"FROM THE ISLANDS OF GORGEOUS COLOURS."
Miss Verity took Mary a drive again the next day. It was not as
interesting as the last one--the one to Crook Edge, I mean, to see
Blanche and Milly. They did not pay any visits, as Miss Verity had
several messages in the little town two or three miles off, where she
had to go once a week or so to the shops.
Mary went into one or two of them with her godmother, and was amused by
their quaint old-fashionedness; but when it came to a call at the
Post-Office, where Miss Verity had some business to see to, she told
Mary she had better wait outside in the pony-carriage, as it was a
bright sunny afternoon, and she was well wrapped up in her feather
cloak.
So Mary sat there thinking, and I daresay you can guess what her
thoughts were about. She was wondering and wondering what the
wood-pigeons had meant by their hints; and just as her godmother came
out again and stepped into the carriage, she had got the length of
saying to herself--
"Oh, I _can't_ guess, and I'm tired of puzzling about it any more. I
just wish--oh, how I do wish--that I could find a _perfectly_ white
feather, the whitest that ever was seen! If only one of those dear
little fluffy clouds would drop down and turn into one, it would do
beautifully."
She was looking up at the sky as she thought this; it was very blue, and
the scudding cloudlets were very white; and--was it fancy?--just at that
moment it seemed to Mary that a little quiver went through her cloak, as
if it, or something about it, had suddenly "come alive," or as if a tiny
breeze had passed through it. But no; there was no wind at all that
afternoon. Miss Verity remarked as they drove home how very still it
was.
Something more than a quiver ran through Mary herself when she got out
of the carriage and went into the hall. It was still full daylight, and
there on the table lay a letter--a foreign letter--addressed to herself;
and with a thrill of delight Mary saw that the writing was her cousin
Michael's!
"Oh, godmother!" she exclaimed, "it is for me--all for myself, not just
a scrap inside auntie's, and it has come straight from--from India, is
it?"
"From the West Indies, dear," said Miss Verity. "I know his ship was to
be at one of the principal islands there a short time ago. Now just
throw off your cloak and run into the drawing-room and read your letter.
It won't do you any harm to keep on your other things for a few
minutes."
Mary did as her godmother said. She put down her feather cloak
carefully on a seat in the hall--somehow she never felt inclined to
handle it carelessly,--and ran in to read her precious letter by the
fire.
Surprises were not at an end for her to-day.
As she opened the envelope and drew out its contents something fluttered
down to the floor. At first sight she could not believe her eyes; she
thought she was dreaming, for when she stooped to pick the little object
up, she saw that it was a small feather--white, _perfectly_ white, "as
white," thought Mary to herself, with astonished delight, "as white as
snow." She scarcely dared to touch it, but slipping it back into the
envelope, she went on to read the letter. It was not a very long one,
but most kind and affectionate, as Michael's always were, and it
contained one piece of news which was full of interest. Through some
quite unexpected changes, her cousin wrote, it was possible, just
_possible_, that he might be home again by Christmas, and able to be
"backwards and forwards" among them all for some weeks or even months.
And then he went on to explain about the feather. It had dropped at his
feet, he said, from some bird passing overhead, while he was standing,
idle for once, looking over the sea and thinking of home, "and of you,
little Mary," he added, "so I thought I would just slip it into my
letter."
"He has no idea _how_ pleased I am with it," thought Mary. "It has come
just in time for me to go to the Dove Queen's great party, and I
shouldn't wonder--no, I really shouldn't--if it gained the prize, for I
am almost sure it is a fairy feather."
And the word fairy reminded her of what the Cooies had said, and all of
a sudden another idea came into her mind.
"I do believe _that_ was it," she said, speaking aloud in her
excitement. "Yes, it all fits in with what they said and didn't say.
The feather cloak is a fairy cloak, a `wishing cloak.' It brought me
home in what seemed a moment the other day, by making me fall asleep,
and to-day it has brought this beautiful white feather just in time! Oh
what fun and how nice! I am sure I have guessed right."
And as if in reply, at that moment she heard, though the windows were
all closed, faintly, yet distinctly, "coo-coo," from the side of the
room nearest the gate into the forest. But Mary knew it meant,--
"Yes, you _have_ guessed right at last, Mary."
She was in great spirits all that evening, and her godmother quite
sympathised in her pleasure at having heard from Michael. And when Mary
showed her the feather, Miss Verity looked at it most admiringly.
"It is a lovely feather," she said. "I don't think I ever saw anything,
except snow, so perfectly white." This pleased Mary very much, and made
her feel still happier about her chance of the Queen Dove's prize.
"Godmother," she said, "may I spend to-morrow afternoon again in the
forest? You don't particularly want me to drive with you, do you?"
She could not help feeling a _little_ anxious as to the answer, but
yet--the Cooies had managed everything all right so far. She felt that
she might trust them.
"No, dear," said Miss Verity. "I do not mean to drive myself to-morrow,
for I am going to send to fetch some rather large parcels from the
railway station. And in any case I like you to play in the forest when
you wish it. It will be fine to-morrow, too, I think, as the sun has
set very red."
"I'm so glad," said Mary, "and thank you very much. Shall I get any
more cones?" she added.
"Yes, please, as many as you can, but don't stand about too much, so as
to get chilled."
"I almost wish," thought Mary, as she was going to bed, "that I hadn't
reminded godmother of the fir-cones. I am _so_ afraid of being too late
for the Queen's party. But perhaps it wouldn't have been kind not to
offer to get them. I know what I'll do, I'll start as early as ever I
can, and run all the way to the place near the white gate--I am sure I
know it now--and pick up the cones _there_; there are lots. So the
Cooies are sure not to miss me, and if my basket is not full, they will
manage to help me in some of their queer fairy ways."
Then she thought how and where she could keep the feather safe, and
secure from getting the least spotted. She decided that its old home--
the inside of Michael's letter--was as safe as anywhere, but first she
tore off a little piece of the blue tissue-paper round the "fairy cloak"
and folded the feather in it.
To-morrow _was_ fine, and all went as Mary hoped. Very soon after
luncheon she set off, basket on arm, to the forest. Without difficulty
she found the spot where the wood-pigeons had met her the last time, and
which she knew was close to the entrance to the "secret place," and
there set to work to gather cones as fast as she could.
There were plenty, but still it _was_ rather tiring, to keep stooping
for them, scarcely allowing herself a moment's rest, and more than once
she wished that the Cooies would make haste and come to her help.
She was not afraid of their forgetting her, however, she knew they would
come in time, and so they did, for before her basket was more than
three-quarters full she heard the slight rustle in the air and felt the
little feet on her shoulders.
"There you are!" she exclaimed joyfully, "and oh, dear Cooies, _do_ you
know what I have got?" and she drew out the precious feather.
Whether they had known about it or not, she could not tell, for they
said nothing in reply to her question. They just hopped down and looked
at her basket, their heads on one side.
"It is time to be going in," they said. "All the others are in their
bowers, getting ready."
"But my cones," said Mary. "The basket is not nearly full, and I
shouldn't like godmother to think I had got fewer this time."
The wood-pigeons looked up--not to the sky, but to the nearest
fir-trees. And two or three cones dropped--straight into the basket.
"It will be quite full when you come back again," they said.
And Mary, wondering, but feeling it better to ask no more questions,
followed them down the little path and through the two gates, both of
which this time stood open. And when they first entered into the great,
leafy hall, for a minute or two it seemed as deserted as the last time.
But only for a minute or two.
"Sit down," said the Cooies, very softly. "There is your place. They
are all coming, and the rush may make you feel giddy."
Then Mary saw in front of her a little mossy bank--large enough for
herself and another child, perhaps. She sat down--something made her
sit quite in the middle, and on each side of her, greatly to her
satisfaction, for she was feeling rather shy and even a tiny atom
frightened, her two friends settled themselves.
Not a moment too soon. There came such a rush through the air that she
could have fancied a great wind had suddenly burst into the peaceful
place, and round her, above, on every side, such a whizz and flutter of
wings as would, it seemed to her, have whirled her down had she been
standing upright and unprepared for them, and for a moment Mary closed
her eyes.
Then the rush quieted down, and when Mary looked up again she saw a
wonderful sight. Clusters and clusters of birds, on branches all round
the great arbour--so many that the greenery was almost hidden. But they
were all in order. As her eyes grew accustomed to them, she noticed
that no two clusters were quite alike, either in size or colour or
shape; they were all a little different, and then she understood that
each "family" of her own Cooies' numerous relations kept itself
distinct, though all were evidently on most friendly terms, and her own
two wood-pigeons seemed to have a specially important position, which
pleased her to see.
But the principal personage of the day was yet to make her appearance,
and the kind of hush and expectation which followed the rush of the
innumerable little wings told its own tale to Mary. She sat, almost
holding her breath.
Eight in front of her, though at some little distance, was a pillar or
pedestal, perfectly covered with moss of an even more beautiful green
than that of the beautiful exquisitely fine grass at her feet. And as
Mary kept her eyes fixed on this pillar--something told her to do so--at
last what they were all, the child and the hundreds of birds, waiting
for, came. How it came, she could never tell. There was a movement,
not as loud as a rustle even, just a movement in the air, and then--on
the top of the pillar she saw the loveliest thing she had ever seen in
her life. A large white dove--so white, so beautiful; and as the lovely
creature slightly turned her snowy neck, Mary caught a moment's gleam of
something golden, like a thread of vivid sunshine, more than gold, if
you can picture such a thing to yourselves.
It was Blanche's dove--Mary felt sure of it now.
Then the queenly bird spoke. Her voice was like music--whether the
words that came to Mary's ears would have sounded to others like
murmuring "coo-coo" only, or not, I cannot say, and it does not matter,
for the little human guest understood.
"The procession may pass," said the Queen.
Then from every cluster two birds detached themselves, all meeting
together behind Mary's seat. And in another moment, reminding her a
little of a long line of tiny choristers that she had once seen in a
great cathedral, they appeared two by two--fifty couples or more--and
passing forward, each pair stopped in front of the Queen and laid down a
feather at the foot of her pillar. White feathers they all were.
It was so pretty--the birds' perfect order and slow movement--the
Queen's stately beauty--that Mary forgot for a moment that she herself
was to take any part in the ceremony, till a little peck on her cheek
told her that the right-hand Cooie was calling her to attention.
"It is your turn now," he whispered. "Draw out your feather. We will
lead the way."
And they did so, Mary following, the precious feather in her hand, till
at the foot of what to herself she had begun to call "the throne," she
felt she should stop, and with the prettiest curtsey she could make, she
laid her treasure down, a very little in front of the long row already
there, and then, still guided by the two wood-pigeons, made her way back
to her place, where, however, she did not sit down again, but remained
standing, her heart beating rather fast, for even in the instant's
glimpse of the others that she had had, it seemed to her that hers was
the whitest!
The Queen flew down from her pillar, and passed slowly along the front,
looking carefully at the feathers. Then she bent down and picked one up
in her beak and flew back with it. Mary shut her eyes for a moment,
afraid to look, but when she opened them again and dared to glance
before her, she saw that her hopes had been well-founded--Michael's gift
was no longer where she had laid it.
And there stood the Queen, the quill of the feather in her beak, so that
the rest of it lay across her own snowy plumage, not snowier than it,
however. She was quite silent for a minute, as if she wanted them all
to see for themselves, and then came again the beautiful tones of her
voice.
"This feather," she said, "has won the prize. It has come from the
islands across the sea--the islands of gorgeous colours and rich
fragrance--this simple snow-white feather. Our human guest, Mary, our
child-visitor, has brought it, and you see for yourselves that it has
won the prize. It is the whitest of them all," and she bent her head
towards the feathers on the ground, "beautiful as they are."
Then there came a great wave through the air; a murmur of many voices,
which sounded like one solitary note on some strange soft organ: then
silence again, till again Queen White Dove spoke.
"I see you all agree with me," she said, "and I think you are generous
and kind. For there is one thing to be said still, before the prize is
given. You, my birds and relations, have been for many weeks seeking to
win the prize: you have worked for it; you have travelled far, many of
you. But Mary has not needed to do any of these things. Her feather
came to her without any effort on her part--"
"Never say roast larks don't drop into some people's mouths," whispered
Mr Coo, who by this time was perched on his old place on Mary's
shoulder. Mary gave a little shrug, but he clung on all the same.
"And therefore," continued the Queen, "I think it is only fair that a
short trial and test should be laid upon her."
Mary began to feel rather frightened. What was the Queen going to do?
Turn her into a wood-pigeon perhaps, or something of the kind. But such
fears were soon laid at rest.
"It is not a severe test," the Queen continued, and Mary felt that she
was now speaking to herself directly, and that her tone was very
gracious. "It is this. For one week you must keep the feather as
spotless as it is now, and if at the end of that time you bring it here
again--perfect and unsullied--you will have gained the prize. Do you
agree?" Mary hesitated. She felt somehow a little confused. Mr Coo
gave her an invisible peck.
"Say `Yes, I will,'" he murmured.
"I do, you mean," whispered Mary, rather pleased to snub him. And she
made another curtsey, and said in a clear voice,--
"I do."
"Then come forward," and Mary did so, till she was close to the pillar,
on which Queen White Dove was again standing. It was not much higher
than Mary herself. The Queen raised one dainty claw, and taking the end
of the feather from her beak, she placed it just inside the brim of
Mary's close-fitting fur hat, or cap, where the grey feather had been on
the day of Mary's first visit to the "forest's secret."
"It is safe and firm," she said. "It will be by your own fault, Mary,
if it drops out or is in any way spoilt."
And Mary curtseyed for the third time, murmuring thanks, and went back
to her place, wondering to herself what was going to happen next.
The two wood-pigeons were there as before.
"We are all about to disperse," they said. "Lie down and close your
eyes for a moment, till the rush is over."
She did so, and again came the great noise of wings, and--when she
looked up, reassured by the silence, she was half-sitting, half-lying at
the gate of her godmother's garden, the basket, well filled with cones,
beside her, and the two Cooies perched on it!
And just then, Pleasance came out of the house and rang the big bell.