"WE SHALL MEET AGAIN BEFORE LONG, MARY."
It was not easy for either Mary or her aunt to keep up their spirits
when the two days were over, and from the drawing-room window they
watched their dear Mike driving away.
"To think," said his mother, almost in a whisper, "to think of the long,
long way he is going--and the many, many days and nights that must pass
before we see him again, and all the dangers and risks he must pass
through--" but a tiny sob beside her made her stop short.
"Mary, dear," she exclaimed, "I did not mean to make you cry," and she
kissed the little girl very lovingly.
They were quite alone, as Mary's uncle, Mike's father, had gone with him
to the port from which Michael's ship was to sail.
Mary wiped her eyes and kissed her aunt in return.
"I didn't mean to cry," she said, "Mike told me to cheer you up, auntie.
And I think he is very happy. If I were a boy like him, I'd love to go
sailing all over the world and to see all the strange wonderful places
he is going to see. I'm _sure_ he likes being a sailor awfully."
"Yes," her aunt agreed, "I am sure too that he was right in choosing the
life. Most boys have a fancy for it, but with many it goes off, and
Michael loves it more and more. And he is growing so strong--you would
scarcely believe, Mary, that long ago, before you came to us, he was
rather a delicate little boy, not nearly as sturdy as Fritz."
"I remember hearing that he was very ill, with that fever," said Mary,
"when--," but she did not finish the sentence, and her aunt understood
why. There had been other children--two dear little daughters were
between Michael and Fritz, in that family.
Auntie gave Mary another kiss, and something in Mary's voice made her
look at her.
"Molly, dear," she said,--she did not often call her by this pet name,
but it seemed as if she used it now for Michael's sake,--"you are
looking rather pale, as well as sad. I am afraid town doesn't suit you
as well as the country."
"It is that I can't bear--`people,'" Mary was going to have said, but it
struck her that wood-pigeons were scarcely "people," and she was
thinking of them as well as of Michael, "I can't bear goings away," she
said.
"Could you not bear to go away yourself--for a little while?" said her
aunt, "for a little change?"
Mary shook her head.
"No, auntie, dear," she said, "I'd rather stay with you."
"But it is dull for you, dear, and I am afraid I shall not be able to
have you with me as much as I would like, while our cousins are here."
Mary's face fell.
"I'd forgotten about them," she said.
The cousins were an elderly lady and gentleman who paid a visit every
year to Mary's uncle and aunt, and expected a good deal of attention.
"Never mind, auntie," she went on, after a moment's silence, "I won't be
dull. I'll play a lot with the little ones."
"But wait a minute, dear," said her aunt. "I won't force it upon you,
but it is only right I should tell you of an invitation I have for you--
from one of your godmothers--Miss Verity, do you remember her?"
"No," said Mary, "I don't remember _her_, but she always sends me a
present on my birthday, doesn't she?"
"Yes," said her aunt, "she is very kind and very nice every way. See
here, dear, this is her letter; I think you can read the writing; it is
so clear."
It was beautiful writing--almost too fine and small, but such perfectly
shaped letters that it was as easy to read as printing.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"My dear Charlotte," it said--"I have always wished to make the
acquaintance of my god-daughter, your little niece, Mary. And now that
we are such very much nearer neighbours, this could surely be easily
arranged. Will you spare her to me for a few weeks? I think I can
almost promise you that I could make her happy, even though I have no
young companions for her, and the most beautiful part of the year is
past--though to my thinking, it is always beautiful here. I can send my
maid, Pleasance, whom I daresay you remember, to fetch her, any day next
week that would be convenient. I daresay a little holiday would do Mary
no harm, and indeed she can go on with any of her lessons you like while
with me, as I am very fond of teaching.--Your affectionate old friend,
Felicia Verity."
Mary read the letter slowly and carefully, but still she shook her head
as she gave it back to its owner.
"No, auntie, dear," she repeated, "I'd rather stay here."
"It seems a pity," said her aunt, as she slowly folded up the letter.
"Levinside is such a pretty place, and Miss Verity's house has such a
pretty name, `Dove's Nest,' doesn't that tempt you, Mary?"
Mary looked up quickly, "Dove's Nest" was very pretty, but another name
had caught her attention more sharply, through her memory rather than
her fancy.
"Levinside," she repeated, "Dove's Nest at Levinside."
"Yes," said her aunt, "close to Levin Forest. You have heard of Levin
Forest?"
Mary did not reply directly, but her aunt saw that her cheeks grew pink.
"May I see the letter again, please, auntie?" she said, and again her
aunt unfolded it and handed it to her.
She did not look at the written part this time. Her eyes were fixed on
the prettily engraved address at the top, printed in a rather peculiar
shade of green--
"Dove's Nest, Levinside."
Then after gazing at it for a moment or two, she handed the sheet back
to her aunt.
"Yes, auntie," she said quietly, "I think I _would_ like to go to my
godmother's."
Her aunt was pleased, though rather puzzled at the sudden change.
"She _is_ a funny child," she thought to herself. "It is some fancy
about the forest that she has got into her head," and Mary's next words
made her more sure of this.
"It is quite close to the forest, isn't it?" the little girl asked
rather anxiously.
"Yes," her aunt replied, "the name `Levinside' almost tells that, and
Dove's Nest is actually on the edge of the forest. I was there once--
some years ago, when your uncle and I were in that neighbourhood for a
few weeks, we spent a day there with old Miss Verity. She has lived
there for a long, long time."
"I _should_ like to go," Mary repeated, and there was quite a sparkle in
the hazel eyes which had been looking rather sad.
So the letter accepting the invitation was written and posted that very
day, and when Mary stood by her window and looked out at the deserted
fairy tree, it was with much happier feelings than she had ever hoped to
do so again.
"_They_ must be fairies, or any way they must have to do with some," she
thought. "Otherwise how could they have known, as I am sure they did,
that my godmother was writing to invite me. Their very last words
showed that they did know. Oh, my darling Cooies, how sweet it will be
to see you again. `We shall meet before long, you will see, Mary.' I'm
only afraid it won't be a `surprise' to them, for if they could read
godmother's letter they're sure to know when I'm coming."
The next few days passed very happily. Mary was very interested in her
packing, and not _very_ sorry to find that not many lesson books were to
make part of it.
"It will do you no harm to have another holiday--or part-holiday," said
her aunt. "And there are many things besides regular lessons that Miss
Verity can teach you, almost better than any one I know. She is
wonderfully clever about plants and flowers--and knows a great deal
about birds, I believe."
Mary listened to this with great interest.
"I wonder," she thought, "if my godmother knows the Cooies. Not _my_
Cooies; they've only just gone to live there. But she may know some of
their relations and friends."
"In winter, of course," her aunt went on, "there are scarcely any
flowers and plants in most places, but the best of a forest is that
there is always _something_ interesting to a botanist--and in sheltered
parts it is wonderful how late and how early one can find pretty `wood
treasures.' I believe that is one reason why Miss Verity loves
Levinside so."
"I like flowers and ivy and ferny things," said Mary, "though I don't
know the names of many. But I love alive things best, aunt. I mean
alive like us--birds, and squirrels, and rabbits, and dormice." Her
aunt smiled.
"I am afraid the dormice won't be very alive just now," she replied.
"That's to say they will be fast asleep. I have heard that they wake up
once or twice in the winter, just to have a good stretch and nibble a
few nuts, but I don't know if it is true. You must ask Miss Verity."
Mary's eyes sparkled.
"Oh," she said, "it would be lovely to see them stretching their dear
little brown paws! They'd look like baby when he wakes up and is too
sleepy to open his eyes, and is all rosy and hot."
Altogether she felt very happy and interested about her visit--besides
looking forward to seeing the Cooies again.
And when the day came, and Pleasance, Miss Verity's "old-maid" maid
arrived, Mary did not feel at all shy or frightened at setting off with
her on the short journey. It would indeed have been difficult to feel
shy with Pleasance; she had such a _very_ pleasant, cheerful face that
Mary could not help thinking how well her name suited her. She was
plainly dressed in grey, almost like a quakeress, with net quillings
inside her bonnet, but her eyes were bright and her cheeks rosy, and
Mary thought that no other kind of dress would suit her as well Auntie
seemed very pleased at Mary's setting off so cheerfully, and kissed her
very lovingly, but nurse looked at her almost reproachfully, especially
when Twitter set up a sad wail at "Maly's" going away, in which, after
staring at her for a moment or two, before making up his mind, Fritz
decided to join.
Mary felt rather unhappy. It does seem sometimes as if one could not
please everybody, and after all, she had not _asked_ to go away, and
auntie had been glad when she said she would like to go.
"Don't cry," darlings, she whispered to the little ones, "Maly will soon
come back again, and if only it was summer she would bring you some
pretty flowers from the forest."
Then Fritz stopped crying to whisper something in return, which at first
she could not make out, but at last she did. It was "fir-cones"--nurse
said there were fir-cones in the "follest."
At this they all brightened up.
"Of course there are," said Mary, "and I'll bring you some to make a
nice blaze in the nursery fire."
"And to play wif," said Twitter.
"Yes, you may keep some to play with," Mary replied.
"Don't make too sure of them, my dears," said nurse, rather shortly;
"Miss Mary will most likely be enjoying herself too much to care to be
troubled with gathering fir-cones."
Mary felt rather hurt, and before she had time to say anything her aunt
turned to nurse, and said rather coldly,--
"Nonsense, nurse. You should know Miss Mary too well by this time to
think that she would grudge a little trouble to please her cousins."
Mary felt inclined to hug her aunt, and nurse looked sorry, and glancing
at Pleasance, who was standing near the door, she saw by the little
smile on the maid's face that she too, as well as the children's mother,
had understood Mary's feelings.
"I am sure I shall like her," she thought to herself. Then she kissed
Fritz, and Twitter, and Baby-boy again, and nurse too--which was rather
nice of her, I think--and last of all her aunt, who gave her a warm hug.
And in another minute or two Mary was rattling to the station in a
four-wheeler, with Pleasance beside her, and her luggage in front. And
in another quarter of an hour or so, they were comfortably settled in
the railway carriage--off to Levinside, Mary busy wondering to herself
if this was the way the Cooies came to the Square gardens, or if they
had some other "air-path," without following the railway line.
She was roused from these reflections by the maid's voice.
"It is a nice day for the time of year," Pleasance said. "I hope, Miss
Mary, it will be bright weather while you are with us."
"Yes," said Mary, rather absently. She was watching the flight of a
bird overhead, and wondering if possibly it was one of her friends.
Pleasance thought she might be feeling rather shy and strange, so she
went on talking.
"You have never been to Levinside, I think, Miss," she said. "To my
mind there's no place like it, and no house like ours, though, to be
sure, it's quite small. But there's not a window in it that you can't
see a bit of the forest from, not one, though at the back, of course,
you see it best of all."
Mary's attention was fully caught by this time. "How nice," she
exclaimed, "how very nice! I do hope my room is at the back."
"Yes, Miss Mary," said the maid, pleased at her tone, "that is just what
it is. It has two windows, and from one you could almost touch the
trees. The other window is larger and gets the morning sun, so the room
is not at all dull or chilly, indeed all our rooms are bright, though
just at the edge of the forest."
"I love forests," said Mary, "at least I mean trees. I have never seen
a real forest, only woods. Are there many birds in Levin Forest?" she
went on, half timidly.
"A great many in the spring and summer time," said Pleasance; "not so
many now, of course. But enough to keep it cheery, so to say. And my
lady has been very pleased lately at finding that the wood-pigeons have
come over more to our part than they used. There's a new road making
across at the opposite side, and Miss Verity thinks perhaps that's the
reason; for though wood-pigeons are trusting sort of creatures, they
don't like being disturbed. And I daresay my lady's right, for we've
never heard them cooing like this year. It's just beautiful." Mary's
heart beat so fast with pleasure that she could scarcely speak. _Could_
it be her own Cooies' voices that Pleasance had heard? It was almost
too lovely to hope for.
"I _love_ wood-pigeons," she said.
"Then you and my lady will be the best of friends," said Pleasance, "for
I almost think they are her favourites of all the creatures about."
Thus beguiling the way with pleasant talk, like the travellers in the
_Pilgrim's Progress_, the little journey soon came to an end, and long
before the autumn afternoon had given any signs of drawing in, the train
slackened and pulled up at the small roadside station which was the
nearest to Dove's Nest, though a two-miles' drive off.
And on the platform stood a lady whom Mary would have guessed to be her
godmother, even if Pleasance had not exclaimed, "Here we are, Miss!" as
she gathered Mary's wraps and small luggage together.
Miss Verity had quite white--snow-white--hair. Just at the very first
moment, somehow, this gave Mary a little start. She had not expected
it, and she was not used to it, as her aunt and those she lived with had
always been younger people. And there is something just a very little
"uncanny"--till you get used to it--about _very_ white hair and dark
bright eyes; it is almost too like a "fairy godmother" to seem quite
natural. But these dark eyes, though bright, were very, very sweet and
soft too.
"If my godmother is at all a fairy," thought Mary to herself, "she is a
very good, kind one."
So, though her cheeks had got rather pink with the surprise and a sort
of sudden shyness, she held up her face to be kissed without hesitation,
and slipped her hand into her godmother's, feeling a pleasant sort of
"sureness" that all that her aunt had told her about Miss Verity was
going to come true.
There was a little pony-carriage waiting just outside the station gates,
and standing in it was a rather fat piebald pony. The carriage only
held two, and for a moment or so Mary wondered how she and her godmother
and Pleasance were all to get to Dove's Nest, as the maid had told her
it was two or three miles from the station. But just then, glancing
round, she saw that there was also a two-wheeled spring-cart, drawn by
another piebald; and Miss Verity noticing Mary's glances, smiled, as if
she were answering an unspoken question.
"Yes," she said, "they are both my ponies. Their names are Magpie and
Jackdaw. Sometimes I drive them together, and then we do go pretty
fast, though Magpie does not look as if that often happened, does she?"
Magpie was the fat pony that Mary had first noticed, though Jackdaw
certainly was not thin!
"No," said Mary, "she doesn't. But she is very pretty," she went on,
feeling--as Magpie just then turned her head as if she was listening--
that perhaps it might hurt her to hear herself spoken of as at all lazy;
"she is very pretty, and I daresay she is fat because she is
good-tempered."
She looked up in her godmother's face as she spoke, and again there came
the quick smile which seemed to say better than words that Miss Verity
understood her thoughts.
"Yes," she replied, "there is a good deal in that. Magpie is very
good-tempered; and poor Jackie is not _bad_-tempered, only a little bit
fiery now and then. Won't you pat them, Mary? It will be a sort of
`How-do-you-do?'"
Mary was only too pleased to do so.
"You shall give them each a lump of sugar every morning," said Miss
Verity; and at this the piebalds pricked up their ears.
"I am sure," thought Mary, "that they understand what godmother says,
just as well as the Cooies understand me."
And in this she was not far wrong.