"COME BACK IN THE SPRING, MARY."
Mary sprang up. She had been half-sitting on the little gate, for the
surprise of finding herself at home again so quickly had almost taken
away her breath. But the wood-pigeons calmed her down.
"You need not hurry," they said. "Pleasance never expects you for ten
minutes or longer after she has rung. Sit down on the basket and we
will keep you warm."
And when Mary had done so, they flew on to her shoulders and spread out
their little wings as if ready for flight, and Mary felt a nice soft
glow of heat going through her.
"Now," they continued, "we can talk comfortably--do you want to ask us
anything?"
"Of course I do," said Mary. "A great big thing. I want to know how I
can keep my feather perfectly white."
"The Queen told you almost as much as we can," was the reply. "She said
it would be your own fault if it dropped out or got spoilt in any way."
"I know she did," said Mary, "but that's very puzzling. I can't go
about with my hand to my head holding it in."
"You don't need to do so. As the Queen spoke of `fault'--`your own
fault'"--said Mr Coo, "I would advise you to think over what is most
likely to be a fault of yours."
"I know," said Mary quickly. "Hasty temper--that's my worst fault.
Auntie always says so. But sometimes when I've been very unhappy about
it, she has said any way it doesn't last long; she has said it to
comfort me, you see, and it's true--I scarcely ever feel cross with
anybody for more than a minute."
"A minute may leave many minutes of trouble behind it," said Mrs Coo,
gently.
"I know that," said Mary. "Once at home poor baby got a knock that was
black and blue for a week, just because we'd given him a little push to
get him out of the way."
"Then be on your guard," the wood-pigeons replied, "and this day week
come to the meeting-place in the forest again, at the same time. You
will have no difficulty."
"And shall I not see you till then?" asked Mary, rather dolefully, "a
whole week?"
But she was speaking to the air! Her Cooies had disappeared.
"A whole week," however, sometimes passes very quickly, though
sometimes, it is true, a week seems to have leaden wings. This time it
was not so. Miss Verity was more than kind in her ways of interesting
and amusing her little god-daughter; so that even though the weather
grew dull, and rainy, and disagreeable, and it was scarcely possible to
go out, either driving or walking, Mary was happy and bright. The only
thing that she felt uneasy about was as to the appointed day for her
visit to the secret of the forest.
"If it should be a regular bad day," she said to herself, "godmother
will certainly not let me go out, and it would seem silly of me to
expect it."
But she wisely consoled herself by remembering that, so far, nothing
that had to do with the wood-pigeons _had_ gone wrong. And as it was a
"fairy" matter, she might safely leave it in fairy hands!
"Or in fairy beaks and claws," she added, laughingly, to herself, "as
_my_ fairies are all birds."
And her trust was well-founded. For the day before _the_ day there came
a complete change in the weather. There was a change of moon, Pleasance
told her, but, however that may have been, there was a great improvement
in out-of-doors things. It grew colder, certainly, but bright, and
clear, and bracing; the sort of weather that healthy children love, and
indoors plenty of good fires kept away all fear of colds, and
chilblains, and miseries of that kind.
Mary was delighted; both because she was so glad to get out again, and
also to have her fears about the important day dispelled. For it was
not now likely, indeed almost impossible, that the weather should change
again for some little time to come.
"What a good thing it is that I have got all my Christmas presents
finished before this nice frost began, isn't it?" she said to Pleasance,
as she was dressing to go out, that first fine day. For one of her
godmother's ways of interesting and amusing her in the house had been to
give her some charming scraps and patches of silks and satin, besides
other odds and ends of pretty cord and fringe and such things, with
which Miss Verity had helped her to make sweet and dainty little
pincushions and pen-wipers and so on to take home with her.
"Yes, indeed it is, Miss," said the maid. She was taking Mary's jacket,
and cap, and fur boa, and thick gloves out, for she was very afraid of
her catching cold, as this was the most wintry weather there had been
during the little girl's visit to Dove's Nest. "Miss Mary," she went
on, "why do you keep this one tiny white feather in your cap? It looks
quite out of place, stuck into the brim all by itself, and if you care
for it, it would be much safer in your work-box or your writing-case."
She had the cap in her hand as she spoke, and seemed, or at least Mary
thought so, on the point of taking out the feather. But before there
was time for anything more, Mary darted forward, tore the cap out of the
maid's hand, turning upon her almost fiercely.
"Don't touch it," she cried, "if you--" but the words died upon her
lips, for as she spoke the cap fell to the ground in the sort of little
struggle there had been, as poor Pleasance, not really understanding
what Mary meant, had kept her hold for a moment or two. The cap fell to
the ground--unluckily they were standing close to the fire-place--and
when Mary stooped to pick it up she saw that the feather had dropped
out, and lay where it had fallen, just within the fender. The fire was
not yet lighted, but there must have been a little coal or cinder dust
about, for when Mary, scarcely daring to breathe, stooped again for her
treasure, she saw that the mischief was done--a black or grey spot now
sullied the feather's perfect whiteness.
And, without a word of explanation to Pleasance, who stood there in
half-stupefied astonishment, the little girl burst into tears.
"Miss Mary!" she exclaimed at last; "my dear, I am so sorry. I had no
idea that you cared about the feather so much. I can get you another
like it, I daresay, or very likely the spot will rub off," and she held
out her hand for it.
"Oh no, no," sobbed Mary, "you could never get another like it--never;
and I am sure the spot won't rub off."
All the same, she drew out her handkerchief and tried with great care
what she could do. But in vain; the poor feather's perfect spotlessness
was gone.
"It was my own fault--all my own fault," murmured Mary to herself, "that
is why it won't rub off. Oh dear, oh dear! Just at the last."
And though after a while she dried her eyes and tried to look as usual,
telling Pleasance she was sorry she had been so cross, she looked a very
unhappy little girl when at last she set off for a walk, leaving the
feather in its first home--the inside of Michael's letter, which was
lying on the table.
She would not, she felt she could not, go to the forest, and it was
getting late. The misfortune to the feather and her own crying had
wasted time, the finest part of the afternoon was over already. So she
went out at the front gate and trotted down the road, in a kind of
"duty" way that was very dull and depressing. The sky and the look of
things in general seemed to have caught her sadness, for there was a
dark blue-grey look in one direction which cast a strange kind of shadow
over all, and every trace of sunshine had gone.
Miss Verity had driven out by herself that afternoon, to see the old
lady-friend who lived at some distance, and who, she had heard, was more
ill and weak than usual, and it suddenly struck Mary that if she walked
on much farther she might meet her godmother coming home. She did not
wish this, as she felt sure that her eyes were still red and swollen,
and she did not want to be asked, even by kind Miss Verity, "what she
had been crying about."
So she turned and walked home again, without any adventure except
passing two country people, who were saying to each other that it was
blowing up for snow.
"Not to-night," said one, "nor yet to-morrow morning, but it's on the
way all the same."
"That will be the end of it, I daresay," thought Mary. "If there is a
snow-storm, godmother of course will not let me go out to-morrow, and
everything will be over."
For deep down in her heart there was still a sort of hope, that if she
could get to the secret of the forest the next day at the appointed
time, _somehow_, things might yet be put right. Perhaps the beautiful
dove, when she saw how dreadfully sorry she was, would give her another
trial, or tell her of some magic way of cleaning the feather? at worst
Mary felt that she would be able to explain how it had happened;
anything would be better than her not seeing her dear bird friends
again, which might easily happen if to-morrow were impossible for her,
as the time for her returning to her aunt's was fast drawing near.
Miss Verity seemed a little sad and anxious herself when she came home
that evening, and if she did notice Mary's still rather swollen eyes,
and face whiter than usual, she said nothing.
But when the little girl had bidden her good-night and was going off to
bed, she called her back again.
"Mary, dear," she said, "can you manage to amuse yourself again
to-morrow afternoon? My kind old friend is not at all well, not able to
leave her room, and rather lonely and dull, and she begged me to go to
her if I possibly could?"
Mary's face brightened.
"Of course I can," she replied, "if only--oh, godmother, do you think I
can go to the forest?"
"Why not?"
"I heard some people on the road say that it was going to snow, by
to-morrow afternoon, certainly."
"Well, what then?" said Miss Verity, smiling. "It may snow without
being a snow-storm. And that will not be just yet. I know the signs of
the weather here pretty well by this time, my dear."
So Mary went to sleep with a lighter heart.
And her godmother was right. It was cold the next day, it is true, but
not very cold, nor very gloomy; nothing to prevent the little girl's
setting off in good time to the spot where she usually met the Cooies.
But how slowly and sadly she made her way there. She could scarcely
help crying again, as she looked at the poor feather she carried in her
hand--not wrapped up, what was the use of wrapping it up now?--instead
of in its former place in spotless whiteness on the front of her cap.
Indeed more than once she felt on the point of turning back altogether,
and when she got near the entrance to the hidden path she stood still,
feeling as if she could not bear to see the two wood-pigeons.
Just then something cold fell on her face; she looked up; there it was
again--yes, it _was_ snowing, after all, though not much. A few flakes,
that was all--and a ray of wintry sunshine came out as she glanced
upwards, so there was not much fear of any great fall. Nor did Mary
mind now.
"The Cooies will take me safe home, I am sure," she said to herself.
"They'll take care of me, I know, even if they are very vexed with me."
They were not to be seen as yet, however, so Mary made her way along the
little path to the white gate, which, as she half expected, stood open.
So was the inner one, and in another moment she found herself inside the
great arbour hall. And though there was complete silence, a glance
showed her that it was quite full--all the birds were there in their
places, waiting for the Queen, and--for her. Her own wood-pigeons
perched one on each side of the green bench.
"You are late," they murmured, as she took her place.
"Oh Cooies," she whispered in reply, "it doesn't matter. I am so
unhappy. I was nearly not coming at all, only then you would have
thought I had broken my promise, and perhaps I should never have seen
you again."
"It was better to come," said Mr Coo, "but--hush!"
The Queen had alighted--where from, Mary could not see, but there she
was, on the green pillar, as before, and it scarcely needed the sound of
the lovely voice calling her, for the little girl to know that she was
summoned.
"Have you proved worthy of the prize," the Queen asked, when Mary had
curtseyed low and stood waiting, the feather in her hand.
"No," she said in a low voice, choking back her tears, and then she told
what had happened.
"Give me the feather," said the Queen.
Mary did so, but even in the moment of holding it up it seemed to her--
what was it?--the feather looked a little different, and a curious
thrill of hope passed through her.
Then the Queen spoke again, and soft though her voice was, it was very
clear. Every bird in the great arbour heard what she said.
"Mary," she began, "you are a very fortunate child. The winter spirits,
the snow-fairies, have taken you into favour. See--a flake has fallen
on your feather, a fairy flake, for even the warmth of our bower has not
melted it, and nothing ever will. Your feather is again spotless, and
the snowflake has added a silvery glistening to its whiteness. As the
winter spirits have thus favoured you, no one may dispute that you have
won the prize; before another day has passed you will receive it. A
golden chain will encircle your neck. Farewell for the present, happy
Mary."
And as she bent her beautiful head, the gleam of the wonderful thread of
sunshine round her own neck flashed on Mary's eyes.
She took the feather from the Queen, and almost breathless with delight,
began to thank her. But a great sound drowned her first words. It was
a sound she had heard before--the rushing of countless little wings--but
this time it was still louder. Mary turned her head to see; yes, that
was it, but the birds were still in their places, they were not flying
away, though all their wings were in motion. And when she glanced round
again, the Queen had disappeared.
"What--" she was beginning to ask, but before she could say more Mr Coo
interrupted her.
"They are clapping their wings to congratulate you and wish you joy," he
said. "Make a curtsey to them; they will understand."
So Mary turned towards them and curtseyed in her prettiest manner,
though she felt rather shy, and then, taking this as her farewell, the
great flight of birds rose--in every direction the air seemed full of
them, and again, as had been the case before, the rush and flutter made
her feel confused and giddy. But her own Cooies were perched on her
shoulders.
"Shut your eyes and count eleven slowly," one, or both of them
whispered; "then it will be all right, you will see."
Mary did so: before she got to "eleven" she had become rather sleepy,
and began to dream that she was the little sister in the fairy story of
the _Eleven White Swans_, and that it was _their_ wings she heard; then
something touched her cheek, and she started and opened her eyes, and,
she was standing at the gate leading into her godmother's garden, the
two wood-pigeons on the path in front of her, looking up at her!
"Oh Cooies," she exclaimed, half-laughing, "you _have_ brought me back
quickly this time. How _did_ you do it?"
"Never mind about that," they replied. "Here you are all safe and
sound."
But it seemed to her that their voices were rather sad.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked.
Their heads were both very much on one side.
"No," was the reply, "it is all quite right. Only saying good-bye is
always rather sad."
"Saying good-bye," Mary repeated.
"Not for always. Come back in the spring, Mary. Run in now, but come
back in the spring," and then in an instant they were up in the air,
ever, ever so high, and Mary was standing there alone, Michael's feather
still in her hand, and from above there came the "coo-coo" she had
learnt to know so well, and the echo of the last words, "come back in
the spring, Mary."
Feeling rather strange, _almost_ as if she were going to cry, Mary
crossed the little lawn to the house. And just as she got to the door
she met Pleasance coming out with the big bell in her hand.
"Oh, Miss Mary," she said, "I am so glad you have come back. I was just
going to the gate to ring. But it is getting so dark and chilly
already, I am glad you came home earlier, and so will Miss Verity be."
She was right. Mary's godmother drove in a few minutes later, and her
first words to the little girl were the same as her maid's.
Miss Verity was rather silent that evening, though as kind as ever. She
seemed to have a good deal to think of.
And the next morning there were several letters for her, which she read
carefully.
After breakfast she called Mary into the drawing-room.
"I think, dear," she said, "we will not have any lessons to-day. I have
two or three things to tell you--one, rather sad, at least to me it is
so, and I fancy you will feel the same about it. And two or three
pleasant things--which will you have first?" Mary considered.
"The sad one," she replied, "and then the others will make me feel happy
again."
Miss Verity smiled, and then Mary noticed that she was holding a small
packet in her hand.
"After all, it is nothing so very bad," she said. "It is only, dear,
that your visit must come to an end a few days sooner than I had hoped."
"I believe the Cooies knew it," thought Mary to herself.
"My old friend," continued her godmother, "whom I have been to see
several times lately, is failing fast. She is feeling lonely too, and
has begged me to go to stay with her for some weeks as soon as possible.
I have promised to do so the day after to-morrow, so _to-morrow_, dear,
Pleasance will take you home. I have a letter from your aunt, saying
they will be very happy to have you back, but--this is the first of the
pleasant things, she promises that I shall have you again in the spring.
And you will be glad to hear that it is really quite settled that
Michael will be home for Christmas."
"Oh, I _am_ glad!" exclaimed Mary.
"And another nice thing is that Blanche and Milly are going to be your
neighbours in the Square." Mary's face brightened still more.
"Blanche and her husband have taken a house there, and Milly will live
with them, and be a nice companion for you. They hope to see you very
often. _Thirdly_, I have a rather curious nice thing to tell you and to
show you," and Mary somehow felt sure it had to do with the little
parcel.
"Last night," continued her godmother, "thinking of your leaving, I
opened the drawer in my old cabinet where I keep the feather mantle, and
where I will again lay it away till I lend it to you some other time. I
meant to tell Pleasance to put fresh paper and lavender in the drawer,
if they were needed, and as I was looking in, I noticed a little piece
of crumpled paper, as I thought, in one corner. I picked it up, and
fortunately began to smooth it out, before throwing it away. And--look,
dear, what was in it."
She held out the paper packet, which she had unfolded, and there lay a
little coil of gold, so fine and thin, it was like a thread of sparkling
silk. It was a very delicately made, but strong, nevertheless, gold
chain for the neck, clasped by one pure white pearl, which, as soon as
Mary saw it, made her think of Queen White Dove.
"Oh!" she murmured breathlessly, "how lovely!"
"Yes," said her godmother, "and it is for you, dear. How it came there,
I cannot exactly say, but I feel sure it must have dropped out of the
pocket of the feather mantle, where it may have lain for nearly half a
century. I was never allowed to _wear_ the mantle except a very few
times, on great occasions, and it got too small for me before long.
And," here Miss Verity's face and voice grew rather dreamy, "I have a
faint, very faint remembrance of _something_ my mother said about a
chain lost on its way here from the place where the mantle came from.
This chain is certainly of foreign make; it might really be a fairy one,
so strong, though so fine."
She clasped it round Mary's neck as she spoke.
"Yes," she said, "it fits you perfectly. I felt sure it would. I
should like you always to wear it."
"I will," said Mary, and she held up her face to kiss her godmother.
So it was a happy little Mary who went back that day to the friends in
the Square, happy to have her again.
For though there was no wood-pigeons' nest in the gardens, there was the
thought in her heart of seeing her Cooies again "in the spring."
And when Michael came home she showed him his feather, safe in its old
place--the inside of his letter--in her little writing-case.
"It is a pretty feather," he said, "it has such a nice sparkle on it
too."
Mary smiled. She had her own little secrets, you see!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.