ever you have done such a mischievous thing? – only with dark trees overhead, and no light anywhere scarcely – all gloom instead of golden, sunlight yellow. Still it could be done, and though Mary’s heart was beating very fast, she persevered.

And before long she was rewarded. As the Cooies had promised, a few minutes were enough to bring her to the end of the chilly dark path, then she saw before her, close at hand, a little white gate.

When I say a little white gate, I do not mean a low one. On the contrary it was high, a good deal higher than the top of Mary’s head, but quite narrow, and it seemed closely barred or wired, so that she could scarcely see through it. She had not time, however, to judge as to this, for almost as soon as she came to a stop in front of it she heard a swish and rustle in the air, and down came from she knew not where a whole flight, or flights of birds, in great excitement, who settled themselves on the gate, inside and outside, so to say, as if to defend it.

They did not chirp or chatter or even coo – “cooing” indeed would not have seemed to suit the state they were in, though she very quickly saw that they were all pigeons, or doves, or birds of that family, though of very varying sizes and colour, but so many, and all so plainly intending to prevent her trying to open the gate that she would have been quite afraid to try to do so. There was perfect silence, however.

“They must be all the uncles and aunts and cousins and relations of the Cooies,” thought Mary. “I expect I shall have to go home, after all, without seeing the secret of the forest, as they certainly don’t seem to want to let me pass in.” She was again mistaken.

Another little rustle in the air, quite a tiny one this time, and Mary felt something alight on each of her shoulders. She glanced up – yes, it was her own friends.

“Coo-coo,” they whispered to her. Then one of them or both – she was often not sure if only one, or the two together, were speaking – turned to the mass of birds clinging to the gate.

“How inhospitable you are!” they said. “What a welcome to a friend! Don’t you see she is a friend? She has the Queen’s feather, and she has learnt our language,” and then Mary felt that all the pairs of eyes of all the many birds were looking at her, and scarcely knowing that she did so, she raised her hand to her head, and touched the little grey feather nestling in her cap.

Instantly there came another flutter, and in the twinkling of an eye the gate was cleared. Still more, in some way which she could not see, it was opened, or opened itself, dividing, narrow though it was, in the middle, and the birds, as if by magic, arranged themselves in two long rows on each side, seeming to mark a path for her to step along, for of actual path there was none. Inside the gate there was just the very softest, shortest, greenest grass you could imagine, like lovely springy velvet or plush to walk on, and Mary stepped forward, feeling as if each time she put down her foot a sort of pleasure came through it.

Just at first, she scarcely took in all the wonderful things that had happened since she passed through the white gate. The rows of birds made her feel a little shy, for she saw that all their round eyes were fixed on her. But by degrees she began to notice everything more closely.

She seemed still to hear a sort of flutter and rustle that kept on steadily, and yet the birds were quite motionless – those in front of her, that is to say, but after a moment or two she turned round to see if she could find out the cause of the sounds she heard, and then she discovered that as soon as she had passed, the birds rose in couples and flew off, as if to say, “we have received her politely, and now we have other things to attend to.”

On the whole Mary was rather glad of this. The numbers of birds made her, as I have said, feel rather shy and confused.

“I only want my own Cooies,” she thought, “and not all their uncles and aunts and cousins,” and she glanced forward again, trying to see how many more she would have to pass, and at that moment, to her great delight, she caught sight of something she had not seen before.

Right in front of her was another gate, but this time it was quite a low one, she could almost have jumped over it, she fancied, and it was not white, but green – grass green, which was perhaps the reason she had not seen it till she was quite near it. And the rows of birds stopped on this side of it, and, best of all, her Cooies flew down from her shoulders and perched themselves on the gate, which opened as the other had done, for her to pass through, the last of the stranger birds fluttering off as she did so, leaving her alone with her own two friends.

“Oh, I’m so glad they’ve all gone except you two,” she said, with a little sigh of satisfaction. “What quantities of relations you have, Cooies! Do you know, they made me feel quite giddy? I shall have you all to myself now, and you can explain everything to me, and show me all over this beautiful place.”

“Suppose you sit down and rest for a few minutes first,” said Mr Coo. His manners became doubly polite and kind, now that Mary was his guest. “You have walked a good way, farther than you think, and you can see a great many things you may like to ask about, from where you are.”

“Where,” began Mary, “where shall I sit down?” she was going to say, but before she got further she found this was a question she did not need to ask, for just at one side of where she was standing she caught sight of the dearest and queerest arm-chair you ever saw. It was made of moss, or at least covered in moss, green and fresh, but not at all damp-looking. Nor was it so; on the contrary it was deliciously dry and springy.

Mary seated herself with great satisfaction, and the Cooies settled themselves on each arm of her chair and looked at her, their heads well on one side, which she had come to know meant that they were in high good humour.

Then she gazed about her.

She seemed to be in a very, very large bower, all carpeted with the same lovely short grass that she had noticed on first entering, and with smaller bowers opening, like cloisters, on all sides. Up above, it was very high, so high that she could not clearly see if there was any kind of roof or ceiling, or only the interlacing branches of the great tall trees meeting overhead. These trees walled it all in very thickly, it was easy to see, and thus made the dark, almost black look which this innermost spot of the forest had when seen from the outside.

But indeed everything was different from what Mary could have had any expectation of.

To begin with, the air was deliciously mild and warm, though not too hot, or with the shut-in feeling of a conservatory. On the contrary, little breezes were fluttering about, bearing the sweet fresh scents of a garden in late spring or early summer. And the light?

Where did it come from?

Mary gazed about for a minute or two before she spoke. She felt content for a little just to sit and look, and then she was rather afraid of asking any “silly” questions, for she had found out that the Cooies were far cleverer than any one could have imagined, which she explained to her own satisfaction by deciding that they were half, if not whole, fairies!

And this she felt more sure of than ever before, now that she had been led by them into this wonderful bower.

But where did the light come from?

It did not seem like sunshine; it was almost too soft and mellow, and yet it was certainly not moonlight, which is always cold and thin. It was more like sunshine coming through some gently tinted glass, or even silk, but it was different from any light that Mary could liken it to, in her own mind. So this seemed a sensible question to ask.

“Cooies, dear,” she began, “I do feel so happy, and I do thank you for having brought me here to this lovely place. I really feel as if I never wanted to go away. But – it is very, very strange. My head is full of puzzles. And you did say I might ask questions?”

“Certainly,” Mr Coo replied, “ask any you like, though you must understand that we cannot promise you answers to all. Or at least not the kind of answers you want, exactly.”

Mary nodded her head. A feeling came over her that perhaps she would not really want answers to all, that it might spoil the nice part of the puzzles. Still, some things she did want to know.

“Then, first of all,” she said, “where does the light come from? It is so beautifully clear and yet so soft I have never seen any light quite like it.”

“No,” said Mr Coo. “I don’t suppose you ever have,” and Mrs Coo murmured something which sounded like, “How could she?”

“And,” Mr Coo continued, “I am sorry to say that your very first question is one which it is impossible for me to answer in any way which it would be possible for you to understand. I can only half do so, by asking you a question. Have you never heard or read that in fairy-land, real fairy-land, no mortal among the very few who have ever found their way there could tell how it was lighted?”

And as he said this, Mr Coo held his head further on one side than Mary had ever yet seen it.

She gave a little jump; she almost thought she would like to clap her hands.

“Oh, Cooie, dear,” she cried, “that is much nicer than any explanation! Do you really mean that – ”

“Sh – softly, please,” he said. “I don’t want you to think I really mean anything. It is just a tiny bit of an idea that I have got leave to put into your head.”

“Leave – got leave,” Mary repeated. “Whom have you got leave from?”

“This place does not all belong to us,” was the reply. “You saw by the sign of the grey feather that I had to get leave to bring you in here. And that is all I can say – at present, any way.”

“But it does mean,” Mary persisted, “it must mean that this is fairy-land?”

“No,” said Mr Coo, “that does not follow. You don’t need to be in the sun to feel the good of its light and warmth.”

“Certainly not,” said Mary, laughing. “There wouldn’t be much left of us in the sun. We’d be frizzled up in a moment, of course, before one could say ‘tic,’ wouldn’t one?”

“Most likely,” replied Mr Coo.

“But still – even if this isn’t fairy-land, it might be close to it?” she went on.

“Yes, it might be,” was the reply.

“Well, then, mayn’t I think it is?”

“It will not do you any harm to do so.”

But here Mrs Coo interrupted.

“Do not tease the dear child,” she said, for Mrs Coo could speak up sometimes. “I promise you you are not far wrong, very far from far wrong indeed, if you do think so.”

Mary felt very pleased and quite ready to go on with her questions. She looked about her to settle what to ask next.

“Please tell me,” she said, “what are all those lots and lots of little arbours opening out of this very big one, and may I run about and peep into them?”

“One question at a time, if you’ve no objection,” said the pigeon on her right hand again. “The small bowers are arranged for separate families when we have our great assemblies. We do everything in a very orderly way. As for looking into them, you may certainly do so – there is a great deal for you to see here, otherwise we would not have brought you. It would not be very amusing to spend all the time in just sitting still, talking to us.”

“I don’t know,” said Mary, rather lazily. “It might not be very amusing, but it is very nice. It is so lovelily warm. But I am not tired now, mayn’t I walk on?”

“I am afraid that to-day,” said one of the Cooies, – which, Mary was not quite sure, as it was sometimes difficult to tell, – “I am afraid – ” but just then Mary gave a great start.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I believe that’s the bell; the four o’clock bell that Pleasance was to ring for me. I must go. It will take me a good while to get home,” and she looked rather distressed.

“No, it won’t. We will show you a short-cut,” said both the Cooies together. This time she had no doubt that both were speaking. “Do not be afraid. We knew it was about time for you to go home, and we were just going to tell you so when you heard the bell. This is only a first visit, to teach you the way, as it were.”

“Then may I come again very soon, and see all over, and peep into all the little arbours and everything?” asked Mary, her spirits rising again.

“Of course you may. It will be all arranged, you will see,” said Mr Coo. “There are plans which we will tell you about, all in good time. But you may stay a few minutes longer. Pleasance will not expect you back the very moment she has rung for you.”

And Mary was pleased to lean back in her mossy chair for a little bit.

“It is the warm feeling that is so nice here,” she said presently. “Just right – neither too hot nor too cold. I don’t mind its being a little cold, now the winter is coming, of course. Out-of-doors one can run, and in the house Pleasance says my godmother is sure to give me a fire in my own room as soon as I like, so I daresay I shall be warmer even than at auntie’s house. But it is nice to have the summery feeling back again.”

“Coo-coo,” the wood-pigeons replied, which meant that they quite agreed with her.

“Is it always mild and warm in this funny place?” Mary went on.

“Always, just as you feel it,” said Mr Coo.

“How nice!” said Mary. “I don’t wonder you removed to the forest from the Square gardens. Yet you never seemed cold there. I used to watch you last spring, soon after the winter, before it had begun to get warm, you know, and wish I was dressed in feathers like you. That was before I knew you, or had learnt to talk to you. It is cold in the nursery early in the morning sometimes, if the fire hasn’t burnt up well, and the little ones sit at the warm side of the table, you see. I shall love to come back here again,” she went on. “You’ll promise to settle about it soon, won’t you? I do so want to see everything you can show me.”

“We won’t forget,” was the reply. “But it is time for you to be going. Lean back a little more.”

Mary did so, though wondering why, for she was quite getting into the way of obeying her little friends without hesitation.

And to her surprise she felt that the chair, which had seemed almost as if growing out of the ground, tilted back with her, though gently, as if on rockers. Then it swung forwards again, though gently still, and ended by very politely, so to say, though decidedly, turning her out. The surprise, it was all too gentle to make her start, confused her a little. Afterwards she felt almost sure that she must have shut her eyes for half a second, for the next thing she knew, she was standing quite steadily just on the forest-side of the small wicket-gate through which one entered into the garden of Dove’s Nest.

“Dear me, Cooies,” exclaimed Mary, “that was a short-cut. Now, you can never say you are not.”

But before she had time to add “fairies,” she found she was talking to the air, or at any rate not to the wood-pigeons, for they had disappeared.

Mary almost laughed, though she felt a tiny bit provoked too.

“They do treat me rather too babyishly,” she thought. “They might explain what they are going to do, a little more. But then, after all, in fairy stories they never do, and I am now quite sure that I am in a sort of fairy story – that is to say in all to do with the Cooies. If it was the night I should think I was dreaming; but it isn’t the night, and I am very glad of it. It is much nicer to have really to do with fairies.”

And she ran across the lawn in good spirits, not sorry to have missed the chilly walk through the wood.

“It couldn’t but have felt cold after that deliciously warm place,” she thought to herself. “Perhaps that is why they brought me home in that magic way. They wouldn’t like me to get a sore throat, or a sneezing cold, or any of these horrible things. Yes, I may be quite sure they are very, very kind fairies, whatever sort they are exactly.”

Pleasance was in the hall as Mary came in. She looked up brightly.

“Well, you have come home punctually, Miss Mary,” she said. “I suppose you heard the bell quite distinctly?”

“Quite,” said Mary, “both times.”

“That is very nice,” said the maid. “Now we can feel quite comfortable about you when you are amusing yourself in the forest. And you don’t feel chilly, I hope, Miss? It would never do for you to catch cold while you are with us.”

“No, indeed,” said Mary, smiling. “I shouldn’t like it at all. But you needn’t be afraid. It felt quite warm in – the forest. At least after the first it did. Shall I get ready for tea now? I suppose godmother will be home soon.”

“Sure to be so,” replied Pleasance. “My lady is always punctual. Indeed I thought I heard the ponies’ bells in the distance just before you came in. It will be nice for Miss Verity to find you back and ready to welcome her.”

Chapter Nine.

“That Means Good Luck, I am Sure.”

Pleasance’s last words were Miss Verity’s first ones.

“It is nice to find you back,” she said to Mary, as she drove up, with a cheery ting-ting from the ponies’ bells. “And I hope tea is quite ready, for I have had rather a cold drive,” she added, as she got out.

“Yes, yes, godmother, dear,” said Mary, who was standing in the porch. “I’m sure it is. And I’m so glad I was here just a few minutes before you.”

“I can see you managed to amuse yourself in the forest,” said Miss Verity, when she had taken off her wraps and they were sitting together in the drawing-room, the tea-table in its “winter place” near the fire. “You are looking so rosy and bright.”

“I did enjoy myself very much indeed,” said Mary.

“I thought you would; indeed I knew you would,” her godmother said. But she did not ask any questions, and there was rather a dreamy tone in her voice and a look in her eyes as she leant back in her chair and gazed into the fire, which made Mary again think to herself, as she had thought several times already, that “godmother herself knows something about the fairy secrets of the forest.”

And Mary felt still surer of this when, after a little silence, Miss Verity said quietly —

“I shall never feel uneasy about you when you are in the forest – even quite alone – now that I see that you are obedient and thoughtful about keeping promises, my little Cinderella,” and she smiled the pretty smile that made her face look quite young again.

“But Cinderella did forget,” said Mary, laughing; “at least she only remembered just in time, didn’t she?”

“She had no Pleasance to ring a big bell,” replied her godmother. “Still, she did not mean to disobey, and the very moment she found how late it was, she ran off, even at the risk of offending the prince. I have always thought that one of the nicest parts of the story. For so many would have said to themselves, ‘Oh, I’m sure to be too late, so I’ll just stay on and enjoy myself a little longer.’ If I had not satisfied myself that you are to be trusted, my Mary, I could not let you stay alone in the forest, though for a good dutiful child there can be no safer place.” Mary felt very pleased. And – was it fancy – just then a tiny “coo-coo!” seemed to breathe itself across the room from the side where the window on to the lawn was.

“How brightly the fire is burning!” Miss Verity went on, after a little pause. “I wonder if there is frost in the air.”

“I don’t know,” said Mary, adding merrily, “but I can tell you, godmother, these are fir-cones in the fire! Perhaps it is that.”

“No doubt of it,” said Miss Verity. “I might have guessed it. Did you bring any in with you?”

“Not to-day, but I brought some, a few at a time, before. And I think some of the servants have been gathering them. I saw Myrtle with some in her apron, and I have scented them several times about the house. It is such a nice smell.”

“Yes, and they burn so beautifully. I have never known any fir-cones like those in our forest, not even in Germany,” replied her godmother.

“They’re like everything else about here, I think,” said Mary.

Miss Verity looked pleased.

“Do look, godmother,” Mary added quickly. “There are such funny pictures in the fire. There, over at your side, do you see? It is like the edge – what should I call it? – of a ship, and somebody looking up as if he was watching something. I know what it makes me think of; it is Michael, I wonder if it is the middle of the night just now where he is, and if perhaps he is standing at the side of his ship looking up at the stars?”

“And thinking of home and the dear ones there, and of his little cousin Mary,” added Miss Verity. “Perhaps so, though I think sailors are generally too busy, or too glad to go to sleep when their busy time is over, to have much leisure for star-gazing.”

“But I am sure Michael is always, nearly, thinking of home,” said Mary, with a touch of reproach in her voice. “You don’t know, godmother, how very loving and kind he is.”

“I am sure of it,” said Miss Verity, quickly. “Do not mistake me, dear. The brother I loved best of all, long ago, was a sailor, and it is very rarely that sailors have not loving faithful hearts, I think. Does Michael know that you are here with me?”

“Oh yes,” said Mary. “He knew it before he went away. He was very glad I was coming. He was sure I would be happy here. You see it is a little lonely sometimes at auntie’s when Michael’s away for such a long time. The little ones are so little.”

“Yet here you haven’t even little ones,” said her godmother, smiling. “How is it you are not lonely then?”

“I have you” said Mary, “and – and the forest, and you let me go about by myself. And I like the country much better than a town.”

“Even in winter?” asked Miss Verity.

Mary hesitated.

“Yes, I think so,” she said, “though the shops are very pretty about Christmas time, and the streets lighted up when it begins to get dark in the afternoons, do look so nice. But I daresay, godmother, here it is never dull or gloomy, even in winter. The forest must look lovely with snow on the branches, and shiny icicles, and I should think it’s always rather dry to walk about there, on the fir needles.”

“It is never wet for very long, certainly, in the forest,” said her godmother, “but still we have dull gloomy days, and days when it never leaves off raining at all, and one is glad to stay at home beside a bright cheery fire like this.”

Mary glanced at the fire again – the picture she had seen in it had melted or changed by this time, but in another corner she saw what seemed to her like a sort of arbour, with a bird at the entrance. This reminded her of the secret of the forest, and she wondered to herself what it was like inside the white gate on a dull rainy day such as Miss Verity had been speaking of. Was it always warm and bright there? Yes, she could not remember if the wood-pigeons had said so, but she felt sure it must be so.

“Otherwise,” she thought, “it would not be even the edge of fairy-land.”

Then her mind strayed to other things. She began wondering if she would soon have a letter from Michael, and if the picture in the fire could have been a sort of fairy message from him, and she quite started when her godmother spoke again.

“The next time you are in the forest, Mary dear,” she said, “or the first time you feel at a loss for anything to amuse yourself with, I should be very glad of more fir-cones. I like to make a provision of them while they are still perfectly dry and crisp.”