The Wood-Pigeons and Mary

Chapter Eleven.

“From The Islands of Gorgeous Colours.”

Miss Verity took Mary a drive again the next day. It was not as interesting as the last one – the one to Crook Edge, I mean, to see Blanche and Milly. They did not pay any visits, as Miss Verity had several messages in the little town two or three miles off, where she had to go once a week or so to the shops.

Mary went into one or two of them with her godmother, and was amused by their quaint old-fashionedness; but when it came to a call at the Post-Office, where Miss Verity had some business to see to, she told Mary she had better wait outside in the pony-carriage, as it was a bright sunny afternoon, and she was well wrapped up in her feather cloak.

So Mary sat there thinking, and I daresay you can guess what her thoughts were about. She was wondering and wondering what the wood-pigeons had meant by their hints; and just as her godmother came out again and stepped into the carriage, she had got the length of saying to herself —

“Oh, I can’t guess, and I’m tired of puzzling about it any more. I just wish – oh, how I do wish – that I could find a perfectly white feather, the whitest that ever was seen! If only one of those dear little fluffy clouds would drop down and turn into one, it would do beautifully.”

She was looking up at the sky as she thought this; it was very blue, and the scudding cloudlets were very white; and – was it fancy? – just at that moment it seemed to Mary that a little quiver went through her cloak, as if it, or something about it, had suddenly “come alive,” or as if a tiny breeze had passed through it. But no; there was no wind at all that afternoon. Miss Verity remarked as they drove home how very still it was.

Something more than a quiver ran through Mary herself when she got out of the carriage and went into the hall. It was still full daylight, and there on the table lay a letter – a foreign letter – addressed to herself; and with a thrill of delight Mary saw that the writing was her cousin Michael’s!

“Oh, godmother!” she exclaimed, “it is for me – all for myself, not just a scrap inside auntie’s, and it has come straight from – from India, is it?”

“From the West Indies, dear,” said Miss Verity. “I know his ship was to be at one of the principal islands there a short time ago. Now just throw off your cloak and run into the drawing-room and read your letter. It won’t do you any harm to keep on your other things for a few minutes.”

Mary did as her godmother said. She put down her feather cloak carefully on a seat in the hall – somehow she never felt inclined to handle it carelessly, – and ran in to read her precious letter by the fire.

Surprises were not at an end for her to-day.

As she opened the envelope and drew out its contents something fluttered down to the floor. At first sight she could not believe her eyes; she thought she was dreaming, for when she stooped to pick the little object up, she saw that it was a small feather – white, perfectly white, “as white,” thought Mary to herself, with astonished delight, “as white as snow.” She scarcely dared to touch it, but slipping it back into the envelope, she went on to read the letter. It was not a very long one, but most kind and affectionate, as Michael’s always were, and it contained one piece of news which was full of interest. Through some quite unexpected changes, her cousin wrote, it was possible, just possible, that he might be home again by Christmas, and able to be “backwards and forwards” among them all for some weeks or even months. And then he went on to explain about the feather. It had dropped at his feet, he said, from some bird passing overhead, while he was standing, idle for once, looking over the sea and thinking of home, “and of you, little Mary,” he added, “so I thought I would just slip it into my letter.”

“He has no idea how pleased I am with it,” thought Mary. “It has come just in time for me to go to the Dove Queen’s great party, and I shouldn’t wonder – no, I really shouldn’t – if it gained the prize, for I am almost sure it is a fairy feather.”

And the word fairy reminded her of what the Cooies had said, and all of a sudden another idea came into her mind.

“I do believe that was it,” she said, speaking aloud in her excitement. “Yes, it all fits in with what they said and didn’t say. The feather cloak is a fairy cloak, a ‘wishing cloak.’ It brought me home in what seemed a moment the other day, by making me fall asleep, and to-day it has brought this beautiful white feather just in time! Oh what fun and how nice! I am sure I have guessed right.”

And as if in reply, at that moment she heard, though the windows were all closed, faintly, yet distinctly, “coo-coo,” from the side of the room nearest the gate into the forest. But Mary knew it meant, —

“Yes, you have guessed right at last, Mary.”

She was in great spirits all that evening, and her godmother quite sympathised in her pleasure at having heard from Michael. And when Mary showed her the feather, Miss Verity looked at it most admiringly.

“It is a lovely feather,” she said. “I don’t think I ever saw anything, except snow, so perfectly white.” This pleased Mary very much, and made her feel still happier about her chance of the Queen Dove’s prize.

“Godmother,” she said, “may I spend to-morrow afternoon again in the forest? You don’t particularly want me to drive with you, do you?”

She could not help feeling a little anxious as to the answer, but yet – the Cooies had managed everything all right so far. She felt that she might trust them.

“No, dear,” said Miss Verity. “I do not mean to drive myself to-morrow, for I am going to send to fetch some rather large parcels from the railway station. And in any case I like you to play in the forest when you wish it. It will be fine to-morrow, too, I think, as the sun has set very red.”

“I’m so glad,” said Mary, “and thank you very much. Shall I get any more cones?” she added.

“Yes, please, as many as you can, but don’t stand about too much, so as to get chilled.”

“I almost wish,” thought Mary, as she was going to bed, “that I hadn’t reminded godmother of the fir-cones. I am so afraid of being too late for the Queen’s party. But perhaps it wouldn’t have been kind not to offer to get them. I know what I’ll do, I’ll start as early as ever I can, and run all the way to the place near the white gate – I am sure I know it now – and pick up the cones there; there are lots. So the Cooies are sure not to miss me, and if my basket is not full, they will manage to help me in some of their queer fairy ways.”

Then she thought how and where she could keep the feather safe, and secure from getting the least spotted. She decided that its old home – the inside of Michael’s letter – was as safe as anywhere, but first she tore off a little piece of the blue tissue-paper round the “fairy cloak” and folded the feather in it.

To-morrow was fine, and all went as Mary hoped. Very soon after luncheon she set off, basket on arm, to the forest. Without difficulty she found the spot where the wood-pigeons had met her the last time, and which she knew was close to the entrance to the “secret place,” and there set to work to gather cones as fast as she could.

There were plenty, but still it was rather tiring, to keep stooping for them, scarcely allowing herself a moment’s rest, and more than once she wished that the Cooies would make haste and come to her help.

She was not afraid of their forgetting her, however, she knew they would come in time, and so they did, for before her basket was more than three-quarters full she heard the slight rustle in the air and felt the little feet on her shoulders.

“There you are!” she exclaimed joyfully, “and oh, dear Cooies, do you know what I have got?” and she drew out the precious feather.

Whether they had known about it or not, she could not tell, for they said nothing in reply to her question. They just hopped down and looked at her basket, their heads on one side.

“It is time to be going in,” they said. “All the others are in their bowers, getting ready.”

“But my cones,” said Mary. “The basket is not nearly full, and I shouldn’t like godmother to think I had got fewer this time.”

The wood-pigeons looked up – not to the sky, but to the nearest fir-trees. And two or three cones dropped – straight into the basket.

“It will be quite full when you come back again,” they said.

And Mary, wondering, but feeling it better to ask no more questions, followed them down the little path and through the two gates, both of which this time stood open. And when they first entered into the great, leafy hall, for a minute or two it seemed as deserted as the last time. But only for a minute or two.

“Sit down,” said the Cooies, very softly. “There is your place. They are all coming, and the rush may make you feel giddy.”

Then Mary saw in front of her a little mossy bank – large enough for herself and another child, perhaps. She sat down – something made her sit quite in the middle, and on each side of her, greatly to her satisfaction, for she was feeling rather shy and even a tiny atom frightened, her two friends settled themselves.

Not a moment too soon. There came such a rush through the air that she could have fancied a great wind had suddenly burst into the peaceful place, and round her, above, on every side, such a whizz and flutter of wings as would, it seemed to her, have whirled her down had she been standing upright and unprepared for them, and for a moment Mary closed her eyes.

Then the rush quieted down, and when Mary looked up again she saw a wonderful sight. Clusters and clusters of birds, on branches all round the great arbour – so many that the greenery was almost hidden. But they were all in order. As her eyes grew accustomed to them, she noticed that no two clusters were quite alike, either in size or colour or shape; they were all a little different, and then she understood that each “family” of her own Cooies’ numerous relations kept itself distinct, though all were evidently on most friendly terms, and her own two wood-pigeons seemed to have a specially important position, which pleased her to see.

But the principal personage of the day was yet to make her appearance, and the kind of hush and expectation which followed the rush of the innumerable little wings told its own tale to Mary. She sat, almost holding her breath.

Eight in front of her, though at some little distance, was a pillar or pedestal, perfectly covered with moss of an even more beautiful green than that of the beautiful exquisitely fine grass at her feet. And as Mary kept her eyes fixed on this pillar – something told her to do so – at last what they were all, the child and the hundreds of birds, waiting for, came. How it came, she could never tell. There was a movement, not as loud as a rustle even, just a movement in the air, and then – on the top of the pillar she saw the loveliest thing she had ever seen in her life. A large white dove – so white, so beautiful; and as the lovely creature slightly turned her snowy neck, Mary caught a moment’s gleam of something golden, like a thread of vivid sunshine, more than gold, if you can picture such a thing to yourselves.

It was Blanche’s dove – Mary felt sure of it now.

Then the queenly bird spoke. Her voice was like music – whether the words that came to Mary’s ears would have sounded to others like murmuring “coo-coo” only, or not, I cannot say, and it does not matter, for the little human guest understood.

“The procession may pass,” said the Queen.

Then from every cluster two birds detached themselves, all meeting together behind Mary’s seat. And in another moment, reminding her a little of a long line of tiny choristers that she had once seen in a great cathedral, they appeared two by two – fifty couples or more – and passing forward, each pair stopped in front of the Queen and laid down a feather at the foot of her pillar. White feathers they all were.

It was so pretty – the birds’ perfect order and slow movement – the Queen’s stately beauty – that Mary forgot for a moment that she herself was to take any part in the ceremony, till a little peck on her cheek told her that the right-hand Cooie was calling her to attention.

“It is your turn now,” he whispered. “Draw out your feather. We will lead the way.”

And they did so, Mary following, the precious feather in her hand, till at the foot of what to herself she had begun to call “the throne,” she felt she should stop, and with the prettiest curtsey she could make, she laid her treasure down, a very little in front of the long row already there, and then, still guided by the two wood-pigeons, made her way back to her place, where, however, she did not sit down again, but remained standing, her heart beating rather fast, for even in the instant’s glimpse of the others that she had had, it seemed to her that hers was the whitest!

The Queen flew down from her pillar, and passed slowly along the front, looking carefully at the feathers. Then she bent down and picked one up in her beak and flew back with it. Mary shut her eyes for a moment, afraid to look, but when she opened them again and dared to glance before her, she saw that her hopes had been well-founded – Michael’s gift was no longer where she had laid it.

And there stood the Queen, the quill of the feather in her beak, so that the rest of it lay across her own snowy plumage, not snowier than it, however. She was quite silent for a minute, as if she wanted them all to see for themselves, and then came again the beautiful tones of her voice.

“This feather,” she said, “has won the prize. It has come from the islands across the sea – the islands of gorgeous colours and rich fragrance – this simple snow-white feather. Our human guest, Mary, our child-visitor, has brought it, and you see for yourselves that it has won the prize. It is the whitest of them all,” and she bent her head towards the feathers on the ground, “beautiful as they are.”

Then there came a great wave through the air; a murmur of many voices, which sounded like one solitary note on some strange soft organ: then silence again, till again Queen White Dove spoke.

“I see you all agree with me,” she said, “and I think you are generous and kind. For there is one thing to be said still, before the prize is given. You, my birds and relations, have been for many weeks seeking to win the prize: you have worked for it; you have travelled far, many of you. But Mary has not needed to do any of these things. Her feather came to her without any effort on her part – ”

“Never say roast larks don’t drop into some people’s mouths,” whispered Mr Coo, who by this time was perched on his old place on Mary’s shoulder. Mary gave a little shrug, but he clung on all the same.

“And therefore,” continued the Queen, “I think it is only fair that a short trial and test should be laid upon her.”

Mary began to feel rather frightened. What was the Queen going to do? Turn her into a wood-pigeon perhaps, or something of the kind. But such fears were soon laid at rest.

“It is not a severe test,” the Queen continued, and Mary felt that she was now speaking to herself directly, and that her tone was very gracious. “It is this. For one week you must keep the feather as spotless as it is now, and if at the end of that time you bring it here again – perfect and unsullied – you will have gained the prize. Do you agree?” Mary hesitated. She felt somehow a little confused. Mr Coo gave her an invisible peck.

“Say ‘Yes, I will,’” he murmured.

“I do, you mean,” whispered Mary, rather pleased to snub him. And she made another curtsey, and said in a clear voice, —

“I do.”

“Then come forward,” and Mary did so, till she was close to the pillar, on which Queen White Dove was again standing. It was not much higher than Mary herself. The Queen raised one dainty claw, and taking the end of the feather from her beak, she placed it just inside the brim of Mary’s close-fitting fur hat, or cap, where the grey feather had been on the day of Mary’s first visit to the “forest’s secret.”

“It is safe and firm,” she said. “It will be by your own fault, Mary, if it drops out or is in any way spoilt.”

And Mary curtseyed for the third time, murmuring thanks, and went back to her place, wondering to herself what was going to happen next.

The two wood-pigeons were there as before.

“We are all about to disperse,” they said. “Lie down and close your eyes for a moment, till the rush is over.”

She did so, and again came the great noise of wings, and – when she looked up, reassured by the silence, she was half-sitting, half-lying at the gate of her godmother’s garden, the basket, well filled with cones, beside her, and the two Cooies perched on it!

And just then, Pleasance came out of the house and rang the big bell.

Chapter Twelve.

“Come Back in the Spring, Mary.”

Mary sprang up. She had been half-sitting on the little gate, for the surprise of finding herself at home again so quickly had almost taken away her breath. But the wood-pigeons calmed her down.

“You need not hurry,” they said. “Pleasance never expects you for ten minutes or longer after she has rung. Sit down on the basket and we will keep you warm.”

And when Mary had done so, they flew on to her shoulders and spread out their little wings as if ready for flight, and Mary felt a nice soft glow of heat going through her.

“Now,” they continued, “we can talk comfortably – do you want to ask us anything?”

“Of course I do,” said Mary. “A great big thing. I want to know how I can keep my feather perfectly white.”

“The Queen told you almost as much as we can,” was the reply. “She said it would be your own fault if it dropped out or got spoilt in any way.”

“I know she did,” said Mary, “but that’s very puzzling. I can’t go about with my hand to my head holding it in.”

“You don’t need to do so. As the Queen spoke of ‘fault’ – ‘your own fault’” – said Mr Coo, “I would advise you to think over what is most likely to be a fault of yours.”

“I know,” said Mary quickly. “Hasty temper – that’s my worst fault. Auntie always says so. But sometimes when I’ve been very unhappy about it, she has said any way it doesn’t last long; she has said it to comfort me, you see, and it’s true – I scarcely ever feel cross with anybody for more than a minute.”

“A minute may leave many minutes of trouble behind it,” said Mrs Coo, gently.

“I know that,” said Mary. “Once at home poor baby got a knock that was black and blue for a week, just because we’d given him a little push to get him out of the way.”

“Then be on your guard,” the wood-pigeons replied, “and this day week come to the meeting-place in the forest again, at the same time. You will have no difficulty.”

“And shall I not see you till then?” asked Mary, rather dolefully, “a whole week?”

But she was speaking to the air! Her Cooies had disappeared.

“A whole week,” however, sometimes passes very quickly, though sometimes, it is true, a week seems to have leaden wings. This time it was not so. Miss Verity was more than kind in her ways of interesting and amusing her little god-daughter; so that even though the weather grew dull, and rainy, and disagreeable, and it was scarcely possible to go out, either driving or walking, Mary was happy and bright. The only thing that she felt uneasy about was as to the appointed day for her visit to the secret of the forest.

“If it should be a regular bad day,” she said to herself, “godmother will certainly not let me go out, and it would seem silly of me to expect it.”

But she wisely consoled herself by remembering that, so far, nothing that had to do with the wood-pigeons had gone wrong. And as it was a “fairy” matter, she might safely leave it in fairy hands!

“Or in fairy beaks and claws,” she added, laughingly, to herself, “as my fairies are all birds.”

And her trust was well-founded. For the day before the day there came a complete change in the weather. There was a change of moon, Pleasance told her, but, however that may have been, there was a great improvement in out-of-doors things. It grew colder, certainly, but bright, and clear, and bracing; the sort of weather that healthy children love, and indoors plenty of good fires kept away all fear of colds, and chilblains, and miseries of that kind.

Mary was delighted; both because she was so glad to get out again, and also to have her fears about the important day dispelled. For it was not now likely, indeed almost impossible, that the weather should change again for some little time to come.

“What a good thing it is that I have got all my Christmas presents finished before this nice frost began, isn’t it?” she said to Pleasance, as she was dressing to go out, that first fine day. For one of her godmother’s ways of interesting and amusing her in the house had been to give her some charming scraps and patches of silks and satin, besides other odds and ends of pretty cord and fringe and such things, with which Miss Verity had helped her to make sweet and dainty little pincushions and pen-wipers and so on to take home with her.

“Yes, indeed it is, Miss,” said the maid. She was taking Mary’s jacket, and cap, and fur boa, and thick gloves out, for she was very afraid of her catching cold, as this was the most wintry weather there had been during the little girl’s visit to Dove’s Nest. “Miss Mary,” she went on, “why do you keep this one tiny white feather in your cap? It looks quite out of place, stuck into the brim all by itself, and if you care for it, it would be much safer in your work-box or your writing-case.”