Chapter Five.
“A Little Bird Told Me.”
It was a pretty drive to Dove’s Nest, even though the summer and early autumn beauty was past, and some of the trees that bordered the road were already bare. But when they had turned a corner of the road they came into clear view of the forest, and then Mary felt perfectly happy.
For a moment or two she did not speak, then she turned to her godmother and said rather shyly—“It’s like some of my fairy stories—the forest, I mean; isn’t it, godmother?”
Miss Verity smiled, and by the look in her eyes Mary saw that she understood.
“Yes,” she said. “I think that is why I like to live close to a forest. It seems full of fairy stories.” Mary gave a little sigh of pleasure. It is very nice to feel that big people know what you mean, even though you cannot say what you are feeling in very clear words. Then she sat silent again, gazing before her and feeling that she was already enjoying herself very much.
Magpie trotted along in her usual placid way; now and then pricking up her ears and switching her tail, though there were no flies about.
“What does she do that for?” asked Mary.
“I think it is just a little sign of friendliness,” said Miss Verity. “We know each other so well, you see—Magpie and I, I mean; we often jog along together like this for hours and hours. And now and then I talk to her a little, and she answers me in her way. So perhaps when she hears my voice talking to you, she thinks it is to her.”
Just then Magpie gave a very big switch Mary laughed.
“Do you know,” she said, “I believe she means to be very polite to me. I think that is why she switches her tail and cocks her ears to-day, and she wants us to know.”
Miss Verity laughed too.
“I daresay you are right,” she said. “And now, Mary,” she went on, “keep your eyes open even wider than usual, for Dove’s Nest comes in sight all of a sudden.”
Mary’s face sparkled with eagerness. She glanced about her from side to side, and at last there came in view a stop in the hedge at the left side, which, as they got quite close, proved to be the entrance to a fairly wide grassy lane; and a little way farther on a white gate was to be seen, or rather the white posts at each side, for the gate itself was hooked back among the green bushes, so as to leave the entrance open.
“Here we are,” said Miss Verity, and as Magpie turned in, her mistress allowed her to go slowly, which the piebald never objected to, even at her own door, so as to let the little guest have a good first sight of the house and garden.
It—the house, I mean—really was rather like a nest. The stone it was built of was a soft browny-grey colour, and the carefully-trained ivy had grown over it so prettily that even the colour of the walls was shaded and in some places hidden by the rich dark green. And as Mary gazed, a funny fancy came into her head that the windows, which were always kept very bright and clean, were like kind twinkling eyes looking out to welcome you. There was a cosy-looking porch, the roof of which was thatched in a queer fancy way; it looked like moss, and made one think still more what a good name Dove’s Nest was for the house.
“I think it’s lovely,” said Mary, after she had taken a very good look at it all, “lovely and sweet.”
Miss Verity seemed pleased. I think it is very nice to say pleasant things to our friends when they want to please us. It is a stupid, selfish kind of shyness that makes children—and big people, too, sometimes—keep back from saying something pretty and admiring, even when they really feel it and would like to say it. And afterwards, perhaps, when it is too late, or the chance is gone, one wishes one had said the pleasant little thing.
Yes, a great deal of the sweetness of life depends on very little things. A smile or a loving look, or a word or two of pleasure and admiration are like roses and honeysuckle in the hedges.
“I hope you will like it inside as much as outside,” said Miss Verity.
“I’m sure I shall,” Mary replied.
And so she did. It would be difficult to describe the whole house, of course, but I must tell you how pretty the drawing-room was. It was almost quite round, with windows at one side, and the fire-place, in which a nice bright fire was burning, underneath the middle window, so that while sitting in front of it and feeling as warm as a toast, you could glance up to the sky, and see the trees moving in the wind and the birds flying across, while the creepers, twined round the panes, nodded at you in a friendly way.
Below the other windows, which were not so high up, were cushioned seats, very tempting, as from them one could see the prettiest parts of the garden and the many birds, who at all seasons of the year had been encouraged by Miss Verity’s kindness to look upon Dove’s Nest as a home of pleasure and safety. The rest of the room was very pretty too, though just a little old-fashioned. There were not quite so many sofas and low chairs and cushions as one sees in drawing-rooms nowadays, for when Miss Verity was young such things were considered only suitable for quite old people or invalids, and Mary’s godmother was certainly not an invalid, and did not feel herself very old either, though her hair was so white.
But Mary’s eyes travelled at once to the windows, and she darted across the room to look out.
“Oh, how nice!” she exclaimed. “What a lovely lawn, and what dear little birds hopping about!”
“I am so glad you like it,” said Miss Verity, “for your room at one side looks out the same way. My own room is over this, the birds and I say ‘How-do-you-do?’ to each other every morning. Shall we go upstairs at once for you to take off your hat and jacket, and then we can have tea.”
Mary was delighted to follow Miss Verity, for Pleasance’s description had made her eager to see her own corner of Dove’s Nest. Her godmother crossed the square hall and opened a door which led into another little hall or anteroom, from which a wide shallow-stepped staircase led to the next floor.
Here they found themselves in a long passage—Miss Verity walked on quickly, passing two or three doors, and stopping for a moment at one which was slightly open.
“That is my room,” she said, and Mary, glancing in, saw the same round shape with windows at one side as downstairs, “and yours,” Miss Verity went on, “is really almost next it, though I daresay you would not have guessed it, as it seems a long way off.”
Then she opened another door, a little farther on, and to Mary’s surprise and pleasure a second staircase came in sight. This time it was a narrow “twisty-turny” one, leading up into a kind of turret at one end of the house. This turret was so covered with ivy and other evergreen, or almost evergreen, creepers, that from the outside it was scarcely to be distinguished from the mass of trees in the background. The staircase was not high, as the house was really only a two-storied one, but when Miss Verity got to the top there was another door to open, then a short passage, at one end of which were a few steps leading to a small landing, nearly all window, and at the other end two or three steps down again into another little landing, almost like a room, and across this at last, Mary’s own “nest.”
A charming nest it was—no little girl could have helped being delighted with it Miss Verity was rewarded for the trouble she had taken to make it nice for Mary by the look on her god-daughter’s face, and the cry of pleasure that she gave.
There was a little bed in one corner, with pink and white curtains at the head, a dressing-table to match, and a wicker-work chair with cushions covered with the same dimity. And all the furniture was light and small, so as to leave plenty of room for moving about Mary’s trunk had already been brought in, and when she had time to notice it Mary wondered how the servants had got it up the tiny staircase. But just at first, the thing that caught her eyes was the view from one of the windows. No, one can scarcely call it a “view,” a “look-out” is a better word, for, as Pleasance had told her, it was really into the trees. Standing there you almost felt as if you were living in a tree yourself. And after a happy glance round, Mary flew to this window.
“It is all lovely,” she said, “but this is the nicest of everything.”
The window was half open. Miss Verity followed her to it, and laid her hand on Mary’s shoulder.
“Listen,” she said.
And then from the depths of the dark green shade came, what to Mary was almost the sweetest sound in the world,—“Coo-coo,” and again “Coo-coo,” as if in reply.
“It is the wood-pigeons,” said Miss Verity, and the little girl smiled to herself at her godmother thinking she did not know. “Isn’t it sweet? I have never heard them so near as the last few days. Just as if it was to welcome you, Mary!”
And at this Mary’s smile almost turned into a laugh.
Then Miss Verity opened a door in a corner which Mary had not seen before, and again there was a short flight of steps, leading downwards.
“This is the near way into my room,” said her godmother, “so you will never feel lonely. If you tap at the second door,” for there was one at the foot of the steps as well as at the top, “I shall always hear you. Sometimes the door is locked, but I will keep it unfastened while you are here. It is so now, as your trunk has been brought through this way. Now, take off your things, dear, and come down to tea. You will find it and me waiting for you in the drawing-room.”
And so saying she went on into her own room. Mary ran back and took off her things as quickly as she could. But before she went downstairs, she could not resist standing a moment at “the forest window” as she had, in her own mind, begun to call it.
“Cooies,” she said softly, “dear Cooies, if it is you—my Cooies—that I heard just now—do you know that I have come?”
And from a little distance, a little farther off than they had seemed before, came the reply—at least Mary felt sure that it was one,—
“Coo-coo,” and again, “Coo-coo.”
She could not stay longer just then, but she felt very happy indeed, as she made her way down the cork-screw staircase and along the passages and downstairs again to the drawing-room. She could scarcely help singing as she went, and her face looked so bright as she came into the room that her godmother thought to herself that it was quite a mistake of Mary’s aunt to have written to her that the little girl would most likely be very grave and shy at first.
I don’t think Mary ever enjoyed anything more than that first tea with Miss Verity. She was very hungry, to begin with, and everything tasted delicious, and the room was so cosy and yet fresh, with little flutters of air and scent from the garden outside, as one window was a tiny bit open. And there were pretty autumn posies here and there in china bowls about the room, the faint fragrance from which mingled with that of dried rose-leaves and lavender, which the house had never been without since Miss Verity’s grandmother had come to live there as a bride, long, long ago.
All these things joined to make Mary feel very happy, though she did not think of them all separately, but behind everything in her mind was the looking forward to seeing her dear Cooies again. She gave one of her little sighs of content, which her godmother quite understood, though she did not seem to notice it.
When tea was over, Miss Verity proposed that Mary should go up to her room again, to see Pleasance unpack her trunk, and explain about her things.
“I have dinner at seven o’clock,” she said, “which is of course earlier than your uncle and aunt dine, so I have got leave for you to dine with me, or at least to sit at table with me, though you will not care to have much to eat.”
“No, I couldn’t be very hungry, so soon after tea,” said Mary, gravely, “but sometimes when auntie was alone, I have been at her dinner, and she gave me a little soup, and pudding, and fruit.”
“Yes,” said Miss Verity, “that is just what I mean.” Then Mary went up to her turret, where Pleasance was already busy, and showed the maid which were her best frocks, and sashes, and hair-ribbons, and everything, and herself arranged the few books, and writing things, and little treasures she had brought with her. There was a small bookcase all ready, on which stood some tempting little volumes that Miss Verity had looked out for her.
And through all the pleasant little bustle of the unpacking there came to Mary’s ears every now and then the sound they were so ready to hear, of “coo-coo,” “coo-coo.”
But she was not alone in her room again at all that evening, for Pleasance came to dress her for dinner, and to help her to undress for the night—not at least, till after she was in bed. And she did not dare to get up and open the window after the maid had gone, for Pleasance had told her it was raining, and that she had therefore shut both windows closely.
“It would never do for you to catch cold here,” she said, “otherwise your auntie would not let you come again.”
So Mary had to console herself by thinking that most likely the Cooies were fast asleep, and by hoping that the next day would be fine and mild.
And so it was!
Mary slept very soundly. When she woke it was already full daylight, and some bright though pale rays of sunshine were creeping in at the side of the blinds and sparkling on the pretty flowery paper of the walls. She rubbed her eyes and could not, for a moment or two, remember where she was—you know the queer, rather interesting, puzzled feeling one has, the first morning in a strange place? and then by degrees it all came back to her, and up she jumped and ran to the window. But it was cold, so she very wisely peeped out for a moment only, just to satisfy herself that it was a fine day, and then hopped into bed again.
She had not long to wait before there came a knock at the door, followed by Pleasance and a younger servant with a big can of water for her bath.
“Wide-awake already, Miss Mary?” said the maid, in her kind cheerful voice. “Well, I am glad it is a nice morning for you; the rain last night was only a heavy shower after all, for the trees are scarcely wet and the birds are chirping away as if it was the spring.”
“And are the pigeons cooing?” asked Mary.
“You may be sure of that,” said Pleasance. “They are always the first to be heard about here, though I’ve never known them to roost so near the house as this last week or two. I’ll unfasten the window bolt, so that you can push it open a bit after you’ve had your bath, and listen to them. It is sweet, like wishing you a happy day.”
“I’m sure I am going to have a happy day,” said Mary, jumping out of bed.
You may be sure her bath did not take very long that day. She was soon dressed; at least enough to open the window as Pleasance had proposed, and while finishing her morning “toilet,” she listened for the familiar sounds she was hoping to hear.
Yes—she was not disappointed—they came, the sweet caressing “coo-coo,” ever nearer and nearer, till at last, just as Mary was fastening her belt, a little flutter close at hand was followed by the alighting of two feathered figures on her window-sill. One glance told her they were her own Cooies.
“Oh, you darlings,” she exclaimed, “how sweet of you to come the first morning! How did you find out I was here?”
Mr Coo glanced round him cautiously, before he replied.
“Ah,” he said, “we have ways and means of getting news that would surprise you. There is more truth in the old saying, ‘a little bird told me,’ than the people who use it in jest have any idea of. Did we not tell you, dear Mary, that we should meet again before along?”
“Yes, yes, indeed you did,” said Mary, “and I believed you, you see. Auntie would not have forced me to come, but when I heard of Levin Forest, I felt sure you knew about my godmother living here, and so I said I’d like to come.”
“Just so,” said Mr Coo, and “just so,” Mrs Coo repeated.
“We would have flown here last night to welcome you,” Mr Coo went on, “but we thought you might be tired.”
“And it came on to rain,” added Mrs Coo, “and we did not wish to be wet and draggle-tailed for our first visit.”
“No, it would have been a pity,” said Mary, “and you are both looking so pretty. I could fancy you had got all new feathers. I never noticed before, how very white your neck ones are, just like beautiful clean collars. And what pretty rainbowy colours you have below them.”
Both the Cooies cocked their heads on one side; they liked to be admired.
“You have never seen us to advantage before,” said Mrs Coo. “Near a town it is impossible to keep one’s feathers so fresh.”
“Talking of white feathers,” began Mr Coo, but he stopped suddenly, as just then the breakfast-bell rang. “We will come again,” he said, “we have a great deal to tell you, Mary.”
“We want to do all we can to make you enjoy yourself,” said Mrs Coo.
“How kind of you!” said Mary. “And when will you come again?”
“I think,” said Mr Coo, “the best plan will be for us to have a signal. We roost very near here. If you stand at the window and say ‘cooie, cooie,’ we are pretty sure to hear you.”
“All right,” said Mary, “and thank you so much. I wonder what you are going to tell me about white feathers.”
She ran off, and the Cooies flew away.
“I think,” said Mrs Coo, “I think it would be best for the Queen herself to tell Mary about the competition—that is to say if we succeed in getting an invitation for her. So I was not very sorry that you were interrupted, Mr Coo. I think you should consult me before speaking of anything so important to the dear child.”
Mr Coo seemed rather snubbed, but he was always ready to acknowledge Mrs Coo’s good sense.
“In future I will do so, my dear,” he replied politely.