"A LITTLE WHITE GATE."
Mary stood still for a moment or two, gazing after them, or rather
gazing at the place where they had been. She felt, as she would have
said herself, "rather funny"; not frightened exactly, and certainly very
curious to see what was going to happen next, but just a _little_ timid
about making the plunge into the dark mysterious depths of the forest.
But it was now or never.
"If I let myself get silly and run back home, or anything like that,"
she thought, "I daresay the Cooies will never care for me again, or come
to see me or show me things. For I can see they are rather obstinate,
and of course if they are fairies, or partly fairies, they like to be
obeyed--fairies always do. And godmother too--I believe she understands
about fairies much more than she says--and she always is sure no harm
can come to me in the forest. So I'd better be quick and look out
carefully for the little grey feather."
She walked on therefore, not too fast, for fear of passing the signal,
and with her eyes fixed on the bushes on the left. But it seemed to her
that she had walked a good long way, farther than she expected, before
she felt satisfied that she had got to the place where Miss Verity and
she had stood the day before.
"Can I have passed it?" she asked herself, "and can I _possibly_ have
missed the feather, or can it have blown away?" and she stopped short,
feeling a little anxious.
But just then a very faint "coo" reached her ears; it was scarcely to be
heard, more like the shadow of the sound, but still it was plainly in
front of her, and it encouraged Mary. She had not come too far, and
stepping on again, she soon recognised the spot, and--a little bit on
again, and she gave a tiny cry--there, safely nestling among the
branches, within reach of her hand--was the wee grey, or rather
"dove-coloured" feather.
"I might have known it would be all right--and of course anything
fairy-ish _couldn't_ blow away," she thought.
She picked up the feather, and took off her little fur cap, into which
she fastened it without any difficulty, for though she had no pin--it
isn't often, is it, that little girls have pins "handy" when wanted?--it
seemed to catch into the skin of the fur, all of itself.
"It reminds me," thought Mary, "of `Up the airy mountain--' that part
about bed jacket, green cap, and white owl's feather--though I certainly
don't want to be stolen away, like little Bridget, for seven years long,
even by the Cooies. But I can trust them."
Then she placed her foot exactly below the branch where she had found
the feather and stepped forward carefully, one, two, three, four--up to
seven, and then stood still again.
At first she really thought for a moment or two that the wood-pigeons
had been playing her a trick. The bushes and trees on both sides seemed
to have got so very thick and close; she could not see the least sign of
an opening for even a rabbit to get through on either the left or the
right! And it felt so cold; so much colder, suddenly, it had become.
"I must go home," thought Mary, feeling ready to cry. "I believe the
Cooies are imps after all, and not nice fairies. Yes, I'd better go
home," and just at that moment came the sound of the big bell, not very
loud, but quite distinct Pleasance had not forgotten to ring it. "Three
o'clock," thought Mary, "I had no idea I had been so long. Yes, I must
turn back."
But--what was that other sound? Again, from among the bushes on the
left, came the soft, encouraging little voice, "coo-coo,"--"don't be so
distrustful, Mary; try again," it seemed to say, and as the little girl
still hesitated a sudden glimmer of light flickered for a moment through
the branches somehow, down to the ground, and then faded as quickly as
it had come.
Mary stooped, and with her hands, well protected in their thick winter
gloves, tried to push back some of the leaves. To her surprise they, or
rather the branches on which they were growing, yielded to her touch in
a wonderful way, as if they had been waiting to be put aside, and then
she saw before her a very narrow, very dark little path, _but_ a path,
though it scarcely looked as if even a little doggie could have made its
way along it! But her spirits had got up again by this time, and she
pressed on bravely. It took some courage--it was like walking through
the very high corn in a very fully grown corn-field, if ever you have
done such a mischievous thing?--only with dark trees overhead, and no
light anywhere scarcely--all gloom instead of golden, sunlight yellow.
Still it could be done, and though Mary's heart was beating very fast,
she persevered.
And before long she was rewarded. As the Cooies had promised, a few
minutes were enough to bring her to the end of the chilly dark path,
then she saw before her, close at hand, a little white gate.
When I say a _little_ white gate, I do not mean a low one. On the
contrary it was high, a good deal higher than the top of Mary's head,
but quite narrow, and it seemed closely barred or wired, so that she
could scarcely see through it. She had not time, however, to judge as
to this, for almost as soon as she came to a stop in front of it she
heard a swish and rustle in the air, and down came from she knew not
where a whole flight, or flights of birds, in great excitement, who
settled themselves on the gate, inside and outside, so to say, as if to
defend it.
They did not chirp or chatter or even coo--"cooing" indeed would not
have seemed to suit the state they were in, though she very quickly saw
that they were all pigeons, or doves, or birds of that family, though of
very varying sizes and colour, but so many, and all so plainly intending
to prevent her trying to open the gate that she would have been quite
afraid to try to do so. There was perfect silence, however.
"They must be all the uncles and aunts and cousins and relations of the
Cooies," thought Mary. "I expect I shall have to go home, after all,
without seeing the secret of the forest, as they certainly don't seem to
want to let me pass in." She was again mistaken.
Another little rustle in the air, quite a tiny one this time, and Mary
felt something alight on each of her shoulders. She glanced up--yes, it
was her own friends.
"Coo-coo," they whispered to her. Then one of them or both--she was
often not sure if only one, or the two together, were speaking--turned
to the mass of birds clinging to the gate.
"How inhospitable you are!" they said. "What a welcome to a friend!
Don't you see she _is_ a friend? She has the Queen's feather, and she
has learnt our language," and then Mary felt that all the pairs of eyes
of all the many birds were looking at her, and scarcely knowing that she
did so, she raised her hand to her head, and touched the little grey
feather nestling in her cap.
Instantly there came another flutter, and in the twinkling of an eye the
gate was cleared. Still more, in some way which she could not see, it
was opened, or opened itself, dividing, narrow though it was, in the
middle, and the birds, as if by magic, arranged themselves in two long
rows on each side, seeming to mark a path for her to step along, for of
actual path there was none. Inside the gate there was just the very
softest, shortest, greenest grass you could imagine, like lovely springy
velvet or plush to walk on, and Mary stepped forward, feeling as if each
time she put down her foot a sort of pleasure came through it.
Just at first, she scarcely took in all the wonderful things that had
happened since she passed through the white gate. The rows of birds
made her feel a little shy, for she saw that all their round eyes were
fixed on her. But by degrees she began to notice everything more
closely.
She seemed still to hear a sort of flutter and rustle that kept on
steadily, and yet the birds were quite motionless--those in front of
her, that is to say, but after a moment or two she turned round to see
if she could find out the cause of the sounds she heard, and then she
discovered that as soon as she had passed, the birds rose in couples and
flew off, as if to say, "we have received her politely, and now we have
other things to attend to."
On the whole Mary was rather glad of this. The numbers of birds made
her, as I have said, feel rather shy and confused.
"I only want my own Cooies," she thought, "and not all their uncles and
aunts and cousins," and she glanced forward again, trying to see how
many more she would have to pass, and at that moment, to her great
delight, she caught sight of something she had not seen before.
Right in front of her was another gate, but this time it was quite a low
one, she could almost have jumped over it, she fancied, and it was not
white, but green--grass green, which was perhaps the reason she had not
seen it till she was quite near it. And the rows of birds stopped on
this side of it, and, best of all, her Cooies flew down from her
shoulders and perched themselves on the gate, which opened as the other
had done, for her to pass through, the last of the stranger birds
fluttering off as she did so, leaving her alone with her own two
friends.
"Oh, I'm so glad they've all gone except you two," she said, with a
little sigh of satisfaction. "What quantities of relations you have,
Cooies! Do you know, they made me feel quite giddy? I shall have you
all to myself now, and you can explain everything to me, and show me all
over this beautiful place."
"Suppose you sit down and rest for a few minutes first," said Mr Coo.
His manners became doubly polite and kind, now that Mary was his guest.
"You have walked a good way, farther than you think, and you can see a
great many things you may like to ask about, from where you are."
"Where," began Mary, "where shall I sit down?" she was going to say, but
before she got further she found this was a question she did not need to
ask, for just at one side of where she was standing she caught sight of
the dearest and queerest arm-chair you ever saw. It was made of moss,
or at least covered in moss, green and fresh, but not at all
damp-looking. Nor was it so; on the contrary it was deliciously dry and
springy.
Mary seated herself with great satisfaction, and the Cooies settled
themselves on each arm of her chair and looked at her, their heads well
on one side, which she had come to know meant that they were in high
good humour.
Then she gazed about her.
She seemed to be in a very, very large bower, all carpeted with the same
lovely short grass that she had noticed on first entering, and with
smaller bowers opening, like cloisters, on all sides. Up above, it was
very high, so high that she could not clearly see if there was any kind
of roof or ceiling, or only the interlacing branches of the great tall
trees meeting overhead. These trees walled it all in very thickly, it
was easy to see, and thus made the dark, almost black look which this
innermost spot of the forest had when seen from the outside.
But indeed everything was different from what Mary could have had any
expectation of.
To begin with, the air was deliciously mild and warm, though not too
hot, or with the shut-in feeling of a conservatory. On the contrary,
little breezes were fluttering about, bearing the sweet fresh scents of
a garden in late spring or early summer. And the light?
Where did it come from?
Mary gazed about for a minute or two before she spoke. She felt content
for a little just to sit and look, and then she was rather afraid of
asking any "silly" questions, for she had found out that the Cooies were
far cleverer than any one could have imagined, which she explained to
her own satisfaction by deciding that they were half, if not whole,
fairies!
And this she felt more sure of than ever before, now that she had been
led by them into this wonderful bower.
But where did the light come from?
It did not seem like sunshine; it was almost too soft and mellow, and
yet it was certainly not moonlight, which is always cold and thin. It
was more like sunshine coming through some gently tinted glass, or even
silk, but it was _different_ from any light that Mary could liken it to,
in her own mind. So this seemed a sensible question to ask.
"Cooies, dear," she began, "I do feel so happy, and I do thank you for
having brought me here to this lovely place. I really feel as if I
never wanted to go away. But--it is very, very strange. My head is
full of puzzles. And you did say I might ask questions?"
"Certainly," Mr Coo replied, "ask any you like, though you must
understand that we cannot promise you answers to all. Or at least not
the kind of answers you want, exactly."
Mary nodded her head. A feeling came over her that perhaps she would
not really want answers to all, that it might spoil the nice part of the
puzzles. Still, some things she did want to know.
"Then, first of all," she said, "where does the light come from? It is
so beautifully clear and yet so soft I have never seen any light quite
like it."
"No," said Mr Coo. "I don't suppose you ever have," and Mrs Coo
murmured something which sounded like, "How could she?"
"And," Mr Coo continued, "I am sorry to say that your very first
question is one which it is impossible for me to answer in any way which
it would be possible for you to understand. I can only _half_ do so, by
asking _you_ a question. Have you never heard or read that in
fairy-land, real fairy-land, no mortal among the very few who have ever
found their way there could tell how it was lighted?"
And as he said this, Mr Coo held his head further on one side than Mary
had ever yet seen it.
She gave a little jump; she almost thought she would like to clap her
hands.
"Oh, Cooie, dear," she cried, "that is much nicer than any explanation!
Do you really mean that--"
"Sh--softly, please," he said. "I don't want you to think I really mean
anything. It is just a tiny bit of an idea that I have got leave to put
into your head."
"Leave--got leave," Mary repeated. "Whom have you got leave from?"
"This place does not all belong to us," was the reply. "You saw by the
sign of the grey feather that I had to get leave to bring you in here.
And that is all I can say--at present, any way."
"But it does mean," Mary persisted, "it must mean that this is
fairy-land?"
"No," said Mr Coo, "that does not follow. You don't need to be in the
sun to feel the good of its light and warmth."
"Certainly not," said Mary, laughing. "There wouldn't be much left of
us in the sun. We'd be frizzled up in a moment, of course, before one
could say `tic,' wouldn't one?"
"Most likely," replied Mr Coo.
"But still--even if this isn't fairy-land, it might be close to it?" she
went on.
"Yes, it might be," was the reply.
"Well, then, mayn't I think it is?"
"It will not do you any harm to do so."
But here Mrs Coo interrupted.
"Do not tease the dear child," she said, for Mrs Coo could speak up
sometimes. "I promise you you are not far wrong, very far from far
wrong indeed, if you do think so."
Mary felt very pleased and quite ready to go on with her questions. She
looked about her to settle what to ask next.
"Please tell me," she said, "what are all those lots and lots of little
arbours opening out of this very big one, and may I run about and peep
into them?"
"One question at a time, if you've no objection," said the pigeon on her
right hand again. "The small bowers are arranged for separate families
when we have our great assemblies. We do everything in a very orderly
way. As for looking into them, you may certainly do so--there is a
great deal for you to see here, otherwise we would not have brought you.
It would not be very amusing to spend all the time in just sitting
still, talking to us."
"I don't know," said Mary, rather lazily. "It might not be very
amusing, but it is very _nice_. It is so lovelily warm. But I am not
tired now, mayn't I walk on?"
"I am afraid that to-day," said one of the Cooies,--which, Mary was not
quite sure, as it was sometimes difficult to tell,--"I am afraid--" but
just then Mary gave a great start.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "I believe that's the bell; the four o'clock bell
that Pleasance was to ring for me. I must go. It will take me a good
while to get home," and she looked rather distressed.
"No, it won't. We will show you a short-cut," said both the Cooies
together. This time she had no doubt that both were speaking. "Do not
be afraid. We knew it was about time for you to go home, and we were
just going to tell you so when you heard the bell. This is only a first
visit, to teach you the way, as it were."
"Then may I come again very soon, and see all over, and peep into all
the little arbours and everything?" asked Mary, her spirits rising
again.
"Of course you may. It will be all arranged, you will see," said Mr
Coo. "There are plans which we will tell you about, all in good time.
But you may stay a few minutes longer. Pleasance will not expect you
back the very moment she has rung for you."
And Mary was pleased to lean back in her mossy chair for a little bit.
"It is the warm feeling that is so nice here," she said presently.
"Just right--neither too hot nor too cold. I don't mind its being a
little cold, now the winter is coming, of course. Out-of-doors one can
run, and in the house Pleasance says my godmother is sure to give me a
fire in my own room as soon as I like, so I daresay I shall be warmer
even than at auntie's house. But it _is_ nice to have the summery
feeling back again."
"Coo-coo," the wood-pigeons replied, which meant that they quite agreed
with her.
"Is it always mild and warm in this funny place?" Mary went on.
"Always, just as you feel it," said Mr Coo.
"How nice!" said Mary. "I don't wonder you removed to the forest from
the Square gardens. Yet you never seemed cold there. I used to watch
you last spring, soon after the winter, before it had begun to get warm,
you know, and wish I was dressed in feathers like you. That was before
I knew you, or had learnt to talk to you. It _is_ cold in the nursery
early in the morning sometimes, if the fire hasn't burnt up well, and
the little ones sit at the warm side of the table, you see. I shall
love to come back here again," she went on. "You'll _promise_ to settle
about it soon, won't you? I do so want to see everything you can show
me."
"We won't forget," was the reply. "But it is time for you to be going.
Lean back a little more."
Mary did so, though wondering why, for she was quite getting into the
way of obeying her little friends without hesitation.
And to her surprise she felt that the chair, which had seemed almost as
if growing out of the ground, tilted back with her, though gently, as if
on rockers. Then it swung forwards again, though gently still, and
ended by very politely, so to say, though decidedly, turning her out.
The surprise, it was all too gentle to make her start, confused her a
little. Afterwards she felt almost sure that she must have shut her
eyes for half a second, for the next thing she knew, she was standing
quite steadily just on the forest-side of the small wicket-gate through
which one entered into the garden of Dove's Nest.
"Dear me, Cooies," exclaimed Mary, "that _was_ a short-cut. _Now_, you
can never say you are not."
But before she had time to add "fairies," she found she was talking to
the air, or at any rate not to the wood-pigeons, for they had
disappeared.
Mary almost laughed, though she felt a tiny bit provoked too.
"They do treat me _rather_ too babyishly," she thought. "They might
explain what they are going to do, a little more. But then, after all,
in fairy stories they never do, and I am now quite sure that I _am_ in a
sort of fairy story--that is to say in all to do with the Cooies. If it
was the night I should think I was dreaming; but it isn't the night, and
I am very glad of it. It is much nicer to have really to do with
fairies."
And she ran across the lawn in good spirits, not sorry to have missed
the chilly walk through the wood.
"It couldn't but have felt cold after that deliciously warm place," she
thought to herself. "Perhaps that is why they brought me home in that
magic way. They wouldn't like me to get a sore throat, or a sneezing
cold, or any of these horrible things. Yes, I may be quite sure they
are very, very kind fairies, whatever sort they are exactly."
Pleasance was in the hall as Mary came in. She looked up brightly.
"Well, you have come home punctually, Miss Mary," she said. "I suppose
you heard the bell quite distinctly?"
"Quite," said Mary, "both times."
"That is very nice," said the maid. "Now we can feel quite comfortable
about you when you are amusing yourself in the forest. And you don't
feel chilly, I hope, Miss? It would never do for you to catch cold
while you are with us."
"No, indeed," said Mary, smiling. "I shouldn't like it at all. But you
needn't be afraid. It felt _quite_ warm in--the forest. At least after
the first it did. Shall I get ready for tea now? I suppose godmother
will be home soon."
"Sure to be so," replied Pleasance. "My lady is always punctual.
Indeed I thought I heard the ponies' bells in the distance just before
you came in. It will be nice for Miss Verity to find you back and ready
to welcome her."