The Wood-Pigeons and Mary

“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.”

She had the cap in her hand as she spoke, and seemed, or at least Mary thought so, on the point of taking out the feather. But before there was time for anything more, Mary darted forward, tore the cap out of the maid’s hand, turning upon her almost fiercely.

“Don’t touch it,” she cried, “if you – ” but the words died upon her lips, for as she spoke the cap fell to the ground in the sort of little struggle there had been, as poor Pleasance, not really understanding what Mary meant, had kept her hold for a moment or two. The cap fell to the ground – unluckily they were standing close to the fire-place – and when Mary stooped to pick it up she saw that the feather had dropped out, and lay where it had fallen, just within the fender. The fire was not yet lighted, but there must have been a little coal or cinder dust about, for when Mary, scarcely daring to breathe, stooped again for her treasure, she saw that the mischief was done – a black or grey spot now sullied the feather’s perfect whiteness.

And, without a word of explanation to Pleasance, who stood there in half-stupefied astonishment, the little girl burst into tears.

“Miss Mary!” she exclaimed at last; “my dear, I am so sorry. I had no idea that you cared about the feather so much. I can get you another like it, I daresay, or very likely the spot will rub off,” and she held out her hand for it.

“Oh no, no,” sobbed Mary, “you could never get another like it – never; and I am sure the spot won’t rub off.”

All the same, she drew out her handkerchief and tried with great care what she could do. But in vain; the poor feather’s perfect spotlessness was gone.

“It was my own fault – all my own fault,” murmured Mary to herself, “that is why it won’t rub off. Oh dear, oh dear! Just at the last.”

And though after a while she dried her eyes and tried to look as usual, telling Pleasance she was sorry she had been so cross, she looked a very unhappy little girl when at last she set off for a walk, leaving the feather in its first home – the inside of Michael’s letter, which was lying on the table.

She would not, she felt she could not, go to the forest, and it was getting late. The misfortune to the feather and her own crying had wasted time, the finest part of the afternoon was over already. So she went out at the front gate and trotted down the road, in a kind of “duty” way that was very dull and depressing. The sky and the look of things in general seemed to have caught her sadness, for there was a dark blue-grey look in one direction which cast a strange kind of shadow over all, and every trace of sunshine had gone.

Miss Verity had driven out by herself that afternoon, to see the old lady-friend who lived at some distance, and who, she had heard, was more ill and weak than usual, and it suddenly struck Mary that if she walked on much farther she might meet her godmother coming home. She did not wish this, as she felt sure that her eyes were still red and swollen, and she did not want to be asked, even by kind Miss Verity, “what she had been crying about.”

So she turned and walked home again, without any adventure except passing two country people, who were saying to each other that it was blowing up for snow.

“Not to-night,” said one, “nor yet to-morrow morning, but it’s on the way all the same.”

“That will be the end of it, I daresay,” thought Mary. “If there is a snow-storm, godmother of course will not let me go out to-morrow, and everything will be over.”

For deep down in her heart there was still a sort of hope, that if she could get to the secret of the forest the next day at the appointed time, somehow, things might yet be put right. Perhaps the beautiful dove, when she saw how dreadfully sorry she was, would give her another trial, or tell her of some magic way of cleaning the feather? at worst Mary felt that she would be able to explain how it had happened; anything would be better than her not seeing her dear bird friends again, which might easily happen if to-morrow were impossible for her, as the time for her returning to her aunt’s was fast drawing near.

Miss Verity seemed a little sad and anxious herself when she came home that evening, and if she did notice Mary’s still rather swollen eyes, and face whiter than usual, she said nothing.

But when the little girl had bidden her good-night and was going off to bed, she called her back again.

“Mary, dear,” she said, “can you manage to amuse yourself again to-morrow afternoon? My kind old friend is not at all well, not able to leave her room, and rather lonely and dull, and she begged me to go to her if I possibly could?”

Mary’s face brightened.

“Of course I can,” she replied, “if only – oh, godmother, do you think I can go to the forest?”

“Why not?”

“I heard some people on the road say that it was going to snow, by to-morrow afternoon, certainly.”

“Well, what then?” said Miss Verity, smiling. “It may snow without being a snow-storm. And that will not be just yet. I know the signs of the weather here pretty well by this time, my dear.”

So Mary went to sleep with a lighter heart.

And her godmother was right. It was cold the next day, it is true, but not very cold, nor very gloomy; nothing to prevent the little girl’s setting off in good time to the spot where she usually met the Cooies. But how slowly and sadly she made her way there. She could scarcely help crying again, as she looked at the poor feather she carried in her hand – not wrapped up, what was the use of wrapping it up now? – instead of in its former place in spotless whiteness on the front of her cap. Indeed more than once she felt on the point of turning back altogether, and when she got near the entrance to the hidden path she stood still, feeling as if she could not bear to see the two wood-pigeons.

Just then something cold fell on her face; she looked up; there it was again – yes, it was snowing, after all, though not much. A few flakes, that was all – and a ray of wintry sunshine came out as she glanced upwards, so there was not much fear of any great fall. Nor did Mary mind now.

“The Cooies will take me safe home, I am sure,” she said to herself. “They’ll take care of me, I know, even if they are very vexed with me.”

They were not to be seen as yet, however, so Mary made her way along the little path to the white gate, which, as she half expected, stood open. So was the inner one, and in another moment she found herself inside the great arbour hall. And though there was complete silence, a glance showed her that it was quite full – all the birds were there in their places, waiting for the Queen, and – for her. Her own wood-pigeons perched one on each side of the green bench.

“You are late,” they murmured, as she took her place.

“Oh Cooies,” she whispered in reply, “it doesn’t matter. I am so unhappy. I was nearly not coming at all, only then you would have thought I had broken my promise, and perhaps I should never have seen you again.”

“It was better to come,” said Mr Coo, “but – hush!”

The Queen had alighted – where from, Mary could not see, but there she was, on the green pillar, as before, and it scarcely needed the sound of the lovely voice calling her, for the little girl to know that she was summoned.

“Have you proved worthy of the prize,” the Queen asked, when Mary had curtseyed low and stood waiting, the feather in her hand.

“No,” she said in a low voice, choking back her tears, and then she told what had happened.

“Give me the feather,” said the Queen.

Mary did so, but even in the moment of holding it up it seemed to her – what was it? – the feather looked a little different, and a curious thrill of hope passed through her.

Then the Queen spoke again, and soft though her voice was, it was very clear. Every bird in the great arbour heard what she said.

“Mary,” she began, “you are a very fortunate child. The winter spirits, the snow-fairies, have taken you into favour. See – a flake has fallen on your feather, a fairy flake, for even the warmth of our bower has not melted it, and nothing ever will. Your feather is again spotless, and the snowflake has added a silvery glistening to its whiteness. As the winter spirits have thus favoured you, no one may dispute that you have won the prize; before another day has passed you will receive it. A golden chain will encircle your neck. Farewell for the present, happy Mary.”

And as she bent her beautiful head, the gleam of the wonderful thread of sunshine round her own neck flashed on Mary’s eyes.

She took the feather from the Queen, and almost breathless with delight, began to thank her. But a great sound drowned her first words. It was a sound she had heard before – the rushing of countless little wings – but this time it was still louder. Mary turned her head to see; yes, that was it, but the birds were still in their places, they were not flying away, though all their wings were in motion. And when she glanced round again, the Queen had disappeared.

“What – ” she was beginning to ask, but before she could say more Mr Coo interrupted her.

“They are clapping their wings to congratulate you and wish you joy,” he said. “Make a curtsey to them; they will understand.”

So Mary turned towards them and curtseyed in her prettiest manner, though she felt rather shy, and then, taking this as her farewell, the great flight of birds rose – in every direction the air seemed full of them, and again, as had been the case before, the rush and flutter made her feel confused and giddy. But her own Cooies were perched on her shoulders.

“Shut your eyes and count eleven slowly,” one, or both of them whispered; “then it will be all right, you will see.”

Mary did so: before she got to “eleven” she had become rather sleepy, and began to dream that she was the little sister in the fairy story of the Eleven White Swans, and that it was their wings she heard; then something touched her cheek, and she started and opened her eyes, and, she was standing at the gate leading into her godmother’s garden, the two wood-pigeons on the path in front of her, looking up at her!

“Oh Cooies,” she exclaimed, half-laughing, “you have brought me back quickly this time. How did you do it?”