The Wood-Pigeons and Mary

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

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

Her godmother smiled.

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

But a sudden little joyful exclamation from Mary interrupted her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” asked her godmother, smiling.

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

Miss Verity smiled with pleasure.

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

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

Chapter Seven.

“There are Rules, you see, Mary.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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