The Wood-Pigeons and Mary

“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.”

“Yes, I am very fond of picking them up,” said Mary. “I might have brought some in already, if I had had a basket with me.”

“Pleasance has one or two nice light ones on purpose,” said Miss Verity. “She will show you where she keeps them. If to-morrow is fine again, like to-day,” she went on, “I should like you to go a drive with me. I think Jackdaw and Magpie were very surprised at my not taking you to-day: I often fancy they go along with more spirit when there is some one with me; they like to hear our voices, and little Thomas and I seldom converse.” Little Thomas was the small groom who sat in the back seat, and he was noted for his silence, an uncommon quality in a boy!

Mary laughed.

“No,” she said, “I couldn’t fancy you having much conversation with little Thomas, certainly.”

She felt in her heart just a tiny bit disappointed that there was no likelihood of her going to the forest again the next day. But then her godmother was so good to her that she knew it would be very wrong and ungrateful not to be glad to do all she wished. And besides —

“If I wasn’t quite good, or at least trying to be so,” she said to herself, “the Cooies wouldn’t care for me, or make plans for me or show me things or anything. I am quite sure they would not.”

This was her last waking thought that night, and almost, I think, her first the next morning.

And when she was dressed, and stood for a moment or two at the casement window, which she had opened a little to have a breath of the forest air, there seemed to come an answer to her thought.

“Coo-coo, coo,” sounded softly from the direction of the trees, and Mary just at first hoped that it would be followed by the rustle of little wings and a morning visit from her two friends. But no, only the sweet voices again, this time a little farther off, and Mary, who was getting wonderfully quick at understanding her Cooies’ ways, knew that this meant they were not coming to visit her to-day, but that they were pleased with what she meant to try to do and feel.

The morning passed pleasantly, and the sky, which had been rather grey and overcast early in the day, cleared up about noon and promised to be bright and sunny for the remaining hours.

So Mary felt quite light-hearted when, shortly after luncheon, Miss Verity sent her to get ready for their drive.

“Wrap yourself up warmly,” her godmother said. “It gets chilly in the afternoon – or stay – I have an idea,” and with a smile on her kind face Miss Verity went upstairs, and Mary heard her talking to Pleasance.

In a few minutes she came back, carrying something over her arm which looked to Mary as if her Cooies and all their numerous relations had helped to make it! It was a little cape – made, not of fur, but of tiny feathers, too soft and small to bristle or break, of every shade of bluey-grey, and lined with white, still quite clean, though the cape was evidently old, and the white had grown rather creamy-coloured through lying by for many years.

“It was mine when I was a little girl like you,” said her godmother. “It was considered my very best, and somehow it never got dirty or seemed to need cleaning, though some of the shades are very delicate, as you see. It will be just the thing for you to wear when you drive with me these chilly afternoons.”

Mary eyed the cloak with great interest and approval.

“It is lovely,” she said, “and wonderful I don’t think you could get one like it in any shop now, godmother, could you?”

Miss Verity shook her head.