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.”
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.