"To tell you the truth," he said, "I have never felt perfectly sure that
she understood my explanation that day. Still, you are right so far. I
have seen her several times since then, and though she was putting her
head out of the window as far as she dared, and looking towards our
tree, where the nest is already falling to pieces, she was certainly not
_crying_."
"Perhaps she saw you yourself, and felt sure we had not really left for
good?"
"No," said Mr Coo, "she did not see me the day she put her head so far
out of the window. I was watching her, for I was a little afraid she
might already be missing us. But she only looked at the tree and seemed
quite happy."
"Is it since then that the nest has fallen to pieces, do you think, Mr
Coo?" asked Mrs Coo.
She was rather a clever little wood-pigeon after all, though Mr Coo
scarcely thought so.
"Yes," he replied. "There was a great deal of wind last night and the
night before--I fancy the wind blew it down. This morning there is
almost nothing to be seen of it."
"Then that was why Mary was crying," exclaimed Mrs Coo.
But again Mr Coo shook his head, or at least turned it to the other
side, which meant that he did not agree with Mrs Coo.
"_That_ would not explain the words I heard," he said.
"What were they?"
"She was crying," Mr Coo replied, "crying and leaning against the
window, and the window was open, and I heard her say, `He doesn't
believe me, he doesn't believe me. It's too bad of the Cooies--' she
calls us the Cooies, you know, my dear."
"Yes," said Mrs Coo, nodding her head gently, "I know."
"It's too bad of the Cooies," she said again, Mr Coo went on. "`I
believe they're not Cooies at all, but very unkind, tricky fairies.'
She said _that_--she really did."
"Dear, dear, it's very sad, very sad indeed," said Mrs Coo, and her
voice was exceedingly low and mournful. "_Mary_ to think that of us.
Something must be done, Mr Coo, something must be done."
"Of course it must," he agreed. "I must go back then this very
afternoon and try to see her and find out all about the trouble."
"Shall I come too?" asked Mrs Coo.
"Certainly, if you like," said Mr Coo.
In his heart, he was very pleased to have her company, but he was not
very fond of allowing that he was not quite able to manage everything by
himself.
"Certainly, if you like," he repeated, "but just as you choose."
"Then I think I will come," she said. "For one thing, Mary will be
pleased to see both of us together, I feel sure, and perhaps it may be
easier to catch her eyes if we are both there. We can fly about a
little just in front of her window as we used to do, and call out to
each other. But I hope she will not be crying--at least not such very
large tears. It would be almost too much for my feelings," and she gave
a deep sigh--a real sigh, though it sounded like a very soft and
melancholy "coo."
So, rather late that afternoon, the two wood-pigeons set off. It was a
pretty long fly to the square where Mary lived, but they thought it
better not to go earlier, for as it was now autumn and the days were
beginning to get shorter, they knew that the children went out for their
second walk soon after their dinner, so as to come in before it got
chilly.
And very often just about the time they planned to reach the Square
gardens, they had seen Mary at her own window, where she used to stand
looking out, after taking off her hat and jacket, and while waiting to
be called to tea.
Mary loved the window of her room. It looked out to the back of the
house, for the gardens I am speaking of were not those in the middle of
the square in front, but much prettier ones, stretching along between
one side of Mary's Square, and one side of another Square, whose houses
also looked out on them from the back. Mary knew every tree and bush
that grew near her house. She used to watch them all the year round,
and could tell exactly about what time the leaves began to fade and drop
off, and about when the pretty new spring ones first showed, growing a
little greener and brighter every day till the trees had all their
summer clothes on again. She got to know when the spring was in a lazy
mood, and when the autumn was in too great a hurry to come, so that her
uncle used sometimes to call her his little "weather prophet." And if
she had been clever at drawing, which I am afraid she was not
particularly, she could have sketched the shapes and branches of her
favourite trees from memory; so well did she know how they looked when
quite bare, and how they looked when in full dress, and how the steady
old evergreen ones, who never vary much, hold themselves.
Her `favouritest' tree was one that kept its leaves longer, and strange
to say, got its new ones earlier, than any of the others. I cannot tell
you what kind of tree it was. I am not sure if Mary herself knew its
name. She called it in her own mind the "fairy tree," but she did not
tell any one this, as she would have been afraid of being laughed at.
But her great reason for liking this tree best of any, you can perhaps
already guess.
It was--or had been--the home of the dear wood-pigeons--the Cooies!
Ah--the "had been" makes a great difference. It was their home no
longer.
Was that then what Mary was crying about the day Mr Coo saw her and
felt so distressed about her?
No, not exactly that.
She had not quite understood Mr Coo's long speech, in which he told her
they were going to flit for good. She had only thought he was singing a
"cooie" song to her extra sweetly, because they were going away for a
day or two, as she had known them do before--for a little change, she
supposed, now that the young Cooies were all hatched and fledged and
able to look after themselves--"grown-up and out in the world." Next
year no doubt there would be eggs in the nest again to hatch and take
care of--eggs and then fledglings--a weary business it must be, Mary
thought, though happily Mrs Coo did not seem to think so, nor Mr Coo
either, as he sat on a branch talking to her while she stayed so
patiently and contentedly in the nest, and their soft voices sounded
sweetly through the spring air, in at Mary's window, where she never
forgot to stand morning and evening to nod and smile to her little
friends, and even to talk sometimes when Mr Coo hopped up to a still
nearer bough.
No, it was not exactly about the Cooies having gone that Mary was crying
so piteously that day. She still thought they would come back again
before long, though certainly they had never been away for so many days
together as this time, which made her begin to feel rather less sure of
their returning, and when she came in from her walk that afternoon and
stood at the window looking out, a sad fear stole over her that
_perhaps_ they would never come back again at all.
Suddenly a faint sound made her start. She had just begun saying to
herself again the same words which Mr Coo had overheard, and which had
so hurt his feelings as well as Mrs Coo's.
"It's too bad of the Cooies, too bad. I really don't believe--" when
the little sound reached her ears, and looking up quickly, she saw that
the window was slightly open at the top, and again she heard a soft,
very soft "coo."
It only took her a moment to push up the lower sash as high as it would
go. Luckily there were bars across, so she could not lean far out; only
her forehead and eyes and the top of her curly head got through, but
even this gave her a clearer view of the fairy tree and the boughs,
lower down than her window, from which Mr Coo had so often "talked" to
her, while keeping at the same time his eye on Mrs Coo patiently seated
on the nest farther in among the branches, and ready to do any little
errand that might be wanted.
The nest, alas, was no longer there; only bits of it, at leasts were
left _Mary_ knew so exactly where it had been that she could distinguish
the fragments, but no one looking for it for the first time could have
seen anything at all. But--something better than the nest met Mary's
delighted eyes. Two little well-known figures were there--on the very
end of one of the boughs, so as the better to catch her eye, and now
there was no doubt in her mind as to the sound she had heard--her own
dear wood-pigeons were back again, and looking to see her at the window!
She was so pleased that she almost screamed!
"Oh, Cooies, Cooies," she cried, "you've come back. But why did you go
away for so long? You don't know how unhappy I've been. I wish you'd
come up here on to the window-sill and let me tell you all about it."
There came another "coo," rather louder and clearer than usual, and then
a flutter and movement, a spreading of little wings, and--
"I do believe," said Mary to herself, "I do believe they've heard me and
understood what I say."
She spoke more than half in fun; she did not _really_ think it could be
true; all the same a sort of tremble of wonder and delight went through
her, as she saw her little friends slowly rising upwards and heard the
soft swish of their wings as they flew towards--yes actually _towards_
her!
Was she dreaming?
She rubbed her eyes, as people always do when they are not quite sure if
they are awake, or as they _think_ they do when they are really asleep,
but the rubbing made no difference. She was not dreaming. She was
standing at her own window, it was still broad daylight, and everything
was quite natural and real, and the same as usual except that the pair
of wood-pigeons were flying towards her and in another moment had
perched on her window-sill!
"They are fairies," Mary decided, "that is it."
"But not unkind, tricky fairies, I hope," said a gentle soft voice, and
a queer little shiver went through Mary. Fairies or not, a fairy gift
had come to _her_. She could understand what the Cooies said!
"Oh dear, oh dear," she exclaimed, half frightened and half wild with
delight. "You _must_ be fairies, for I can talk to you and know what
you say."
There was a sound like a murmur of laughter, and then the little voice
again. It was _Mrs_ Coo's this time, but Mary had not yet learnt to
distinguish between the two, though she soon came to do so.
"No, dear," it said, "not more fairies than all we wood-creatures are,
if only you human beings would take the trouble to get to know us. But
some do--some few--and you are one of those it has come to easily, to
understand us. We have always understood _you_. And now you must tell
us all about what has been the matter."
"And why you were crying so," put in Mr Coo, who did not at all intend
to be left out, especially as it was he who had made the discovery of
Mary's woe. "Such big tears too," added Mrs Coo.
"It wasn't only because we had gone away, was it?" asked Mr Coo.
"No," replied Mary, finding herself, rather to her surprise, already
getting used to the wonderful power that had come to her, "no, it wasn't
only that, because, you see, I thought you would soon come back again,
as you have sometimes flown off for a day or two, you know. No, it
wasn't only that. It was that _he_ wouldn't believe me, and I care for
him far the most of all my cousins. I mean Michael."
"Michael," repeated Mr Coo, "is he the fat little red-haired boy in
sailor suits? His hair is something the colour of yours, Mary."
"I'm sure it isn't," said Mary, rather huffily. "_That_ Michael! Of
course not. That's Fritz--stupid little thing. _Michael_ isn't fat.
He's tall and has proper dark hair, and he's very, very brave. Fancy
taking Fritz for Michael!"
"I beg your pardon," said Mr Coo, but though his tone was very polite
it was rather stiff. "How were we to know, seeing we are _not_ nasty
tricky fairies, about your relations, unless you explain them?" Mary
felt herself growing red.
"I didn't say nasty tricky fairies," she replied very meekly. "I think
I said `unkind,' but I didn't mean you to hear, and it was only just
when I was vexed. But I'm sure now that you are very kind, and I _am_
so glad you have come back again that I wouldn't for anything be rude."
"All right," said Mr Coo, "I am sure you did not intend to hurt our
feelings. We couldn't care for you if you were that sort of little
girl. But please be so good as to tell us about Michael, for time is
getting on."
"Yes," Mary agreed, "they will soon be calling me to tea. Well--it was
this way. _You_ know that I've known you--that we've known each other,
though not so well as now."
"No, till now it has just been a polite acquaintance, so to say.
Good-morning and good-evening, and so on--on your part at least, Mary,"
interrupted Mr Coo. But Mrs Coo gave him a tiny poke with one of her
feet--and Mary went on--
"Now that we can talk to each other it seems quite different, of course.
All the same I have watched you ever since I came to live in this
house--but somehow I've never spoken about you to any one. I didn't
want all the children to come bothering to my window, you see, and the
nurseries all look to the front; I wanted to keep you to myself. But
when Michael came home--he's a sailor already, that's why he's so very
brave--I thought I'd tell _him_ about you--I wanted to tell somebody,
you see, and--"