"THE SOFT RUSH OF MANY LITTLE WINGS."
After breakfast Miss Verity turned to Mary.
"Let us talk over our plans a little," she said.
"I like making plans," Mary replied, and in her own mind she added, "it
would be a good thing to know what my godmother wants me to do every
day, for then I could tell the Cooies the most likely times for me to be
at the window."
"That is a good thing," said Miss Verity, smiling. "I will give you an
idea of how I usually spend the day. Of course it changes a little
between summer and winter, but just now it is rather between the two.
Well, as a rule, I am busy about house things for an hour or so after
breakfast, and then I generally take a stroll round the garden and go to
see the ponies, and _then_ I write letters or read till luncheon. In
the afternoon I go a drive--once or twice a week I pay calls, and once
or twice I go to see some of the cottage people; of course if they are
ill or in trouble and I know of it, I go oftener."
"May I come with you when you go to the cottages?" Mary asked. "I like
to see the funny little rooms, and sometimes there are such nice babies.
But," she went on half timidly, "I'd rather not pay _lady_ calls.
Auntie takes me with her sometimes, but I generally wait for her outside
in the carriage."
"I will not take you to pay any `lady calls' where you would feel
strange or shy," said Miss Verity, "but at one or two of my friends,
there are children whom you would like--about your own age."
"Ye-es," Mary replied, rather doubtfully, "but, please, godmother, I
should be quite happy here with just you. And sometimes mayn't I go a
little walk alone in the forest?"
Miss Verity considered.
"Yes," she said, "I don't see any reason why you should not. It is
perfectly safe: there are no tramps or gypsies about here. I will take
you there once or twice myself and explain the paths a little, so that
there would be no fear of your losing your way. And now I shall be busy
for an hour, or half-an-hour any way. After that we can stroll about a
little together."
"And then?" said Mary.
"Then," said Miss Verity, with her half comical smile, "supposing we do
some lessons? I promised your auntie that I would read French with you,
as I have been more accustomed to it than she herself or your
governess."
"Would you like me to learn some French by heart to say to you?" asked
Mary. She wanted to please her godmother, for she felt how very kind
she was, and I think too, she wanted Miss Verity to see that she could
be trusted, so that she could now and then be free to talk to her
Cooies.
"And perhaps," she thought, "_perhaps_ I may meet them in the wood and
see where they live, and see some more Cooies--their cousins. That
_would_ be lovely."
"I should like it very much indeed," said Miss Verity. "I have a dear
little book of the old fables--La Fontaine's--oh, by the bye, it is up
in your room. And I know how fond you are of animals, so--"
"Oh," exclaimed Mary, and she looked so bright and eager that Miss
Verity did not mind her interrupting. "_I_ know what you mean. I have
learnt one or two. I'll run upstairs now and find the book, and may I
choose a fable?"
"Certainly, dear," said her godmother.
So Mary hastened to her turret, where she soon discovered the fat little
old-fashioned volume. Then she chose one fable--not a very long one,
but I am afraid I don't remember which it was--and settled herself in
the corner of the drawing-room, which, like her own window, looked out
towards the forest, to learn two or three verses by heart.
From time to time she glanced out--with a half idea that perhaps she
might catch sight of the wood-pigeons.
"They are so clever," she said to herself, "that if they saw me learning
my lessons they would quite understand I mustn't be interrupted. But it
would be nice just to feel that they were peeping at me through the
branches."
She neither heard nor saw anything of them that morning, however. But
she now trusted them too much to have any fear of their forgetting her.
And by the time Miss Verity came in from her house-keeping duties,
Mary's two or three verses were perfectly learnt.
"But I will not hear them just yet," said her godmother, "put on your
hat and jacket, and come out with me to see how the ponies are this
morning."
The ponies seemed to Mary even more lovable in the stable than in
harness. They both seemed to know their mistress so well, and rubbed
their heads against her in the most affectionate way. And when she said
to Magpie that she must make friends with Mary too, Magpie really turned
her head round and gazed at Mary with her big brown eyes as if she quite
understood.
Then Mary gave her and Jackdaw a lump of sugar each, which they seemed
to enjoy very much, and after that Miss Verity took her round the
kitchen garden and the little poultry-yard, and even to pay a visit to
the pig-sty, where lived two fat little pink pigs, looking cleaner, Mary
said, than any pigs she had ever seen before.
And just as they were going into the house again Miss Verity stood still
for a moment.
"Listen," she said, "is it not pretty?" and then came to their ears the
sweet sounds so familiar to Mary--
"Coo-coo, Coo-coo."
Mary's eyes sparkled. She felt sure the voices were those of her own
little friends.
Lessons hardly seemed lessons at Dove's Nest. Miss Verity had such an
interesting way of explaining things, and seeming as if she herself
enjoyed what they talked about. Yet she was very particular too, and I
think that sensible children like to feel that their teachers _are_
particular, just as sensible ponies like to feel that the person holding
the reins knows how to drive. She was not satisfied with Mary's being
able to repeat the fable rightly till she had gone through it with her
and saw that she understood it all quite thoroughly, and then she
corrected some of Mary's pronunciation, which made it all sound ever so
much prettier. After that, there was a sort of geography lesson, as
Mary was very anxious to see on the map exactly where her dear Michael
was going to, and how he would get there, so that the time passed so
quickly that Mary could scarcely believe when her godmother looked at
her watch and exclaimed--
"My dear child, it is one o'clock, and we have luncheon at a quarter
past! Auntie would think I was giving you far too many lessons."
"No, no, she wouldn't," said Mary, laughing and shaking back her curls,
which had tumbled over her eyes while she was bending to look at the
atlas. "Auntie would be very pleased, for it doesn't seem a bit like
lessons. It is almost as nice as hearing stories."
At luncheon, which was of course Mary's real dinner, her godmother began
talking about what they should do that afternoon.
"Would you rather drive or go a walk?" she said. Mary was burning with
eagerness to explore the forest a little. She knew that till Miss
Verity was satisfied that there would be no fear of her losing her way
among the trees she could not hope for leave to wander about by herself.
"I would _dreadfully_ like to see the forest," she said, "but of
course--"
She was going to say that she would be pleased to do whatever her
godmother thought best, but she felt rather shy. Miss Verity considered
for a minute or two, then,--
"I think we had better do _both_," she said. "Both drive and walk.
Magpie needs some exercise, and I want to ask how an old friend of mine
is, who lives too far off to walk there; though her house too is on the
edge of the forest. That will take us about an hour and a half, so if
we start at a quarter past two we shall still have time for a wander on
this side of the woods before it gets too chilly and dusk."
"Thank you," said Mary. In her heart she felt rather disappointed that
she would have no time, or very little, that day to see her Cooies, but
still, after all, it was a great thing to see something of the forest
and get leave, perhaps, to stroll about there by herself.
"And _possibly_," she thought, "we may meet them. Godmother would not
know them, but I am sure _I_ would, and they could not feel frightened
of her when she is so sweet and kind."
She was ready in good time, and waiting at the door when Miss Verity
came downstairs. It was really quite curious to see how Magpie pricked
up her ears the moment she heard her mistress's voice, and the very
slightest touch on the reins was enough to tell her which way she was to
go or to hurry her up a little if she were jogging along too
deliberately.
It was a pretty drive--indeed, Mary thought that all the drives about
there were pretty--and quite in a different direction from the way they
had come the day before. And when Miss Verity went in to see her friend
who was ill, Mary strolled about the garden by herself. It was a nice
garden, but not to be compared with the one at Dove's Nest, Mary
thought, and there did not seem to be nearly so many birds hopping
about, or chirping in the trees. She felt very glad that her godmother
did not stay long, as, though she tried not to be impatient, she was
very eager indeed to go back for the promised walk in the forest.
And Magpie seemed to understand, or so Mary fancied, though most likely
it was that she knew she was going home, for she did not require any
sort of cheering up to go quickly, but trotted along as fast as Miss
Verity would let her.
The man-servant was waiting for them at the door, so Mary jumped out at
once and glanced up at her godmother.
"Yes, dear," said Miss Verity, in reply to the unspoken words, "yes, I
have not forgotten. Tell Myrtle,"--Myrtle was the parlour-maid--"to
have tea ready for us in an hour," she added, turning to the man. She
looked up at the sky as she spoke. "Yes," she went on, "I think we can
safely stay out three-quarters of an hour or so before it gets too
chilly. And it is not going to rain."
Mary trotted along beside her godmother in silent satisfaction, though
beneath her quiet appearance she was bubbling over with excitement.
To get into the forest--into a real big forest!--and above all, the
forest where her Cooies lived--she could imagine nothing more
interesting. And though she had felt disappointed at not getting there
earlier in the day, she could not help agreeing with Miss Verity when,
after a minute or two's silence on her side too, she said,--
"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."