“It would never do for you to catch cold here,” she said, “otherwise your auntie would not let you come again.”
So Mary had to console herself by thinking that most likely the Cooies were fast asleep, and by hoping that the next day would be fine and mild.
And so it was!
Mary slept very soundly. When she woke it was already full daylight, and some bright though pale rays of sunshine were creeping in at the side of the blinds and sparkling on the pretty flowery paper of the walls. She rubbed her eyes and could not, for a moment or two, remember where she was – you know the queer, rather interesting, puzzled feeling one has, the first morning in a strange place? and then by degrees it all came back to her, and up she jumped and ran to the window. But it was cold, so she very wisely peeped out for a moment only, just to satisfy herself that it was a fine day, and then hopped into bed again.
She had not long to wait before there came a knock at the door, followed by Pleasance and a younger servant with a big can of water for her bath.
“Wide-awake already, Miss Mary?” said the maid, in her kind cheerful voice. “Well, I am glad it is a nice morning for you; the rain last night was only a heavy shower after all, for the trees are scarcely wet and the birds are chirping away as if it was the spring.”
“And are the pigeons cooing?” asked Mary.
“You may be sure of that,” said Pleasance. “They are always the first to be heard about here, though I’ve never known them to roost so near the house as this last week or two. I’ll unfasten the window bolt, so that you can push it open a bit after you’ve had your bath, and listen to them. It is sweet, like wishing you a happy day.”
“I’m sure I am going to have a happy day,” said Mary, jumping out of bed.
You may be sure her bath did not take very long that day. She was soon dressed; at least enough to open the window as Pleasance had proposed, and while finishing her morning “toilet,” she listened for the familiar sounds she was hoping to hear.
Yes – she was not disappointed – they came, the sweet caressing “coo-coo,” ever nearer and nearer, till at last, just as Mary was fastening her belt, a little flutter close at hand was followed by the alighting of two feathered figures on her window-sill. One glance told her they were her own Cooies.
“Oh, you darlings,” she exclaimed, “how sweet of you to come the first morning! How did you find out I was here?”
Mr Coo glanced round him cautiously, before he replied.
“Ah,” he said, “we have ways and means of getting news that would surprise you. There is more truth in the old saying, ‘a little bird told me,’ than the people who use it in jest have any idea of. Did we not tell you, dear Mary, that we should meet again before along?”
“Yes, yes, indeed you did,” said Mary, “and I believed you, you see. Auntie would not have forced me to come, but when I heard of Levin Forest, I felt sure you knew about my godmother living here, and so I said I’d like to come.”
“Just so,” said Mr Coo, and “just so,” Mrs Coo repeated.
“We would have flown here last night to welcome you,” Mr Coo went on, “but we thought you might be tired.”
“And it came on to rain,” added Mrs Coo, “and we did not wish to be wet and draggle-tailed for our first visit.”
“No, it would have been a pity,” said Mary, “and you are both looking so pretty. I could fancy you had got all new feathers. I never noticed before, how very white your neck ones are, just like beautiful clean collars. And what pretty rainbowy colours you have below them.”
Both the Cooies cocked their heads on one side; they liked to be admired.
“You have never seen us to advantage before,” said Mrs Coo. “Near a town it is impossible to keep one’s feathers so fresh.”
“Talking of white feathers,” began Mr Coo, but he stopped suddenly, as just then the breakfast-bell rang. “We will come again,” he said, “we have a great deal to tell you, Mary.”
“We want to do all we can to make you enjoy yourself,” said Mrs Coo.
“How kind of you!” said Mary. “And when will you come again?”
“I think,” said Mr Coo, “the best plan will be for us to have a signal. We roost very near here. If you stand at the window and say ‘cooie, cooie,’ we are pretty sure to hear you.”
“All right,” said Mary, “and thank you so much. I wonder what you are going to tell me about white feathers.”
She ran off, and the Cooies flew away.
“I think,” said Mrs Coo, “I think it would be best for the Queen herself to tell Mary about the competition – that is to say if we succeed in getting an invitation for her. So I was not very sorry that you were interrupted, Mr Coo. I think you should consult me before speaking of anything so important to the dear child.”
Mr Coo seemed rather snubbed, but he was always ready to acknowledge Mrs Coo’s good sense.
“In future I will do so, my dear,” he replied politely.
Chapter Six.
“The Soft Rush of Many Little Wings.”
After breakfast Miss Verity turned to Mary.
“Let us talk over our plans a little,” she said.
“I like making plans,” Mary replied, and in her own mind she added, “it would be a good thing to know what my godmother wants me to do every day, for then I could tell the Cooies the most likely times for me to be at the window.”
“That is a good thing,” said Miss Verity, smiling. “I will give you an idea of how I usually spend the day. Of course it changes a little between summer and winter, but just now it is rather between the two. Well, as a rule, I am busy about house things for an hour or so after breakfast, and then I generally take a stroll round the garden and go to see the ponies, and then I write letters or read till luncheon. In the afternoon I go a drive – once or twice a week I pay calls, and once or twice I go to see some of the cottage people; of course if they are ill or in trouble and I know of it, I go oftener.”
“May I come with you when you go to the cottages?” Mary asked. “I like to see the funny little rooms, and sometimes there are such nice babies. But,” she went on half timidly, “I’d rather not pay lady calls. Auntie takes me with her sometimes, but I generally wait for her outside in the carriage.”
“I will not take you to pay any ‘lady calls’ where you would feel strange or shy,” said Miss Verity, “but at one or two of my friends, there are children whom you would like – about your own age.”
“Ye-es,” Mary replied, rather doubtfully, “but, please, godmother, I should be quite happy here with just you. And sometimes mayn’t I go a little walk alone in the forest?”
Miss Verity considered.
“Yes,” she said, “I don’t see any reason why you should not. It is perfectly safe: there are no tramps or gypsies about here. I will take you there once or twice myself and explain the paths a little, so that there would be no fear of your losing your way. And now I shall be busy for an hour, or half-an-hour any way. After that we can stroll about a little together.”
“And then?” said Mary.
“Then,” said Miss Verity, with her half comical smile, “supposing we do some lessons? I promised your auntie that I would read French with you, as I have been more accustomed to it than she herself or your governess.”
“Would you like me to learn some French by heart to say to you?” asked Mary. She wanted to please her godmother, for she felt how very kind she was, and I think too, she wanted Miss Verity to see that she could be trusted, so that she could now and then be free to talk to her Cooies.
“And perhaps,” she thought, “perhaps I may meet them in the wood and see where they live, and see some more Cooies – their cousins. That would be lovely.”
“I should like it very much indeed,” said Miss Verity. “I have a dear little book of the old fables – La Fontaine’s – oh, by the bye, it is up in your room. And I know how fond you are of animals, so – ”
“Oh,” exclaimed Mary, and she looked so bright and eager that Miss Verity did not mind her interrupting. “I know what you mean. I have learnt one or two. I’ll run upstairs now and find the book, and may I choose a fable?”
“Certainly, dear,” said her godmother.
So Mary hastened to her turret, where she soon discovered the fat little old-fashioned volume. Then she chose one fable – not a very long one, but I am afraid I don’t remember which it was – and settled herself in the corner of the drawing-room, which, like her own window, looked out towards the forest, to learn two or three verses by heart.
From time to time she glanced out – with a half idea that perhaps she might catch sight of the wood-pigeons.
“They are so clever,” she said to herself, “that if they saw me learning my lessons they would quite understand I mustn’t be interrupted. But it would be nice just to feel that they were peeping at me through the branches.”
She neither heard nor saw anything of them that morning, however. But she now trusted them too much to have any fear of their forgetting her.
And by the time Miss Verity came in from her house-keeping duties, Mary’s two or three verses were perfectly learnt.
“But I will not hear them just yet,” said her godmother, “put on your hat and jacket, and come out with me to see how the ponies are this morning.”
The ponies seemed to Mary even more lovable in the stable than in harness. They both seemed to know their mistress so well, and rubbed their heads against her in the most affectionate way. And when she said to Magpie that she must make friends with Mary too, Magpie really turned her head round and gazed at Mary with her big brown eyes as if she quite understood.
Then Mary gave her and Jackdaw a lump of sugar each, which they seemed to enjoy very much, and after that Miss Verity took her round the kitchen garden and the little poultry-yard, and even to pay a visit to the pig-sty, where lived two fat little pink pigs, looking cleaner, Mary said, than any pigs she had ever seen before.
And just as they were going into the house again Miss Verity stood still for a moment.
“Listen,” she said, “is it not pretty?” and then came to their ears the sweet sounds so familiar to Mary —
“Coo-coo, Coo-coo.”
Mary’s eyes sparkled. She felt sure the voices were those of her own little friends.
Lessons hardly seemed lessons at Dove’s Nest. Miss Verity had such an interesting way of explaining things, and seeming as if she herself enjoyed what they talked about. Yet she was very particular too, and I think that sensible children like to feel that their teachers are particular, just as sensible ponies like to feel that the person holding the reins knows how to drive. She was not satisfied with Mary’s being able to repeat the fable rightly till she had gone through it with her and saw that she understood it all quite thoroughly, and then she corrected some of Mary’s pronunciation, which made it all sound ever so much prettier. After that, there was a sort of geography lesson, as Mary was very anxious to see on the map exactly where her dear Michael was going to, and how he would get there, so that the time passed so quickly that Mary could scarcely believe when her godmother looked at her watch and exclaimed —
“My dear child, it is one o’clock, and we have luncheon at a quarter past! Auntie would think I was giving you far too many lessons.”
“No, no, she wouldn’t,” said Mary, laughing and shaking back her curls, which had tumbled over her eyes while she was bending to look at the atlas. “Auntie would be very pleased, for it doesn’t seem a bit like lessons. It is almost as nice as hearing stories.”
At luncheon, which was of course Mary’s real dinner, her godmother began talking about what they should do that afternoon.
“Would you rather drive or go a walk?” she said. Mary was burning with eagerness to explore the forest a little. She knew that till Miss Verity was satisfied that there would be no fear of her losing her way among the trees she could not hope for leave to wander about by herself.
“I would dreadfully like to see the forest,” she said, “but of course – ”
She was going to say that she would be pleased to do whatever her godmother thought best, but she felt rather shy. Miss Verity considered for a minute or two, then, —
“I think we had better do both,” she said. “Both drive and walk. Magpie needs some exercise, and I want to ask how an old friend of mine is, who lives too far off to walk there; though her house too is on the edge of the forest. That will take us about an hour and a half, so if we start at a quarter past two we shall still have time for a wander on this side of the woods before it gets too chilly and dusk.”
“Thank you,” said Mary. In her heart she felt rather disappointed that she would have no time, or very little, that day to see her Cooies, but still, after all, it was a great thing to see something of the forest and get leave, perhaps, to stroll about there by herself.
“And possibly,” she thought, “we may meet them. Godmother would not know them, but I am sure I would, and they could not feel frightened of her when she is so sweet and kind.”
She was ready in good time, and waiting at the door when Miss Verity came downstairs. It was really quite curious to see how Magpie pricked up her ears the moment she heard her mistress’s voice, and the very slightest touch on the reins was enough to tell her which way she was to go or to hurry her up a little if she were jogging along too deliberately.
It was a pretty drive – indeed, Mary thought that all the drives about there were pretty – and quite in a different direction from the way they had come the day before. And when Miss Verity went in to see her friend who was ill, Mary strolled about the garden by herself. It was a nice garden, but not to be compared with the one at Dove’s Nest, Mary thought, and there did not seem to be nearly so many birds hopping about, or chirping in the trees. She felt very glad that her godmother did not stay long, as, though she tried not to be impatient, she was very eager indeed to go back for the promised walk in the forest.
And Magpie seemed to understand, or so Mary fancied, though most likely it was that she knew she was going home, for she did not require any sort of cheering up to go quickly, but trotted along as fast as Miss Verity would let her.
The man-servant was waiting for them at the door, so Mary jumped out at once and glanced up at her godmother.
“Yes, dear,” said Miss Verity, in reply to the unspoken words, “yes, I have not forgotten. Tell Myrtle,” – Myrtle was the parlour-maid – “to have tea ready for us in an hour,” she added, turning to the man. She looked up at the sky as she spoke. “Yes,” she went on, “I think we can safely stay out three-quarters of an hour or so before it gets too chilly. And it is not going to rain.”
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.”