CHAPTER I
THERE IS
NO ONE LEFT
When Mary
Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said
she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen.
One
frightfully hot morning, when she was about nine years old, she awakened
feeling very cross, and she became crosser still when she saw that the servant
who stood by her bedside was not her Ayah.
"Why
did you come?" she said to the strange woman. "I will not let you
stay. Send my Ayah to me."
The woman
looked frightened, but she only stammered that the Ayah could not come and when
Mary threw herself into a passion and beat and kicked her, she looked only more
frightened and repeated that it was not possible for the Ayah to come to Missie
Sahib.
There was
something mysterious in the air that morning. Nothing was done in its regular
order and several of the native servants seemed missing, while those whom Mary
saw slunk or hurried about with ashy and scared faces. But no one would tell
her anything and her Ayah did not come. She was actually left alone as the
morning went on, and at last she wandered out into the garden and began to play
by herself under a tree near the veranda. She pretended that she was making a
flower-bed, and she stuck big scarlet hibiscus blossoms into little heaps of
earth, all the time growing more and more angry and muttering to herself the things
she would say and the names she would call Saidie when she returned.
"Pig!
Pig! Daughter of Pigs!" she said, because to call a native a pig is the
worst insult of all.
She was
grinding her teeth and saying this over and over again when she heard her
mother come out on the veranda with some one. She was with a fair young man and
they stood talking together in low strange voices. Mary knew the fair young man
who looked like a boy. She had heard that he was a very young officer who had
just come from England
"Is
it so very bad? Oh, is it?" Mary heard her say.
"Awfully,"
the young man answered in a trembling voice. "Awfully, Mrs. Lennox. You
ought to have gone to the hills two weeks ago."
The Mem
Sahib wrung her hands.
"Oh,
I know I ought!" she cried. "I only stayed to go to that silly dinner
party. What a fool I was!"
At that
very moment such a loud sound of wailing broke out from the servants' quarters
that she clutched the young man's arm, and Mary stood shivering from head to
foot. The wailing grew wilder and wilder. "What is it? What is it?"
Mrs. Lennox gasped.
"Some
one has died," answered the boy officer. "You did not say it had
broken out among your servants."
"I
did not know!" the Mem Sahib cried. "Come with me! Come with
me!" and she turned and ran into the house.
After
that, appalling things happened, and the mysteriousness of the morning was
explained to Mary. The cholera had broken out in its most fatal form and people
were dying like flies. The Ayah had been taken ill in the night, and it was
because she had just died that the servants had wailed in the huts. Before the
next day three other servants were dead and others had run away in terror.
There was panic on every side, and dying people in all the bungalows.
During the
confusion and bewilderment of the second day Mary hid herself in the nursery
and was forgotten by everyone. Nobody thought of her, nobody wanted her, and
strange things happened of which she knew nothing. Mary alternately cried and
slept through the hours. She only knew that people were ill and that she heard
mysterious and frightening sounds. Once she crept into the dining-room and
found it empty, though a partly finished meal was on the table and chairs and
plates looked as if they had been hastily pushed back when the diners rose
suddenly for some reason. The child ate some fruit and biscuits, and being
thirsty she drank a glass of wine which stood nearly filled. It was sweet, and
she did not know how strong it was. Very soon it made her intensely drowsy, and
she went back to her nursery and shut herself in again, frightened by cries she
heard in the huts and by the hurrying sound of feet. The wine made her so
sleepy that she could scarcely keep her eyes open and she lay down on her bed
and knew nothing more for a long time.
Many
things happened during the hours in which she slept so heavily, but she was not
disturbed by the wails and the sound of things being carried in and out of the
bungalow.
When she
awakened she lay and stared at the wall. The house was perfectly still. She had
never known it to be so silent before. She heard neither voices nor footsteps,
and wondered if everybody had got well of the cholera and all the trouble was
over. She wondered also who would take care of her now her Ayah was dead. There
would be a new Ayah, and perhaps she would know some new stories. Mary had been
rather tired of the old ones. She did not cry because her nurse had died. She
was not an affectionate child and had never cared much for any one. The noise
and hurrying about and wailing over the cholera had frightened her, and she had
been angry because no one seemed to remember that she was alive. Everyone was
too panic-stricken to think of a little girl no one was fond of. When people
had the cholera it seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves. But if
everyone had got well again, surely some one would remember and come to look
for her.
But no one
came, and as she lay waiting the house seemed to grow more and more silent. She
heard something rustling on the matting and when she looked down she saw a
little snake gliding along and watching her with eyes like jewels. She was not
frightened, because he was a harmless little thing who would not hurt her and
he seemed in a hurry to get out of the room. He slipped under the door as she
watched him.
"How
queer and quiet it is," she said. "It sounds as if there were no one
in the bungalow but me and the snake."
Almost the
next minute she heard footsteps in the compound, and then on the veranda. They
were men's footsteps, and the men entered the bungalow and talked in low
voices. No one went to meet or speak to them and they seemed to open doors and
look into rooms. "What desolation!" she heard one voice say.
"That pretty, pretty woman! I suppose the child, too. I heard there was a
child, though no one ever saw her."
Mary was
standing in the middle of the nursery when they opened the door a few minutes
later. She looked an ugly, cross little thing and was frowning because she was
beginning to be hungry and feel disgracefully neglected. The first man who came
in was a large officer she had once seen talking to her father. He looked tired
and troubled, but when he saw her he was so startled that he almost jumped
back.
"Barney!"
he cried out. "There is a child here! A child alone! In a place like this!
Mercy on us, who is she!"
"I am
Mary Lennox," the little girl said, drawing herself up stiffly. She
thought the man was very rude to call her father's bungalow "A place like
this!" "I fell asleep when everyone had the cholera and I have only
just wakened up. Why does nobody come?"
"It
is the child no one ever saw!" exclaimed the man, turning to his
companions. "She has actually been forgotten!"
"Why
was I forgotten?" Mary said, stamping her foot. "Why does nobody
come?"
The young
man whose name was Barney looked at her very sadly. Mary even thought she saw
him wink his eyes as if to wink tears away.
"Poor
little kid!" he said. "There is nobody left to come."
It was in
that strange and sudden way that Mary found out that she had neither father nor
mother left; that they had died and been carried away in the night, and that
the few native servants who had not died also had left the house as quickly as
they could get out of it, none of them even remembering that there was a Missie
Sahib. That was why the place was so quiet. It was true that there was no one
in the bungalow but herself and the little rustling snake.
CHAPTER II
MISTRESS
MARY QUITE CONTRARY
Mary had
liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had thought her very
pretty, but as she knew very little of her she could scarcely have been
expected to love her or to miss her very much when she was gone. She did not
miss her at all, in fact, and as she was a self-absorbed child she gave her
entire thought to herself, as she had always done. If she had been older she
would no doubt have been very anxious at being left alone in the world, but she
was very young, and as she had always been taken care of, she supposed she
always would be. What she thought was that she would like to know if she was
going to nice people, who would be polite to her and give her her own way as
her Ayah and the other native servants had done.
She knew
that she was not going to stay at the English clergyman's house where she was
taken at first. She did not want to stay. The English clergyman was poor and he
had five children nearly all the same age and they wore shabby clothes and were
always quarreling and snatching toys from each other. Mary hated their untidy
bungalow and was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody
would play with her. By the second day they had given her a nickname which made
her furious.
It was
Basil who thought of it first. Basil was a little boy with impudent blue eyes
and a turned-up nose, and Mary hated him. She was playing by herself under a
tree, just as she had been playing the day the cholera broke out. She was
making heaps of earth and paths for a garden and Basil came and stood near to
watch her. Presently he got rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion.
"Why
don't you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery?" he
said. "There in the middle," and he leaned over her to point.
"Go
away!" cried Mary. "I don't want boys. Go away!"
For a
moment Basil looked angry, and then he began to tease. He was always teasing
his sisters. He danced round and round her and made faces and sang and laughed.
"Mistress
Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And marigolds all in a row."
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And marigolds all in a row."
He sang it
until the other children heard and laughed, too; and the crosser Mary got, the
more they sang "Mistress Mary, quite contrary"; and after that as
long as she stayed with them they called her "Mistress Mary Quite
Contrary" when they spoke of her to each other, and often when they spoke
to her.
"You
are going to be sent home," Basil said to her, "at the end of the
week. And we're glad of it."
"I am
glad of it, too," answered Mary. "Where is home?"
"She
doesn't know where home is!" said Basil, with seven-year-old scorn.
"It's England
"I
don't know anything about him," snapped Mary.
"I
know you don't," Basil answered. "You don't know anything. Girls
never do. I heard father and mother talking about him. He lives in a great,
big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him. He's so cross
he won't let them, and they wouldn't come if he would let them. He's a
hunchback, and he's horrid." "I don't believe you," said Mary;
and she turned her back and stuck her fingers in her ears, because she would
not listen any more.
But she
thought over it a great deal afterward; and when Mrs. Crawford told her that
night that she was going to sail away to England
"She
is such a plain child," Mrs. Crawford said pityingly, afterward. "And
her mother was such a pretty creature. She had a very pretty manner, too, and
Mary has the most unattractive ways I ever saw in a child. The children call
her 'Mistress Mary Quite Contrary,' and though it's naughty of them, one can't
help understanding it."
"Perhaps
if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners oftener into
the nursery Mary might have learned some pretty ways too. It is very sad, now
the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember that many people never even knew
that she had a child at all."
"I
believe she scarcely ever looked at her," sighed Mrs. Crawford. "When
her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing. Think
of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted
bungalow. Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened
the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room."
Mary made
the long voyage to England London
"My
word! she's a plain little piece of goods!" she said. "And we'd heard
that her mother was a beauty. She hasn't handed much of it down, has she,
ma'am?" "Perhaps she will improve as she grows older," the
officer's wife said good-naturedly. "If she were not so sallow and had a
nicer expression, her features are rather good. Children alter so much."
"She'll
have to alter a good deal," answered Mrs. Medlock. "And, there's
nothing likely to improve children at Misselthwaite—if you ask me!" They
thought Mary was not listening because she was standing a little apart from
them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to. She was watching the
passing buses and cabs and people, but she heard quite well and was made very
curious about her uncle and the place he lived in. What sort of a place was it,
and what would he be like? What was a hunchback? She had never seen one.
Perhaps there were none in India
Since she
had been living in other people's houses and had had no Ayah, she had begun to
feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new to her. She had begun to
wonder why she had never seemed to belong to anyone even when her father and
mother had been alive. Other children seemed to belong to their fathers and
mothers, but she had never seemed to really be anyone's little girl. She had
had servants, and food and clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her. She
did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of
course, she did not know she was disagreeable. She often thought that other
people were, but she did not know that she was so herself.
She
thought Mrs. Medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever seen, with her
common, highly colored face and her common fine bonnet. When the next day they
set out on their journey to Yorkshire, she walked through the station to the
railway carriage with her head up and trying to keep as far away from her as
she could, because she did not want to seem to belong to her. It would have
made her angry to think people imagined she was her little girl.
But Mrs.
Medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her thoughts. She was the
kind of woman who would "stand no nonsense from young ones." At
least, that is what she would have said if she had been asked. She had not
wanted to go to London
"Captain
Lennox and his wife died of the cholera," Mr. Craven had said in his
short, cold way. "Captain Lennox was my wife's brother and I am their
daughter's guardian. The child is to be brought here. You must go to London
So she
packed her small trunk and made the journey.
Mary sat
in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain and fretful. She had
nothing to read or to look at, and she had folded her thin little black-gloved
hands in her lap. Her black dress made her look yellower than ever, and her
limp light hair straggled from under her black crepe hat.
"A
more marred-looking young one I never saw in my life," Mrs. Medlock
thought. (Marred is a Yorkshire word and means
spoiled and pettish.) She had never seen a child who sat so still without doing
anything; and at last she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a
brisk, hard voice.
"I
suppose I may as well tell you something about where you are going to,"
she said. "Do you know anything about your uncle?"
"No,"
said Mary.
"Never
heard your father and mother talk about him?"
"No,"
said Mary frowning. She frowned because she remembered that her father and
mother had never talked to her about anything in particular. Certainly they had
never told her things.
"Humph,"
muttered Mrs. Medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive little face. She did
not say any more for a few moments and then she began again.
"I
suppose you might as well be told something—to prepare you. You are going to a
queer place."
Mary said
nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent
indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on.
"Not
but that it's a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven's proud of it
in his way—and that's gloomy enough, too. The house is six hundred years old
and it's on the edge of the moor, and there's near a hundred rooms in it,
though most of them's shut up and locked. And there's pictures and fine old
furniture and things that's been there for ages, and there's a big park round
it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground—some of
them." She paused and took another breath. "But there's nothing
else," she ended suddenly.
Mary had
begun to listen in spite of herself. It all sounded so unlike India
"Well,"
said Mrs. Medlock. "What do you think of it?"
"Nothing,"
she answered. "I know nothing about such places."
That made
Mrs. Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh.
"Eh!"
she said, "but you are like an old woman. Don't you care?"
"It
doesn't matter" said Mary, "whether I care or not."
"You
are right enough there," said Mrs. Medlock. "It doesn't. What you're
to be kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I don't know, unless because it's the
easiest way. He's not going to trouble himself about you, that's sure and
certain. He never troubles himself about no one."
She
stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time.
"He's
got a crooked back," she said. "That set him wrong. He was a sour
young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was
married."
Mary's
eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to care. She had
never thought of the hunchback's being married and she was a trifle surprised.
Mrs. Medlock saw this, and as she was a talkative woman she continued with more
interest. This was one way of passing some of the time, at any rate.
"She
was a sweet, pretty thing and he'd have walked the world over to get her a
blade o' grass she wanted. Nobody thought she'd marry him, but she did, and
people said she married him for his money. But she didn't—she didn't,"
positively. "When she died—"
Mary gave
a little involuntary jump.
"Oh!
did she die!" she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. She had just
remembered a French fairy story she had once read called "Riquet a la Houppe. " It had been
about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess and it had made her suddenly
sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven.
"Yes,
she died," Mrs. Medlock answered. "And it made him queerer than ever.
He cares about nobody. He won't see people. Most of the time he goes away, and
when he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself up in the West Wing and won't let
any one but Pitcher see him. Pitcher's an old fellow, but he took care of him
when he was a child and he knows his ways."
It sounded
like something in a book and it did not make Mary feel cheerful. A house with a
hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and with their doors locked—a house on the
edge of a moor—whatsoever a moor was—sounded dreary. A man with a crooked back
who shut himself up also! She stared out of the window with her lips pinched
together, and it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour
down in gray slanting lines and splash and stream down the window-panes. If the
pretty wife had been alive she might have made things cheerful by being
something like her own mother and by running in and out and going to parties as
she had done in frocks "full of lace." But she was not there any
more.
"You
needn't expect to see him, because ten to one you won't," said Mrs.
Medlock. "And you mustn't expect that there will be people to talk to you.
You'll have to play about and look after yourself. You'll be told what rooms
you can go into and what rooms you're to keep out of. There's gardens enough.
But when you're in the house don't go wandering and poking about. Mr. Craven
won't have it."
"I
shall not want to go poking about," said sour little Mary and just as
suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven she began
to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant enough to deserve all that
had happened to him.
And she
turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of the railway
carriage and gazed out at the gray rain-storm which looked as if it would go on
forever and ever. She watched it so long and steadily that the grayness grew
heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep.
CHAPTER III
ACROSS THE
MOOR
She slept
a long time, and when she awakened Mrs. Medlock had bought a lunchbasket at one
of the stations and they had some chicken and cold beef and bread and butter
and some hot tea. The rain seemed to be streaming down more heavily than ever
and everybody in the station wore wet and glistening waterproofs. The guard
lighted the lamps in the carriage, and Mrs. Medlock cheered up very much over
her tea and chicken and beef. She ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep
herself, and Mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet slip on one
side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage,
lulled by the splashing of the rain against the windows. It was quite dark when
she awakened again. The train had stopped at a station and Mrs. Medlock was
shaking her.
"You
have had a sleep!" she said. "It's time to open your eyes! We're at
Thwaite Station and we've got a long drive before us."
Mary stood
up and tried to keep her eyes open while Mrs. Medlock collected her parcels.
The little girl did not offer to help her, because in India
The
station was a small one and nobody but themselves seemed to be getting out of
the train. The station-master spoke to Mrs. Medlock in a rough, good-natured
way, pronouncing his words in a queer broad fashion which Mary found out
afterward was Yorkshire .
"I
see tha's got back," he said. "An' tha's browt th' young 'un with
thee."
"Aye,
that's her," answered Mrs. Medlock, speaking with a Yorkshire
accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward Mary. "How's
thy Missus?"
"Well
enow. Th' carriage is waitin' outside for thee."
A brougham
stood on the road before the little outside platform. Mary saw that it was a
smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who helped her in. His long
waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of his hat were shining and
dripping with rain as everything was, the burly station-master included.
When he
shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they drove off, the
little girl found herself seated in a comfortably cushioned corner, but she was
not inclined to go to sleep again. She sat and looked out of the window,
curious to see something of the road over which she was being driven to the
queer place Mrs. Medlock had spoken of. She was not at all a timid child and
she was not exactly frightened, but she felt that there was no knowing what
might happen in a house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up—a house
standing on the edge of a moor.
"What
is a moor?" she said suddenly to Mrs. Medlock.
"Look
out of the window in about ten minutes and you'll see," the woman
answered. "We've got to drive five miles across Missel Moor before we get
to the Manor. You won't see much because it's a dark night, but you can see
something."
Mary asked
no more questions but waited in the darkness of her corner, keeping her eyes on
the window. The carriage lamps cast rays of light a little distance ahead of
them and she caught glimpses of the things they passed. After they had left the
station they had driven through a tiny village and she had seen whitewashed
cottages and the lights of a public house. Then they had passed a church and a
vicarage and a little shop-window or so in a cottage with toys and sweets and
odd things set out for sale. Then they were on the highroad and she saw hedges
and trees. After that there seemed nothing different for a long time—or at
least it seemed a long time to her.
At last
the horses began to go more slowly, as if they were climbing up-hill, and
presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more trees. She could see
nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either side. She leaned forward and
pressed her face against the window just as the carriage gave a big jolt.
"Eh!
We're on the moor now sure enough," said Mrs. Medlock.
The
carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which seemed to be
cut through bushes and low-growing things which ended in the great expanse of
dark apparently spread out before and around them. A wind was rising and making
a singular, wild, low, rushing sound.
"It's—it's
not the sea, is it?" said Mary, looking round at her companion.
"No,
not it," answered Mrs. Medlock. "Nor it isn't fields nor mountains,
it's just miles and miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on but
heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on but wild ponies and
sheep."
"I
feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it," said Mary.
"It sounds like the sea just now."
"That's
the wind blowing through the bushes," Mrs. Medlock said. "It's a
wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there's plenty that likes
it—particularly when the heather's in bloom."
On and on
they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped, the wind rushed
by and whistled and made strange sounds. The road went up and down, and several
times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very
fast with a great deal of noise. Mary felt as if the drive would never come to
an end and that the wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through
which she was passing on a strip of dry land.
"I
don't like it," she said to herself. "I don't like it," and she
pinched her thin lips more tightly together.
The horses
were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught sight of a light.
Mrs. Medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a long sigh of relief.
"Eh,
I am glad to see that bit o' light twinkling," she exclaimed. "It's
the light in the lodge window. We shall get a good cup of tea after a bit, at
all events."
It was
"after a bit," as she said, for when the carriage passed through the
park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through and the trees
(which nearly met overhead) made it seem as if they were driving through a long
dark vault.
They drove
out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an immensely long but
low-built house which seemed to ramble round a stone court. At first Mary
thought that there were no lights at all in the windows, but as she got out of
the carriage she saw that one room in a corner upstairs showed a dull glow.
The
entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiously shaped panels of oak
studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars. It opened into an
enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that the faces in the portraits on
the walls and the figures in the suits of armor made Mary feel that she did not
want to look at them. As she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small,
odd little black figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked.
A neat,
thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for them.
"You
are to take her to her room," he said in a husky voice. "He doesn't
want to see her. He's going to London
"Very
well, Mr. Pitcher," Mrs. Medlock answered. "So long as I know what's
expected of me, I can manage."
"What's
expected of you, Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Pitcher said, "is that you make
sure that he's not disturbed and that he doesn't see what he doesn't want to
see."
And then
Mary Lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long corridor and up a
short flight of steps and through another corridor and another, until a door
opened in a wall and she found herself in a room with a fire in it and a supper
on a table.
Mrs.
Medlock said unceremoniously:
"Well,
here you are! This room and the next are where you'll live—and you must keep to
them. Don't you forget that!"
It was in
this way Mistress Mary arrived at Misselthwaite Manor and she had perhaps never
felt quite so contrary in all her life.
CHAPTER IV
MARTHA
When she
opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young housemaid had come into
her room to light the fire and was kneeling on the hearth-rug raking out the
cinders noisily. Mary lay and watched her for a few moments and then began to
look about the room. She had never seen a room at all like it and thought it
curious and gloomy. The walls were covered with tapestry with a forest scene
embroidered on it. There were fantastically dressed people under the trees and
in the distance there was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle. There were
hunters and horses and dogs and ladies. Mary felt as if she were in the forest
with them. Out of a deep window she could see a great climbing stretch of land
which seemed to have no trees on it, and to look rather like an endless, dull,
purplish sea.
"What
is that?" she said, pointing out of the window.
Martha,
the young housemaid, who had just risen to her feet, looked and pointed also.
"That there?" she said.
"Yes."
"That's
th' moor," with a good-natured grin. "Does tha' like it?"
"No,"
answered Mary. "I hate it."
"That's
because tha'rt not used to it," Martha said, going back to her hearth.
"Tha' thinks it's too big an' bare now. But tha' will like it."
"Do
you?" inquired Mary.
"Aye,
that I do," answered Martha, cheerfully polishing away at the grate.
"I just love it. It's none bare. It's covered wi' growin' things as smells
sweet. It's fair lovely in spring an' summer when th' gorse an' broom an'
heather's in flower. It smells o' honey an' there's such a lot o' fresh air—an'
th' sky looks so high an' th' bees an' skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin'
an' singin'. Eh! I wouldn't live away from th' moor for anythin'."
Mary
listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression. The native servants she had
been used to in India
"You
are a strange servant," she said from her pillows, rather haughtily.
Martha sat
up on her heels, with her blacking-brush in her hand, and laughed, without
seeming the least out of temper.
"Eh!
I know that," she said. "If there was a grand Missus at Misselthwaite
I should never have been even one of th' under house-maids. I might have been
let to be scullerymaid but I'd never have been let upstairs. I'm too common an'
I talk too much Yorkshire . But this is a funny
house for all it's so grand. Seems like there's neither Master nor Mistress
except Mr. Pitcher an' Mrs. Medlock. Mr. Craven, he won't be troubled about
anythin' when he's here, an' he's nearly always away. Mrs. Medlock gave me th'
place out o' kindness. She told me she could never have done it if
Misselthwaite had been like other big houses." "Are you going to be
my servant?" Mary asked, still in her imperious little Indian way.
Martha
began to rub her grate again.
"I'm
Mrs. Medlock's servant," she said stoutly. "An' she's Mr.
Craven's—but I'm to do the housemaid's work up here an' wait on you a bit. But
you won't need much waitin' on."
"Who
is going to dress me?" demanded Mary.
Martha sat
up on her heels again and stared. She spoke in broad Yorkshire
in her amazement.
"Canna'
tha' dress thysen!" she said.
"What
do you mean? I don't understand your language," said Mary.
"Eh!
I forgot," Martha said. "Mrs. Medlock told me I'd have to be careful
or you wouldn't know what I was sayin'. I mean can't you put on your own
clothes?"
"No,"
answered Mary, quite indignantly. "I never did in my life. My Ayah dressed
me, of course."
"Well,"
said Martha, evidently not in the least aware that she was impudent, "it's
time tha' should learn. Tha' cannot begin younger. It'll do thee good to wait
on thysen a bit. My mother always said she couldn't see why grand people's
children didn't turn out fair fools—what with nurses an' bein' washed an'
dressed an' took out to walk as if they was puppies!"
"It
is different in India
But Martha
was not at all crushed.
"Eh!
I can see it's different," she answered almost sympathetically. "I
dare say it's because there's such a lot o' blacks there instead o' respectable
white people. When I heard you was comin' from India
Mary sat
up in bed furious.
"What!"
she said. "What! You thought I was a native. You—you daughter of a pig!"
Martha
stared and looked hot.
"Who
are you callin' names?" she said. "You needn't be so vexed. That's
not th' way for a young lady to talk. I've nothin' against th' blacks. When you
read about 'em in tracts they're always very religious. You always read as a
black's a man an' a brother. I've never seen a black an' I was fair pleased to
think I was goin' to see one close. When I come in to light your fire this
mornin' I crep' up to your bed an' pulled th' cover back careful to look at
you. An' there you was," disappointedly, "no more black than me—for
all you're so yeller."
Mary did
not even try to control her rage and humiliation. "You thought I was a
native! You dared! You don't know anything about natives! They are not
people—they're servants who must salaam to you. You know nothing about India
She was in
such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl's simple stare, and somehow
she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away from everything she
understood and which understood her, that she threw herself face downward on
the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing. She sobbed so unrestrainedly
that good-natured Yorkshire Martha was a little frightened and quite sorry for
her. She went to the bed and bent over her.
"Eh!
you mustn't cry like that there!" she begged. "You mustn't for sure.
I didn't know you'd be vexed. I don't know anythin' about anythin'—just like
you said. I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop cryin'."
There was
something comforting and really friendly in her queer Yorkshire
speech and sturdy way which had a good effect on Mary. She gradually ceased
crying and became quiet. Martha looked relieved.
"It's
time for thee to get up now," she said. "Mrs. Medlock said I was to
carry tha' breakfast an' tea an' dinner into th' room next to this. It's been
made into a nursery for thee. I'll help thee on with thy clothes if tha'll get
out o' bed. If th' buttons are at th' back tha' cannot button them up
tha'self."
When Mary
at last decided to get up, the clothes Martha took from the wardrobe were not
the ones she had worn when she arrived the night before with Mrs. Medlock.
"Those
are not mine," she said. "Mine are black."
She looked
the thick white wool coat and dress over, and added with cool approval:
"Those
are nicer than mine."
"These
are th' ones tha' must put on," Martha answered. "Mr. Craven ordered
Mrs. Medlock to get 'em
in London
said 'I won't have a child dressed in black wanderin' about like a lost soul,'
he said. 'It'd make the place sadder than it is. Put color on her.' Mother she
said she knew what he meant. Mother always knows what a body means. She doesn't
hold with black hersel'."
"I
hate black things," said Mary.
The
dressing process was one which taught them both something. Martha had
"buttoned up" her little sisters and brothers but she had never seen
a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things for her as
if she had neither hands nor feet of her own.
"Why
doesn't tha' put on tha' own shoes?" she said when Mary quietly held out
her foot.
"My
Ayah did it," answered Mary, staring. "It was the custom."
She said
that very often—"It was the custom." The native servants were always
saying it. If one told them to do a thing their ancestors had not done for a
thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said, "It is not the
custom" and one knew that was the end of the matter.
It had not
been the custom that Mistress Mary should do anything but stand and allow
herself to be dressed like a doll, but before she was ready for breakfast she
began to suspect that her life at Misselthwaite Manor would end by teaching her
a number of things quite new to her—things such as putting on her own shoes and
stockings, and picking up things she let fall. If Martha had been a well-trained
fine young lady's maid she would have been more subservient and respectful and
would have known that it was her business to brush hair, and button boots, and
pick things up and lay them away. She was, however, only an untrained Yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland
cottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never dreamed of
doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger ones who were
either babies in arms or just learning to totter about and tumble over things.
If Mary
Lennox had been a child who was ready to be amused she would perhaps have
laughed at Martha's readiness to talk, but Mary only listened to her coldly and
wondered at her freedom of manner. At first she was not at all interested, but
gradually, as the girl rattled on in her good-tempered, homely way, Mary began
to notice what she was saying.
"Eh!
you should see 'em all," she said. "There's twelve of us an' my
father only gets sixteen shilling a week. I can tell you my mother's put to it
to get porridge for 'em all.
They tumble about on th' moor an' play there all day an'
mother says th' air of th' moor fattens 'em. She says she believes they eat th'
grass same as th' wild ponies do. Our Dickon, he's twelve years old and he's
got a young pony he calls his own."
"Where
did he get it?" asked Mary.
"He
found it on th' moor with its mother when it was a little one an' he began to
make friends with it an' give it bits o' bread an' pluck young grass for it.
And it got to like him so it follows him about an' it lets him get on its back.
Dickon's a kind lad an' animals likes him."
Mary had
never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always thought she should like
one. So she began to feel a slight interest in Dickon, and as she had never
before been interested in any one but herself, it was the dawning of a healthy
sentiment. When she went into the room which had been made into a nursery for
her, she found that it was rather like the one she had slept in. It was not a
child's room, but a grown-up person's room, with gloomy old pictures on the
walls and heavy old oak chairs. A table in the center was set with a good
substantial breakfast. But she had always had a very small appetite, and she
looked with something more than indifference at the first plate Martha set
before her.
"I
don't want it," she said.
"Tha'
doesn't want thy porridge!" Martha exclaimed incredulously.
"No."
"Tha'
doesn't know how good it is. Put a bit o' treacle on it or a bit o'
sugar."
"I
don't want it," repeated Mary.
"Eh!"
said Martha. "I can't abide to see good victuals go to waste. If our
children was at this table they'd clean it bare in five minutes."
"Why?"
said Mary coldly. "Why!" echoed Martha. "Because they scarce
ever had their stomachs full in their lives. They're as hungry as young hawks
an' foxes."
"I
don't know what it is to be hungry," said Mary, with the indifference of
ignorance.
Martha
looked indignant.
"Well,
it would do thee good to try it. I can see that plain enough," she said
outspokenly. "I've no patience with folk as sits an' just stares at good
bread an' meat. My word! don't I wish Dickon and Phil an' Jane an' th' rest of
'em had what's here under their pinafores."
"Why
don't you take it to them?" suggested Mary.
"It's
not mine," answered Martha stoutly. "An' this isn't my day out. I get
my day out once a month same as th' rest. Then I go home an' clean up for
mother an' give her a day's rest."
Mary drank
some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade.
"You
wrap up warm an' run out an' play you," said Martha. "It'll do you
good and give you some stomach for your meat."
Mary went
to the window. There were gardens and paths and big trees, but everything
looked dull and wintry.
"Out?
Why should I go out on a day like this?" "Well, if tha' doesn't go
out tha'lt have to stay in, an' what has tha' got to do?"
Mary
glanced about her. There was nothing to do. When Mrs. Medlock had prepared the
nursery she had not thought of amusement. Perhaps it would be better to go and
see what the gardens were like.
"Who
will go with me?" she inquired.
Martha
stared.
"You'll
go by yourself," she answered. "You'll have to learn to play like
other children does when they haven't got sisters and brothers. Our Dickon goes
off on th' moor by himself an' plays for hours. That's how he made friends with
th' pony. He's got sheep on th' moor that knows him, an' birds as comes an'
eats out of his hand. However little there is to eat, he always saves a bit o'
his bread to coax his pets."
It was
really this mention of Dickon which made Mary decide to go out, though she was
not aware of it. There would be, birds outside though there would not be ponies
or sheep. They would be different from the birds in India
Martha
found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stout little boots and she showed
her her way downstairs.
"If
tha' goes round that way tha'll come to th' gardens," she said, pointing
to a gate in a wall of shrubbery. "There's lots o' flowers in summer-time,
but there's nothin' bloomin' now." She seemed to hesitate a second before
she added, "One of th' gardens is locked up. No one has been in it for ten
years."
"Why?"
asked Mary in spite of herself. Here was another locked door added to the
hundred in the strange house.
"Mr.
Craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden. He won't let no one go inside.
It was her garden. He locked th' door an' dug a hole and buried th' key.
There's Mrs. Medlock's bell ringing—I must run."
After she
was gone Mary turned down the walk which led to the door in the shrubbery. She
could not help thinking about the garden which no one had been into for ten
years. She wondered what it would look like and whether there were any flowers
still alive in it. When she had passed through the shrubbery gate she found
herself in great gardens, with wide lawns and winding walks with clipped
borders. There were trees, and flower-beds, and evergreens clipped into strange
shapes, and a large pool with an old gray fountain in its midst. But the
flower-beds were bare and wintry and the fountain was not playing. This was not
the garden which was shut up. How could a garden be shut up? You could always
walk into a garden.
She was
just thinking this when she saw that, at the end of the path she was following,
there seemed to be a long wall, with ivy growing over it. She was not familiar
enough with England
She went
through the door and found that it was a garden with walls all round it and
that it was only one of several walled gardens which seemed to open into one
another. She saw another open green door, revealing bushes and pathways between
beds containing winter vegetables. Fruit-trees were trained flat against the
wall, and over some of the beds there were glass frames. The place was bare and
ugly enough, Mary thought, as she stood and stared about her. It might be nicer
in summer when things were green, but there was nothing pretty about it now.
Presently
an old man with a spade over his shoulder walked through the door leading from
the second garden. He looked startled when he saw Mary, and then touched his
cap. He had a surly old face, and did not seem at all pleased to see her—but
then she was displeased with his garden and wore her "quite contrary"
expression, and certainly did not seem at all pleased to see him.
"What
is this place?" she asked.
"One
o' th' kitchen-gardens," he answered.
"What
is that?" said Mary, pointing through the other green door.
"Another
of 'em," shortly. "There's another on t'other side o' th' wall an'
there's th' orchard t'other side o' that."
"Can
I go in them?" asked Mary.
"If
tha' likes. But there's nowt to see."
Mary made
no response. She went down the path and through the second green door. There,
she found more walls and winter vegetables and glass frames, but in the second
wall there was another green door and it was not open. Perhaps it led into the
garden which no one had seen for ten years. As she was not at all a timid child
and always did what she wanted to do, Mary went to the green door and turned
the handle. She hoped the door would not open because she wanted to be sure she
had found the mysterious garden—but it did open quite easily and she walked
through it and found herself in an orchard. There were walls all round it also
and trees trained against them, and there were bare fruit-trees growing in the
winter-browned grass—but there was no green door to be seen anywhere. Mary
looked for it, and yet when she had entered the upper end of the garden she had
noticed that the wall did not seem to end with the orchard but to extend beyond
it as if it enclosed a place at the other side. She could see the tops of trees
above the wall, and when she stood still she saw a bird with a bright red
breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them, and suddenly he burst into
his winter song—almost as if he had caught sight of her and was calling to her.
She
stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle
gave her a pleased feeling—even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and
the big closed house and big bare moor and big bare gardens had made this one
feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself. If she had been an
affectionate child, who had been used to being loved, she would have broken her
heart, but even though she was "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary" she was
desolate, and the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour
little face which was almost a smile. She listened to him until he flew away.
He was not like an Indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should
ever see him again. Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all
about it.
Perhaps it
was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought so much of the
deserted garden. She was curious about it and wanted to see what it was like.
Why had Mr. Archibald Craven buried the key? If he had liked his wife so much
why did he hate her garden? She wondered if she should ever see him, but she
knew that if she did she should not like him, and he would not like her, and
that she should only stand and stare at him and say nothing, though she should
be wanting dreadfully to ask him why he had done such a queer thing.
"People
never like me and I never like people," she thought. "And I never can
talk as the Crawford children could. They were always talking and laughing and
making noises."
She
thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at her, and as
she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped rather suddenly on the
path.
"I
believe that tree was in the secret garden—I feel sure it was," she said.
"There was a wall round the place and there was no door."
She walked
back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found the old man
digging there. She went and stood beside him and watched him a few moments in
her cold little way. He took no notice of her and so at last she spoke to him.
"I
have been into the other gardens," she said.
"There
was nothin' to prevent thee," he answered crustily.
"I
went into the orchard."
"There
was no dog at th' door to bite thee," he answered.
"There
was no door there into the other garden," said Mary.
"What
garden?" he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a moment.
"The
one on the other side of the wall," answered Mistress Mary. "There
are trees there—I saw the tops of them. A bird with a red breast was sitting on
one of them and he sang."
To her
surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its expression. A
slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite different. It made her
think that it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled. She
had not thought of it before.
He turned
about to the orchard side of his garden and began to whistle—a low soft
whistle. She could not understand how such a surly man could make such a
coaxing sound. Almost the next moment a wonderful thing happened. She heard a
soft little rushing flight through the air—and it was the bird with the red
breast flying to them, and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth quite
near to the gardener's foot.
"Here
he is," chuckled the old man, and then he spoke to the bird as if he were
speaking to a child.
"Where
has tha' been, tha' cheeky little beggar?" he said. "I've not seen
thee before today. Has tha, begun tha' courtin' this early in th' season?
Tha'rt too forrad."
The bird
put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his soft bright eye
which was like a black dewdrop. He seemed quite familiar and not the least
afraid. He hopped about and pecked the earth briskly, looking for seeds and
insects. It actually gave Mary a queer feeling in her heart, because he was so
pretty and cheerful and seemed so like a person. He had a tiny plump body and a
delicate beak, and slender delicate legs.
"Will
he always come when you call him?" she asked almost in a whisper.
"Aye,
that he will. I've knowed him ever since he was a fledgling. He come out of th'
nest in th' other garden an' when first he flew over th' wall he was too weak
to fly back for a few days an' we got friendly. When he went over th' wall
again th' rest of th' brood was gone an' he was lonely an' he come back to
me."
"What
kind of a bird is he?" Mary asked.
"Doesn't
tha' know? He's a robin redbreast an' they're th' friendliest, curiousest birds
alive. They're almost as friendly as dogs—if you know how to get on with 'em.
Watch him peckin' about there an' lookin' round at us now an' again. He knows
we're talkin' about him."
It was the
queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow. He looked at the plump
little scarlet-waistcoated bird as if he were both proud and fond of him.
"He's
a conceited one," he chuckled. "He likes to hear folk talk about him.
An' curious—bless me, there never was his like for curiosity an' meddlin'. He's
always comin' to see what I'm plantin'. He knows all th' things Mester Craven
never troubles hissel' to find out. He's th' head gardener, he is."
The robin
hopped about busily pecking the soil and now and then stopped and looked at
them a little. Mary thought his black dewdrop eyes gazed at her with great
curiosity. It really seemed as if he were finding out all about her. The queer
feeling in her heart increased. "Where did the rest of the brood fly
to?" she asked.
"There's
no knowin'. The old ones turn 'em out o' their nest an' make 'em fly an'
they're scattered before you know it. This one was a knowin' one an' he knew he
was lonely."
Mistress
Mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very hard.
"I'm
lonely," she said.
She had
not known before that this was one of the things which made her feel sour and
cross. She seemed to find it out when the robin looked at her and she looked at
the robin.
The old
gardener pushed his cap back on his bald head and stared at her a minute.
"Art
tha' th' little wench from India
Mary
nodded.
"Then
no wonder tha'rt lonely. Tha'lt be lonlier before tha's done," he said.
He began
to dig again, driving his spade deep into the rich black garden soil while the
robin hopped about very busily employed.
"What
is your name?" Mary inquired.
He stood
up to answer her.
"Ben
Weatherstaff," he answered, and then he added with a surly chuckle,
"I'm lonely mysel' except when he's with me," and he jerked his thumb
toward the robin. "He's th' only friend I've got."
"I
have no friends at all," said Mary. "I never had. My Ayah didn't like
me and I never played with any one."
It is a
Yorkshire habit to say what you think with blunt frankness, and old Ben
Weatherstaff was a Yorkshire moor man.
"Tha'
an' me are a good bit alike," he said. "We was wove out of th' same
cloth. We're neither of us good lookin' an' we're both of us as sour as we
look. We've got the same nasty tempers, both of us, I'll warrant."
This was
plain speaking, and Mary Lennox had never heard the truth about herself in her
life. Native servants always salaamed and submitted to you, whatever you did.
She had never thought much about her looks, but she wondered if she was as
unattractive as Ben Weatherstaff and she also wondered if she looked as sour as
he had looked before the robin came. She actually began to wonder also if she
was "nasty tempered." She felt uncomfortable.
Suddenly a
clear rippling little sound broke out near her and she turned round. She was
standing a few feet from a young apple-tree and the robin had flown on to one
of its branches and had burst out into a scrap of a song. Ben Weatherstaff
laughed outright.
"What
did he do that for?" asked Mary.
"He's
made up his mind to make friends with thee," replied Ben. "Dang me if
he hasn't took a fancy to thee."
"To
me?" said Mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and looked up.
"Would
you make friends with me?" she said to the robin just as if she was
speaking to a person. "Would you?" And she did not say it either in
her hard little voice or in her imperious Indian voice, but in a tone so soft
and eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprised as she had been
when she heard him whistle.
"Why,"
he cried out, "tha' said that as nice an' human as if tha' was a real
child instead of a sharp old woman. Tha' said it almost like Dickon talks to
his wild things on th' moor."
"Do
you know Dickon?" Mary asked, turning round rather in a hurry.
"Everybody
knows him. Dickon's wanderin' about everywhere. Th' very blackberries an'
heather-bells knows him. I warrant th' foxes shows him where their cubs lies
an' th' skylarks doesn't hide their nests from him."
Mary would
have liked to ask some more questions. She was almost as curious about Dickon
as she was about the deserted garden. But just that moment the robin, who had
ended his song, gave a little shake of his wings, spread them and flew away. He
had made his visit and had other things to do.
"He
has flown over the wall!" Mary cried out, watching him. "He has flown
into the orchard—he has flown across the other wall—into the garden where there
is no door!"
"He
lives there," said old Ben. "He came out o' th' egg there. If he's
courtin', he's makin' up to some young madam of a robin that lives among th'
old rose-trees there."
"Rose-trees,"
said Mary. "Are there rose-trees?"
Ben
Weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig.
"There
was ten year' ago," he mumbled.
"I
should like to see them," said Mary. "Where is the green door? There
must be a door somewhere."
Ben drove
his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked when she first
saw him.
"There
was ten year' ago, but there isn't now," he said.
"No
door!" cried Mary. "There must be." "None as any one can
find, an' none as is any one's business. Don't you be a meddlesome wench an'
poke your nose where it's no cause to go. Here, I must go on with my work. Get
you gone an' play you. I've no more time."
And he
actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and walked off,
without even glancing at her or saying good-by.
CHAPTER V
THE CRY IN
THE CORRIDOR
At first
each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the others. Every
morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found Martha kneeling upon the
hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her breakfast in the nursery
which had nothing amusing in it; and after each breakfast she gazed out of the
window across to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on all sides and
climb up to the sky, and after she had stared for a while she realized that if
she did not go out she would have to stay in and do nothing—and so she went
out. She did not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she
did not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths
and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself
stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor. She ran only
to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at her face and
roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could not see. But the
big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filled her lungs with
something which was good for her whole thin body and whipped some red color
into her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when she did not know anything
about it.
But after
a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one morning knowing
what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not
glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it away, but took up her spoon and
began to eat it and went on eating it until her bowl was empty.
"Tha'
got on well enough with that this mornin', didn't tha'?" said Martha.
"It
tastes nice today," said Mary, feeling a little surprised her self.
"It's
th' air of th' moor that's givin' thee stomach for tha' victuals,"
answered Martha. "It's lucky for thee that tha's got victuals as well as
appetite. There's been twelve in our cottage as had th' stomach an' nothin' to
put in it. You go on playin' you out o' doors every day an' you'll get some
flesh on your bones an' you won't be so yeller."
"I
don't play," said Mary. "I have nothing to play with."
"Nothin'
to play with!" exclaimed Martha. "Our children plays with sticks and
stones. They just runs about an' shouts an' looks at things." Mary did not
shout, but she looked at things. There was nothing else to do. She walked round
and round the gardens and wandered about the paths in the park. Sometimes she
looked for Ben Weatherstaff, but though several times she saw him at work he
was too busy to look at her or was too surly. Once when she was walking toward
him he picked up his spade and turned away as if he did it on purpose.
One place
she went to oftener than to any other. It was the long walk outside the gardens
with the walls round them. There were bare flower-beds on either side of it and
against the walls ivy grew thickly. There was one part of the wall where the
creeping dark green leaves were more bushy than elsewhere. It seemed as if for
a long time that part had been neglected. The rest of it had been clipped and
made to look neat, but at this lower end of the walk it had not been trimmed at
all.
A few days
after she had talked to Ben Weatherstaff, Mary stopped to notice this and
wondered why it was so. She had just paused and was looking up at a long spray
of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a
brilliant chirp, and there, on the top of the wall, forward perched Ben
Weatherstaff's robin redbreast, tilting forward to look at her with his small
head on one side.
"Oh!"
she cried out, "is it you—is it you?" And it did not seem at all
queer to her that she spoke to him as if she were sure that he would understand
and answer her.
He did
answer. He twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if he were
telling her all sorts of things. It seemed to Mistress Mary as if she
understood him, too, though he was not speaking in words. It was as if he said:
"Good
morning! Isn't the wind nice? Isn't the sun nice? Isn't everything nice? Let us
both chirp and hop and twitter. Come on! Come on!"
Mary began
to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after
him. Poor little thin, sallow, ugly Mary—she actually looked almost pretty for
a moment.
"I
like you! I like you!" she cried out, pattering down the walk; and she
chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do in the
least. But the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back
at her. At last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a
tree, where he perched and sang loudly. That reminded Mary of the first time
she had seen him. He had been swinging on a tree-top then and she had been
standing in the orchard. Now she was on the other side of the orchard and
standing in the path outside a wall—much lower down—and there was the same tree
inside.
"It's
in the garden no one can go into," she said to herself. "It's the
garden without a door. He lives in there. How I wish I could see what it is
like!"
She ran up
the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning. Then she ran down
the path through the other door and then into the orchard, and when she stood
and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall, and there was
the robin just finishing his song and, beginning to preen his feathers with his
beak.
"It
is the garden," she said. "I am sure it is."
She walked
round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall, but she only found
what she had found before—that there was no door in it. Then she ran through
the kitchen-gardens again and out into the walk outside the long ivy-covered
wall, and she walked to the end of it and looked at it, but there was no door;
and then she walked to the other end, looking again, but there was no door.
"It's
very queer," she said. "Ben Weatherstaff said there was no door and
there is no door. But there must have been one ten years ago, because Mr.
Craven buried the key."
This gave
her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested and feel that she
was not sorry that she had come to Misselthwaite Manor. In India
She stayed
out of doors nearly all day, and when she sat down to her supper at night she
felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable. She did not feel cross when Martha
chattered away. She felt as if she rather liked to hear her, and at last she
thought she would ask her a question. She asked it after she had finished her
supper and had sat down on the hearth-rug before the fire.
"Why
did Mr. Craven hate the garden?" she said.
She had
made Martha stay with her and Martha had not objected at all. She was very
young, and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and sisters, and she
found it dull in the great servants' hall downstairs where the footman and
upper-housemaids made fun of her Yorkshire
speech and looked upon her as a common little thing, and sat and whispered
among themselves. Martha liked to talk, and the strange child who had lived in India
She sat
down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked.
"Art
tha' thinkin' about that garden yet?" she said. "I knew tha' would.
That was just the way with me when I first heard about it."
"Why
did he hate it?" Mary persisted.
Martha
tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable.
"Listen
to th' wind wutherin' round the house," she said. "You could bare
stand up on the moor if you was out on it tonight."
Mary did
not know what "wutherin'" meant until she listened, and then she
understood. It must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which rushed round
and round the house as if the giant no one could see were buffeting it and
beating at the walls and windows to try to break in. But one knew he could not
get in, and somehow it made one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a
red coal fire.
"But
why did he hate it so?" she asked, after she had listened. She intended to
know if Martha did.
Then
Martha gave up her store of knowledge.
"Mind,"
she said, "Mrs. Medlock said it's not to be talked about. There's lots o'
things in this place that's not to be talked over. That's Mr. Craven's orders.
His troubles are none servants' business, he says. But for th' garden he
wouldn't be like he is. It was Mrs. Craven's garden that she had made when
first they were married an' she just loved it, an' they used to 'tend the
flowers themselves. An' none o' th' gardeners was ever let to go in. Him an'
her used to go in an' shut th' door an' stay there hours an' hours, readin' and
talkin'. An' she was just a bit of a girl an' there was an old tree with a
branch bent like a seat on it. An' she made roses grow over it an' she used to
sit there. But one day when she was sittin' there th' branch broke an' she fell
on th' ground an' was hurt so bad that next day she died. Th' doctors thought
he'd go out o' his mind an' die, too. That's why he hates it. No one's never
gone in since, an' he won't let any one talk about it."
Mary did
not ask any more questions. She looked at the red fire and listened to the wind
"wutherin'." It seemed to be "wutherin'" louder than ever.
At that moment a very good thing was happening to her. Four good things had happened
to her, in fact, since she came to Misselthwaite Manor. She had felt as if she
had understood a robin and that he had understood her; she had run in the wind
until her blood had grown warm; she had been healthily hungry for the first
time in her life; and she had found out what it was to be sorry for some one.
But as she
was listening to the wind she began to listen to something else. She did not
know what it was, because at first she could scarcely distinguish it from the
wind itself. It was a curious sound—it seemed almost as if a child were crying
somewhere. Sometimes the wind sounded rather like a child crying, but presently
Mistress Mary felt quite sure this sound was inside the house, not outside it.
It was far away, but it was inside. She turned round and looked at Martha.
"Do
you hear any one crying?" she said.
Martha
suddenly looked confused.
"No,"
she answered. "It's th' wind. Sometimes it sounds like as if some one was
lost on th' moor an' wailin'. It's got all sorts o' sounds."
"But
listen," said Mary. "It's in the house—down one of those long
corridors."
And at
that very moment a door must have been opened somewhere downstairs; for a great
rushing draft blew along the passage and the door of the room they sat in was
blown open with a crash, and as they both jumped to their feet the light was
blown out and the crying sound was swept down the far corridor so that it was
to be heard more plainly than ever.
"There!"
said Mary. "I told you so! It is some one crying—and it isn't a grown-up
person."
Martha ran
and shut the door and turned the key, but before she did it they both heard the
sound of a door in some far passage shutting with a bang, and then everything
was quiet, for even the wind ceased "wutherin'" for a few moments.
"It
was th' wind," said Martha stubbornly. "An' if it wasn't, it was
little Betty Butterworth, th' scullery-maid. She's had th' toothache all
day."
But
something troubled and awkward in her manner made Mistress Mary stare very hard
at her. She did not believe she was speaking the truth.
CHAPTER VI
"THERE
WAS SOME ONE CRYING—THERE WAS!"
The next
day the rain poured down in torrents again, and when Mary looked out of her
window the moor was almost hidden by gray mist and cloud. There could be no
going out today.
"What
do you do in your cottage when it rains like this?" she asked Martha.
"Try
to keep from under each other's feet mostly," Martha answered. "Eh!
there does seem a lot of us then. Mother's a good-tempered woman but she gets
fair moithered. The biggest ones goes out in th' cow-shed and plays there.
Dickon he doesn't mind th' wet. He goes out just th' same as if th' sun was
shinin'. He says he sees things on rainy days as doesn't show when it's fair
weather. He once found a little fox cub half drowned in its hole and he brought
it home in th' bosom of his shirt to keep it warm. Its mother had been killed
nearby an' th' hole was swum out an' th' rest o' th' litter was dead. He's got
it at home now. He found a half-drowned young crow another time an' he brought
it home, too, an' tamed it. It's named Soot because it's so black, an' it hops
an' flies about with him everywhere."
The time
had come when Mary had forgotten to resent Martha's familiar talk. She had even
begun to find it interesting and to be sorry when she stopped or went away. The
stories she had been told by her Ayah when she lived in India
"If I
had a raven or a fox cub I could play with it," said Mary. "But I
have nothing."
Martha
looked perplexed.
"Can
tha' knit?" she asked.
"No,"
answered Mary.
"Can
tha' sew?"
"No."
"Can
tha' read?"
"Yes."
"Then
why doesn't tha, read somethin', or learn a bit o' spellin'? Tha'st old enough
to be learnin' thy book a good bit now."
"I
haven't any books," said Mary. "Those I had were left in India
"That's
a pity," said Martha. "If Mrs. Medlock'd let thee go into th'
library, there's thousands o' books there."
Mary did
not ask where the library was, because she was suddenly inspired by a new idea.
She made up her mind to go and find it herself. She was not troubled about Mrs.
Medlock. Mrs. Medlock seemed always to be in her comfortable housekeeper's
sitting-room downstairs. In this queer place one scarcely ever saw any one at
all. In fact, there was no one to see but the servants, and when their master
was away they lived a luxurious life below stairs, where there was a huge kitchen
hung about with shining brass and pewter, and a large servants' hall where
there were four or five abundant meals eaten every day, and where a great deal
of lively romping went on when Mrs. Medlock was out of the way.
Mary's
meals were served regularly, and Martha waited on her, but no one troubled
themselves about her in the least. Mrs. Medlock came and looked at her every
day or two, but no one inquired what she did or told her what to do. She
supposed that perhaps this was the English way of treating children. In India
"Hasn't
tha' got good sense?" she said once, when Mary had stood waiting for her
to put on her gloves for her. "Our Susan Ann is twice as sharp as thee an'
she's only four year' old. Sometimes tha' looks fair soft in th' head."
Mary had
worn her contrary scowl for an hour after that, but it made her think several
entirely new things.
She stood
at the window for about ten minutes this morning after Martha had swept up the
hearth for the last time and gone downstairs. She was thinking over the new
idea which had come to her when she heard of the library. She did not care very
much about the library itself, because she had read very few books; but to hear
of it brought back to her mind the hundred rooms with closed doors. She
wondered if they were all really locked and what she would find if she could
get into any of them. Were there a hundred really? Why shouldn't she go and see
how many doors she could count? It would be something to do on this morning
when she could not go out. She had never been taught to ask permission to do
things, and she knew nothing at all about authority, so she would not have
thought it necessary to ask Mrs. Medlock if she might walk about the house,
even if she had seen her.
She opened
the door of the room and went into the corridor, and then she began her
wanderings. It was a long corridor and it branched into other corridors and it
led her up short flights of steps which mounted to others again. There were
doors and doors, and there were pictures on the walls. Sometimes they were
pictures of dark, curious landscapes, but oftenest they were portraits of men
and women in queer, grand costumes made of satin and velvet. She found herself
in one long gallery whose walls were covered with these portraits. She had
never thought there could be so many in any house. She walked slowly down this
place and stared at the faces which also seemed to stare at her. She felt as if
they were wondering what a little girl from India
"Where
do you live now?" said Mary aloud to her. "I wish you were
here."
Surely no
other little girl ever spent such a queer morning. It seemed as if there was no
one in all the huge rambling house but her own small self, wandering about
upstairs and down, through narrow passages and wide ones, where it seemed to
her that no one but herself had ever walked. Since so many rooms had been
built, people must have lived in them, but it all seemed so empty that she
could not quite believe it true.
It was not
until she climbed to the second floor that she thought of turning the handle of
a door. All the doors were shut, as Mrs. Medlock had said they were, but at
last she put her hand on the handle of one of them and turned it. She was
almost frightened for a moment when she felt that it turned without difficulty
and that when she pushed upon the door itself it slowly and heavily opened. It
was a massive door and opened into a big bedroom. There were embroidered
hangings on the wall, and inlaid furniture such as she had seen in India
"Perhaps
she slept here once," said Mary. "She stares at me so that she makes
me feel queer."
After that
she opened more doors and more. She saw so many rooms that she became quite
tired and began to think that there must be a hundred, though she had not
counted them. In all of them there were old pictures or old tapestries with
strange scenes worked on them. There were curious pieces of furniture and
curious ornaments in nearly all of them.
In one
room, which looked like a lady's sitting-room, the hangings were all
embroidered velvet, and in a cabinet were about a hundred little elephants made
of ivory. They were of different sizes, and some had their mahouts or
palanquins on their backs. Some were much bigger than the others and some were
so tiny that they seemed only babies. Mary had seen carved ivory in India
In all her
wanderings through the long corridors and the empty rooms, she had seen nothing
alive; but in this room she saw something. Just after she had closed the
cabinet door she heard a tiny rustling sound. It made her jump and look around
at the sofa by the fireplace, from which it seemed to come. In the corner of
the sofa there was a cushion, and in the velvet which covered it there was a
hole, and out of the hole peeped a tiny head with a pair of frightened eyes in
it.
Mary crept
softly across the room to look. The bright eyes belonged to a little gray
mouse, and the mouse had eaten a hole into the cushion and made a comfortable
nest there. Six baby mice were cuddled up asleep near her. If there was no one
else alive in the hundred rooms there were seven mice who did not look lonely
at all.
"If
they wouldn't be so frightened I would take them back with me," said Mary.
She had
wandered about long enough to feel too tired to wander any farther, and she
turned back. Two or three times she lost her way by turning down the wrong
corridor and was obliged to ramble up and down until she found the right one;
but at last she reached her own floor again, though she was some distance from
her own room and did not know exactly where she was.
"I
believe I have taken a wrong turning again," she said, standing still at
what seemed the end of a short passage with tapestry on the wall. "I don't
know which way to go. How still everything is!"
It was
while she was standing here and just after she had said this that the stillness
was broken by a sound. It was another cry, but not quite like the one she had
heard last night; it was only a short one, a fretful childish whine muffled by
passing through walls.
"It's
nearer than it was," said Mary, her heart beating rather faster. "And
it is crying."
She put
her hand accidentally upon the tapestry near her, and then sprang back, feeling
quite startled. The tapestry was the covering of a door which fell open and
showed her that there was another part of the corridor behind it, and Mrs.
Medlock was coming up it with her bunch of keys in her hand and a very cross
look on her face.
"What
are you doing here?" she said, and she took Mary by the arm and pulled her
away. "What did I tell you?"
"I
turned round the wrong corner," explained Mary. "I didn't know which
way to go and I heard some one crying." She quite hated Mrs. Medlock at
the moment, but she hated her more the next.
"You
didn't hear anything of the sort," said the housekeeper. "You come
along back to your own nursery or I'll box your ears."
And she
took her by the arm and half pushed, half pulled her up one passage and down
another until she pushed her in at the door of her own room.
"Now,"
she said, "you stay where you're told to stay or you'll find yourself
locked up. The master had better get you a governess, same as he said he would.
You're one that needs some one to look sharp after you. I've got enough to
do."
She went
out of the room and slammed the door after her, and Mary went and sat on the
hearth-rug, pale with rage. She did not cry, but ground her teeth.
"There
was some one crying—there was—there was!" she said to herself.
She had
heard it twice now, and sometime she would find out. She had found out a great
deal this morning. She felt as if she had been on a long journey, and at any
rate she had had something to amuse her all the time, and she had played with
the ivory elephants and had seen the gray mouse and its babies in their nest in
the velvet cushion.
CHAPTER VII
THE KEY TO
THE GARDEN
Two days
after this, when Mary opened her eyes she sat upright in bed immediately, and
called to Martha.
"Look
at the moor! Look at the moor!"
The
rainstorm had ended and the gray mist and clouds had been swept away in the
night by the wind. The wind itself had ceased and a brilliant, deep blue sky
arched high over the moorland. Never, never had Mary dreamed of a sky so blue.
In India
"Aye,"
said Martha with a cheerful grin. "Th' storm's over for a bit. It does
like this at this time o' th' year. It goes off in a night like it was pretendin'
it had never been here an' never meant to come again. That's because th'
springtime's on its way. It's a long way off yet, but it's comin'."
"I
thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in England
"Eh!
no!" said Martha, sitting up on her heels among her black lead brushes.
"Nowt o' th' soart!"
"What
does that mean?" asked Mary seriously. In India
Martha
laughed as she had done the first morning.
"There
now," she said. "I've talked broad Yorkshire
again like Mrs. Medlock said I mustn't. 'Nowt o' th' soart' means
'nothin'-of-the-sort,'" slowly and carefully, "but it takes so long
to say it. Yorkshire 's th' sunniest place on
earth when it is sunny. I told thee tha'd like th' moor after a bit. Just you
wait till you see th' gold-colored gorse blossoms an' th' blossoms o' th'
broom, an' th' heather flowerin', all purple bells, an' hundreds o' butterflies
flutterin' an' bees hummin' an' skylarks soarin' up an' singin'. You'll want to
get out on it as sunrise an' live out on it all day like Dickon does."
"Could I ever get there?" asked Mary wistfully, looking through her
window at the far-off blue. It was so new and big and wonderful and such a
heavenly color.
"I
don't know," answered Martha. "Tha's never used tha' legs since tha'
was born, it seems to me. Tha' couldn't walk five mile. It's five mile to our
cottage."
"I
should like to see your cottage."
Martha
stared at her a moment curiously before she took up her polishing brush and
began to rub the grate again. She was thinking that the small plain face did
not look quite as sour at this moment as it had done the first morning she saw
it. It looked just a trifle like little Susan Ann's when she wanted something
very much.
"I'll
ask my mother about it," she said. "She's one o' them that nearly
always sees a way to do things. It's my day out today an' I'm goin' home. Eh! I
am glad. Mrs. Medlock thinks a lot o' mother. Perhaps she could talk to
her."
"I
like your mother," said Mary.
"I
should think tha' did," agreed Martha, polishing away.
"I've
never seen her," said Mary.
"No,
tha' hasn't," replied Martha.
She sat up
on her heels again and rubbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand as
if puzzled for a moment, but she ended quite positively.
"Well,
she's that sensible an' hard workin' an' goodnatured an' clean that no one
could help likin' her whether they'd seen her or not. When I'm goin' home to
her on my day out I just jump for joy when I'm crossin' the moor."
"I
like Dickon," added Mary. "And I've never seen him."
"Well,"
said Martha stoutly, "I've told thee that th' very birds likes him an' th'
rabbits an' wild sheep an' ponies, an' th' foxes themselves. I wonder,"
staring at her reflectively, "what Dickon would think of thee?"
"He
wouldn't like me," said Mary in her stiff, cold little way. "No one
does."
Martha
looked reflective again.
"How
does tha' like thysel'?" she inquired, really quite as if she were curious
to know.
Mary
hesitated a moment and thought it over.
"Not
at all—really," she answered. "But I never thought of that
before."
Martha
grinned a little as if at some homely recollection.
"Mother
said that to me once," she said. "She was at her wash-tub an' I was
in a bad temper an' talkin' ill of folk, an' she turns round on me an' says:
'Tha' young vixen, tha'! There tha' stands sayin' tha' doesn't like this one
an' tha' doesn't like that one. How does tha' like thysel'?' It made me laugh
an' it brought me to my senses in a minute."
She went
away in high spirits as soon as she had given Mary her breakfast. She was going
to walk five miles across the moor to the cottage, and she was going to help
her mother with the washing and do the week's baking and enjoy herself
thoroughly.
Mary felt
lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longer in the house. She went out
into the garden as quickly as possible, and the first thing she did was to run
round and round the fountain flower garden ten times. She counted the times
carefully and when she had finished she felt in better spirits. The sunshine
made the whole place look different. The high, deep, blue sky arched over
Misselthwaite as well as over the moor, and she kept lifting her face and
looking up into it, trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one
of the little snow-white clouds and float about. She went into the first
kitchen-garden and found Ben Weatherstaff working there with two other
gardeners. The change in the weather seemed to have done him good. He spoke to
her of his own accord. "Springtime's comin,'" he said. "Cannot
tha' smell it?"
Mary
sniffed and thought she could.
"I
smell something nice and fresh and damp," she said.
"That's
th' good rich earth," he answered, digging away. "It's in a good
humor makin' ready to grow things. It's glad when plantin' time comes. It's
dull in th' winter when it's got nowt to do. In th' flower gardens out there
things will be stirrin' down below in th' dark. Th' sun's warmin' 'em. You'll
see bits o' green spikes stickin' out o' th' black earth after a bit."
"What
will they be?" asked Mary.
"Crocuses
an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys. Has tha' never seen them?"
"No.
Everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in India
"These
won't grow up in a night," said Weatherstaff. "Tha'll have to wait
for 'em. They'll poke up a bit higher here, an' push out a spike more there,
an' uncurl a leaf this day an' another that. You watch 'em."
"I am
going to," answered Mary.
Very soon
she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the
robin had come again. He was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to
her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she
asked Ben Weatherstaff a question.
"Do
you think he remembers me?" she said.
"Remembers
thee!" said Weatherstaff indignantly. "He knows every cabbage stump
in th' gardens, let alone th' people. He's never seen a little wench here
before, an' he's bent on findin' out all about thee. Tha's no need to try to
hide anything from him."
"Are
things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives?"
Mary inquired.
"What
garden?" grunted Weatherstaff, becoming surly again.
"The
one where the old rose-trees are." She could not help asking, because she
wanted so much to know. "Are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come
again in the summer? Are there ever any roses?"
"Ask
him," said Ben Weatherstaff, hunching his shoulders toward the robin.
"He's the only one as knows. No one else has seen inside it for ten
year'."
Ten years
was a long time, Mary thought. She had been born ten years ago.
She walked
away, slowly thinking. She had begun to like the garden just as she had begun
to like the robin and Dickon and Martha's mother. She was beginning to like
Martha, too. That seemed a good many people to like—when you were not used to
liking. She thought of the robin as one of the people. She went to her walk
outside the long, ivy-covered wall over which she could see the tree-tops; and
the second time she walked up and down the most interesting and exciting thing
happened to her, and it was all through Ben Weatherstaff's robin.
She heard
a chirp and a twitter, and when she looked at the bare flower-bed at her left
side there he was hopping about and pretending to peck things out of the earth
to persuade her that he had not followed her. But she knew he had followed her
and the surprise so filled her with delight that she almost trembled a little.
"You
do remember me!" she cried out. "You do! You are prettier than
anything else in the world!"
She
chirped, and talked, and coaxed and he hopped, and flirted his tail and
twittered. It was as if he were talking. His red waistcoat was like satin and
he puffed his tiny breast out and was so fine and so grand and so pretty that
it was really as if he were showing her how important and like a human person a
robin could be. Mistress Mary forgot that she had ever been contrary in her
life when he allowed her to draw closer and closer to him, and bend down and
talk and try to make something like robin sounds.
Oh! to
think that he should actually let her come as near to him as that! He knew
nothing in the world would make her put out her hand toward him or startle him
in the least tiniest way. He knew it because he was a real person—only nicer
than any other person in the world. She was so happy that she scarcely dared to
breathe.
The
flower-bed was not quite bare. It was bare of flowers because the perennial
plants had been cut down for their winter rest, but there were tall shrubs and
low ones which grew together at the back of the bed, and as the robin hopped
about under them she saw him hop over a small pile of freshly turned up earth.
He stopped on it to look for a worm. The earth had been turned up because a dog
had been trying to dig up a mole and he had scratched quite a deep hole.
Mary
looked at it, not really knowing why the hole was there, and as she looked she
saw something almost buried in the newly-turned soil. It was something like a
ring of rusty iron or brass and when the robin flew up into a tree nearby she
put out her hand and picked the ring up. It was more than a ring, however; it
was an old key which looked as if it had been buried a long time.
Mistress
Mary stood up and looked at it with an almost frightened face as it hung from
her finger.
"Perhaps
it has been buried for ten years," she said in a whisper. "Perhaps it
is the key to the garden!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE ROBIN
WHO SHOWED THE WAY
She looked
at the key quite a long time. She turned it over and over, and thought about
it. As I have said before, she was not a child who had been trained to ask permission
or consult her elders about things. All she thought about the key was that if
it was the key to the closed garden, and she could find out where the door was,
she could perhaps open it and see what was inside the walls, and what had
happened to the old rose-trees. It was because it had been shut up so long that
she wanted to see it. It seemed as if it must be different from other places
and that something strange must have happened to it during ten years. Besides
that, if she liked it she could go into it every day and shut the door behind
her, and she could make up some play of her own and play it quite alone,
because nobody would ever know where she was, but would think the door was
still locked and the key buried in the earth. The thought of that pleased her
very much.
Living as
it were, all by herself in a house with a hundred mysteriously closed rooms and
having nothing whatever to do to amuse herself, had set her inactive brain to
working and was actually awakening her imagination. There is no doubt that the
fresh, strong, pure air from the moor had a great deal to do with it. Just as
it had given her an appetite, and fighting with the wind had stirred her blood,
so the same things had stirred her mind. In India
She put
the key in her pocket and walked up and down her walk. No one but herself ever
seemed to come there, so she could walk slowly and look at the wall, or,
rather, at the ivy growing on it. The ivy was the baffling thing. Howsoever
carefully she looked she could see nothing but thickly growing, glossy, dark
green leaves. She was very much disappointed. Something of her contrariness
came back to her as she paced the walk and looked over it at the tree-tops
inside. It seemed so silly, she said to herself, to be near it and not be able
to get in. She took the key in her pocket when she went back to the house, and
she made up her mind that she would always carry it with her when she went out,
so that if she ever should find the hidden door she would be ready.
Mrs.
Medlock had allowed Martha to sleep all night at the cottage, but she was back
at her work in the morning with cheeks redder than ever and in the best of
spirits.
"I
got up at four o'clock," she said. "Eh! it was pretty on th' moor
with th' birds gettin' up an' th' rabbits scamperin' about an' th' sun risin'.
I didn't walk all th' way. A man gave me a ride in his cart an' I did enjoy
myself."
She was
full of stories of the delights of her day out. Her mother had been glad to see
her and they had got the baking and washing all out of the way. She had even
made each of the children a doughcake with a bit of brown sugar in it.
"I
had 'em all pipin' hot when they came in from playin' on th' moor. An' th'
cottage all smelt o' nice, clean hot bakin' an' there was a good fire, an' they
just shouted for joy. Our Dickon he said our cottage was good enough for a
king."
In the
evening they had all sat round the fire, and Martha and her mother had sewed
patches on torn clothes and mended stockings and Martha had told them about the
little girl who had come from India and who had been waited on all her life by
what Martha called "blacks" until she didn't know how to put on her
own stockings.
"Eh!
they did like to hear about you," said Martha. "They wanted to know
all about th' blacks an' about th' ship you came in. I couldn't tell 'em
enough."
Mary
reflected a little.
"I'll
tell you a great deal more before your next day out," she said, "so
that you will have more to talk about. I dare say they would like to hear about
riding on elephants and camels, and about the officers going to hunt
tigers."
"My
word!" cried delighted Martha. "It would set 'em clean off their
heads. Would tha' really do that, Miss? It would be same as a wild beast show
like we heard they had in York
"India is quite different from Yorkshire ,"
Mary said slowly, as she thought the matter over. "I never thought of
that. Did Dickon and your mother like to hear you talk about me?"
"Why,
our Dickon's eyes nearly started out o' his head, they got that round,"
answered Martha. "But mother, she was put out about your seemin' to be all
by yourself like. She said, 'Hasn't Mr. Craven got no governess for her, nor no
nurse?' and I said, 'No, he hasn't, though Mrs. Medlock says he will when he
thinks of it, but she says he mayn't think of it for two or three years.'"
"I
don't want a governess," said Mary sharply.
"But
mother says you ought to be learnin' your book by this time an' you ought to
have a woman to look after you, an' she says: 'Now, Martha, you just think how
you'd feel yourself, in a big place like that, wanderin' about all alone, an'
no mother. You do your best to cheer her up,' she says, an' I said I
would."
Mary gave
her a long, steady look.
"You
do cheer me up," she said. "I like to hear you talk."
Presently
Martha went out of the room and came back with something held in her hands
under her apron.
"What
does tha' think," she said, with a cheerful grin. "I've brought thee
a present."
"A
present!" exclaimed Mistress Mary. How could a cottage full of fourteen
hungry people give any one a present!
"A
man was drivin' across the moor peddlin'," Martha explained. "An' he
stopped his cart at our door. He had pots an' pans an' odds an' ends, but
mother had no money to buy anythin'. Just as he was goin' away our 'Lizabeth
Ellen called out, 'Mother, he's got skippin'-ropes with red an' blue handles.'
An' mother she calls out quite sudden, 'Here, stop, mister! How much are they?'
An' he says 'Tuppence', an' mother she began fumblin' in her pocket an' she
says to me, 'Martha, tha's brought me thy wages like a good lass, an' I've got
four places to put every penny, but I'm just goin' to take tuppence out of it
to buy that child a skippin'-rope,' an' she bought one an' here it is."
She
brought it out from under her apron and exhibited it quite proudly. It was a
strong, slender rope with a striped red and blue handle at each end, but Mary
Lennox had never seen a skipping-rope before. She gazed at it with a mystified
expression.
"What
is it for?" she asked curiously.
"For!"
cried out Martha. "Does tha' mean that they've not got skippin'-ropes in India
And she
ran into the middle of the room and, taking a handle in each hand, began to
skip, and skip, and skip, while Mary turned in her chair to stare at her, and
the queer faces in the old portraits seemed to stare at her, too, and wonder
what on earth this common little cottager had the impudence to be doing under
their very noses. But Martha did not even see them. The interest and curiosity
in Mistress Mary's face delighted her, and she went on skipping and counted as
she skipped until she had reached a hundred.
"I
could skip longer than that," she said when she stopped. "I've
skipped as much as five hundred when I was twelve, but I wasn't as fat then as
I am now, an' I was in practice."
Mary got
up from her chair beginning to feel excited herself.
"It
looks nice," she said. "Your mother is a kind woman. Do you think I
could ever skip like that?"
"You
just try it," urged Martha, handing her the skipping-rope. "You can't
skip a hundred at first, but if you practice you'll mount up. That's what
mother said. She says, 'Nothin' will do her more good than skippin' rope. It's
th' sensiblest toy a child can have. Let her play out in th' fresh air skippin'
an' it'll stretch her legs an' arms an' give her some strength in 'em.'"
It was
plain that there was not a great deal of strength in Mistress Mary's arms and
legs when she first began to skip. She was not very clever at it, but she liked
it so much that she did not want to stop.
"Put
on tha' things and run an' skip out o' doors," said Martha. "Mother
said I must tell you to keep out o' doors as much as you could, even when it
rains a bit, so as tha' wrap up warm."
Mary put
on her coat and hat and took her skipping-rope over her arm. She opened the
door to go out, and then suddenly thought of something and turned back rather
slowly.
"Martha,"
she said, "they were your wages. It was your two-pence really. Thank
you." She said it stiffly because she was not used to thanking people or
noticing that they did things for her. "Thank you," she said, and
held out her hand because she did not know what else to do.
Martha
gave her hand a clumsy little shake, as if she was not accustomed to this sort
of thing either. Then she laughed.
"Eh!
th' art a queer, old-womanish thing," she said. "If tha'd been our
'Lizabeth Ellen tha'd have given me a kiss."
Mary
looked stiffer than ever.
"Do
you want me to kiss you?"
Martha
laughed again.
"Nay,
not me," she answered. "If tha' was different, p'raps tha'd want to
thysel'. But tha' isn't. Run off outside an' play with thy rope."
Mistress
Mary felt a little awkward as she went out of the room. Yorkshire
people seemed strange, and Martha was always rather a puzzle to her. At first
she had disliked her very much, but now she did not. The skipping-rope was a
wonderful thing. She counted and skipped, and skipped and counted, until her
cheeks were quite red, and she was more interested than she had ever been since
she was born. The sun was shining and a little wind was blowing—not a rough
wind, but one which came in delightful little gusts and brought a fresh scent of
newly turned earth with it. She skipped round the fountain garden, and up one
walk and down another. She skipped at last into the kitchen-garden and saw Ben
Weatherstaff digging and talking to his robin, which was hopping about him. She
skipped down the walk toward him and he lifted his head and looked at her with
a curious expression. She had wondered if he would notice her. She wanted him
to see her skip.
"Well!"
he exclaimed. "Upon my word. P'raps tha' art a young 'un, after all, an'
p'raps tha's got child's blood in thy veins instead of sour buttermilk. Tha's
skipped red into thy cheeks as sure as my name's Ben Weatherstaff. I wouldn't
have believed tha' could do it."
"I
never skipped before," Mary said. "I'm just beginning. I can only go
up to twenty."
"Tha'
keep on," said Ben. "Tha' shapes well enough at it for a young 'un
that's lived with heathen. Just see how he's watchin' thee," jerking his
head toward the robin. "He followed after thee yesterday. He'll be at it
again today. He'll be bound to find out what th' skippin'-rope is. He's never
seen one. Eh!" shaking his head at the bird, "tha' curiosity will be
th' death of thee sometime if tha' doesn't look sharp."
Mary
skipped round all the gardens and round the orchard, resting every few minutes.
At length she went to her own special walk and made up her mind to try if she
could skip the whole length of it. It was a good long skip and she began
slowly, but before she had gone half-way down the path she was so hot and
breathless that she was obliged to stop. She did not mind much, because she had
already counted up to thirty. She stopped with a little laugh of pleasure, and
there, lo and behold, was the robin swaying on a long branch
"You
showed me where the key was yesterday," she said. "You ought to show
me the door today; but I don't believe you know!"
The robin
flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall and he opened his
beak and sang a loud, lovely trill, merely to show off. Nothing in the world is
quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off—and they are nearly
always doing it.
Mary
Lennox had heard a great deal about Magic in her Ayah's stories, and she always
said that what happened almost at that moment was Magic.
One of the
nice little gusts of wind rushed down the walk, and it was a stronger one than
the rest. It was strong enough to wave the branches of the trees, and it was
more than strong enough to sway the trailing sprays of untrimmed ivy hanging
from the wall. Mary had stepped close to the robin, and suddenly the gust of
wind swung aside some loose ivy trails, and more suddenly still she jumped
toward it and caught it in her hand. This she did because she had seen
something under it—a round knob which had been covered by the leaves hanging
over it. It was the knob of a door.
She put
her hands under the leaves and began to pull and push them aside. Thick as the
ivy hung, it nearly all was a loose and swinging curtain, though some had crept
over wood and iron. Mary's heart began to thump and her hands to shake a little
in her delight and excitement. The robin kept singing and twittering away and
tilting his head on one side, as if he were as excited as she was. What was
this under her hands which was square and made of iron and which her fingers
found a hole in?
It was the
lock of the door which had been closed ten years and she put her hand in her
pocket, drew out the key and found it fitted the keyhole. She put the key in
and turned it. It took two hands to do it, but it did turn.
And then
she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk to see if any one
was coming. No one was coming. No one ever did come, it seemed, and she took
another long breath, because she could not help it, and she held back the
swinging curtain of ivy and pushed back the door which opened slowly—slowly.
Then she
slipped through it, and shut it behind her, and stood with her back against it,
looking about her and breathing quite fast with excitement, and wonder, and
delight.
She was
standing inside the secret garden.
CHAPTER IX
THE
STRANGEST HOUSE ANY ONE EVER LIVED IN
It was the
sweetest, most mysterious-looking place any one could imagine. The high walls
which shut it in were covered with the leafless stems of climbing roses which
were so thick that they were matted together. Mary Lennox knew they were roses
because she had seen a great many roses in India
"How
still it is!" she whispered. "How still!"
Then she
waited a moment and listened at the stillness. The robin, who had flown to his
treetop, was still as all the rest. He did not even flutter his wings; he sat
without stirring, and looked at Mary.
"No
wonder it is still," she whispered again. "I am the first person who
has spoken in here for ten years."
She moved
away from the door, stepping as softly as if she were afraid of awakening some
one. She was glad that there was grass under her feet and that her steps made
no sounds. She walked under one of the fairy-like gray arches between the trees
and looked up at the sprays and tendrils which formed them. "I wonder if
they are all quite dead," she said. "Is it all a quite dead garden? I
wish it wasn't."
If she had
been Ben Weatherstaff she could have told whether the wood was alive by looking
at it, but she could only see that there were only gray or brown sprays and
branches and none showed any signs of even a tiny leaf-bud anywhere.
But she
was inside the wonderful garden and she could come through the door under the
ivy any time and she felt as if she had found a world all her own.
The sun
was shining inside the four walls and the high arch of blue sky over this
particular piece of Misselthwaite seemed even more brilliant and soft than it
was over the moor. The robin flew down from his tree-top and hopped about or
flew after her from one bush to another. He chirped a good deal and had a very
busy air, as if he were showing her things. Everything was strange and silent
and she seemed to be hundreds of miles away from any one, but somehow she did
not feel lonely at all. All that troubled her was her wish that she knew
whether all the roses were dead, or if perhaps some of them had lived and might
put out leaves and buds as the weather got warmer. She did not want it to be a
quite dead garden. If it were a quite alive garden, how wonderful it would be,
and what thousands of roses would grow on every side!
Her
skipping-rope had hung over her arm when she came in and after she had walked
about for a while she thought she would skip round the whole garden, stopping
when she wanted to look at things. There seemed to have been grass paths here
and there, and in one or two corners there were alcoves of evergreen with stone
seats or tall moss-covered flower urns in them.
As she
came near the second of these alcoves she stopped skipping. There had once been
a flowerbed in it, and she thought she saw something sticking out of the black
earth—some sharp little pale green points. She remembered what Ben Weatherstaff
had said and she knelt down to look at them.
"Yes,
they are tiny growing things and they might be crocuses or snowdrops or
daffodils," she whispered.
She bent
very close to them and sniffed the fresh scent of the damp earth. She liked it
very much.
"Perhaps
there are some other ones coming up in other places," she said. "I
will go all over the garden and look."
She did
not skip, but walked. She went slowly and kept her eyes on the ground. She
looked in the old border beds and among the grass, and after she had gone
round, trying to miss nothing, she had found ever so many more sharp, pale
green points, and she had become quite excited again.
"It
isn't a quite dead garden," she cried out softly to herself. "Even if
the roses are dead, there are other things alive."
She did
not know anything about gardening, but the grass seemed so thick in some of the
places where the green points were pushing their way through that she thought
they did not seem to have room enough to grow. She searched about until she
found a rather sharp piece of wood and knelt down and dug and weeded out the
weeds and grass until she made nice little clear places around them.
"Now
they look as if they could breathe," she said, after she had finished with
the first ones. "I am going to do ever so many more. I'll do all I can
see. If I haven't time today I can come tomorrow."
She went
from place to place, and dug and weeded, and enjoyed herself so immensely that
she was led on from bed to bed and into the grass under the trees. The exercise
made her so warm that she first threw her coat off, and then her hat, and
without knowing it she was smiling down on to the grass and the pale green
points all the time.
The robin
was tremendously busy. He was very much pleased to see gardening begun on his
own estate. He had often wondered at Ben Weatherstaff. Where gardening is done
all sorts of delightful things to eat are turned up with the soil. Now here was
this new kind of creature who was not half Ben's size and yet had had the sense
to come into his garden and begin at once.
Mistress
Mary worked in her garden until it was time to go to her midday dinner. In
fact, she was rather late in remembering, and when she put on her coat and hat,
and picked up her skipping-rope, she could not believe that she had been
working two or three hours. She had been actually happy all the time; and
dozens and dozens of the tiny, pale green points were to be seen in cleared
places, looking twice as cheerful as they had looked before when the grass and
weeds had been smothering them.
"I
shall come back this afternoon," she said, looking all round at her new
kingdom, and speaking to the trees and the rose-bushes as if they heard her.
Then she
ran lightly across the grass, pushed open the slow old door and slipped through
it under the ivy. She had such red cheeks and such bright eyes and ate such a
dinner that Martha was delighted.
"Two
pieces o' meat an' two helps o' rice puddin'!" she said. "Eh! mother
will be pleased when I tell her what th' skippin'-rope's done for thee."
In the
course of her digging with her pointed stick Mistress Mary had found herself
digging up a sort of white root rather like an onion. She had put it back in
its place and patted the earth carefully down on it and just now she wondered
if Martha could tell her what it was.
"Martha,"
she said, "what are those white roots that look like onions?"
"They're
bulbs," answered Martha. "Lots o' spring flowers grow from 'em. Th'
very little ones are snowdrops an' crocuses an' th' big ones are narcissuses
an' jonquils and daffydowndillys. Th' biggest of all is lilies an' purple
flags. Eh! they are nice. Dickon's got a whole lot of 'em planted in our bit o'
garden."
"Does
Dickon know all about them?" asked Mary, a new idea taking possession of
her.
"Our
Dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk. Mother says he just whispers
things out o' th' ground."
"Do
bulbs live a long time? Would they live years and years if no one helped
them?" inquired Mary anxiously.
"They're
things as helps themselves," said Martha. "That's why poor folk can
afford to have 'em. If you don't trouble 'em, most of 'em'll work away
underground for a lifetime an' spread out an' have little 'uns. There's a place
in th' park woods here where there's snowdrops by thousands. They're the
prettiest sight in Yorkshire when th' spring
comes. No one knows when they was first planted."
"I
wish the spring was here now," said Mary. "I want to see all the
things that grow in England
She had
finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the hearth-rug.
"I
wish—I wish I had a little spade," she said. "Whatever does tha' want
a spade for?" asked Martha, laughing. "Art tha' goin' to take to
diggin'? I must tell mother that, too."
Mary
looked at the fire and pondered a little. She must be careful if she meant to
keep her secret kingdom. She wasn't doing any harm, but if Mr. Craven found out
about the open door he would be fearfully angry and get a new key and lock it
up forevermore. She really could not bear that.
"This
is such a big lonely place," she said slowly, as if she were turning
matters over in her mind. "The house is lonely, and the park is lonely,
and the gardens are lonely. So many places seem shut up. I never did many
things in India
Martha's
face quite lighted up.
"There
now!" she exclaimed, "if that wasn't one of th' things mother said.
She says, 'There's such a lot o' room in that big place, why don't they give
her a bit for herself, even if she doesn't plant nothin' but parsley an'
radishes? She'd dig an' rake away an' be right down happy over it.' Them was
the very words she said."
"Were
they?" said Mary. "How many things she knows, doesn't she?"
"Eh!"
said Martha. "It's like she says: 'A woman as brings up twelve children
learns something besides her A B C. Children's as good as 'rithmetic to set you
findin' out things.'"
"How
much would a spade cost—a little one?" Mary asked.
"Well,"
was Martha's reflective answer, "at Thwaite village there's a shop or so
an' I saw little garden sets with a spade an' a rake an' a fork all tied
together for two shillings. An' they was stout enough to work with, too."
"I've
got more than that in my purse," said Mary. "Mrs. Morrison gave me
five shillings and Mrs. Medlock gave me some money from Mr. Craven."
"Did
he remember thee that much?" exclaimed Martha.
"Mrs.
Medlock said I was to have a shilling a week to spend. She gives me one every
Saturday. I didn't know what to spend it on."
"My
word! that's riches," said Martha. "Tha' can buy anything in th'
world tha' wants. Th' rent of our cottage is only one an' threepence an' it's
like pullin' eye-teeth to get it. Now I've just thought of somethin',"
putting her hands on her hips.
"What?"
said Mary eagerly.
"In
the shop at Thwaite they sell packages o' flower-seeds for a penny each, and
our Dickon he knows which is th' prettiest ones an' how to make 'em grow. He walks over to
Thwaite many a day just for th' fun of it. Does tha' know how to print
letters?" suddenly.
"I
know how to write," Mary answered.
Martha
shook her head.
"Our
Dickon can only read printin'. If tha' could print we could write a letter to
him an' ask him to go an' buy th' garden tools an' th' seeds at th' same
time."
"Oh!
you're a good girl!" Mary cried. "You are, really! I didn't know you
were so nice. I know I can print letters if I try. Let's ask Mrs. Medlock for a
pen and ink and some paper."
"I've
got some of my own," said Martha. "I bought 'em so I could print a bit of a
letter to mother of a Sunday. I'll go and get it." She ran out of the
room, and Mary stood by the fire and twisted her thin little hands together
with sheer pleasure.
"If I
have a spade," she whispered, "I can make the earth nice and soft and
dig up weeds. If I have seeds and can make flowers grow the garden won't be
dead at all—it will come alive."
She did
not go out again that afternoon because when Martha returned with her pen and
ink and paper she was obliged to clear the table and carry the plates and
dishes downstairs and when she got into the kitchen Mrs. Medlock was there and
told her to do something, so Mary waited for what seemed to her a long time
before she came back. Then it was a serious piece of work to write to Dickon.
Mary had been taught very little because her governesses had disliked her too
much to stay with her. She could not spell particularly well but she found that
she could print letters when she tried. This was the letter Martha dictated to
her: "My Dear Dickon:
This comes
hoping to find you well as it leaves me at present. Miss Mary has plenty of
money and will you go to Thwaite and buy her some flower seeds and a set of
garden tools to make a flower-bed. Pick the prettiest ones and easy to grow
because she has never done it before and lived in India
"Your loving
sister,
Martha Phoebe Sowerby."
Martha Phoebe Sowerby."
"We'll
put the money in th' envelope an' I'll get th' butcher boy to take it in his
cart. He's a great friend o' Dickon's," said Martha.
"How
shall I get the things when Dickon buys them?"
"He'll
bring 'em to you himself. He'll like to walk over this way."
"Oh!"
exclaimed Mary, "then I shall see him! I never thought I should see
Dickon."
"Does
tha' want to see him?" asked Martha suddenly, for Mary had looked so
pleased.
"Yes,
I do. I never saw a boy foxes and crows loved. I want to see him very
much."
Martha
gave a little start, as if she remembered something. "Now to think,"
she broke out, "to think o' me forgettin' that there; an' I thought I was
goin' to tell you first thing this mornin'. I asked mother—and she said she'd
ask Mrs. Medlock her own self."
"Do
you mean—" Mary began.
"What
I said Tuesday. Ask her if you might be driven over to our cottage some day and
have a bit o' mother's hot oat cake, an' butter, an' a glass o' milk."
It seemed
as if all the interesting things were happening in one day. To think of going
over the moor in the daylight and when the sky was blue! To think of going into
the cottage which held twelve children!
"Does
she think Mrs. Medlock would let me go?" she asked, quite anxiously.
"Aye,
she thinks she would. She knows what a tidy woman mother is and how clean she
keeps the cottage."
"If I
went I should see your mother as well as Dickon," said Mary, thinking it
over and liking the idea very much. "She doesn't seem to be like the
mothers in India
Her work
in the garden and the excitement of the afternoon ended by making her feel
quiet and thoughtful. Martha stayed with her until tea-time, but they sat in
comfortable quiet and talked very little. But just before Martha went
downstairs for the tea-tray, Mary asked a question.
"Martha,"
she said, "has the scullery-maid had the toothache again today?"
Martha
certainly started slightly.
"What
makes thee ask that?" she said.
"Because
when I waited so long for you to come back I opened the door and walked down
the corridor to see if you were coming. And I heard that far-off crying again,
just as we heard it the other night. There isn't a wind today, so you see it
couldn't have been the wind."
"Eh!"
said Martha restlessly. "Tha' mustn't go walkin' about in corridors an'
listenin'. Mr. Craven would be that there angry there's no knowin' what he'd
do."
"I
wasn't listening," said Mary. "I was just waiting for you—and I heard
it. That's three times."
"My
word! There's Mrs. Medlock's bell," said Martha, and she almost ran out of
the room.
"It's
the strangest house any one ever lived in," said Mary drowsily, as she
dropped her head on the cushioned seat of the armchair near her. Fresh air, and
digging, and skipping-rope had made her feel so comfortably tired that she fell
asleep.
CHAPTER X
DICKON
The sun
shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden. The Secret Garden
Mary was
an odd, determined little person, and now she had something interesting to be
determined about, she was very much absorbed, indeed. She worked and dug and
pulled up weeds steadily, only becoming more pleased with her work every hour
instead of tiring of it. It seemed to her like a fascinating sort of play. She
found many more of the sprouting pale green points than she had ever hoped to
find. They seemed to be starting up everywhere and each day she was sure she
found tiny new ones, some so tiny that they barely peeped above the earth.
There were so many that she remembered what Martha had said about the
"snowdrops by the thousands," and about bulbs spreading and making
new ones. These had been left to themselves for ten years and perhaps they had
spread, like the snowdrops, into thousands. She wondered how long it would be
before they showed that they were flowers. Sometimes she stopped digging to
look at the garden and try to imagine what it would be like when it was covered
with thousands of lovely things in bloom. During that week of sunshine, she
became more intimate with Ben Weatherstaff. She surprised him several times by
seeming to start up beside him as if she sprang out of the earth. The truth was
that she was afraid that he would pick up his tools and go away if he saw her
coming, so she always walked toward him as silently as possible. But, in fact,
he did not object to her as strongly as he had at first. Perhaps he was
secretly rather flattered by her evident desire for his elderly company. Then,
also, she was more civil than she had been. He did not know that when she first
saw him she spoke to him as she would have spoken to a native, and had not
known that a cross, sturdy old Yorkshire man
was not accustomed to salaam to his masters, and be merely commanded by them to
do things.
"Tha'rt
like th' robin," he said to her one morning when he lifted his head and
saw her standing by him. "I never knows when I shall see thee or which
side tha'll come from."
"He's
friends with me now," said Mary.
"That's
like him," snapped Ben Weatherstaff. "Makin' up to th' women folk
just for vanity an' flightiness. There's nothin' he wouldn't do for th' sake o'
showin' off an' flirtin' his tail-feathers. He's as full o' pride as an egg's
full o' meat."
He very
seldom talked much and sometimes did not even answer Mary's questions except by
a grunt, but this morning he said more than usual. He stood up and rested one
hobnailed boot on the top of his spade while he looked her over.
"How
long has tha' been here?" he jerked out.
"I
think it's about a month," she answered.
"Tha's
beginnin' to do Misselthwaite credit," he said. "Tha's a bit fatter
than tha' was an' tha's not quite so yeller. Tha' looked like a young plucked
crow when tha' first came into this garden. Thinks I to myself I never set eyes
on an uglier, sourer faced young 'un."
Mary was
not vain and as she had never thought much of her looks she was not greatly
disturbed.
"I
know I'm fatter," she said. "My stockings are getting tighter. They
used to make wrinkles. There's the robin, Ben Weatherstaff."
There,
indeed, was the robin, and she thought he looked nicer than ever. His red
waistcoat was as glossy as satin and he flirted his wings and tail and tilted
his head and hopped about with all sorts of lively graces. He seemed determined
to make Ben Weatherstaff admire him. But Ben was sarcastic.
"Aye,
there tha' art!" he said. "Tha' can put up with me for a bit
sometimes when tha's got no one better. Tha's been reddenin' up thy waistcoat
an' polishin' thy feathers this two weeks. I know what tha's up to. Tha's
courtin' some bold young madam somewhere tellin' thy lies to her about bein'
th' finest cock robin on Missel Moor an' ready to fight all th' rest of
'em."
"Oh!
look at him!" exclaimed Mary.
The robin
was evidently in a fascinating, bold mood. He hopped closer and closer and
looked at Ben Weatherstaff more and more engagingly. He flew on to the nearest
currant bush and tilted his head and sang a little song right at him.
"Tha'
thinks tha'll get over me by doin' that," said Ben, wrinkling his face up
in such a way that Mary felt sure he was trying not to look pleased. "Tha'
thinks no one can stand out against thee—that's what tha' thinks."
The robin
spread his wings—Mary could scarcely believe her eyes. He flew right up to the
handle of Ben Weatherstaff's spade and alighted on the top of it. Then the old
man's face wrinkled itself slowly into a new expression. He stood still as if
he were afraid to breathe—as if he would not have stirred for the world, lest
his robin should start away. He spoke quite in a whisper.
"Well,
I'm danged!" he said as softly as if he were saying something quite
different. "Tha' does know how to get at a chap—tha' does! Tha's fair
unearthly, tha's so knowin'."
And he stood
without stirring—almost without drawing his breath—until the robin gave another
flirt to his wings and flew away. Then he stood looking at the handle of the
spade as if there might be Magic in it, and then he began to dig again and said
nothing for several minutes.
But
because he kept breaking into a slow grin now and then, Mary was not afraid to
talk to him.
"Have
you a garden of your own?" she asked.
"No.
I'm bachelder an' lodge with Martin at th' gate."
"If
you had one," said Mary, "what would you plant?"
"Cabbages
an' 'taters an' onions."
"But
if you wanted to make a flower garden," persisted Mary, "what would
you plant?"
"Bulbs
an' sweet-smellin' things—but mostly roses."
Mary's
face lighted up.
"Do
you like roses?" she said.
Ben
Weatherstaff rooted up a weed and threw it aside before he answered.
"Well,
yes, I do. I was learned that by a young lady I was gardener to. She had a lot
in a place she was fond of, an' she loved 'em like they was children—or robins.
I've seen her bend over an' kiss 'em." He dragged out another weed and
scowled at it. "That were as much as ten year' ago."
"Where
is she now?" asked Mary, much interested.
"Heaven,"
he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil, "'cording to what
parson says."
"What
happened to the roses?" Mary asked again, more interested than ever.
"They
was left to themselves."
Mary was
becoming quite excited.
"Did
they quite die? Do roses quite die when they are left to themselves?" she
ventured.
"Well,
I'd got to like 'em—an' I liked her—an' she liked 'em," Ben Weatherstaff
admitted reluctantly. "Once or twice a year I'd go an' work at 'em a
bit—prune 'em an' dig about th' roots. They run wild, but they was in rich
soil, so some of 'em lived."
"When
they have no leaves and look gray and brown and dry, how can you tell whether
they are dead or alive?" inquired Mary.
"Wait
till th' spring gets at 'em—wait till th' sun shines on th' rain and th' rain
falls on th' sunshine an' then tha'll find out."
"How—how?"
cried Mary, forgetting to be careful. "Look along th' twigs an' branches
an' if tha' see a bit of a brown lump swelling here an' there, watch it after
th' warm rain an' see what happens." He stopped suddenly and looked curiously
at her eager face. "Why does tha' care so much about roses an' such, all
of a sudden?" he demanded.
Mistress
Mary felt her face grow red. She was almost afraid to answer.
"I—I
want to play that—that I have a garden of my own," she stammered.
"I—there is nothing for me to do. I have nothing—and no one."
"Well,"
said Ben Weatherstaff slowly, as he watched her, "that's true. Tha'
hasn't."
He said it
in such an odd way that Mary wondered if he was actually a little sorry for
her. She had never felt sorry for herself; she had only felt tired and cross,
because she disliked people and things so much. But now the world seemed to be
changing and getting nicer. If no one found out about the secret garden, she
should enjoy herself always.
She stayed
with him for ten or fifteen minutes longer and asked him as many questions as
she dared. He answered every one of them in his queer grunting way and he did
not seem really cross and did not pick up his spade and leave her. He said
something about roses just as she was going away and it reminded her of the
ones he had said he had been fond of.
"Do
you go and see those other roses now?" she asked.
"Not
been this year. My rheumatics has made me too stiff in th' joints."
He said it
in his grumbling voice, and then quite suddenly he seemed to get angry with
her, though she did not see why he should.
"Now
look here!" he said sharply. "Don't tha' ask so many questions.
Tha'rt th' worst wench for askin' questions I've ever come a cross. Get thee
gone an' play thee. I've done talkin' for today."
And he
said it so crossly that she knew there was not the least use in staying another
minute. She went skipping slowly down the outside walk, thinking him over and
saying to herself that, queer as it was, here was another person whom she liked
in spite of his crossness. She liked old Ben Weatherstaff. Yes, she did like
him. She always wanted to try to make him talk to her. Also she began to
believe that he knew everything in the world about flowers.
There was
a laurel-hedged walk which curved round the secret garden and ended at a gate
which opened into a wood, in the park. She thought she would slip round this
walk and look into the wood and see if there were any rabbits hopping about.
She enjoyed the skipping very much and when she reached the little gate she
opened it and went through because she heard a low, peculiar whistling sound
and wanted to find out what it was.
It was a
very strange thing indeed. She quite caught her breath as she stopped to look
at it. A boy was sitting under a tree, with his back against it, playing on a
rough wooden pipe. He was a funny looking boy about twelve. He looked very
clean and his nose turned up and his cheeks were as red as poppies and never
had Mistress Mary seen such round and such blue eyes in any boy's face. And on
the trunk of the tree he leaned against, a brown squirrel was clinging and
watching him, and from behind a bush nearby a cock pheasant was delicately
stretching his neck to peep out, and quite near him were two rabbits sitting up
and sniffing with tremulous noses—and actually it appeared as if they were all
drawing near to watch him and listen to the strange low little call his pipe
seemed to make.
When he
saw Mary he held up his hand and spoke to her in a voice almost as low as and
rather like his piping.
"Don't
tha' move," he said. "It'd flight 'em." Mary remained
motionless. He stopped playing his pipe and began to rise from the ground. He
moved so slowly that it scarcely seemed as though he were moving at all, but at
last he stood on his feet and then the squirrel scampered back up into the
branches of his tree, the pheasant withdrew his head and the rabbits dropped on
all fours and began to hop away, though not at all as if they were frightened.
"I'm
Dickon," the boy said. "I know tha'rt Miss Mary."
Then Mary
realized that somehow she had known at first that he was Dickon. Who else could
have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the natives charm snakes in India
"I
got up slow," he explained, "because if tha' makes a quick move it
startles 'em. A body 'as to move gentle an' speak low when wild things is
about."
He did not
speak to her as if they had never seen each other before but as if he knew her
quite well. Mary knew nothing about boys and she spoke to him a little stiffly
because she felt rather shy.
"Did
you get Martha's letter?" she asked.
He nodded
his curly, rust-colored head. "That's why I come."
He stooped
to pick up something which had been lying on the ground beside him when he
piped.
"I've
got th' garden tools. There's a little spade an' rake an' a fork an' hoe. Eh!
they are good 'uns. There's a trowel, too. An' th' woman in th' shop threw in a
packet o' white poppy an' one o' blue larkspur when I bought th' other
seeds."
"Will
you show the seeds to me?" Mary said.
She wished
she could talk as he did. His speech was so quick and easy. It sounded as if he
liked her and was not the least afraid she would not like him, though he was
only a common moor boy, in patched clothes and with a funny face and a rough,
rusty-red head. As she came closer to him she noticed that there was a clean
fresh scent of heather and grass and leaves about him, almost as if he were
made of them. She liked it very much and when she looked into his funny face
with the red cheeks and round blue eyes she forgot that she had felt shy.
"Let
us sit down on this log and look at them," she said.
They sat
down and he took a clumsy little brown paper package out of his coat pocket. He
untied the string and inside there were ever so many neater and smaller
packages with a picture of a flower on each one.
"There's
a lot o' mignonette an' poppies," he said. "Mignonette's th' sweetest
smellin' thing as grows, an' it'll grow wherever you cast it, same as poppies
will. Them as'll come up an' bloom if you just whistle to 'em, them's th'
nicest of all." He stopped and turned his head quickly, his poppy-cheeked
face lighting up.
"Where's
that robin as is callin' us?" he said.
The chirp
came from a thick holly bush, bright with scarlet berries, and Mary thought she
knew whose it was.
"Is
it really calling us?" she asked.
"Aye,"
said Dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, "he's
callin' some one he's friends with. That's same as sayin' 'Here I am. Look at
me. I wants a bit of a chat.' There he is in the bush. Whose is he?"
"He's
Ben Weatherstaff's, but I think he knows me a little," answered Mary.
"Aye,
he knows thee," said Dickon in his low voice again. "An' he likes
thee. He's took thee on. He'll tell me all about thee in a minute."
He moved
quite close to the bush with the slow movement Mary had noticed before, and
then he made a sound almost like the robin's own twitter. The robin listened a
few seconds, intently, and then answered quite as if he were replying to a
question.
"Aye,
he's a friend o' yours," chuckled Dickon.
"Do
you think he is?" cried Mary eagerly. She did so want to know. "Do
you think he really likes me?"
"He
wouldn't come near thee if he didn't," answered Dickon. "Birds is
rare choosers an' a robin can flout a body worse than a man. See, he's making
up to thee now. 'Cannot tha' see a chap?' he's sayin'."
And it
really seemed as if it must be true. He so sidled and twittered and tilted as
he hopped on his bush.
"Do
you understand everything birds say?" said Mary.
Dickon's
grin spread until he seemed all wide, red, curving mouth, and he rubbed his
rough head.
"I
think I do, and they think I do," he said. "I've lived on th' moor
with 'em so long. I've watched 'em break shell an' come out an' fledge an'
learn to fly an' begin to sing, till I think I'm one of 'em. Sometimes I think
p'raps I'm a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a squirrel, or even a beetle, an'
I don't know it."
He laughed
and came back to the log and began to talk about the flower seeds again. He
told her what they looked like when they were flowers; he told her how to plant
them, and watch them, and feed and water them.
"See
here," he said suddenly, turning round to look at her. "I'll plant
them for thee myself. Where is tha' garden?"
Mary's
thin hands clutched each other as they lay on her lap. She did not know what to
say, so for a whole minute she said nothing. She had never thought of this. She
felt miserable. And she felt as if she went red and then pale.
"Tha's
got a bit o' garden, hasn't tha'?" Dickon said.
It was
true that she had turned red and then pale. Dickon saw her do it, and as she
still said nothing, he began to be puzzled.
"Wouldn't
they give thee a bit?" he asked. "Hasn't tha' got any yet?"
She held
her hands tighter and turned her eyes toward him.
"I
don't know anything about boys," she said slowly. "Could you keep a
secret, if I told you one? It's a great secret. I don't know what I should do
if any one found it out. I believe I should die!" She said the last
sentence quite fiercely.
Dickon
looked more puzzled than ever and even rubbed his hand over his rough head
again, but he answered quite good-humoredly. "I'm keepin' secrets all th'
time," he said. "If I couldn't keep secrets from th' other lads,
secrets about foxes' cubs, an' birds' nests, an' wild things' holes, there'd be
naught safe on th' moor. Aye, I can keep secrets."
Mistress
Mary did not mean to put out her hand and clutch his sleeve but she did it.
"I've
stolen a garden," she said very fast. "It isn't mine. It isn't
anybody's. Nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into it.
Perhaps everything is dead in it already. I don't know."
She began
to feel hot and as contrary as she had ever felt in her life.
"I
don't care, I don't care! Nobody has any right to take it from me when I care
about it and they don't. They're letting it die, all shut in by itself,"
she ended passionately, and she threw her arms over her face and burst out
crying-poor little Mistress Mary.
Dickon's
curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder. "Eh-h-h!" he said,
drawing his exclamation out slowly, and the way he did it meant both wonder and
sympathy.
"I've
nothing to do," said Mary. "Nothing belongs to me. I found it myself
and I got into it myself. I was only just like the robin, and they wouldn't
take it from the robin." "Where is it?" asked Dickon in a
dropped voice.
Mistress
Mary got up from the log at once. She knew she felt contrary again, and
obstinate, and she did not care at all. She was imperious and Indian, and at
the same time hot and sorrowful.
"Come
with me and I'll show you," she said.
She led
him round the laurel path and to the walk where the ivy grew so thickly. Dickon
followed her with a queer, almost pitying, look on his face. He felt as if he
were being led to look at some strange bird's nest and must move softly. When
she stepped to the wall and lifted the hanging ivy he started. There was a door
and Mary pushed it slowly open and they passed in together, and then Mary stood
and waved her hand round defiantly.
"It's
this," she said. "It's a secret garden, and I'm the only one in the
world who wants it to be alive."
Dickon
looked round and round about it, and round and round again.
"Eh!"
he almost whispered, "it is a queer, pretty place! It's like as if a body
was in a dream."
CHAPTER XI
THE NEST
OF THE MISSEL THRUSH
For two or
three minutes he stood looking round him, while Mary watched him, and then he
began to walk about softly, even more lightly than Mary had walked the first
time she had found herself inside the four walls. His eyes seemed to be taking
in everything—the gray trees with the gray creepers climbing over them and
hanging from their branches, the tangle on the walls and among the grass, the
evergreen alcoves with the stone seats and tall flower urns standing in them.
"I
never thought I'd see this place," he said at last, in a whisper.
"Did
you know about it?" asked Mary.
She had
spoken aloud and he made a sign to her.
"We
must talk low," he said, "or some one'll hear us an' wonder what's to
do in here."
"Oh!
I forgot!" said Mary, feeling frightened and putting her hand quickly
against her mouth. "Did you know about the garden?" she asked again
when she had recovered herself. Dickon nodded.
"Martha
told me there was one as no one ever went inside," he answered. "Us
used to wonder what it was like."
He stopped
and looked round at the lovely gray tangle about him, and his round eyes looked
queerly happy.
"Eh!
the nests as'll be here come springtime," he said. "It'd be th'
safest nestin' place in England
Mistress
Mary put her hand on his arm again without knowing it.
"Will
there be roses?" she whispered. "Can you tell? I thought perhaps they
were all dead."
"Eh!
No! Not them—not all of 'em!" he answered. "Look here!"
He stepped
over to the nearest tree—an old, old one with gray lichen all over its bark,
but upholding a curtain of tangled sprays and branches. He took a thick knife
out of his Pocket and opened one of its blades.
"There's
lots o' dead wood as ought to be cut out," he said. "An' there's a
lot o' old wood, but it made some new last year. This here's a new bit,"
and he touched a shoot which looked brownish green instead of hard, dry gray.
Mary touched it herself in an eager, reverent way.
"That
one?" she said. "Is that one quite alive quite?"
Dickon
curved his wide smiling mouth.
"It's
as wick as you or me," he said; and Mary remembered that Martha had told
her that "wick" meant "alive" or "lively."
"I'm
glad it's wick!" she cried out in her whisper. "I want them all to be
wick. Let us go round the garden and count how many wick ones there are."
She quite
panted with eagerness, and Dickon was as eager as she was. They went from tree
to tree and from bush to bush. Dickon carried his knife in his hand and showed
her things which she thought wonderful.
"They've
run wild," he said, "but th' strongest ones has fair thrived on it.
The delicatest ones has died out, but th' others has growed an' growed, an'
spread an' spread, till they's a wonder. See here!" and he pulled down a
thick gray, dry-looking branch. "A body might think this was dead wood,
but I don't believe it is—down to th' root. I'll cut it low down an' see."
He knelt
and with his knife cut the lifeless-looking branch through, not far above the
earth.
"There!"
he said exultantly. "I told thee so. There's green in that wood yet. Look
at it."
Mary was
down on her knees before he spoke, gazing with all her might.
"When
it looks a bit greenish an' juicy like that, it's wick," he explained.
"When th' inside is dry an' breaks easy, like this here piece I've cut
off, it's done for. There's a big root here as all this live wood sprung out
of, an' if th' old wood's cut off an' it's dug round, and took care of there'll
be—" he stopped and lifted his face to look up at the climbing and hanging
sprays above him—"there'll be a fountain o' roses here this summer."
They went
from bush to bush and from tree to tree. He was very strong and clever with his
knife and knew how to cut the dry and dead wood away, and could tell when an
unpromising bough or twig had still green life in it. In the course of half an
hour Mary thought she could tell too, and when he cut through a
lifeless-looking branch she would cry out joyfully under her breath when she
caught sight of the least shade of moist green. The spade, and hoe, and fork
were very useful. He showed her how to use the fork while he dug about roots
with the spade and stirred the earth and let the air in.
They were
working industriously round one of the biggest standard roses when he caught
sight of something which made him utter an exclamation of surprise.
"Why!"
he cried, pointing to the grass a few feet away. "Who did that
there?"
It was one
of Mary's own little clearings round the pale green points.
"I
did it," said Mary.
"Why,
I thought tha' didn't know nothin' about gardenin'," he exclaimed.
"I
don't," she answered, "but they were so little, and the grass was so
thick and strong, and they looked as if they had no room to breathe. So I made
a place for them. I don't even know what they are."
Dickon
went and knelt down by them, smiling his wide smile.
"Tha'
was right," he said. "A gardener couldn't have told thee better.
They'll grow now like Jack's bean-stalk. They're crocuses an' snowdrops, an'
these here is narcissuses," turning to another patch, "an here's
daffydowndillys. Eh! they will be a sight."
He ran
from one clearing to another.
"Tha'
has done a lot o' work for such a little wench," he said, looking her
over.
"I'm
growing fatter," said Mary, "and I'm growing stronger. I used always
to be tired. When I dig I'm not tired at all. I like to smell the earth when
it's turned up."
"It's
rare good for thee," he said, nodding his head wisely. "There's
naught as nice as th' smell o' good clean earth, except th' smell o' fresh
growin' things when th' rain falls on 'em. I get out on th' moor many a day
when it's rainin' an' I lie under a bush an' listen to th' soft swish o' drops
on th' heather an' I just sniff an' sniff. My nose end fair quivers like a
rabbit's, mother says."
"Do
you never catch cold?" inquired Mary, gazing at him wonderingly. She had
never seen such a funny boy, or such a nice one.
"Not
me," he said, grinning. "I never ketched cold since I was born. I
wasn't brought up nesh enough. I've chased about th' moor in all weathers same
as th' rabbits does. Mother says I've sniffed up too much fresh air for twelve
year' to ever get to sniffin' with cold. I'm as tough as a white-thorn
knobstick."
He was
working all the time he was talking and Mary was following him and helping him
with her fork or the trowel.
"There's
a lot of work to do here!" he said once, looking about quite exultantly.
"Will
you come again and help me to do it?" Mary begged. "I'm sure I can
help, too. I can dig and pull up weeds, and do whatever you tell me. Oh! do
come, Dickon!"
"I'll
come every day if tha' wants me, rain or shine," he answered stoutly.
"It's the best fun I ever had in my life—shut in here an' wakenin' up a
garden."
"If
you will come," said Mary, "if you will help me to make it alive
I'll—I don't know what I'll do," she ended helplessly. What could you do
for a boy like that?
"I'll
tell thee what tha'll do," said Dickon, with his happy grin. "Tha'll
get fat an' tha'll get as hungry as a young fox an' tha'll learn how to talk to
th' robin same as I do. Eh! we'll have a lot o' fun."
He began
to walk about, looking up in the trees and at the walls and bushes with a
thoughtful expression.
"I
wouldn't want to make it look like a gardener's garden, all clipped an' spick
an' span, would you?" he said. "It's nicer like this with things
runnin' wild, an' swingin' an' catchin' hold of each other."
"Don't
let us make it tidy," said Mary anxiously. "It wouldn't seem like a
secret garden if it was tidy."
Dickon
stood rubbing his rusty-red head with a rather puzzled look. "It's a
secret garden sure enough," he said, "but seems like some one besides
th' robin must have been in it since it was shut up ten year' ago."
"But
the door was locked and the key was buried," said Mary. "No one could
get in."
"That's
true," he answered. "It's a queer place. Seems to me as if there'd
been a bit o' prunin' done here an' there, later than ten year' ago."
"But
how could it have been done?" said Mary.
He was
examining a branch of a standard rose and he shook his head.
"Aye!
how could it!" he murmured. "With th' door locked an' th' key
buried."
Mistress
Mary always felt that however many years she lived she should never forget that
first morning when her garden began to grow. Of course, it did seem to begin to
grow for her that morning. When Dickon began to clear places to plant seeds,
she remembered what Basil had sung at her when he wanted to tease her.
"Are
there any flowers that look like bells?" she inquired.
"Lilies
o' th' valley does," he answered, digging away with the trowel, "an'
there's Canterbury bells, an' campanulas."
"Let's
plant some," said Mary. "There's lilies o' th, valley here already; I
saw 'em. They'll have growed too close an' we'll have to separate 'em, but
there's plenty. Th' other ones takes two years to bloom from seed, but I can
bring you some bits o' plants from our cottage garden. Why does tha' want
'em?"
Then Mary
told him about Basil and his brothers and sisters in India
"They
used to dance round and sing at me. They sang—
'Mistress
Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And marigolds all in a row.'
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And marigolds all in a row.'
I just
remembered it and it made me wonder if there were really flowers like silver
bells."
She
frowned a little and gave her trowel a rather spiteful dig into the earth.
"I
wasn't as contrary as they were."
But Dickon
laughed.
"Eh!"
he said, and as he crumbled the rich black soil she saw he was sniffing up the
scent of it. "There doesn't seem to be no need for no one to be contrary
when there's flowers an' such like, an' such lots o' friendly wild things
runnin' about makin' homes for themselves, or buildin' nests an' singin' an'
whistlin', does there?"
Mary,
kneeling by him holding the seeds, looked at him and stopped frowning.
"Dickon,"
she said, "you are as nice as Martha said you were. I like you, and you
make the fifth person. I never thought I should like five people."
Dickon sat
up on his heels as Martha did when she was polishing the grate. He did look
funny and delightful, Mary thought, with his round blue eyes and red cheeks and
happy looking turned-up nose.
"Only
five folk as tha' likes?" he said. "Who is th' other four?"
"Your
mother and Martha," Mary checked them off on her fingers, "and the
robin and Ben Weatherstaff."
Dickon
laughed so that he was obliged to stifle the sound by putting his arm over his
mouth.
"I
know tha' thinks I'm a queer lad," he said, "but I think tha' art th'
queerest little lass I ever saw."
Then Mary
did a strange thing. She leaned forward and asked him a question she had never
dreamed of asking any one before. And she tried to ask it in Yorkshire because
that was his language, and in India
"Does
tha' like me?" she said.
"Eh!"
he answered heartily, "that I does. I likes thee wonderful, an' so does
th' robin, I do believe!"
"That's
two, then," said Mary. "That's two for me."
And then
they began to work harder than ever and more joyfully. Mary was startled and
sorry when she heard the big clock in the courtyard strike the hour of her
midday dinner.
"I
shall have to go," she said mournfully. "And you will have to go too,
won't you?"
Dickon
grinned.
"My
dinner's easy to carry about with me," he said. "Mother always lets
me put a bit o' somethin' in my pocket."
He picked
up his coat from the grass and brought out of a pocket a lumpy little bundle
tied up in a quite clean, coarse, blue and white handkerchief. It held two
thick pieces of bread with a slice of something laid between them.
"It's
oftenest naught but bread," he said, "but I've got a fine slice o'
fat bacon with it today."
Mary
thought it looked a queer dinner, but he seemed ready to enjoy it.
"Run
on an' get thy victuals," he said. "I'll be done with mine first.
I'll get some more work done before I start back home."
He sat
down with his back against a tree.
"I'll
call th' robin up," he said, "and give him th' rind o' th' bacon to
peck at. They likes a bit o' fat wonderful."
Mary could
scarcely bear to leave him. Suddenly it seemed as if he might be a sort of wood
fairy who might be gone when she came into the garden again. He seemed too good
to be true. She went slowly half-way to the door in the wall and then she
stopped and went back.
"Whatever
happens, you—you never would tell?" she said.
His
poppy-colored cheeks were distended with his first big bite of bread and bacon,
but he managed to smile encouragingly.
"If
tha' was a missel thrush an' showed me where thy nest was, does tha' think I'd
tell any one? Not me," he said. "Tha' art as safe as a missel
thrush."
And she
was quite sure she was.
CHAPTER XII
"MIGHT
I HAVE A BIT OF EARTH?"
Mary ran
so fast that she was rather out of breath when she reached her room. Her hair
was ruffled on her forehead and her cheeks were bright pink. Her dinner was
waiting on the table, and Martha was waiting near it.
"Tha's
a bit late," she said. "Where has tha' been?"
"I've
seen Dickon!" said Mary. "I've seen Dickon!"
"I
knew he'd come," said Martha exultantly. "How does tha' like
him?"
"I
think—I think he's beautiful!" said Mary in a determined voice.
Martha
looked rather taken aback but she looked pleased, too.
"Well,"
she said, "he's th' best lad as ever was born, but us never thought he was
handsome. His nose turns up too much."
"I
like it to turn up," said Mary.
"An'
his eyes is so round," said Martha, a trifle doubtful. "Though
they're a nice color." "I like them round," said Mary. "And
they are exactly the color of the sky over the moor."
Martha
beamed with satisfaction.
"Mother
says he made 'em that color with always lookin' up at th' birds an' th' clouds.
But he has got a big mouth, hasn't he, now?"
"I
love his big mouth," said Mary obstinately. "I wish mine were just
like it."
Martha
chuckled delightedly.
"It'd
look rare an' funny in thy bit of a face," she said. "But I knowed it
would be that way when tha' saw him. How did tha' like th' seeds an' th' garden
tools?"
"How
did you know he brought them?" asked Mary.
"Eh!
I never thought of him not bringin' 'em. He'd be sure to bring 'em if they was
in Yorkshire . He's such a trusty lad."
Mary was
afraid that she might begin to ask difficult questions, but she did not. She
was very much interested in the seeds and gardening tools, and there was only
one moment when Mary was frightened. This was when she began to ask where the
flowers were to be planted.
"Who
did tha' ask about it?" she inquired.
"I
haven't asked anybody yet," said Mary, hesitating. "Well, I wouldn't
ask th' head gardener. He's too grand, Mr. Roach is."
"I've
never seen him," said Mary. "I've only seen undergardeners and Ben
Weatherstaff."
"If I
was you, I'd ask Ben Weatherstaff," advised Martha. "He's not half as
bad as he looks, for all he's so crabbed. Mr. Craven lets him do what he likes
because he was here when Mrs. Craven was alive, an' he used to make her laugh.
She liked him. Perhaps he'd find you a corner somewhere out o' the way."
"If
it was out of the way and no one wanted it, no one could mind my having it,
could they?" Mary said anxiously.
"There
wouldn't be no reason," answered Martha. "You wouldn't do no
harm."
Mary ate
her dinner as quickly as she could and when she rose from the table she was
going to run to her room to put on her hat again, but Martha stopped her.
"I've
got somethin' to tell you," she said. "I thought I'd let you eat your
dinner first. Mr. Craven came back this mornin' and I think he wants to see
you."
Mary
turned quite pale.
"Oh!"
she said. "Why! Why! He didn't want to see me when I came. I heard Pitcher
say he didn't." "Well," explained Martha, "Mrs. Medlock
says it's because o' mother. She was walkin' to Thwaite village an' she met
him. She'd never spoke to him before, but Mrs. Craven had been to our cottage
two or three times. He'd forgot, but mother hadn't an' she made bold to stop
him. I don't know what she said to him about you but she said somethin' as put
him in th' mind to see you before he goes away again, tomorrow."
"Oh!"
cried Mary, "is he going away tomorrow? I am so glad!"
"He's
goin' for a long time. He mayn't come back till autumn or winter. He's goin' to
travel in foreign places. He's always doin' it."
"Oh!
I'm so glad—so glad!" said Mary thankfully.
If he did
not come back until winter, or even autumn, there would be time to watch the
secret garden come alive. Even if he found out then and took it away from her
she would have had that much at least.
"When
do you think he will want to see—"
She did
not finish the sentence, because the door opened, and Mrs. Medlock walked in.
She had on her best black dress and cap, and her collar was fastened with a
large brooch with a picture of a man's face on it. It was a colored photograph
of Mr. Medlock who had died years ago, and she always wore it when she was
dressed up. She looked nervous and excited.
"Your
hair's rough," she said quickly. "Go and brush it. Martha, help her
to slip on her best dress. Mr. Craven sent me to bring her to him in his
study."
All the
pink left Mary's cheeks. Her heart began to thump and she felt herself changing
into a stiff, plain, silent child again. She did not even answer Mrs. Medlock,
but turned and walked into her bedroom, followed by Martha. She said nothing
while her dress was changed, and her hair brushed, and after she was quite tidy
she followed Mrs. Medlock down the corridors, in silence. What was there for
her to say? She was obliged to go and see Mr. Craven and he would not like her,
and she would not like him. She knew what he would think of her.
She was
taken to a part of the house she had not been into before. At last Mrs. Medlock
knocked at a door, and when some one said, "Come in," they entered
the room together. A man was sitting in an armchair before the fire, and Mrs.
Medlock spoke to him.
"This
is Miss Mary, sir," she said.
"You
can go and leave her here. I will ring for you when I want you to take her
away," said Mr. Craven.
When she
went out and closed the door, Mary could only stand waiting, a plain little
thing, twisting her thin hands together. She could see that the man in the
chair was not so much a hunchback as a man with high, rather crooked shoulders,
and he had black hair streaked with white. He turned his head over his high
shoulders and spoke to her.
"Come
here!" he said.
Mary went
to him.
He was not
ugly. His face would have been handsome if it had not been so miserable. He
looked as if the sight of her worried and fretted him and as if he did not know
what in the world to do with her.
"Are
you well?" he asked.
"Yes,"
answered Mary.
"Do
they take good care of you?"
"Yes."
He rubbed
his forehead fretfully as he looked her over.
"You
are very thin," he said.
"I am
getting fatter," Mary answered in what she knew was her stiffest way.
What an
unhappy face he had! His black eyes seemed as if they scarcely saw her, as if
they were seeing something else, and he could hardly keep his thoughts upon
her.
"I
forgot you," he said. "How could I remember you? I intended to send
you a governess or a nurse, or some one of that sort, but I forgot."
"Please,"
began Mary. "Please—" and then the lump in her throat choked her.
"What
do you want to say?" he inquired.
"I
am—I am too big for a nurse," said Mary. "And please—please don't
make me have a governess yet."
He rubbed
his forehead again and stared at her.
"That
was what the Sowerby woman said," he muttered absentmindedly.
Then Mary
gathered a scrap of courage.
"Is
she—is she Martha's mother?" she stammered.
"Yes,
I think so," he replied.
"She
knows about children," said Mary. "She has twelve. She knows."
He seemed
to rouse himself.
"What
do you want to do?"
"I
want to play out of doors," Mary answered, hoping that her voice did not
tremble. "I never liked it in India
He was
watching her.
"Mrs.
Sowerby said it would do you good. Perhaps it will," he said. "She
thought you had better get stronger before you had a governess."
"It
makes me feel strong when I play and the wind comes over the moor," argued
Mary.
"Where
do you play?" he asked next.
"Everywhere,"
gasped Mary. "Martha's mother sent me a skipping-rope. I skip and run—and
I look about to see if things are beginning to stick up out of the earth. I
don't do any harm."
"Don't
look so frightened," he said in a worried voice. "You could not do
any harm, a child like you! You may do what you like."
Mary put
her hand up to her throat because she was afraid he might see the excited lump
which she felt jump into it. She came a step nearer to him.
"May
I?" she said tremulously.
Her
anxious little face seemed to worry him more than ever.
"Don't
look so frightened," he exclaimed. "Of course you may. I am your
guardian, though I am a poor one for any child. I cannot give you time or
attention. I am too ill, and wretched and distracted; but I wish you to be
happy and comfortable. I don't know anything about children, but Mrs. Medlock
is to see that you have all you need. I sent for you to-day because Mrs.
Sowerby said I ought to see you. Her daughter had talked about you. She thought
you needed fresh air and freedom and running about."
"She
knows all about children," Mary said again in spite of herself.
"She
ought to," said Mr. Craven. "I thought her rather bold to stop me on
the moor, but she said—Mrs. Craven had been kind to her." It seemed hard for
him to speak his dead wife's name. "She is a respectable woman. Now I have
seen you I think she said sensible things. Play out of doors as much as you
like. It's a big place and you may go where you like and amuse yourself as you
like. Is there anything you want?" as if a sudden thought had struck him.
"Do you want toys, books, dolls?"
"Might
I," quavered Mary, "might I have a bit of earth?"
In her
eagerness she did not realize how queer the words would sound and that they
were not the ones she had meant to say. Mr. Craven looked quite startled.
"Earth!"
he repeated. "What do you mean?"
"To
plant seeds in—to make things grow—to see them come alive," Mary faltered.
He gazed
at her a moment and then passed his hand quickly over his eyes.
"Do
you—care about gardens so much," he said slowly.
"I
didn't know about them in India
Mr. Craven
got up and began to walk slowly across the room.
"A
bit of earth," he said to himself, and Mary thought that somehow she must
have reminded him of something. When he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes
looked almost soft and kind.
"You
can have as much earth as you want," he said. "You remind me of some
one else who loved the earth and things that grow. When you see a bit of earth
you want," with something like a smile, "take it, child, and make it
come alive."
"May
I take it from anywhere—if it's not wanted?"
"Anywhere,"
he answered. "There! You must go now, I am tired." He touched the
bell to call Mrs. Medlock. "Good-by. I shall be away all summer."
Mrs.
Medlock came so quickly that Mary thought she must have been waiting in the
corridor.
"Mrs.
Medlock," Mr. Craven said to her, "now I have seen the child I
understand what Mrs. Sowerby meant. She must be less delicate before she begins
lessons. Give her simple, healthy food. Let her run wild in the garden. Don't
look after her too much. She needs liberty and fresh air and romping about.
Mrs. Sowerby is to come and see her now and then and she may sometimes go to
the cottage."
Mrs.
Medlock looked pleased. She was relieved to hear that she need not "look
after" Mary too much. She had felt her a tiresome charge and had indeed
seen as little of her as she dared. In addition to this she was fond of
Martha's mother.
"Thank
you, sir," she said. "Susan Sowerby and me went to school together
and she's as sensible and good-hearted a woman as you'd find in a day's walk. I
never had any children myself and she's had twelve, and there never was
healthier or better ones. Miss Mary can get no harm from them. I'd always take
Susan Sowerby's advice about children myself. She's what you might call
healthy-minded—if you understand me."
"I
understand," Mr. Craven answered. "Take Miss Mary away now and send
Pitcher to me."
When Mrs.
Medlock left her at the end of her own corridor Mary flew back to her room. She
found Martha waiting there. Martha had, in fact, hurried back after she had
removed the dinner service.
"I
can have my garden!" cried Mary. "I may have it where I like! I am
not going to have a governess for a long time! Your mother is coming to see me
and I may go to your cottage! He says a little girl like me could not do any
harm and I may do what I like—anywhere!"
"Eh!"
said Martha delightedly, "that was nice of him wasn't it?"
"Martha,"
said Mary solemnly, "he is really a nice man, only his face is so
miserable and his forehead is all drawn together."
She ran as
quickly as she could to the garden. She had been away so much longer than she
had thought she should and she knew Dickon would have to set out early on his
five-mile walk. When she slipped through the door under the ivy, she saw he was
not working where she had left him. The gardening tools were laid together
under a tree. She ran to them, looking all round the place, but there was no
Dickon to be seen. He had gone away and the secret garden was empty—except for
the robin who had just flown across the wall and sat on a standard rose-bush
watching her. "He's gone," she said woefully. "Oh! was he—was
he—was he only a wood fairy?"
Something
white fastened to the standard rose-bush caught her eye. It was a piece of
paper, in fact, it was a piece of the letter she had printed for Martha to send
to Dickon. It was fastened on the bush with a long thorn, and in a minute she
knew Dickon had left it there. There were some roughly printed letters on it
and a sort of picture. At first she could not tell what it was. Then she saw it
was meant for a nest with a bird sitting on it. Underneath were the printed
letters and they said:
"I
will cum bak."
CHAPTER XIII
"I AM
COLIN"
Mary took
the picture back to the house when she went to her supper and she showed it to
Martha.
"Eh!"
said Martha with great pride. "I never knew our Dickon was as clever as
that. That there's a picture of a missel thrush on her nest, as large as life
an' twice as natural."
Then Mary
knew Dickon had meant the picture to be a message. He had meant that she might
be sure he would keep her secret. Her garden was her nest and she was like a
missel thrush. Oh, how she did like that queer, common boy!
She hoped
he would come back the very next day and she fell asleep looking forward to the
morning.
But you
never know what the weather will do in Yorkshire ,
particularly in the springtime. She was awakened in the night by the sound of
rain beating with heavy drops against her window. It was pouring down in
torrents and the wind was "wuthering" round the corners and in the
chimneys of the huge old house. Mary sat up in bed and felt miserable and
angry.
"The
rain is as contrary as I ever was," she said. "It came because it
knew I did not want it."
She threw
herself back on her pillow and buried her face. She did not cry, but she lay
and hated the sound of the heavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its
"wuthering." She could not go to sleep again. The mournful sound kept
her awake because she felt mournful herself. If she had felt happy it would
probably have lulled her to sleep. How it "wuthered" and how the big
raindrops poured down and beat against the pane!
"It
sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on
crying," she said.
She had
been lying awake turning from side to side for about an hour, when suddenly
something made her sit up in bed and turn her head toward the door listening.
She listened and she listened.
"It
isn't the wind now," she said in a loud whisper. "That isn't the
wind. It is different. It is that crying I heard before."
The door
of her room was ajar and the sound came down the corridor, a far-off faint
sound of fretful crying. She listened for a few minutes and each minute she
became more and more sure. She felt as if she must find out what it was. It
seemed even stranger than the secret garden and the buried key. Perhaps the
fact that she was in a rebellious mood made her bold. She put her foot out of
bed and stood on the floor.
"I am
going to find out what it is," she said. "Everybody is in bed and I
don't care about Mrs. Medlock—I don't care!"
There was
a candle by her bedside and she took it up and went softly out of the room. The
corridor looked very long and dark, but she was too excited to mind that. She
thought she remembered the corners she must turn to find the short corridor
with the door covered with tapestry—the one Mrs. Medlock had come through the
day she lost herself. The sound had come up that passage. So she went on with
her dim light, almost feeling her way, her heart beating so loud that she
fancied she could hear it. The far-off faint crying went on and led her.
Sometimes it stopped for a moment or so and then began again. Was this the
right corner to turn? She stopped and thought. Yes it was. Down this passage
and then to the left, and then up two broad steps, and then to the right again.
Yes, there was the tapestry door.
She pushed
it open very gently and closed it behind her, and she stood in the corridor and
could hear the crying quite plainly, though it was not loud. It was on the
other side of the wall at her left and a few yards farther on there was a door.
She could see a glimmer of light coming from beneath it. The Someone was crying
in that room, and it was quite a young Someone.
So she
walked to the door and pushed it open, and there she was standing in the room!
It was a
big room with ancient, handsome furniture in it. There was a low fire glowing
faintly on the hearth and a night light burning by the side of a carved
four-posted bed hung with brocade, and on the bed was lying a boy, crying
fretfully.
Mary
wondered if she was in a real place or if she had fallen asleep again and was
dreaming without knowing it.
The boy
had a sharp, delicate face the color of ivory and he seemed to have eyes too
big for it. He had also a lot of hair which tumbled over his forehead in heavy
locks and made his thin face seem smaller. He looked like a boy who had been
ill, but he was crying more as if he were tired and cross than as if he were in
pain.
Mary stood
near the door with her candle in her hand, holding her breath. Then she crept
across the room, and, as she drew nearer, the light attracted the boy's
attention and he turned his head on his pillow and stared at her, his gray eyes
opening so wide that they seemed immense.
"Who
are you?" he said at last in a half-frightened whisper. "Are you a
ghost?"
"No,
I am not," Mary answered, her own whisper sounding half frightened.
"Are you one?"
He stared
and stared and stared. Mary could not help noticing what strange eyes he had.
They were agate gray and they looked too big for his face because they had
black lashes all round them.
"No,"
he replied after waiting a moment or so. "I am Colin."
"Who
is Colin?" she faltered.
"I am
Colin Craven. Who are you?"
"I am
Mary Lennox. Mr. Craven is my uncle."
"He
is my father," said the boy.
"Your
father!" gasped Mary. "No one ever told me he had a boy! Why didn't
they?"
"Come
here," he said, still keeping his strange eyes fixed on her with an
anxious expression.
She came
close to the bed and he put out his hand and touched her.
"You
are real, aren't you?" he said. "I have such real dreams very often.
You might be one of them."
Mary had
slipped on a woolen wrapper before she left her room and she put a piece of it
between his fingers.
"Rub
that and see how thick and warm it is," she said. "I will pinch you a
little if you like, to show you how real I am. For a minute I thought you might
be a dream too."
"Where
did you come from?" he asked.
"From
my own room. The wind wuthered so I couldn't go to sleep and I heard some one
crying and wanted to find out who it was. What were you crying for?"
"Because
I couldn't go to sleep either and my head ached. Tell me your name again."
"Mary
Lennox. Did no one ever tell you I had come to live here?"
He was
still fingering the fold of her wrapper, but he began to look a little more as
if he believed in her reality.
"No,"
he answered. "They daren't."
"Why?"
asked Mary.
"Because
I should have been afraid you would see me. I won't let people see me and talk
me over."
"Why?"
Mary asked again, feeling more mystified every moment.
"Because
I am like this always, ill and having to lie down. My father won't let people
talk me over either. The servants are not allowed to speak about me. If I live
I may be a hunchback, but I shan't live. My father hates to think I may be like
him."
"Oh,
what a queer house this is!" Mary said. "What a queer house!
Everything is a kind of secret. Rooms are locked up and gardens are locked
up—and you! Have you been locked up?"
"No.
I stay in this room because I don't want to be moved out of it. It tires me too
much."
"Does
your father come and see you?" Mary ventured.
"Sometimes.
Generally when I am asleep. He doesn't want to see me."
"Why?"
Mary could not help asking again.
A sort of
angry shadow passed over the boy's face.
"My
mother died when I was born and it makes him wretched to look at me. He thinks
I don't know, but I've heard people talking. He almost hates me."
"He
hates the garden, because she died," said Mary half speaking to herself.
"What
garden?" the boy asked.
"Oh!
just—just a garden she used to like," Mary stammered. "Have you been
here always?" "Nearly always. Sometimes I have been taken to places
at the seaside, but I won't stay because people stare at me. I used to wear an
iron thing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor came from London
"I
didn't when first I came here," said Mary. "Why do you keep looking
at me like that?"
"Because
of the dreams that are so real," he answered rather fretfully.
"Sometimes when I open my eyes I don't believe I'm awake."
"We're
both awake," said Mary. She glanced round the room with its high ceiling
and shadowy corners and dim fire-light. "It looks quite like a dream, and
it's the middle of the night, and everybody in the house is asleep—everybody
but us. We are wide awake."
"I
don't want it to be a dream," the boy said restlessly.
Mary
thought of something all at once.
"If
you don't like people to see you," she began, "do you want me to go
away?"
He still
held the fold of her wrapper and he gave it a little pull.
"No,"
he said. "I should be sure you were a dream if you went. If you are real,
sit down on that big footstool and talk. I want to hear about you."
Mary put
down her candle on the table near the bed and sat down on the cushioned stool.
She did not want to go away at all. She wanted to stay in the mysterious
hidden-away room and talk to the mysterious boy.
"What
do you want me to tell you?" she said.
He wanted
to know how long she had been at Misselthwaite; he wanted to know which
corridor her room was on; he wanted to know what she had been doing; if she
disliked the moor as he disliked it; where she had lived before she came to Yorkshire . She answered all these questions and many more
and he lay back on his pillow and listened. He made her tell him a great deal
about India
Though his
father rarely saw him when he was awake, he was given all sorts of wonderful
things to amuse himself with. He never seemed to have been amused, however. He
could have anything he asked for and was never made to do anything he did not
like to do. "Everyone is obliged to do what pleases me," he said
indifferently. "It makes me ill to be angry. No one believes I shall live
to grow up."
He said it
as if he was so accustomed to the idea that it had ceased to matter to him at
all. He seemed to like the sound of Mary's voice. As she went on talking he
listened in a drowsy, interested way. Once or twice she wondered if he were not
gradually falling into a doze. But at last he asked a question which opened up
a new subject.
"How
old are you?" he asked.
"I am
ten," answered Mary, forgetting herself for the moment, "and so are
you."
"How
do you know that?" he demanded in a surprised voice.
"Because
when you were born the garden door was locked and the key was buried. And it
has been locked for ten years."
Colin half
sat up, turning toward her, leaning on his elbows.
"What
garden door was locked? Who did it? Where was the key buried?" he
exclaimed as if he were suddenly very much interested.
"It—it
was the garden Mr. Craven hates," said Mary nervously. "He locked the
door. No one—no one knew where he buried the key." "What sort of a
garden is it?" Colin persisted eagerly.
"No
one has been allowed to go into it for ten years," was Mary's careful
answer.
But it was
too late to be careful. He was too much like herself. He too had had nothing to
think about and the idea of a hidden garden attracted him as it had attracted
her. He asked question after question. Where was it? Had she never looked for
the door? Had she never asked the gardeners?
"They
won't talk about it," said Mary. "I think they have been told not to
answer questions."
"I
would make them," said Colin.
"Could
you?" Mary faltered, beginning to feel frightened. If he could make people
answer questions, who knew what might happen!
"Everyone
is obliged to please me. I told you that," he said. "If I were to
live, this place would sometime belong to me. They all know that. I would make
them tell me."
Mary had
not known that she herself had been spoiled, but she could see quite plainly
that this mysterious boy had been. He thought that the whole world belonged to
him. How peculiar he was and how coolly he spoke of not living.
"Do
you think you won't live?" she asked, partly because she was curious and
partly in hope of making him forget the garden.
"I
don't suppose I shall," he answered as indifferently as he had spoken
before. "Ever since I remember anything I have heard people say I shan't.
At first they thought I was too little to understand and now they think I don't
hear. But I do. My doctor is my father's cousin. He is quite poor and if I die
he will have all Misselthwaite when my father is dead. I should think he
wouldn't want me to live."
"Do
you want to live?" inquired Mary.
"No,"
he answered, in a cross, tired fashion. "But I don't want to die. When I
feel ill I lie here and think about it until I cry and cry."
"I
have heard you crying three times," Mary said, "but I did not know
who it was. Were you crying about that?" She did so want him to forget the
garden.
"I
dare say," he answered. "Let us talk about something else. Talk about
that garden. Don't you want to see it?"
"Yes,"
answered Mary, in quite a low voice.
"I
do," he went on persistently. "I don't think I ever really wanted to
see anything before, but I want to see that garden. I want the key dug up. I
want the door unlocked. I would let them take me there in my chair. That would
be getting fresh air. I am going to make them open the door."
He had
become quite excited and his strange eyes began to shine like stars and looked
more immense than ever.
"They
have to please me," he said. "I will make them take me there and I
will let you go, too."
Mary's
hands clutched each other. Everything would be spoiled—everything! Dickon would
never come back. She would never again feel like a missel thrush with a
safe-hidden nest.
"Oh,
don't—don't—don't—don't do that!" she cried out.
He stared
as if he thought she had gone crazy!
"Why?"
he exclaimed. "You said you wanted to see it."
"I do,"
she answered almost with a sob in her throat, "but if you make them open
the door and take you in like that it will never be a secret again."
He leaned
still farther forward.
"A
secret," he said. "What do you mean? Tell me."
Mary's
words almost tumbled over one another.
"You
see—you see," she panted, "if no one knows but ourselves—if there was
a door, hidden somewhere under the ivy—if there was—and we could find it; and
if we could slip through it together and shut it behind us, and no one knew any
one was inside and we called it our garden and pretended that—that we were
missel thrushes and it was our nest, and if we played there almost every day
and dug and planted seeds and made it all come alive—"
"Is
it dead?" he interrupted her.
"It
soon will be if no one cares for it," she went on. "The bulbs will
live but the roses—"
He stopped
her again as excited as she was herself.
"What
are bulbs?" he put in quickly.
"They
are daffodils and lilies and snowdrops. They are working in the earth now—pushing
up pale green points because the spring is coming."
"Is
the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like? You don't see it in
rooms if you are ill."
"It
is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine, and things
pushing up and working under the earth," said Mary. "If the garden
was a secret and we could get into it we could watch the things grow bigger
every day, and see how many roses are alive. Don't you see? Oh, don't you see
how much nicer it would be if it was a secret?"
He dropped
back on his pillow and lay there with an odd expression on his face.
"I
never had a secret," he said, "except that one about not living to
grow up. They don't know I know that, so it is a sort of secret. But I like
this kind better."
"If
you won't make them take you to the garden," pleaded Mary, "perhaps—I
feel almost sure I can find out how to get in sometime. And then—if the doctor
wants you to go out in your chair, and if you can always do what you want to
do, perhaps—perhaps we might find some boy who would push you, and we could go
alone and it would always be a secret garden."
"I
should—like—that," he said very slowly, his eyes looking dreamy. "I
should like that. I should not mind fresh air in a secret garden."
Mary began
to recover her breath and feel safer because the idea of keeping the secret
seemed to please him. She felt almost sure that if she kept on talking and
could make him see the garden in his mind as she had seen it he would like it
so much that he could not bear to think that everybody might tramp in to it
when they chose.
"I'll
tell you what I think it would be like, if we could go into it," she said.
"It has been shut up so long things have grown into a tangle
perhaps."
He lay
quite still and listened while she went on talking about the roses which might
have clambered from tree to tree and hung down—about the many birds which might
have built their nests there because it was so safe. And then she told him
about the robin and Ben Weatherstaff, and there was so much to tell about the
robin and it was so easy and safe to talk about it that she ceased to be
afraid. The robin pleased him so much that he smiled until he looked almost
beautiful, and at first Mary had thought that he was even plainer than herself,
with his big eyes and heavy locks of hair.
"I
did not know birds could be like that," he said. "But if you stay in
a room you never see things. What a lot of things you know. I feel as if you
had been inside that garden."
She did
not know what to say, so she did not say anything. He evidently did not expect
an answer and the next moment he gave her a surprise.
"I am
going to let you look at something," he said. "Do you see that
rose-colored silk curtain hanging on the wall over the mantel-piece?"
Mary had
not noticed it before, but she looked up and saw it. It was a curtain of soft
silk hanging over what seemed to be some picture.
"Yes,"
she answered.
"There
is a cord hanging from it," said Colin. "Go and pull it."
Mary got
up, much mystified, and found the cord. When she pulled it the silk curtain ran
back on rings and when it ran back it uncovered a picture. It was the picture
of a girl with a laughing face. She had bright hair tied up with a blue ribbon
and her gay, lovely eyes were exactly like Colin's unhappy ones, agate gray and
looking twice as big as they really were because of the black lashes all round
them.
"She
is my mother," said Colin complainingly. "I don't see why she died.
Sometimes I hate her for doing it."
"How
queer!" said Mary.
"If
she had lived I believe I should not have been ill always," he grumbled.
"I dare say I should have lived, too. And my father would not have hated
to look at me. I dare say I should have had a strong back. Draw the curtain
again."
Mary did
as she was told and returned to her footstool.
"She
is much prettier than you," she said, "but her eyes are just like
yours—at least they are the same shape and color. Why is the curtain drawn over
her?"
He moved
uncomfortably.
"I
made them do it," he said. "Sometimes I don't like to see her looking
at me. She smiles too much when I am ill and miserable. Besides, she is mine
and I don't want everyone to see her." There were a few moments of silence
and then Mary spoke.
"What
would Mrs. Medlock do if she found out that I had been here?" she
inquired.
"She
would do as I told her to do," he answered. "And I should tell her
that I wanted you to come here and talk to me every day. I am glad you
came."
"So
am I," said Mary. "I will come as often as I can, but"—she
hesitated—"I shall have to look every day for the garden door."
"Yes,
you must," said Colin, "and you can tell me about it afterward."
He lay
thinking a few minutes, as he had done before, and then he spoke again.
"I
think you shall be a secret, too," he said. "I will not tell them
until they find out. I can always send the nurse out of the room and say that I
want to be by myself. Do you know Martha?"
"Yes,
I know her very well," said Mary. "She waits on me."
He nodded
his head toward the outer corridor.
"She
is the one who is asleep in the other room. The nurse went away yesterday to
stay all night with her sister and she always makes Martha attend to me when
she wants to go out. Martha shall tell you when to come here."
Then Mary
understood Martha's troubled look when she had asked questions about the
crying.
"Martha
knew about you all the time?" she said.
"Yes;
she often attends to me. The nurse likes to get away from me and then Martha
comes."
"I
have been here a long time," said Mary. "Shall I go away now? Your
eyes look sleepy."
"I
wish I could go to sleep before you leave me," he said rather shyly.
"Shut
your eyes," said Mary, drawing her footstool closer, "and I will do
what my Ayah used to do in India
"I
should like that perhaps," he said drowsily.
Somehow
she was sorry for him and did not want him to lie awake, so she leaned against
the bed and began to stroke and pat his hand and sing a very low little
chanting song in Hindustani.
"That
is nice," he said more drowsily still, and she went on chanting and
stroking, but when she looked at him again his black lashes were lying close
against his cheeks, for his eyes were shut and he was fast asleep. So she got
up softly, took her candle and crept away without making a sound.
CHAPTER XIV
A YOUNG
RAJAH
The moor
was hidden in mist when the morning came, and the rain had not stopped pouring
down. There could be no going out of doors. Martha was so busy that Mary had no
opportunity of talking to her, but in the afternoon she asked her to come and
sit with her in the nursery. She came bringing the stocking she was always
knitting when she was doing nothing else.
"What's
the matter with thee?" she asked as soon as they sat down. "Tha'
looks as if tha'd somethin' to say."
"I
have. I have found out what the crying was," said Mary.
Martha let
her knitting drop on her knee and gazed at her with startled eyes.
"Tha'
hasn't!" she exclaimed. "Never!"
"I
heard it in the night," Mary went on. "And I got up and went to see
where it came from. It was Colin. I found him."
Martha's
face became red with fright.
"Eh!
Miss Mary!" she said half crying. "Tha' shouldn't have done it—tha'
shouldn't! Tha'll get me in trouble. I never told thee nothin' about him—but
tha'll get me in trouble. I shall lose my place and what'll mother do!"
"You
won't lose your place," said Mary. "He was glad I came. We talked and
talked and he said he was glad I came."
"Was
he?" cried Martha. "Art tha' sure? Tha' doesn't know what he's like
when anything vexes him. He's a big lad to cry like a baby, but when he's in a
passion he'll fair scream just to frighten us. He knows us daren't call our
souls our own."
"He
wasn't vexed," said Mary. "I asked him if I should go away and he
made me stay. He asked me questions and I sat on a big footstool and talked to
him about India
Martha
fairly gasped with amazement.
"I
can scarcely believe thee!" she protested. "It's as if tha'd walked
straight into a lion's den. If he'd been like he is most times he'd have
throwed himself into one of his tantrums and roused th' house. He won't let
strangers look at him."
"He
let me look at him. I looked at him all the time and he looked at me. We
stared!" said Mary.
"I
don't know what to do!" cried agitated Martha. "If Mrs. Medlock finds
out, she'll think I broke orders and told thee and I shall be packed back to
mother."
"He
is not going to tell Mrs. Medlock anything about it yet. It's to be a sort of
secret just at first," said Mary firmly. "And he says everybody is
obliged to do as he pleases."
"Aye,
that's true enough—th' bad lad!" sighed Martha, wiping her forehead with
her apron.
"He
says Mrs. Medlock must. And he wants me to come and talk to him every day. And
you are to tell me when he wants me."
"Me!"
said Martha; "I shall lose my place—I shall for sure!"
"You
can't if you are doing what he wants you to do and everybody is ordered to obey
him," Mary argued.
"Does
tha' mean to say," cried Martha with wide open eyes, "that he was
nice to thee!"
"I
think he almost liked me," Mary answered.
"Then
tha' must have bewitched him!" decided Martha, drawing a long breath.
"Do
you mean Magic?" inquired Mary. "I've heard about Magic in India
"Th'
world's comin' to a end!" gasped Martha.
"What
is the matter with him?" asked Mary.
"Nobody
knows for sure and certain," said Martha. "Mr. Craven went off his
head like when he was born. Th' doctors thought he'd have to be put in a
'sylum. It was because Mrs. Craven died like I told you. He wouldn't set eyes
on th' baby. He just raved and said it'd be another hunchback like him and it'd
better die."
"Is
Colin a hunchback?" Mary asked. "He didn't look like one."
"He
isn't yet," said Martha. "But he began all wrong. Mother said that
there was enough trouble and raging in th' house to set any child wrong. They
was afraid his back was weak an' they've always been takin' care of it—keepin'
him lyin' down and not lettin' him walk. Once they made him wear a brace but he
fretted so he was downright ill. Then a big doctor came to see him an' made
them take it off. He talked to th' other doctor quite rough—in a polite way. He
said there'd been too much medicine and too much lettin' him have his own
way."
"I
think he's a very spoiled boy," said Mary.
"He's
th' worst young nowt as ever was!" said Martha. "I won't say as he
hasn't been ill a good bit. He's had coughs an' colds that's nearly killed him
two or three times. Once he had rheumatic fever an' once he had typhoid. Eh!
Mrs. Medlock did get a fright then. He'd been out of his head an' she was
talkin' to th' nurse, thinkin' he didn't know nothin', an' she said, 'He'll die
this time sure enough, an' best thing for him an' for everybody.' An' she
looked at him an' there he was with his big eyes open, starin' at her as
sensible as she was herself. She didn't know wha'd happen but he just stared at
her an' says, 'You give me some water an' stop talkin'.'"
"Do
you think he will die?" asked Mary.
"Mother
says there's no reason why any child should live that gets no fresh air an'
doesn't do nothin' but lie on his back an' read picture-books an' take
medicine. He's weak and hates th' trouble o' bein' taken out o' doors, an' he
gets cold so easy he says it makes him ill."
Mary sat
and looked at the fire. "I wonder," she said slowly, "if it
would not do him good to go out into a garden and watch things growing. It did
me good."
"One
of th' worst fits he ever had," said Martha, "was one time they took
him out where the roses is by the fountain. He'd been readin' in a paper about
people gettin' somethin' he called 'rose cold' an' he began to sneeze an' said
he'd got it an' then a new gardener as didn't know th' rules passed by an'
looked at him curious. He threw himself into a passion an' he said he'd looked
at him because he was going to be a hunchback. He cried himself into a fever
an' was ill all night."
"If
he ever gets angry at me, I'll never go and see him again," said Mary.
"He'll
have thee if he wants thee," said Martha. "Tha' may as well know that
at th' start."
Very soon
afterward a bell rang and she rolled up her knitting.
"I
dare say th' nurse wants me to stay with him a bit," she said. "I
hope he's in a good temper."
She was
out of the room about ten minutes and then she came back with a puzzled
expression.
"Well,
tha' has bewitched him," she said. "He's up on his sofa with his picture-books.
He's told the nurse to stay away until six o'clock. I'm to wait in the next
room. Th' minute she was gone he called me to him an' says, 'I want Mary Lennox
to come and talk to me, and remember you're not to tell any one.' You'd better
go as quick as you can."
Mary was
quite willing to go quickly. She did not want to see Colin as much as she
wanted to see Dickon; but she wanted to see him very much.
There was
a bright fire on the hearth when she entered his room, and in the daylight she
saw it was a very beautiful room indeed. There were rich colors in the rugs and
hangings and pictures and books on the walls which made it look glowing and
comfortable even in spite of the gray sky and falling rain. Colin looked rather
like a picture himself. He was wrapped in a velvet dressing-gown and sat
against a big brocaded cushion. He had a red spot on each cheek.
"Come
in," he said. "I've been thinking about you all morning."
"I've
been thinking about you, too," answered Mary. "You don't know how
frightened Martha is. She says Mrs. Medlock will think she told me about you
and then she will be sent away."
He
frowned.
"Go
and tell her to come here," he said. "She is in the next room."
Mary went
and brought her back. Poor Martha was shaking in her shoes. Colin was still
frowning.
"Have
you to do what I please or have you not?" he demanded.
"I
have to do what you please, sir," Martha faltered, turning quite red.
"Has
Medlock to do what I please?"
"Everybody
has, sir," said Martha.
"Well,
then, if I order you to bring Miss Mary to me, how can Medlock send you away if
she finds it out?"
"Please
don't let her, sir," pleaded Martha.
"I'll
send her away if she dares to say a word about such a thing," said Master
Craven grandly. "She wouldn't like that, I can tell you."
"Thank
you, sir," bobbing a curtsy, "I want to do my duty, sir."
"What
I want is your duty" said Colin more grandly still. "I'll take care
of you. Now go away."
When the
door closed behind Martha, Colin found Mistress Mary gazing at him as if he had
set her wondering.
"Why
do you look at me like that?" he asked her. "What are you thinking
about?"
"I am
thinking about two things."
"What
are they? Sit down and tell me."
"This
is the first one," said Mary, seating herself on the big stool. "Once
in India
"I
shall make you tell me about Rajahs presently," he said, "but first
tell me what the second thing was."
"I
was thinking," said Mary, "how different you are from Dickon."
"Who
is Dickon?" he said. "What a queer name!"
She might
as well tell him, she thought she could talk about Dickon without mentioning
the secret garden. She had liked to hear Martha talk about him. Besides, she
longed to talk about him. It would seem to bring him nearer.
"He
is Martha's brother. He is twelve years old," she explained. "He is
not like any one else in the world. He can charm foxes and squirrels and birds
just as the natives in India
There were
some big books on a table at his side and he dragged one suddenly toward him.
"There is a picture of a snake-charmer in this," he exclaimed.
"Come and look at it."
The book
was a beautiful one with superb colored illustrations and he turned to one of
them.
"Can
he do that?" he asked eagerly.
"He
played on his pipe and they listened," Mary explained. "But he
doesn't call it Magic. He says it's because he lives on the moor so much and he
knows their ways. He says he feels sometimes as if he was a bird or a rabbit
himself, he likes them so. I think he asked the robin questions. It seemed as
if they talked to each other in soft chirps."
Colin lay
back on his cushion and his eyes grew larger and larger and the spots on his
cheeks burned.
"Tell
me some more about him," he said.
"He
knows all about eggs and nests," Mary went on. "And he knows where
foxes and badgers and otters live. He keeps them secret so that other boys
won't find their holes and frighten them. He knows about everything that grows
or lives on the moor."
"Does
he like the moor?" said Colin. "How can he when it's such a great,
bare, dreary place?"
"It's
the most beautiful place," protested Mary. "Thousands of lovely
things grow on it and there are thousands of little creatures all busy building
nests and making holes and burrows and chippering or singing or squeaking to
each other. They are so busy and having such fun under the earth or in the
trees or heather. It's their world."
"How
do you know all that?" said Colin, turning on his elbow to look at her.
"I
have never been there once, really," said Mary suddenly remembering.
"I only drove over it in the dark. I thought it was hideous. Martha told
me about it first and then Dickon. When Dickon talks about it you feel as if
you saw things and heard them and as if you were standing in the heather with
the sun shining and the gorse smelling like honey—and all full of bees and
butterflies."
"You
never see anything if you are ill," said Colin restlessly. He looked like
a person listening to a new sound in the distance and wondering what it was.
"You
can't if you stay in a room," said Mary.
"I
couldn't go on the moor," he said in a resentful tone.
Mary was
silent for a minute and then she said something bold.
"You
might—sometime."
He moved
as if he were startled.
"Go
on the moor! How could I? I am going to die." "How do you know?"
said Mary unsympathetically. She didn't like the way he had of talking about
dying. She did not feel very sympathetic. She felt rather as if he almost
boasted about it.
"Oh,
I've heard it ever since I remember," he answered crossly. "They are
always whispering about it and thinking I don't notice. They wish I would,
too."
Mistress
Mary felt quite contrary. She pinched her lips together.
"If
they wished I would," she said, "I wouldn't. Who wishes you
would?"
"The
servants—and of course Dr. Craven because he would get Misselthwaite and be
rich instead of poor. He daren't say so, but he always looks cheerful when I am
worse. When I had typhoid fever his face got quite fat. I think my father
wishes it, too."
"I
don't believe he does," said Mary quite obstinately.
That made
Colin turn and look at her again.
"Don't
you?" he said.
And then
he lay back on his cushion and was still, as if he were thinking. And there was
quite a long silence. Perhaps they were both of them thinking strange things
children do not usually think. "I like the grand doctor from London
"No.".
"What
did he say?"
"He
didn't whisper," Colin answered. "Perhaps he knew I hated whispering.
I heard him say one thing quite aloud. He said, 'The lad might live if he would
make up his mind to it. Put him in the humor.' It sounded as if he was in a
temper."
"I'll
tell you who would put you in the humor, perhaps," said Mary reflecting.
She felt as if she would like this thing to be settled one way or the other.
"I believe Dickon would. He's always talking about live things. He never
talks about dead things or things that are ill. He's always looking up in the
sky to watch birds flying—or looking down at the earth to see something
growing. He has such round blue eyes and they are so wide open with looking
about. And he laughs such a big laugh with his wide mouth—and his cheeks are as
red—as red as cherries." She pulled her stool nearer to the sofa and her
expression quite changed at the remembrance of the wide curving mouth and wide
open eyes.
"See
here," she said. "Don't let us talk about dying; I don't like it. Let
us talk about living. Let us talk and talk about Dickon. And then we will look
at your pictures."
It was the
best thing she could have said. To talk about Dickon meant to talk about the
moor and about the cottage and the fourteen people who lived in it on sixteen
shillings a week—and the children who got fat on the moor grass like the wild
ponies. And about Dickon's mother—and the skipping-rope—and the moor with the
sun on it—and about pale green points sticking up out of the black sod. And it
was all so alive that Mary talked more than she had ever talked before—and
Colin both talked and listened as he had never done either before. And they
both began to laugh over nothings as children will when they are happy
together. And they laughed so that in the end they were making as much noise as
if they had been two ordinary healthy natural ten-year-old creatures—instead of
a hard, little, unloving girl and a sickly boy who believed that he was going
to die.
They
enjoyed themselves so much that they forgot the pictures and they forgot about
the time. They had been laughing quite loudly over Ben Weatherstaff and his
robin, and Colin was actually sitting up as if he had forgotten about his weak
back, when he suddenly remembered something. "Do you know there is one
thing we have never once thought of," he said. "We are cousins."
It seemed
so queer that they had talked so much and never remembered this simple thing
that they laughed more than ever, because they had got into the humor to laugh
at anything. And in the midst of the fun the door opened and in walked Dr.
Craven and Mrs. Medlock.
Dr. Craven
started in actual alarm and Mrs. Medlock almost fell back because he had
accidentally bumped against her.
"Good
Lord!" exclaimed poor Mrs. Medlock with her eyes almost starting out of
her head. "Good Lord!"
"What
is this?" said Dr. Craven, coming forward. "What does it mean?"
Then Mary
was reminded of the boy Rajah again. Colin answered as if neither the doctor's
alarm nor Mrs. Medlock's terror were of the slightest consequence. He was as
little disturbed or frightened as if an elderly cat and dog had walked into the
room.
"This
is my cousin, Mary Lennox," he said. "I asked her to come and talk to
me. I like her. She must come and talk to me whenever I send for her."
Dr. Craven
turned reproachfully to Mrs. Medlock. "Oh, sir" she panted. "I
don't know how it's happened. There's not a servant on the place tha'd dare to
talk—they all have their orders."
"Nobody
told her anything," said Colin. "She heard me crying and found me
herself. I am glad she came. Don't be silly, Medlock."
Mary saw
that Dr. Craven did not look pleased, but it was quite plain that he dare not
oppose his patient. He sat down by Colin and felt his pulse.
"I am
afraid there has been too much excitement. Excitement is not good for you, my
boy," he said.
"I
should be excited if she kept away," answered Colin, his eyes beginning to
look dangerously sparkling. "I am better. She makes me better. The nurse
must bring up her tea with mine. We will have tea together."
Mrs.
Medlock and Dr. Craven looked at each other in a troubled way, but there was
evidently nothing to be done.
"He
does look rather better, sir," ventured Mrs. Medlock.
"But"—thinking the matter over—"he looked better this morning
before she came into the room."
"She
came into the room last night. She stayed with me a long time. She sang a
Hindustani song to me and it made me go to sleep," said Colin. "I was
better when I wakened up. I wanted my breakfast. I want my tea now. Tell nurse,
Medlock."
Dr. Craven
did not stay very long. He talked to the nurse for a few minutes when she came
into the room and said a few words of warning to Colin. He must not talk too
much; he must not forget that he was ill; he must not forget that he was very
easily tired. Mary thought that there seemed to be a number of uncomfortable
things he was not to forget.
Colin
looked fretful and kept his strange black-lashed eyes fixed on Dr. Craven's
face.
"I
want to forget it," he said at last. "She makes me forget it. That is
why I want her."
Dr. Craven
did not look happy when he left the room. He gave a puzzled glance at the
little girl sitting on the large stool. She had become a stiff, silent child
again as soon as he entered and he could not see what the attraction was. The
boy actually did look brighter, however—and he sighed rather heavily as he went
down the corridor.
"They
are always wanting me to eat things when I don't want to," said Colin, as
the nurse brought in the tea and put it on the table by the sofa. "Now, if
you'll eat I will. Those muffins look so nice and hot. Tell me about
Rajahs."
CHAPTER XV
After
another week of rain the high arch of blue sky appeared again and the sun which
poured down was quite hot. Though there had been no chance to see either the
secret garden or Dickon, Mistress Mary had enjoyed herself very much. The week
had not seemed long. She had spent hours of every day with Colin in his room,
talking about Rajahs or gardens or Dickon and the cottage on the moor. They had
looked at the splendid books and pictures and sometimes Mary had read things to
Colin, and sometimes he had read a little to her. When he was amused and
interested she thought he scarcely looked like an invalid at all, except that
his face was so colorless and he was always on the sofa.
"You
are a sly young one to listen and get out of your bed to go following things up
like you did that night," Mrs. Medlock said once. "But there's no
saying it's not been a sort of blessing to the lot of us. He's not had a
tantrum or a whining fit since you made friends. The nurse was just going to
give up the case because she was so sick of him, but she says she doesn't mind
staying now you've gone on duty with her," laughing a little.
In her
talks with Colin, Mary had tried to be very cautious about the secret garden.
There were certain things she wanted to find out from him, but she felt that
she must find them out without asking him direct questions. In the first place,
as she began to like to be with him, she wanted to discover whether he was the
kind of boy you could tell a secret to. He was not in the least like Dickon,
but he was evidently so pleased with the idea of a garden no one knew anything
about that she thought perhaps he could be trusted. But she had not known him
long enough to be sure. The second thing she wanted to find out was this: If he
could be trusted—if he really could—wouldn't it be possible to take him to the
garden without having any one find it out? The grand doctor had said that he
must have fresh air and Colin had said that he would not mind fresh air in a
secret garden. Perhaps if he had a great deal of fresh air and knew Dickon and
the robin and saw things growing he might not think so much about dying. Mary
had seen herself in the glass sometimes lately when she had realized that she
looked quite a different creature from the child she had seen when she arrived
from India. This child looked nicer. Even Martha had seen a change in her.
"Th'
air from th' moor has done thee good already," she had said. "Tha'rt
not nigh so yeller and tha'rt not nigh so scrawny. Even tha' hair doesn't slamp
down on tha' head so flat. It's got some life in it so as it sticks out a
bit."
"It's
like me," said Mary. "It's growing stronger and fatter. I'm sure
there's more of it."
"It
looks it, for sure," said Martha, ruffling it up a little round her face.
"Tha'rt not half so ugly when it's that way an' there's a bit o' red in
tha' cheeks."
If gardens
and fresh air had been good for her perhaps they would be good for Colin. But
then, if he hated people to look at him, perhaps he would not like to see
Dickon.
"Why
does it make you angry when you are looked at?" she inquired one day.
"I
always hated it," he answered, "even when I was very little. Then
when they took me to the seaside and I used to lie in my carriage everybody
used to stare and ladies would stop and talk to my nurse and then they would
begin to whisper and I knew then they were saying I shouldn't live to grow up.
Then sometimes the ladies would pat my cheeks and say 'Poor child!' Once when a
lady did that I screamed out loud and bit her hand. She was so frightened she
ran away."
"She
thought you had gone mad like a dog," said Mary, not at all admiringly.
"I
don't care what she thought," said Colin, frowning.
"I
wonder why you didn't scream and bite me when I came into your room?" said
Mary. Then she began to smile slowly.
"I
thought you were a ghost or a dream," he said. "You can't bite a
ghost or a dream, and if you scream they don't care."
"Would
you hate it if—if a boy looked at you?" Mary asked uncertainly.
He lay
back on his cushion and paused thoughtfully.
"There's
one boy," he said quite slowly, as if he were thinking over every word,
"there's one boy I believe I shouldn't mind. It's that boy who knows where
the foxes live—Dickon."
"I'm
sure you wouldn't mind him," said Mary.
"The
birds don't and other animals," he said, still thinking it over,
"perhaps that's why I shouldn't. He's a sort of animal charmer and I am a
boy animal."
Then he
laughed and she laughed too; in fact it ended in their both laughing a great
deal and finding the idea of a boy animal hiding in his hole very funny indeed.
What Mary
felt afterward was that she need not fear about Dickon.
On that
first morning when the sky was blue again Mary wakened very early. The sun was
pouring in slanting rays through the blinds and there was something so joyous
in the sight of it that she jumped out of bed and ran to the window. She drew
up the blinds and opened the window itself and a great waft of fresh, scented
air blew in upon her. The moor was blue and the whole world looked as if
something Magic had happened to it. There were tender little fluting sounds
here and there and everywhere, as if scores of birds were beginning to tune up
for a concert. Mary put her hand out of the window and held it in the sun.
"It's
warm—warm!" she said. "It will make the green points push up and up
and up, and it will make the bulbs and roots work and struggle with all their
might under the earth."
She
kneeled down and leaned out of the window as far as she could, breathing big
breaths and sniffing the air until she laughed because she remembered what
Dickon's mother had said about the end of his nose quivering like a rabbit's.
"It must be very early," she said. "The little clouds are all
pink and I've never seen the sky look like this. No one is up. I don't even
hear the stable boys."
A sudden
thought made her scramble to her feet.
"I
can't wait! I am going to see the garden!"
She had
learned to dress herself by this time and she put on her clothes in five
minutes. She knew a small side door which she could unbolt herself and she flew
downstairs in her stocking feet and put on her shoes in the hall. She unchained
and unbolted and unlocked and when the door was open she sprang across the step
with one bound, and there she was standing on the grass, which seemed to have
turned green, and with the sun pouring down on her and warm sweet wafts about
her and the fluting and twittering and singing coming from every bush and tree.
She clasped her hands for pure joy and looked up in the sky and it was so blue
and pink and pearly and white and flooded with springtime light that she felt
as if she must flute and sing aloud herself and knew that thrushes and robins
and skylarks could not possibly help it. She ran around the shrubs and paths
towards the secret garden.
"It
is all different already," she said. "The grass is greener and things
are sticking up everywhere and things are uncurling and green buds of leaves
are showing. This afternoon I am sure Dickon will come."
The long
warm rain had done strange things to the herbaceous beds which bordered the
walk by the lower wall. There were things sprouting and pushing out from the
roots of clumps of plants and there were actually here and there glimpses of
royal purple and yellow unfurling among the stems of crocuses. Six months
before Mistress Mary would not have seen how the world was waking up, but now
she missed nothing.
When she
had reached the place where the door hid itself under the ivy, she was startled
by a curious loud sound. It was the caw—caw of a crow and it came from the top
of the wall, and when she looked up, there sat a big glossy-plumaged blue-black
bird, looking down at her very wisely indeed. She had never seen a crow so
close before and he made her a little nervous, but the next moment he spread
his wings and flapped away across the garden. She hoped he was not going to
stay inside and she pushed the door open wondering if he would. When she got
fairly into the garden she saw that he probably did intend to stay because he
had alighted on a dwarf apple-tree and under the apple-tree was lying a little
reddish animal with a Bushy tail, and both of them were watching the stooping
body and rust-red head of Dickon, who was kneeling on the grass working hard.
Mary flew
across the grass to him.
"Oh,
Dickon! Dickon!" she cried out. "How could you get here so early! How
could you! The sun has only just got up!"
He got up
himself, laughing and glowing, and tousled; his eyes like a bit of the sky.
"Eh!"
he said. "I was up long before him. How could I have stayed abed! Th'
world's all fair begun again this mornin', it has. An' it's workin' an' hummin'
an' scratchin' an' pipin' an' nest-buildin' an' breathin' out scents, till
you've got to be out on it 'stead o' lyin' on your back. When th' sun did jump
up, th' moor went mad for joy, an' I was in the midst of th' heather, an' I run
like mad myself, shoutin' an' singin'. An' I come straight here. I couldn't
have stayed away. Why, th' garden was lyin' here waitin'!"
Mary put
her hands on her chest, panting, as if she had been running herself.
"Oh,
Dickon! Dickon!" she said. "I'm so happy I can scarcely
breathe!"
Seeing him
talking to a stranger, the little bushy-tailed animal rose from its place under
the tree and came to him, and the rook, cawing once, flew down from its branch
and settled quietly on his shoulder.
"This
is th' little fox cub," he said, rubbing the little reddish animal's head.
"It's named Captain. An' this here's Soot. Soot he flew across th' moor
with me an' Captain he run same as if th' hounds had been after him. They both
felt same as I did."
Neither of
the creatures looked as if he were the least afraid of Mary. When Dickon began
to walk about, Soot stayed on his shoulder and Captain trotted quietly close to
his side.
"See
here!" said Dickon. "See how these has pushed up, an' these an'
these! An' Eh! Look at these here!"
He threw
himself upon his knees and Mary went down beside him. They had come upon a
whole clump of crocuses burst into purple and orange and gold. Mary bent her face
down and kissed and kissed them.
"You
never kiss a person in that way," she said when she lifted her head.
"Flowers are so different."
He looked
puzzled but smiled.
"Eh!"
he said, "I've kissed mother many a time that way when I come in from th'
moor after a day's roamin' an' she stood there at th' door in th' sun, lookin'
so glad an' comfortable." They ran from one part of the garden to another
and found so many wonders that they were obliged to remind themselves that they
must whisper or speak low. He showed her swelling leafbuds on rose branches
which had seemed dead. He showed her ten thousand new green points pushing
through the mould. They put their eager young noses close to the earth and
sniffed its warmed springtime breathing; they dug and pulled and laughed low
with rapture until Mistress Mary's hair was as tumbled as Dickon's and her
cheeks were almost as poppy red as his.
There was
every joy on earth in the secret garden that morning, and in the midst of them
came a delight more delightful than all, because it was more wonderful. Swiftly
something flew across the wall and darted through the trees to a close grown
corner, a little flare of red-breasted bird with something hanging from its
beak. Dickon stood quite still and put his hand on Mary almost as if they had
suddenly found themselves laughing in a church.
"We
munnot stir," he whispered in broad Yorkshire .
"We munnot scarce breathe. I knowed he was mate-huntin' when I seed him
last. It's Ben Weatherstaff's robin. He's buildin' his nest. He'll stay here if
us don't fight him." They settled down softly upon the grass and sat there
without moving.
"Us
mustn't seem as if us was watchin' him too close," said Dickon. "He'd
be out with us for good if he got th' notion us was interferin' now. He'll be a
good bit different till all this is over. He's settin' up housekeepin'. He'll
be shyer an' readier to take things ill. He's got no time for visitin' an'
gossipin'. Us must keep still a bit an' try to look as if us was grass an'
trees an' bushes. Then when he's got used to seein' us I'll chirp a bit an'
he'll know us'll not be in his way."
Mistress
Mary was not at all sure that she knew, as Dickon seemed to, how to try to look
like grass and trees and bushes. But he had said the queer thing as if it were
the simplest and most natural thing in the world, and she felt it must be quite
easy to him, and indeed she watched him for a few minutes carefully, wondering
if it was possible for him to quietly turn green and put out branches and
leaves. But he only sat wonderfully still, and when he spoke dropped his voice
to such a softness that it was curious that she could hear him, but she could.
"It's
part o' th' springtime, this nest-buildin' is," he said. "I warrant
it's been goin' on in th' same way every year since th' world was begun.
They've got their way o' thinkin' and doin' things an' a body had better not
meddle. You can lose a friend in springtime easier than any other season if
you're too curious."
"If
we talk about him I can't help looking at him," Mary said as softly as
possible. "We must talk of something else. There is something I want to
tell you."
"He'll
like it better if us talks o' somethin' else," said Dickon. "What is
it tha's got to tell me?"
"Well—do
you know about Colin?" she whispered.
He turned
his head to look at her.
"What
does tha' know about him?" he asked.
"I've
seen him. I have been to talk to him every day this week. He wants me to come.
He says I'm making him forget about being ill and dying," answered Mary.
Dickon looked
actually relieved as soon as the surprise died away from his round face.
"I am
glad o' that," he exclaimed. "I'm right down glad. It makes me
easier. I knowed I must say nothin' about him an' I don't like havin' to hide
things."
"Don't
you like hiding the garden?" said Mary.
"I'll
never tell about it," he answered. "But I says to mother, 'Mother,' I
says, 'I got a secret to keep. It's not a bad 'un, tha' knows that. It's no
worse than hidin' where a bird's nest is. Tha' doesn't mind it, does tha'?'"
Mary
always wanted to hear about mother.
"What
did she say?" she asked, not at all afraid to hear.
Dickon
grinned sweet-temperedly.
"It
was just like her, what she said," he answered. "She give my head a
bit of a rub an' laughed an' she says, 'Eh, lad, tha' can have all th' secrets
tha' likes. I've knowed thee twelve year'.'"
"How
did you know about Colin?" asked Mary.
"Everybody
as knowed about Mester Craven knowed there was a little lad as was like to be a
cripple, an' they knowed Mester Craven didn't like him to be talked about.
Folks is sorry for Mester Craven because Mrs. Craven was such a pretty young
lady an' they was so fond of each other. Mrs. Medlock stops in our cottage
whenever she goes to Thwaite an' she doesn't mind talkin' to mother before us
children, because she knows us has been brought up to be trusty. How did tha'
find out about him? Martha was in fine trouble th' last time she came home. She
said tha'd heard him frettin' an' tha' was askin' questions an' she didn't know
what to say."
Mary told
him her story about the midnight wuthering of the wind which had wakened her
and about the faint far-off sounds of the complaining voice which had led her
down the dark corridors with her candle and had ended with her opening of the
door of the dimly lighted room with the carven four-posted bed in the corner.
When she described the small ivory-white face and the strange black-rimmed eyes
Dickon shook his head.
"Them's
just like his mother's eyes, only hers was always laughin', they say," he
said. "They say as Mr. Craven can't bear to see him when he's awake an'
it's because his eyes is so like his mother's an' yet looks so different in his
miserable bit of a face."
"Do
you think he wants to die?" whispered Mary.
"No,
but he wishes he'd never been born. Mother she says that's th' worst thing on
earth for a child. Them as is not wanted scarce ever thrives. Mester Craven
he'd buy anythin' as money could buy for th' poor lad but he'd like to forget
as he's on earth. For one thing, he's afraid he'll look at him some day and
find he's growed hunchback."
"Colin's
so afraid of it himself that he won't sit up," said Mary. "He says
he's always thinking that if he should feel a lump coming he should go crazy and
scream himself to death."
"Eh!
he oughtn't to lie there thinkin' things like that," said Dickon. "No
lad could get well as thought them sort o' things."
The fox
was lying on the grass close by him, looking up to ask for a pat now and then,
and Dickon bent down and rubbed his neck softly and thought a few minutes in
silence. Presently he lifted his head and looked round the garden.
"When
first we got in here," he said, "it seemed like everything was gray.
Look round now and tell me if tha' doesn't see a difference."
Mary
looked and caught her breath a little.
"Why!"
she cried, "the gray wall is changing. It is as if a green mist were
creeping over it. It's almost like a green gauze veil."
"Aye,"
said Dickon. "An' it'll be greener and greener till th' gray's all gone.
Can tha' guess what I was thinkin'?"
"I
know it was something nice," said Mary eagerly. "I believe it was
something about Colin."
"I
was thinkin' that if he was out here he wouldn't be watchin' for lumps to grow
on his back; he'd be watchin' for buds to break on th' rose-bushes, an' he'd
likely be healthier," explained Dickon. "I was wonderin' if us could
ever get him in th' humor to come out here an' lie under th' trees in his
carriage."
"I've
been wondering that myself. I've thought of it almost every time I've talked to
him," said Mary. "I've wondered if he could keep a secret and I've
wondered if we could bring him here without any one seeing us. I thought
perhaps you could push his carriage. The doctor said he must have fresh air and
if he wants us to take him out no one dare disobey him. He won't go out for
other people and perhaps they will be glad if he will go out with us. He could
order the gardeners to keep away so they wouldn't find out."
Dickon was
thinking very hard as he scratched Captain's back.
"It'd
be good for him, I'll warrant," he said. "Us'd not be thinkin' he'd
better never been born. Us'd be just two children watchin' a garden grow, an'
he'd be another. Two lads an' a little lass just lookin' on at th' springtime. I
warrant it'd be better than doctor's stuff."
"He's
been lying in his room so long and he's always been so afraid of his back that
it has made him queer," said Mary. "He knows a good many things out
of books but he doesn't know anything else. He says he has been too ill to
notice things and he hates going out of doors and hates gardens and gardeners.
But he likes to hear about this garden because it is a secret. I daren't tell
him much but he said he wanted to see it."
"Us'll
have him out here sometime for sure," said Dickon. "I could push his
carriage well enough. Has tha' noticed how th' robin an' his mate has been
workin' while we've been sittin' here? Look at him perched on that branch
wonderin' where it'd be best to put that twig he's got in his beak."
He made
one of his low whistling calls and the robin turned his head and looked at him
inquiringly, still holding his twig. Dickon spoke to him as Ben Weatherstaff
did, but Dickon's tone was one of friendly advice.
"Wheres'ever
tha' puts it," he said, "it'll be all right. Tha' knew how to build
tha' nest before tha' came out o' th' egg. Get on with thee, lad. Tha'st got no
time to lose."
"Oh,
I do like to hear you talk to him!" Mary said, laughing delightedly.
"Ben Weatherstaff scolds him and makes fun of him, and he hops about and
looks as if he understood every word, and I know he likes it. Ben Weatherstaff
says he is so conceited he would rather have stones thrown at him than not be
noticed."
Dickon
laughed too and went on talking.
"Tha'
knows us won't trouble thee," he said to the robin. "Us is near bein'
wild things ourselves. Us is nest-buildin' too, bless thee. Look out tha'
doesn't tell on us."
And though
the robin did not answer, because his beak was occupied, Mary knew that when he
flew away with his twig to his own corner of the garden the darkness of his
dew-bright eye meant that he would not tell their secret for the world.
CHAPTER XVI
"I
WON'T!" SAID MARY
They found
a great deal to do that morning and Mary was late in returning to the house and
was also in such a hurry to get back to her work that she quite forgot Colin
until the last moment.
"Tell
Colin that I can't come and see him yet," she said to Martha. "I'm
very busy in the garden."
Martha
looked rather frightened.
"Eh!
Miss Mary," she said, "it may put him all out of humor when I tell
him that."
But Mary
was not as afraid of him as other people were and she was not a
self-sacrificing person.
"I
can't stay," she answered. "Dickon's waiting for me;" and she
ran away.
The
afternoon was even lovelier and busier than the morning had been. Already
nearly all the weeds were cleared out of the garden and most of the roses and
trees had been pruned or dug about. Dickon had brought a spade of his own and
he had taught Mary to use all her tools, so that by this time it was plain that
though the lovely wild place was not likely to become a "gardener's
garden" it would be a wilderness of growing things before the springtime
was over.
"There'll
be apple blossoms an' cherry blossoms overhead," Dickon said, working away
with all his might. "An' there'll be peach an' plum trees in bloom against
th' walls, an' th' grass'll be a carpet o' flowers."
The little
fox and the rook were as happy and busy as they were, and the robin and his
mate flew backward and forward like tiny streaks of lightning. Sometimes the
rook flapped his black wings and soared away over the tree-tops in the park.
Each time he came back and perched near Dickon and cawed several times as if he
were relating his adventures, and Dickon talked to him just as he had talked to
the robin. Once when Dickon was so busy that he did not answer him at first,
Soot flew on to his shoulders and gently tweaked his ear with his large beak.
When Mary wanted to rest a little Dickon sat down with her under a tree and
once he took his pipe out of his pocket and played the soft strange little
notes and two squirrels appeared on the wall and looked and listened.
"Tha's
a good bit stronger than tha' was," Dickon said, looking at her as she was
digging. "Tha's beginning to look different, for sure."
Mary was
glowing with exercise and good spirits.
"I'm
getting fatter and fatter every day," she said quite exultantly.
"Mrs. Medlock will have to get me some bigger dresses. Martha says my hair
is growing thicker. It isn't so flat and stringy."
The sun
was beginning to set and sending deep gold-colored rays slanting under the
trees when they parted.
"It'll
be fine tomorrow," said Dickon. "I'll be at work by sunrise."
"So
will I," said Mary.
She ran
back to the house as quickly as her feet would carry her. She wanted to tell
Colin about Dickon's fox cub and the rook and about what the springtime had
been doing. She felt sure he would like to hear. So it was not very pleasant
when she opened the door of her room, to see Martha standing waiting for her
with a doleful face.
"What
is the matter?" she asked. "What did Colin say when you told him I
couldn't come?"
"Eh!"
said Martha, "I wish tha'd gone. He was nigh goin' into one o' his
tantrums. There's been a nice to do all afternoon to keep him quiet. He would
watch the clock all th' time."
Mary's
lips pinched themselves together. She was no more used to considering other
people than Colin was and she saw no reason why an ill-tempered boy should
interfere with the thing she liked best. She knew nothing about the pitifulness
of people who had been ill and nervous and who did not know that they could
control their tempers and need not make other people ill and nervous, too. When
she had had a headache in India
He was not
on his sofa when she went into his room. He was lying flat on his back in bed
and he did not turn his head toward her as she came in. This was a bad
beginning and Mary marched up to him with her stiff manner.
"Why
didn't you get up?" she said.
"I
did get up this morning when I thought you were coming," he answered,
without looking at her. "I made them put me back in bed this afternoon. My
back ached and my head ached and I was tired. Why didn't you come?"
"I was working in the garden with Dickon," said Mary.
Colin
frowned and condescended to look at her.
"I
won't let that boy come here if you go and stay with him instead of coming to
talk to me," he said.
Mary flew
into a fine passion. She could fly into a passion without making a noise. She just
grew sour and obstinate and did not care what happened.
"If
you send Dickon away, I'll never come into this room again!" she retorted.
"You'll
have to if I want you," said Colin.
"I
won't!" said Mary.
"I'll
make you," said Colin. "They shall drag you in."
"Shall
they, Mr. Rajah!" said Mary fiercely. "They may drag me in but they
can't make me talk when they get me here. I'll sit and clench my teeth and
never tell you one thing. I won't even look at you. I'll stare at the
floor!"
They were
a nice agreeable pair as they glared at each other. If they had been two little
street boys they would have sprung at each other and had a rough-and-tumble
fight. As it was, they did the next thing to it.
"You
are a selfish thing!" cried Colin.
"What
are you?" said Mary. "Selfish people always say that. Any one is
selfish who doesn't do what they want. You're more selfish than I am. You're
the most selfish boy I ever saw."
"I'm
not!" snapped Colin. "I'm not as selfish as your fine Dickon is! He
keeps you playing in the dirt when he knows I am all by myself. He's selfish,
if you like!"
Mary's
eyes flashed fire.
"He's
nicer than any other boy that ever lived!" she said. "He's—he's like
an angel!" It might sound rather silly to say that but she did not care.
"A nice
angel!" Colin sneered ferociously. "He's a common cottage boy off the
moor!"
"He's
better than a common Rajah!" retorted Mary. "He's a thousand times
better!"
Because
she was the stronger of the two she was beginning to get the better of him. The
truth was that he had never had a fight with any one like himself in his life
and, upon the whole, it was rather good for him, though neither he nor Mary
knew anything about that. He turned his head on his pillow and shut his eyes
and a big tear was squeezed out and ran down his cheek. He was beginning to
feel pathetic and sorry for himself—not for any one else.
"I'm
not as selfish as you, because I'm always ill, and I'm sure there is a lump
coming on my back," he said. "And I am going to die besides."
"You're
not!" contradicted Mary unsympathetically.
He opened
his eyes quite wide with indignation. He had never heard such a thing said
before. He was at once furious and slightly pleased, if a person could be both
at one time.
"I'm
not?" he cried. "I am! You know I am! Everybody says so."
"I
don't believe it!" said Mary sourly. "You just say that to make
people sorry. I believe you're proud of it. I don't believe it! If you were a
nice boy it might be true—but you're too nasty!"
In spite
of his invalid back Colin sat up in bed in quite a healthy rage.
"Get
out of the room!" he shouted and he caught hold of his pillow and threw it
at her. He was not strong enough to throw it far and it only fell at her feet,
but Mary's face looked as pinched as a nutcracker.
"I'm
going," she said. "And I won't come back!" She walked to the
door and when she reached it she turned round and spoke again.
"I
was going to tell you all sorts of nice things," she said. "Dickon
brought his fox and his rook and I was going to tell you all about them. Now I
won't tell you a single thing!"
She
marched out of the door and closed it behind her, and there to her great
astonishment she found the trained nurse standing as if she had been listening
and, more amazing still—she was laughing. She was a big handsome young woman
who ought not to have been a trained nurse at all, as she could not bear
invalids and she was always making excuses to leave Colin to Martha or any one
else who would take her place. Mary had never liked her, and she simply stood
and gazed up at her as she stood giggling into her handkerchief..
"What
are you laughing at?" she asked her.
"At
you two young ones," said the nurse. "It's the best thing that could happen
to the sickly pampered thing to have some one to stand up to him that's as
spoiled as himself;" and she laughed into her handkerchief again. "If
he'd had a young vixen of a sister to fight with it would have been the saving
of him."
"Is
he going to die?"
"I
don't know and I don't care," said the nurse. "Hysterics and temper
are half what ails him."
"What
are hysterics?" asked Mary.
"You'll
find out if you work him into a tantrum after this—but at any rate you've given
him something to have hysterics about, and I'm glad of it."
Mary went
back to her room not feeling at all as she had felt when she had come in from
the garden. She was cross and disappointed but not at all sorry for Colin. She
had looked forward to telling him a great many things and she had meant to try
to make up her mind whether it would be safe to trust him with the great
secret. She had been beginning to think it would be, but now she had changed
her mind entirely. She would never tell him and he could stay in his room and
never get any fresh air and die if he liked! It would serve him right! She felt
so sour and unrelenting that for a few minutes she almost forgot about Dickon
and the green veil creeping over the world and the soft wind blowing down from
the moor.
Martha was
waiting for her and the trouble in her face had been temporarily replaced by
interest and curiosity. There was a wooden box on the table and its cover had
been removed and revealed that it was full of neat packages.
"Mr.
Craven sent it to you," said Martha. "It looks as if it had
picture-books in it."
Mary
remembered what he had asked her the day she had gone to his room. "Do you
want anything—dolls—toys—books?" She opened the package wondering if he
had sent a doll, and also wondering what she should do with it if he had. But
he had not sent one. There were several beautiful books such as Colin had, and
two of them were about gardens and were full of pictures. There were two or
three games and there was a beautiful little writing-case with a gold monogram
on it and a gold pen and inkstand.
Everything
was so nice that her pleasure began to crowd her anger out of her mind. She had
not expected him to remember her at all and her hard little heart grew quite
warm.
"I
can write better than I can print," she said, "and the first thing I
shall write with that pen will be a letter to tell him I am much obliged."
If she had
been friends with Colin she would have run to show him her presents at once,
and they would have looked at the pictures and read some of the gardening books
and perhaps tried playing the games, and he would have enjoyed himself so much
he would never once have thought he was going to die or have put his hand on
his spine to see if there was a lump coming. He had a way of doing that which
she could not bear. It gave her an uncomfortable frightened feeling because he
always looked so frightened himself. He said that if he felt even quite a
little lump some day he should know his hunch had begun to grow. Something he
had heard Mrs. Medlock whispering to the nurse had given him the idea and he
had thought over it in secret until it was quite firmly fixed in his mind. Mrs.
Medlock had said his father's back had begun to show its crookedness in that
way when he was a child. He had never told any one but Mary that most of his
"tantrums" as they called them grew out of his hysterical hidden
fear. Mary had been sorry for him when he had told her.
"He
always began to think about it when he was cross or tired," she said to
herself. "And he has been cross today. Perhaps—perhaps he has been
thinking about it all afternoon."
She stood
still, looking down at the carpet and thinking.
"I
said I would never go back again—" she hesitated, knitting her
brows—"but perhaps, just perhaps, I will go and see—if he wants me—in the
morning. Perhaps he'll try to throw his pillow at me again, but—I think—I'll
go."
CHAPTER XVII
A TANTRUM
She had
got up very early in the morning and had worked hard in the garden and she was
tired and sleepy, so as soon as Martha had brought her supper and she had eaten
it, she was glad to go to bed. As she laid her head on the pillow she murmured
to herself:
"I'll
go out before breakfast and work with Dickon and then afterward—I believe—I'll
go to see him."
She
thought it was the middle of the night when she was awakened by such dreadful
sounds that she jumped out of bed in an instant. What was it—what was it? The
next minute she felt quite sure she knew. Doors were opened and shut and there
were hurrying feet in the corridors and some one was crying and screaming at
the same time, screaming and crying in a horrible way.
"It's
Colin," she said. "He's having one of those tantrums the nurse called
hysterics. How awful it sounds."
As she
listened to the sobbing screams she did not wonder that people were so
frightened that they gave him his own way in everything rather than hear them.
She put her hands over her ears and felt sick and shivering.
"I
don't know what to do. I don't know what to do," she kept saying. "I
can't bear it."
Once she
wondered if he would stop if she dared go to him and then she remembered how he
had driven her out of the room and thought that perhaps the sight of her might
make him worse. Even when she pressed her hands more tightly over her ears she
could not keep the awful sounds out. She hated them so and was so terrified by
them that suddenly they began to make her angry and she felt as if she should
like to fly into a tantrum herself and frighten him as he was frightening her.
She was not used to any one's tempers but her own. She took her hands from her
ears and sprang up and stamped her foot.
"He
ought to be stopped! Somebody ought to make him stop! Somebody ought to beat
him!" she cried out.
Just then
she heard feet almost running down the corridor and her door opened and the
nurse came in. She was not laughing now by any means. She even looked rather
pale.
"He's
worked himself into hysterics," she said in a great hurry. "He'll do
himself harm. No one can do anything with him. You come and try, like a good
child. He likes you."
"He
turned me out of the room this morning," said Mary, stamping her foot with
excitement.
The stamp
rather pleased the nurse. The truth was that she had been afraid she might find
Mary crying and hiding her head under the bed-clothes.
"That's
right," she said. "You're in the right humor. You go and scold him.
Give him something new to think of. Do go, child, as quick as ever you
can."
It was not
until afterward that Mary realized that the thing had been funny as well as
dreadful—that it was funny that all the grown-up people were so frightened that
they came to a little girl just because they guessed she was almost as bad as
Colin himself.
She flew
along the corridor and the nearer she got to the screams the higher her temper
mounted. She felt quite wicked by the time she reached the door. She slapped it
open with her hand and ran across the room to the four-posted bed.
"You
stop!" she almost shouted. "You stop! I hate you! Everybody hates
you! I wish everybody would run out of the house and let you scream yourself to
death! You will scream yourself to death in a minute, and I wish you
would!" A nice sympathetic child could neither have thought nor said such
things, but it just happened that the shock of hearing them was the best
possible thing for this hysterical boy whom no one had ever dared to restrain
or contradict.
He had
been lying on his face beating his pillow with his hands and he actually almost
jumped around, he turned so quickly at the sound of the furious little voice.
His face looked dreadful, white and red and swollen, and he was gasping and
choking; but savage little Mary did not care an atom.
"If
you scream another scream," she said, "I'll scream too—and I can
scream louder than you can and I'll frighten you, I'll frighten you!"
He
actually had stopped screaming because she had startled him so. The scream
which had been coming almost choked him. The tears were streaming down his face
and he shook all over.
"I
can't stop!" he gasped and sobbed. "I can't—I can't!"
"You
can!" shouted Mary. "Half that ails you is hysterics and temper—just
hysterics—hysterics—hysterics!" and she stamped each time she said it.
"I
felt the lump—I felt it," choked out Colin. "I knew I should. I shall
have a hunch on my back and then I shall die," and he began to writhe
again and turned on his face and sobbed and wailed but he didn't scream.
"You
didn't feel a lump!" contradicted Mary fiercely. "If you did it was
only a hysterical lump. Hysterics makes lumps. There's nothing the matter with
your horrid back—nothing but hysterics! Turn over and let me look at it!"
She liked
the word "hysterics" and felt somehow as if it had an effect on him.
He was probably like herself and had never heard it before.
"Nurse,"
she commanded, "come here and show me his back this minute!"
The nurse,
Mrs. Medlock and Martha had been standing huddled together near the door
staring at her, their mouths half open. All three had gasped with fright more
than once. The nurse came forward as if she were half afraid. Colin was heaving
with great breathless sobs.
"Perhaps
he—he won't let me," she hesitated in a low voice.
Colin
heard her, however, and he gasped out between two sobs:
"Sh-show
her! She-she'll see then!"
It was a
poor thin back to look at when it was bared. Every rib could be counted and
every joint of the spine, though Mistress Mary did not count them as she bent
over and examined them with a solemn savage little face. She looked so sour and
old-fashioned that the nurse turned her head aside to hide the twitching of her
mouth. There was just a minute's silence, for even Colin tried to hold his
breath while Mary looked up and down his spine, and down and up, as intently as
if she had been the great doctor from London
"There's
not a single lump there!" she said at last. "There's not a lump as
big as a pin—except backbone lumps, and you can only feel them because you're
thin. I've got backbone lumps myself, and they used to stick out as much as
yours do, until I began to get fatter, and I am not fat enough yet to hide
them. There's not a lump as big as a pin! If you ever say there is again, I
shall laugh!"
No one but
Colin himself knew what effect those crossly spoken childish words had on him.
If he had ever had any one to talk to about his secret terrors—if he had ever
dared to let himself ask questions—if he had had childish companions and had
not lain on his back in the huge closed house, breathing an atmosphere heavy
with the fears of people who were most of them ignorant and tired of him, he
would have found out that most of his fright and illness was created by
himself. But he had lain and thought of himself and his aches and weariness for
hours and days and months and years. And now that an angry unsympathetic little
girl insisted obstinately that he was not as ill as he thought he was he
actually felt as if she might be speaking the truth.
"I
didn't know," ventured the nurse, "that he thought he had a lump on
his spine. His back is weak because he won't try to sit up. I could have told
him there was no lump there." Colin gulped and turned his face a little to
look at her.
"C-could
you?" he said pathetically.
"Yes,
sir."
"There!"
said Mary, and she gulped too.
Colin
turned on his face again and but for his long-drawn broken breaths, which were
the dying down of his storm of sobbing, he lay still for a minute, though great
tears streamed down his face and wet the pillow. Actually the tears meant that
a curious great relief had come to him. Presently he turned and looked at the
nurse again and strangely enough he was not like a Rajah at all as he spoke to
her.
"Do
you think—I could—live to grow up?" he said.
The nurse
was neither clever nor soft-hearted but she could repeat some of the London
"You
probably will if you will do what you are told to do and not give way to your
temper, and stay out a great deal in the fresh air."
Colin's
tantrum had passed and he was weak and worn out with crying and this perhaps
made him feel gentle. He put out his hand a little toward Mary, and I am glad
to say that, her own tantum having passed, she was softened too and met him
half-way with her hand, so that it was a sort of making up.
"I'll—I'll
go out with you, Mary," he said. "I shan't hate fresh air if we can
find—" He remembered just in time to stop himself from saying "if we
can find the secret garden" and he ended, "I shall like to go out
with you if Dickon will come and push my chair. I do so want to see Dickon and
the fox and the crow."
The nurse
remade the tumbled bed and shook and straightened the pillows. Then she made
Colin a cup of beef tea and gave a cup to Mary, who really was very glad to get
it after her excitement. Mrs. Medlock and Martha gladly slipped away, and after
everything was neat and calm and in order the nurse looked as if she would very
gladly slip away also. She was a healthy young woman who resented being robbed
of her sleep and she yawned quite openly as she looked at Mary, who had pushed
her big footstool close to the four-posted bed and was holding Colin's hand.
"You
must go back and get your sleep out," she said. "He'll drop off after
a while—if he's not too upset. Then I'll lie down myself in the next
room."
"Would
you like me to sing you that song I learned from my Ayah?" Mary whispered
to Colin.
His hand
pulled hers gently and he turned his tired eyes on her appealingly.
"Oh,
yes!" he answered. "It's such a soft song. I shall go to sleep in a
minute."
"I
will put him to sleep," Mary said to the yawning nurse. "You can go
if you like."
"Well,"
said the nurse, with an attempt at reluctance. "If he doesn't go to sleep
in half an hour you must call me."
"Very
well," answered Mary.
The nurse
was out of the room in a minute and as soon as she was gone Colin pulled Mary's
hand again.
"I
almost told," he said; "but I stopped myself in time. I won't talk
and I'll go to sleep, but you said you had a whole lot of nice things to tell
me. Have you—do you think you have found out anything at all about the way into
the secret garden?"
Mary
looked at his poor little tired face and swollen eyes and her heart relented.
"Ye-es,"
she answered, "I think I have. And if you will go to sleep I will tell you
tomorrow." His hand quite trembled.
"Oh,
Mary!" he said. "Oh, Mary! If I could get into it I think I should
live to grow up! Do you suppose that instead of singing the Ayah song—you could
just tell me softly as you did that first day what you imagine it looks like
inside? I am sure it will make me go to sleep."
"Yes,"
answered Mary. "Shut your eyes."
He closed
his eyes and lay quite still and she held his hand and began to speak very
slowly and in a very low voice.
"I
think it has been left alone so long—that it has grown all into a lovely
tangle. I think the roses have climbed and climbed and climbed until they hang
from the branches and walls and creep over the ground—almost like a strange
gray mist. Some of them have died but many—are alive and when the summer comes
there will be curtains and fountains of roses. I think the ground is full of
daffodils and snowdrops and lilies and iris working their way out of the dark.
Now the spring has begun—perhaps—perhaps—"
The soft
drone of her voice was making him stiller and stiller and she saw it and went
on.
"Perhaps
they are coming up through the grass—perhaps there are clusters of purple
crocuses and gold ones—even now. Perhaps the leaves are beginning to break out
and uncurl—and perhaps—the gray is changing and a green gauze veil is
creeping—and creeping over—everything. And the birds are coming to look at
it—because it is—so safe and still. And perhaps—perhaps—perhaps—" very
softly and slowly indeed, "the robin has found a mate—and is building a
nest."
And Colin
was asleep.
CHAPTER XVIII
"THA'
MUNNOT WASTE NO TIME"
Of course
Mary did not waken early the next morning. She slept late because she was
tired, and when Martha brought her breakfast she told her that though. Colin
was quite quiet he was ill and feverish as he always was after he had worn himself
out with a fit of crying. Mary ate her breakfast slowly as she listened.
"He
says he wishes tha' would please go and see him as soon as tha' can,"
Martha said. "It's queer what a fancy he's took to thee. Tha' did give it
him last night for sure—didn't tha? Nobody else would have dared to do it. Eh!
poor lad! He's been spoiled till salt won't save him. Mother says as th' two
worst things as can happen to a child is never to have his own way—or always to
have it. She doesn't know which is th' worst. Tha' was in a fine temper
tha'self, too. But he says to me when I went into his room, 'Please ask Miss
Mary if she'll please come an' talk to me?' Think o' him saying please! Will
you go, Miss?" "I'll run and see Dickon first," said Mary. "No,
I'll go and see Colin first and tell him—I know what I'll tell him," with
a sudden inspiration.
She had
her hat on when she appeared in Colin's room and for a second he looked
disappointed. He was in bed. His face was pitifully white and there were dark
circles round his eyes.
"I'm
glad you came," he said. "My head aches and I ache all over because
I'm so tired. Are you going somewhere?"
Mary went
and leaned against his bed.
"I
won't be long," she said. "I'm going to Dickon, but I'll come back.
Colin, it's—it's something about the garden."
His whole
face brightened and a little color came into it.
"Oh!
is it?" he cried out. "I dreamed about it all night I heard you say
something about gray changing into green, and I dreamed I was standing in a
place all filled with trembling little green leaves—and there were birds on
nests everywhere and they looked so soft and still. I'll lie and think about it
until you come back."
In five
minutes Mary was with Dickon in their garden. The fox and the crow were with
him again and this time he had brought two tame squirrels. "I came over on
the pony this mornin'," he said. "Eh! he is a good little chap—Jump
is! I brought these two in my pockets. This here one he's called Nut an' this
here other one's called Shell."
When he
said "Nut" one squirrel leaped on to his right shoulder and when he
said "Shell" the other one leaped on to his left shoulder.
When they
sat down on the grass with Captain curled at their feet, Soot solemnly
listening on a tree and Nut and Shell nosing about close to them, it seemed to
Mary that it would be scarcely bearable to leave such delightfulness, but when
she began to tell her story somehow the look in Dickon's funny face gradually
changed her mind. She could see he felt sorrier for Colin than she did. He
looked up at the sky and all about him.
"Just
listen to them birds—th' world seems full of 'em—all whistlin' an'
pipin'," he said. "Look at 'em dartin' about, an' hearken at 'em
callin' to each other. Come springtime seems like as if all th' world's callin'.
The leaves is uncurlin' so you can see 'em—an', my word, th' nice smells there
is about!" sniffing with his happy turned-up nose. "An' that poor lad
lyin' shut up an' seein' so little that he gets to thinkin' o' things as sets
him screamin'. Eh! my! we mun get him out here—we mun get him watchin' an
listenin' an' sniffin' up th' air an' get him just soaked through wi' sunshine.
An' we munnot lose no time about it."
When he
was very much interested he often spoke quite broad Yorkshire
though at other times he tried to modify his dialect so that Mary could better
understand. But she loved his broad Yorkshire
and had in fact been trying to learn to speak it herself. So she spoke a little
now.
"Aye,
that we mun," she said (which meant "Yes, indeed, we must").
"I'll tell thee what us'll do first," she proceeded, and Dickon
grinned, because when the little wench tried to twist her tongue into speaking Yorkshire it amused him very much. "He's took a
graidely fancy to thee. He wants to see thee and he wants to see Soot an'
Captain. When I go back to the house to talk to him I'll ax him if tha' canna'
come an' see him tomorrow mornin'—an'. bring tha' creatures wi' thee—an'
then—in a bit, when there's more leaves out, an' happen a bud or two, we'll get
him to come out an' tha' shall push him in his chair an' we'll bring him here
an' show him everything."
When she
stopped she was quite proud of herself. She had never made a long speech in Yorkshire before and she had remembered very well.
"Tha'
mun talk a bit o' Yorkshire like that to
Mester Colin," Dickon chuckled. "Tha'll make him laugh an' there's
nowt as good for ill folk as laughin' is. Mother says she believes as half a
hour's good laugh every mornin' 'ud cure a chap as was makin' ready for typhus
fever."
"I'm
going to talk Yorkshire to him this very
day," said Mary, chuckling herself.
The garden
had reached the time when every day and every night it seemed as if Magicians
were passing through it drawing loveliness out of the earth and the boughs with
wands. It was hard to go away and leave it all, particularly as Nut had
actually crept on to her dress and Shell had scrambled down the trunk of the
apple-tree they sat under and stayed there looking at her with inquiring eyes.
But she went back to the house and when she sat down close to Colin's bed he
began to sniff as Dickon did though not in such an experienced way.
"You
smell like flowers and—and fresh things," he cried out quite joyously.
"What is it you smell of? It's cool and warm and sweet all at the same
time."
"It's
th' wind from th' moor," said Mary. "It comes o' sittin' on th' grass
under a tree wi' Dickon an' wi' Captain an' Soot an' Nut an' Shell. It's th'
springtime an' out o' doors an' sunshine as smells so graidely."
She said
it as broadly as she could, and you do not know how broadly Yorkshire
sounds until you have heard some one speak it. Colin began to laugh.
"What
are you doing?" he said. "I never heard you talk like that before.
How funny it sounds."
"I'm
givin' thee a bit o' Yorkshire ," answered
Mary triumphantly. "I canna' talk as graidely as Dickon an' Martha can but
tha' sees I can shape a bit. Doesn't tha' understand a bit o' Yorkshire
when tha' hears it? An' tha' a Yorkshire lad
thysel' bred an' born! Eh! I wonder tha'rt not ashamed o' thy face."
And then
she began to laugh too and they both laughed until they could not stop
themselves and they laughed until the room echoed and Mrs. Medlock opening the
door to come in drew back into the corridor and stood listening amazed.
"Well,
upon my word!" she said, speaking rather broad Yorkshire
herself because there was no one to hear her and she was so astonished.
"Whoever heard th' like! Whoever on earth would ha' thought it!"
There was
so much to talk about. It seemed as if Colin could never hear enough of Dickon
and Captain and Soot and Nut and Shell and the pony whose name was Jump. Mary
had run round into the wood with Dickon to see Jump. He was a tiny little
shaggy moor pony with thick locks hanging over his eyes and with a pretty face
and a nuzzling velvet nose. He was rather thin with living on moor grass but he
was as tough and wiry as if the muscle in his little legs had been made of
steel springs. He had lifted his head and whinnied softly the moment he saw
Dickon and he had trotted up to him and put his head across his shoulder and
then Dickon had talked into his ear and Jump had talked back in odd little
whinnies and puffs and snorts. Dickon had made him give Mary his small front
hoof and kiss her on her cheek with his velvet muzzle.
"Does
he really understand everything Dickon says?" Colin asked.
"It
seems as if he does," answered Mary. "Dickon says anything will
understand if you're friends with it for sure, but you have to be friends for
sure."
Colin lay
quiet a little while and his strange gray eyes seemed to be staring at the
wall, but Mary saw he was thinking.
"I
wish I was friends with things," he said at last, "but I'm not. I
never had anything to be friends with, and I can't bear people."
"Can't
you bear me?" asked Mary.
"Yes,
I can," he answered. "It's funny but I even like you."
"Ben
Weatherstaff said I was like him," said Mary. "He said he'd warrant
we'd both got the same nasty tempers. I think you are like him too. We are all
three alike—you and I and Ben Weatherstaff. He said we were neither of us much
to look at and we were as sour as we looked. But I don't feel as sour as I used
to before I knew the robin and Dickon."
"Did
you feel as if you hated people?"
"Yes,"
answered Mary without any affectation. "I should have detested you if I
had seen you before I saw the robin and Dickon."
Colin put
out his thin hand and touched her.
"Mary,"
he said, "I wish I hadn't said what I did about sending Dickon away. I
hated you when you said he was like an angel and I laughed at you but—but
perhaps he is."
"Well,
it was rather funny to say it," she admitted frankly, "because his
nose does turn up and he has a big mouth and his clothes have patches all over
them and he talks broad Yorkshire, but—but if an angel did come to Yorkshire
and live on the moor—if there was a Yorkshire angel—I believe he'd understand
the green things and know how to make them grow and he would know how to talk
to the wild creatures as Dickon does and they'd know he was friends for
sure."
"I
shouldn't mind Dickon looking at me," said Colin; "I want to see
him."
"I'm
glad you said that," answered Mary, "because—because—"
Quite
suddenly it came into her mind that this was the minute to tell him. Colin knew
something new was coming.
"Because
what?" he cried eagerly.
Mary was
so anxious that she got up from her stool and came to him and caught hold of
both his hands.
"Can
I trust you? I trusted Dickon because birds trusted him. Can I trust you—for
sure—for sure?" she implored.
Her face
was so solemn that he almost whispered his answer.
"Yes—yes!"
"Well,
Dickon will come to see you tomorrow morning, and he'll bring his creatures
with him."
"Oh!
Oh!" Colin cried out in delight.
"But
that's not all," Mary went on, almost pale with solemn excitement.
"The rest is better. There is a door into the garden. I found it. It is
under the ivy on the wall."
If he had
been a strong healthy boy Colin would probably have shouted "Hooray!
Hooray! Hooray!" but he was weak and rather hysterical; his eyes grew
bigger and bigger and he gasped for breath.
"Oh!
Mary!" he cried out with a half sob. "Shall I see it? Shall I get
into it? Shall I live to get into it?" and he clutched her hands and
dragged her toward him.
"Of
course you'll see it!" snapped Mary indignantly. "Of course you'll
live to get into it! Don't be silly!"
And she
was so un-hysterical and natural and childish that she brought him to his
senses and he began to laugh at himself and a few minutes afterward she was
sitting on her stool again telling him not what she imagined the secret garden
to be like but what it really was, and Colin's aches and tiredness were
forgotten and he was listening enraptured.
"It
is just what you thought it would be," he said at last. "It sounds
just as if you had really seen it. You know I said that when you told me
first."
Mary
hesitated about two minutes and then boldly spoke the truth.
"I
had seen it—and I had been in," she said. "I found the key and got in
weeks ago. But I daren't tell you—I daren't because I was so afraid I couldn't
trust you—for sure!"
CHAPTER XIX
"IT
HAS COME!"
Of course
Dr. Craven had been sent for the morning after Colin had had his tantrum. He
was always sent for at once when such a thing occurred and he always found,
when he arrived, a white shaken boy lying on his bed, sulky and still so
hysterical that he was ready to break into fresh sobbing at the least word. In
fact, Dr. Craven dreaded and detested the difficulties of these visits. On this
occasion he was away from Misselthwaite Manor until afternoon.
"How
is he?" he asked Mrs. Medlock rather irritably when he arrived. "He
will break a blood-vessel in one of those fits some day. The boy is half insane
with hysteria and self-indulgence."
"Well,
sir," answered Mrs. Medlock, "you'll scarcely believe your eyes when
you see him. That plain sour-faced child that's almost as bad as himself has
just bewitched him. How she's done it there's no telling. The Lord knows she's
nothing to look at and you scarcely ever hear her speak, but she did what none
of us dare do. She just flew at him like a little cat last night, and stamped
her feet and ordered him to stop screaming, and somehow she startled him so
that he actually did stop, and this afternoon—well just come up and see, sir.
It's past crediting."
The scene
which Dr. Craven beheld when he entered his patient's room was indeed rather
astonishing to him. As Mrs. Medlock opened the door he heard laughing and
chattering. Colin was on his sofa in his dressing-gown and he was sitting up
quite straight looking at a picture in one of the garden books and talking to
the plain child who at that moment could scarcely be called plain at all
because her face was so glowing with enjoyment.
"Those
long spires of blue ones—we'll have a lot of those," Colin was announcing.
"They're called Del-phin-iums."
"Dickon
says they're larkspurs made big and grand," cried Mistress Mary.
"There are clumps there already."
Then they
saw Dr. Craven and stopped. Mary became quite still and Colin looked fretful.
"I am
sorry to hear you were ill last night, my boy," Dr. Craven said a trifle
nervously. He was rather a nervous man.
"I'm
better now—much better," Colin answered, rather like a Rajah. "I'm
going out in my chair in a day or two if it is fine. I want some fresh
air."
Dr. Craven
sat down by him and felt his pulse and looked at him curiously.
"It
must be a very fine day," he said, "and you must be very careful not
to tire yourself."
"Fresh
air won't tire me," said the young Rajah.
As there
had been occasions when this same young gentleman had shrieked aloud with rage
and had insisted that fresh air would give him cold and kill him, it is not to
be wondered at that his doctor felt somewhat startled.
"I thought
you did not like fresh air," he said.
"I
don't when I am by myself," replied the Rajah; "but my cousin is
going out with me."
"And
the nurse, of course?" suggested Dr. Craven.
"No,
I will not have the nurse," so magnificently that Mary could not help
remembering how the young native Prince had looked with his diamonds and
emeralds and pearls stuck all over him and the great rubies on the small dark
hand he had waved to command his servants to approach with salaams and receive
his orders.
"My
cousin knows how to take care of me. I am always better when she is with me.
She made me better last night. A very strong boy I know will push my
carriage."
Dr. Craven
felt rather alarmed. If this tiresome hysterical boy should chance to get well
he himself would lose all chance of inheriting Misselthwaite; but he was not an
unscrupulous man, though he was a weak one, and he did not intend to let him
run into actual danger.
"He
must be a strong boy and a steady boy," he said. "And I must know
something about him. Who is he? What is his name?"
"It's
Dickon," Mary spoke up suddenly. She felt somehow that everybody who knew
the moor must know Dickon. And she was right, too. She saw that in a moment Dr.
Craven's serious face relaxed into a relieved smile.
"Oh,
Dickon," he said. "If it is Dickon you will be safe enough. He's as
strong as a moor pony, is Dickon."
"And
he's trusty," said Mary. "He's th' trustiest lad i' Yorkshire ."
She had been talking Yorkshire to Colin and
she forgot herself.
"Did
Dickon teach you that?" asked Dr. Craven, laughing outright.
"I'm
learning it as if it was French," said Mary rather coldly. "It's like
a native dialect in India
"No,"
Colin answered. "I wouldn't take it at first and after Mary made me quiet
she talked me to sleep—in a low voice—about the spring creeping into a garden."
"That
sounds soothing," said Dr. Craven, more perplexed than ever and glancing
sideways at Mistress Mary sitting on her stool and looking down silently at the
carpet. "You are evidently better, but you must remember—"
"I
don't want to remember," interrupted the Rajah, appearing again.
"When I lie by myself and remember I begin to have pains everywhere and I
think of things that make me begin to scream because I hate them so. If there
was a doctor anywhere who could make you forget you were ill instead of
remembering it I would have him brought here." And he waved a thin hand
which ought really to have been covered with royal signet rings made of rubies.
"It is because my cousin makes me forget that she makes me better."
Dr. Craven
had never made such a short stay after a "tantrum"; usually he was
obliged to remain a very long time and do a great many things. This afternoon
he did not give any medicine or leave any new orders and he was spared any
disagreeable scenes. When he went downstairs he looked very thoughtful and when
he talked to Mrs. Medlock in the library she felt that he was a much puzzled
man.
"Well,
sir," she ventured, "could you have believed it?"
"It
is certainly a new state of affairs," said the doctor. "And there's
no denying it is better than the old one."
"I
believe Susan Sowerby's right—I do that," said Mrs. Medlock. "I
stopped in her cottage on my way to Thwaite yesterday and had a bit of talk
with her. And she says to me, 'Well, Sarah Ann, she mayn't be a good child, an'
she mayn't be a pretty one, but she's a child, an' children needs children.' We
went to school together, Susan Sowerby and me."
"She's
the best sick nurse I know," said Dr. Craven. "When I find her in a
cottage I know the chances are that I shall save my patient."
Mrs.
Medlock smiled. She was fond of Susan Sowerby.
"She's
got a way with her, has Susan," she went on quite volubly. "I've been
thinking all morning of one thing she said yesterday. She says, 'Once when I
was givin' th' children a bit of a preach after they'd been fightin' I ses to
'em all, "When I was at school my jography told as th' world was shaped
like a orange an' I found out before I was ten that th' whole orange doesn't
belong to nobody. No one owns more than his bit of a quarter an' there's times
it seems like there's not enow quarters to go round. But don't you—none o'
you—think as you own th' whole orange or you'll find out you're mistaken, an'
you won't find it out without hard knocks." 'What children learns from
children,' she says, 'is that there's no sense in grabbin' at th' whole
orange—peel an' all. If you do you'll likely not get even th' pips, an' them's
too bitter to eat.'"
"She's
a shrewd woman," said Dr. Craven, putting on his coat.
"Well,
she's got a way of saying things," ended Mrs. Medlock, much pleased.
"Sometimes I've said to her, 'Eh! Susan, if you was a different woman an'
didn't talk such broad Yorkshire I've seen the
times when I should have said you was clever.'"
That night
Colin slept without once awakening and when he opened his eyes in the morning
he lay still and smiled without knowing it—smiled because he felt so curiously
comfortable. It was actually nice to be awake, and he turned over and stretched
his limbs luxuriously. He felt as if tight strings which had held him had
loosened themselves and let him go. He did not know that Dr. Craven would have
said that his nerves had relaxed and rested themselves. Instead of lying and
staring at the wall and wishing he had not awakened, his mind was full of the
plans he and Mary had made yesterday, of pictures of the garden and of Dickon
and his wild creatures. It was so nice to have things to think about. And he
had not been awake more than ten minutes when he heard feet running along the
corridor and Mary was at the door. The next minute she was in the room and had
run across to his bed, bringing with her a waft of fresh air full of the scent
of the morning.
"You've
been out! You've been out! There's that nice smell of leaves!" he cried.
She had
been running and her hair was loose and blown and she was bright with the air
and pink-cheeked, though he could not see it.
"It's
so beautiful!" she said, a little breathless with her speed. "You
never saw anything so beautiful! It has come! I thought it had come that other
morning, but it was only coming. It is here now! It has come, the Spring!
Dickon says so!"
"Has
it?" cried Colin, and though he really knew nothing about it he felt his
heart beat. He actually sat up in bed.
"Open
the window!" he added, laughing half with joyful excitement and half at
his own fancy. "Perhaps we may hear golden trumpets!"
And though
he laughed, Mary was at the window in a moment and in a moment more it was
opened wide and freshness and softness and scents and birds' songs were pouring
through.
"That's
fresh air," she said. "Lie on your back and draw in long breaths of
it. That's what Dickon does when he's lying on the moor. He says he feels it in
his veins and it makes him strong and he feels as if he could live forever and
ever. Breathe it and breathe it."
She was
only repeating what Dickon had told her, but she caught Colin's fancy.
"'Forever
and ever'! Does it make him feel like that?" he said, and he did as she
told him, drawing in long deep breaths over and over again until he felt that
something quite new and delightful was happening to him.
Mary was
at his bedside again.
"Things
are crowding up out of the earth," she ran on in a hurry. "And there
are flowers uncurling and buds on everything and the green veil has covered
nearly all the gray and the birds are in such a hurry about their nests for
fear they may be too late that some of them are even fighting for places in the
secret garden. And the rose-bushes look as wick as wick can be, and there are
primroses in the lanes and woods, and the seeds we planted are up, and Dickon
has brought the fox and the crow and the squirrels and a new-born lamb."
And then
she paused for breath. The new-born lamb Dickon had found three days before
lying by its dead mother among the gorse bushes on the moor. It was not the
first motherless lamb he had found and he knew what to do with it. He had taken
it to the cottage wrapped in his jacket and he had let it lie near the fire and
had fed it with warm milk. It was a soft thing with a darling silly baby face
and legs rather long for its body. Dickon had carried it over the moor in his
arms and its feeding bottle was in his pocket with a squirrel, and when Mary
had sat under a tree with its limp warmness huddled on her lap she had felt as
if she were too full of strange joy to speak. A lamb—a lamb! A living lamb who
lay on your lap like a baby!
She was
describing it with great joy and Colin was listening and drawing in long
breaths of air when the nurse entered. She started a little at the sight of the
open window. She had sat stifling in the room many a warm day because her
patient was sure that open windows gave people cold.
"Are
you sure you are not chilly, Master Colin?" she inquired.
"No,"
was the answer. "I am breathing long breaths of fresh air. It makes you
strong. I am going to get up to the sofa for breakfast. My cousin will have
breakfast with me."
The nurse
went away, concealing a smile, to give the order for two breakfasts. She found
the servants' hall a more amusing place than the invalid's chamber and just now
everybody wanted to hear the news from upstairs. There was a great deal of
joking about the unpopular young recluse who, as the cook said, "had found
his master, and good for him." The servants' hall had been very tired of
the tantrums, and the butler, who was a man with a family, had more than once
expressed his opinion that the invalid would be all the better "for a good
hiding."
When Colin
was on his sofa and the breakfast for two was put upon the table he made an
announcement to the nurse in his most Rajah-like manner.
"A
boy, and a fox, and a crow, and two squirrels, and a new-born lamb, are coming
to see me this morning. I want them brought upstairs as soon as they come,"
he said. "You are not to begin playing with the animals in the servants'
hall and keep them there. I want them here." The nurse gave a slight gasp
and tried to conceal it with a cough.
"Yes,
sir," she answered.
"I'll
tell you what you can do," added Colin, waving his hand. "You can
tell Martha to bring them here. The boy is Martha's brother. His name is Dickon
and he is an animal charmer."
"I
hope the animals won't bite, Master Colin," said the nurse.
"I
told you he was a charmer," said Colin austerely. "Charmers' animals
never bite."
"There
are snake-charmers in India
"Goodness!"
shuddered the nurse.
They ate
their breakfast with the morning air pouring in upon them. Colin's breakfast
was a very good one and Mary watched him with serious interest.
"You
will begin to get fatter just as I did," she said. "I never wanted my
breakfast when I was in India
"I
wanted mine this morning," said Colin. "Perhaps it was the fresh air.
When do you think Dickon will come?"
He was not
long in coming. In about ten minutes Mary held up her hand.
"Listen!"
she said. "Did you hear a caw?"
Colin
listened and heard it, the oddest sound in the world to hear inside a house, a
hoarse "caw-caw."
"Yes,"
he answered.
"That's
Soot," said Mary. "Listen again. Do you hear a bleat—a tiny
one?"
"Oh,
yes!" cried Colin, quite flushing.
"That's
the new-born lamb," said Mary. "He's coming."
Dickon's
moorland boots were thick and clumsy and though he tried to walk quietly they
made a clumping sound as he walked through the long corridors. Mary and Colin
heard him marching—marching, until he passed through the tapestry door on to
the soft carpet of Colin's own passage.
"If
you please, sir," announced Martha, opening the door, "if you please,
sir, here's Dickon an' his creatures."
Dickon
came in smiling his nicest wide smile. The new-born lamb was in his arms and
the little red fox trotted by his side. Nut sat on his left shoulder and Soot
on his right and Shell's head and paws peeped out of his coat pocket.
Colin
slowly sat up and stared and stared—as he had stared when he first saw Mary;
but this was a stare of wonder and delight. The truth was that in spite of all
he had heard he had not in the least understood what this boy would be like and
that his fox and his crow and his squirrels and his lamb were so near to him
and his friendliness that they seemed almost to be part of himself. Colin had
never talked to a boy in his life and he was so overwhelmed by his own pleasure
and curiosity that he did not even think of speaking.
But Dickon
did not feel the least shy or awkward. He had not felt embarrassed because the
crow had not known his language and had only stared and had not spoken to him
the first time they met. Creatures were always like that until they found out
about you. He walked over to Colin's sofa and put the new-born lamb quietly on
his lap, and immediately the little creature turned to the warm velvet
dressing-gown and began to nuzzle and nuzzle into its folds and butt its
tight-curled head with soft impatience against his side. Of course no boy could
have helped speaking then.
"What
is it doing?" cried Colin. "What does it want?"
"It
wants its mother," said Dickon, smiling more and more. "I brought it
to thee a bit hungry because I knowed tha'd like to see it feed."
He knelt
down by the sofa and took a feeding-bottle from his pocket.
"Come
on, little 'un," he said, turning the small woolly white head with a
gentle brown hand. "This is what tha's after. Tha'll get more out o' this
than tha' will out o' silk velvet coats. There now," and he pushed the
rubber tip of the bottle into the nuzzling mouth and the lamb began to suck it
with ravenous ecstasy.
After that
there was no wondering what to say. By the time the lamb fell asleep questions
poured forth and Dickon answered them all. He told them how he had found the
lamb just as the sun was rising three mornings ago. He had been standing on the
moor listening to a skylark and watching him swing higher and higher into the
sky until he was only a speck in the heights of blue.
"I'd
almost lost him but for his song an' I was wonderin' how a chap could hear it
when it seemed as if he'd get out o' th' world in a minute—an' just then I
heard somethin' else far off among th' gorse bushes. It was a weak bleatin' an'
I knowed it was a new lamb as was hungry an' I knowed it wouldn't be hungry if
it hadn't lost its mother somehow, so I set off searchin'. Eh! I did have a
look for it. I went in an' out among th' gorse bushes an' round an' round an' I
always seemed to take th' wrong turnin'. But at last I seed a bit o' white by a
rock on top o' th' moor an' I climbed up an' found th' little 'un half dead wi'
cold an' clemmin'." While he talked, Soot flew solemnly in and out of the
open window and cawed remarks about the scenery while Nut and Shell made
excursions into the big trees outside and ran up and down trunks and explored
branches. Captain curled up near Dickon, who sat on the hearth-rug from
preference.
They
looked at the pictures in the gardening books and Dickon knew all the flowers
by their country names and knew exactly which ones were already growing in the
secret garden.
"I
couldna' say that there name," he said, pointing to one under which was
written "Aquilegia," "but us calls that a columbine, an' that
there one it's a snapdragon and they both grow wild in hedges, but these is
garden ones an' they're bigger an' grander. There's some big clumps o'
columbine in th' garden. They'll look like a bed o' blue an' white butterflies
flutterin' when they're out."
"I'm
going to see them," cried Colin. "I am going to see them!"
"Aye,
that tha' mun," said Mary quite seriously. "An' tha' munnot lose no
time about it."
CHAPTER XX
"I
SHALL LIVE FOREVER—AND EVER—AND EVER!"
But they
were obliged to wait more than a week because first there came some very windy
days and then Colin was threatened with a cold, which two things happening one
after the other would no doubt have thrown him into a rage but that there was
so much careful and mysterious planning to do and almost every day Dickon came
in, if only for a few minutes, to talk about what was happening on the moor and
in the lanes and hedges and on the borders of streams. The things he had to
tell about otters' and badgers' and water-rats' houses, not to mention birds'
nests and field-mice and their burrows, were enough to make you almost tremble
with excitement when you heard all the intimate details from an animal charmer
and realized with what thrilling eagerness and anxiety the whole busy
underworld was working.
"They're
same as us," said Dickon, "only they have to build their homes every
year. An' it keeps 'em so busy they fair scuffle to get 'em done."
The most
absorbing thing, however, was the preparations to be made before Colin could be
transported with sufficient secrecy to the garden. No one must see the
chair-carriage and Dickon and Mary after they turned a certain corner of the
shrubbery and entered upon the walk outside the ivied walls. As each day
passed, Colin had become more and more fixed in his feeling that the mystery
surrounding the garden was one of its greatest charms. Nothing must spoil that.
No one must ever suspect that they had a secret. People must think that he was
simply going out with Mary and Dickon because he liked them and did not object
to their looking at him. They had long and quite delightful talks about their
route. They would go up this path and down that one and cross the other and go
round among the fountain flower-beds as if they were looking at the
"bedding-out plants" the head gardener, Mr. Roach, had been having
arranged. That would seem such a rational thing to do that no one would think it
at all mysterious. They would turn into the shrubbery walks and lose themselves
until they came to the long walls. It was almost as serious and elaborately
thought out as the plans of march made by great generals in time of war.
Rumors of
the new and curious things which were occurring in the invalid's apartments had
of course filtered through the servants' hall into the stable yards and out
among the gardeners, but notwithstanding this, Mr. Roach was startled one day
when he received orders from Master Colin's room to the effect that he must
report himself in the apartment no outsider had ever seen, as the invalid
himself desired to speak to him.
"Well,
well," he said to himself as he hurriedly changed his coat, "what's
to do now? His Royal Highness that wasn't to be looked at calling up a man he's
never set eyes on."
Mr. Roach
was not without curiosity. He had never caught even a glimpse of the boy and
had heard a dozen exaggerated stories about his uncanny looks and ways and his
insane tempers. The thing he had heard oftenest was that he might die at any
moment and there had been numerous fanciful descriptions of a humped back and
helpless limbs, given by people who had never seen him.
"Things
are changing in this house, Mr. Roach," said Mrs. Medlock, as she led him
up the back staircase to the corridor on to which opened the hitherto
mysterious chamber.
"Let's
hope they're changing for the better, Mrs. Medlock," he answered.
"They
couldn't well change for the worse," she continued; "and queer as it
all is there's them as finds their duties made a lot easier to stand up under.
Don't you be surprised, Mr. Roach, if you find yourself in the middle of a
menagerie and Martha Sowerby's Dickon more at home than you or me could ever
be."
There
really was a sort of Magic about Dickon, as Mary always privately believed.
When Mr. Roach heard his name he smiled quite leniently.
"He'd
be at home in Buckingham
Palace
It was
perhaps well he had been prepared or he might have been startled. When the
bedroom door was opened a large crow, which seemed quite at home perched on the
high back of a carven chair, announced the entrance of a visitor by saying
"Caw—Caw" quite loudly. In spite of Mrs. Medlock's warning, Mr. Roach
only just escaped being sufficiently undignified to jump backward.
The young
Rajah was neither in bed nor on his sofa. He was sitting in an armchair and a
young lamb was standing by him shaking its tail in feeding-lamb fashion as
Dickon knelt giving it milk from its bottle. A squirrel was perched on Dickon's
bent back attentively nibbling a nut. The little girl from India
"Here
is Mr. Roach, Master Colin," said Mrs. Medlock.
The young
Rajah turned and looked his servitor over—at least that was what the head
gardener felt happened.
"Oh,
you are Roach, are you?" he said. "I sent for you to give you some
very important orders."
"Very
good, sir," answered Roach, wondering if he was to receive instructions to
fell all the oaks in the park or to transform the orchards into water-gardens.
"I am
going out in my chair this afternoon," said Colin. "If the fresh air
agrees with me I may go out every day. When I go, none of the gardeners are to
be anywhere near the Long Walk by the garden walls. No one is to be there. I
shall go out about two o'clock and everyone must keep away until I send word
that they may go back to their work."
"Very
good, sir," replied Mr. Roach, much relieved to hear that the oaks might
remain and that the orchards were safe. "Mary," said Colin, turning
to her, "what is that thing you say in India
"You
say, 'You have my permission to go,'" answered Mary.
The Rajah
waved his hand.
"You
have my permission to go, Roach," he said. "But, remember, this is
very important."
"Caw—Caw!"
remarked the crow hoarsely but not impolitely.
"Very
good, sir. Thank you, sir," said Mr. Roach, and Mrs. Medlock took him out
of the room.
Outside in
the corridor, being a rather good-natured man, he smiled until he almost
laughed.
"My
word!" he said, "he's got a fine lordly way with him, hasn't he?
You'd think he was a whole Royal Family rolled into one—Prince Consort and
all.".
"Eh!"
protested Mrs. Medlock, "we've had to let him trample all over every one
of us ever since he had feet and he thinks that's what folks was born
for."
"Perhaps
he'll grow out of it, if he lives," suggested Mr. Roach.
"Well,
there's one thing pretty sure," said Mrs. Medlock. "If he does live
and that Indian child stays here I'll warrant she teaches him that the whole
orange does not belong to him, as Susan Sowerby says. And he'll be likely to
find out the size of his own quarter."
Inside the
room Colin was leaning back on his cushions.
"It's
all safe now," he said. "And this afternoon I shall see it—this
afternoon I shall be in it!"
Dickon
went back to the garden with his creatures and Mary stayed with Colin. She did
not think he looked tired but he was very quiet before their lunch came and he
was quiet while they were eating it. She wondered why and asked him about it.
"What
big eyes you've got, Colin," she said. "When you are thinking they
get as big as saucers. What are you thinking about now?"
"I
can't help thinking about what it will look like," he answered.
"The
garden?" asked Mary.
"The
springtime," he said. "I was thinking that I've really never seen it
before. I scarcely ever went out and when I did go I never looked at it. I
didn't even think about it."
"I
never saw it in India
Shut in
and morbid as his life had been, Colin had more imagination than she had and at
least he had spent a good deal of time looking at wonderful books and pictures.
"That
morning when you ran in and said 'It's come! It's come!', you made me feel
quite queer. It sounded as if things were coming with a great procession and
big bursts and wafts of music. I've a picture like it in one of my books—crowds
of lovely people and children with garlands and branches with blossoms on them,
everyone laughing and dancing and crowding and playing on pipes. That was why I
said, 'Perhaps we shall hear golden trumpets' and told you to throw open the
window."
"How
funny!" said Mary. "That's really just what it feels like. And if all
the flowers and leaves and green things and birds and wild creatures danced
past at once, what a crowd it would be! I'm sure they'd dance and sing and
flute and that would be the wafts of music."
They both
laughed but it was not because the idea was laughable but because they both so
liked it.
A little
later the nurse made Colin ready. She noticed that instead of lying like a log
while his clothes were put on he sat up and made some efforts to help himself,
and he talked and laughed with Mary all the time.
"This
is one of his good days, sir," she said to Dr. Craven, who dropped in to
inspect him. "He's in such good spirits that it makes him stronger."
"I'll
call in again later in the afternoon, after he has come in," said Dr.
Craven. "I must see how the going out agrees with him. I wish," in a
very low voice, "that he would let you go with him."
"I'd
rather give up the case this moment, sir, than even stay here while it's
suggested," answered the nurse. With sudden firmness.
"I
hadn't really decided to suggest it," said the doctor, with his slight
nervousness. "We'll try the experiment. Dickon's a lad I'd trust with a
new-born child."
The
strongest footman in the house carried Colin down stairs and put him in his
wheeled chair near which Dickon waited outside. After the manservant had
arranged his rugs and cushions the Rajah waved his hand to him and to the
nurse.
"You
have my permission to go," he said, and they both disappeared quickly and
it must be confessed giggled when they were safely inside the house.
Dickon
began to push the wheeled chair slowly and steadily. Mistress Mary walked
beside it and Colin leaned back and lifted his face to the sky. The arch of it
looked very high and the small snowy clouds seemed like white birds floating on
outspread wings below its crystal blueness. The wind swept in soft big breaths
down from the moor and was strange with a wild clear scented sweetness. Colin
kept lifting his thin chest to draw it in, and his big eyes looked as if it
were they which were listening—listening, instead of his ears.
"There
are so many sounds of singing and humming and calling out," he said.
"What is that scent the puffs of wind bring?"
"It's
gorse on th' moor that's openin' out," answered Dickon. "Eh! th' bees
are at it wonderful today."
Not a
human creature was to be caught sight of in the paths they took. In fact every
gardener or gardener's lad had been witched away. But they wound in and out
among the shrubbery and out and round the fountain beds, following their
carefully planned route for the mere mysterious pleasure of it. But when at
last they turned into the Long Walk by the ivied walls the excited sense of an
approaching thrill made them, for some curious reason they could not have
explained, begin to speak in whispers.
"This
is it," breathed Mary. "This is where I used to walk up and down and
wonder and wonder." "Is it?" cried Colin, and his eyes began to
search the ivy with eager curiousness. "But I can see nothing," he
whispered. "There is no door."
"That's
what I thought," said Mary.
Then there
was a lovely breathless silence and the chair wheeled on.
"That
is the garden where Ben Weatherstaff works," said Mary.
"Is
it?" said Colin.
A few
yards more and Mary whispered again.
"This
is where the robin flew over the wall," she said.
"Is
it?" cried Colin. "Oh! I wish he'd come again!"
"And
that," said Mary with solemn delight, pointing under a big lilac bush,
"is where he perched on the little heap of earth and showed me the
key."
Then Colin
sat up.
"Where?
Where? There?" he cried, and his eyes were as big as the wolf's in Red
Riding-Hood, when Red Riding-Hood felt called upon to remark on them. Dickon
stood still and the wheeled chair stopped.
"And
this," said Mary, stepping on to the bed close to the ivy, "is where
I went to talk to him when he chirped at me from the top of the wall. And this
is the ivy the wind blew back," and she took hold of the hanging green
curtain.
"Oh!
is it—is it!" gasped Colin.
"And
here is the handle, and here is the door. Dickon push him in—push him in
quickly!"
And Dickon
did it with one strong, steady, splendid push.
But Colin
had actually dropped back against his cushions, even though he gasped with
delight, and he had covered his eyes with his hands and held them there
shutting out everything until they were inside and the chair stopped as if by
magic and the door was closed. Not till then did he take them away and look
round and round and round as Dickon and Mary had done. And over walls and earth
and trees and swinging sprays and tendrils the fair green veil of tender little
leaves had crept, and in the grass under the trees and the gray urns in the
alcoves and here and there everywhere were touches or splashes of gold and
purple and white and the trees were showing pink and snow above his head and
there were fluttering of wings and faint sweet pipes and humming and scents and
scents. And the sun fell warm upon his face like a hand with a lovely touch.
And in wonder Mary and Dickon stood and stared at him. He looked so strange and
different because a pink glow of color had actually crept all over him—ivory
face and neck and hands and all.
"I
shall get well! I shall get well!" he cried out. "Mary! Dickon! I
shall get well! And I shall live forever and ever and ever!"
CHAPTER XXI
BEN
WEATHERSTAFF
One of the
strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is
quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. One knows it
sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and
stands alone and throws one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the
pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening
until the East almost makes one cry out and one's heart stands still at the
strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun—which has been happening
every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. One knows it
then for a moment or so. And one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself
in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and
under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one
cannot quite hear, however much one tries. Then sometimes the immense quiet of
the dark blue at night with millions of stars waiting and watching makes one
sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a
look in some one's eyes.
And it was
like that with Colin when he first saw and heard and felt the Springtime inside
the four high walls of a hidden garden. That afternoon the whole world seemed
to devote itself to being perfect and radiantly beautiful and kind to one boy.
Perhaps out of pure heavenly goodness the spring came and crowned everything it
possibly could into that one place. More than once Dickon paused in what he was
doing and stood still with a sort of growing wonder in his eyes, shaking his
head softly.
"Eh!
it is graidely," he said. "I'm twelve goin' on thirteen an' there's a
lot o' afternoons in thirteen years, but seems to me like I never seed one as
graidely as this 'ere."
"Aye,
it is a graidely one," said Mary, and she sighed for mere joy. "I'll
warrant it's the graidelest one as ever was in this world."
"Does
tha' think," said Colin with dreamy carefulness, "as happen it was
made loike this 'ere all o' purpose for me?"
"My
word!" cried Mary admiringly, "that there is a bit o' good Yorkshire . Tha'rt shapin' first-rate—that tha' art."
And
delight reigned. They drew the chair under the plum-tree, which was snow-white
with blossoms and musical with bees. It was like a king's canopy, a fairy
king's. There were flowering cherry-trees near and apple-trees whose buds were
pink and white, and here and there one had burst open wide. Between the
blossoming branches of the canopy bits of blue sky looked down like wonderful
eyes.
Mary and
Dickon worked a little here and there and Colin watched them. They brought him
things to look at—buds which were opening, buds which were tight closed, bits
of twig whose leaves were just showing green, the feather of a woodpecker which
had dropped on the grass, the empty shell of some bird early hatched. Dickon
pushed the chair slowly round and round the garden, stopping every other moment
to let him look at wonders springing out of the earth or trailing down from
trees. It was like being taken in state round the country of a magic king and
queen and shown all the mysterious riches it contained.
"I
wonder if we shall see the robin?" said Colin.
"Tha'll
see him often enow after a bit," answered Dickon. "When th' eggs
hatches out th' little chap he'll be kep' so busy it'll make his head swim.
Tha'll see him flyin' backward an' for'ard carryin' worms nigh as big as
himsel' an' that much noise goin' on in th' nest when he gets there as fair
flusters him so as he scarce knows which big mouth to drop th' first piece in.
An' gapin' beaks an' squawks on every side. Mother says as when she sees th'
work a robin has to keep them gapin' beaks filled, she feels like she was a
lady with nothin' to do. She says she's seen th' little chaps when it seemed
like th' sweat must be droppin' off 'em, though folk can't see it."
This made
them giggle so delightedly that they were obliged to cover their mouths with
their hands, remembering that they must not be heard. Colin had been instructed
as to the law of whispers and low voices several days before. He liked the
mysteriousness of it and did his best, but in the midst of excited enjoyment it
is rather difficult never to laugh above a whisper.
Every
moment of the afternoon was full of new things and every hour the sunshine grew
more golden. The wheeled chair had been drawn back under the canopy and Dickon
had sat down on the grass and had just drawn out his pipe when Colin saw
something he had not had time to notice before.
"That's
a very old tree over there, isn't it?" he said. Dickon looked across the
grass at the tree and Mary looked and there was a brief moment of stillness.
"Yes,"
answered Dickon, after it, and his low voice had a very gentle sound.
Mary gazed
at the tree and thought.
"The
branches are quite gray and there's not a single leaf anywhere," Colin
went on. "It's quite dead, isn't it?"
"Aye,"
admitted Dickon. "But them roses as has climbed all over it will near hide
every bit o' th' dead wood when they're full o' leaves an' flowers. It won't
look dead then. It'll be th' prettiest of all."
Mary still
gazed at the tree and thought.
"It
looks as if a big branch had been broken off," said Colin. "I wonder
how it was done."
"It's
been done many a year," answered Dickon. "Eh!" with a sudden
relieved start and laying his hand on Colin. "Look at that robin! There he
is! He's been foragin' for his mate."
Colin was
almost too late but he just caught sight of him, the flash of red-breasted bird
with something in his beak. He darted through the greenness and into the
close-grown corner and was out of sight. Colin leaned back on his cushion
again, laughing a little. "He's taking her tea to her. Perhaps it's five
o'clock. I think I'd like some tea myself."
And so
they were safe.
"It
was Magic which sent the robin," said Mary secretly to Dickon afterward.
"I know it was Magic." For both she and Dickon had been afraid Colin
might ask something about the tree whose branch had broken off ten years ago
and they had talked it over together and Dickon had stood and rubbed his head
in a troubled way.
"We
mun look as if it wasn't no different from th' other trees," he had said.
"We couldn't never tell him how it broke, poor lad. If he says anything
about it we mun—we mun try to look cheerful."
"Aye,
that we mun," had answered Mary.
But she
had not felt as if she looked cheerful when she gazed at the tree. She wondered
and wondered in those few moments if there was any reality in that other thing
Dickon had said. He had gone on rubbing his rust-red hair in a puzzled way, but
a nice comforted look had begun to grow in his blue eyes.
"Mrs.
Craven was a very lovely young lady," he had gone on rather hesitatingly.
"An' mother she thinks maybe she's about Misselthwaite many a time lookin'
after Mester Colin, same as all mothers do when they're took out o' th' world.
They have to come back, tha' sees. Happen she's been in the garden an' happen
it was her set us to work, an' told us to bring him here."
Mary had
thought he meant something about Magic. She was a great believer in Magic.
Secretly she quite believed that Dickon worked Magic, of course good Magic, on
everything near him and that was why people liked him so much and wild
creatures knew he was their friend. She wondered, indeed, if it were not
possible that his gift had brought the robin just at the right moment when
Colin asked that dangerous question. She felt that his Magic was working all
the afternoon and making Colin look like an entirely different boy. It did not
seem possible that he could be the crazy creature who had screamed and beaten
and bitten his pillow. Even his ivory whiteness seemed to change. The faint
glow of color which had shown on his face and neck and hands when he first got
inside the garden really never quite died away. He looked as if he were made of
flesh instead of ivory or wax.
They saw
the robin carry food to his mate two or three times, and it was so suggestive
of afternoon tea that Colin felt they must have some.
"Go
and make one of the men servants bring some in a basket to the rhododendron
walk," he said. "And then you and Dickon can bring it here."
It was an
agreeable idea, easily carried out, and when the white cloth was spread upon
the grass, with hot tea and buttered toast and crumpets, a delightfully hungry
meal was eaten, and several birds on domestic errands paused to inquire what
was going on and were led into investigating crumbs with great activity. Nut
and Shell whisked up trees with pieces of cake and Soot took the entire half of
a buttered crumpet into a corner and pecked at and examined and turned it over
and made hoarse remarks about it until he decided to swallow it all joyfully in
one gulp.
The
afternoon was dragging towards its mellow hour. The sun was deepening the gold
of its lances, the bees were going home and the birds were flying past less
often. Dickon and Mary were sitting on the grass, the tea-basket was repacked
ready to be taken back to the house, and Colin was lying against his cushions
with his heavy locks pushed back from his forehead and his face looking quite a
natural color.
"I
don't want this afternoon to go," he said; "but I shall come back
tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after."
"You'll
get plenty of fresh air, won't you?" said Mary. "I'm going to get
nothing else," he answered. "I've seen the spring now and I'm going
to see the summer. I'm going to see everything grow here. I'm going to grow
here myself."
"That
tha' will," said Dickon. "Us'll have thee walkin' about here an'
diggin' same as other folk afore long."
Colin flushed
tremendously.
"Walk!"
he said. "Dig! Shall I?"
Dickon's
glance at him was delicately cautious. Neither he nor Mary had ever asked if
anything was the matter with his legs.
"For
sure tha' will," he said stoutly. "Tha—tha's got legs o' thine own, same
as other folks!"
Mary was
rather frightened until she heard Colin's answer.
"Nothing
really ails them," he said, "but they are so thin and weak. They
shake so that I'm afraid to try to stand on them."
Both Mary
and Dickon drew a relieved breath.
"When
tha' stops bein' afraid tha'lt stand on 'em," Dickon said with renewed
cheer. "An' tha'lt stop bein' afraid in a bit."
"I
shall?" said Colin, and he lay still as if he were wondering about things.
They were
really very quiet for a little while. The sun was dropping lower. It was that
hour when everything stills itself, and they really had had a busy and exciting
afternoon. Colin looked as if he were resting luxuriously. Even the creatures
had ceased moving about and had drawn together and were resting near them. Soot
had perched on a low branch and drawn up one leg and dropped the gray film
drowsily over his eyes. Mary privately thought he looked as if he might snore
in a minute.
In the
midst of this stillness it was rather startling when Colin half lifted his head
and exclaimed in a loud suddenly alarmed whisper:
"Who
is that man?" Dickon and Mary scrambled to their feet.
"Man!"
they both cried in low quick voices.
Colin
pointed to the high wall. "Look!" he whispered excitedly. "Just
look!"
Mary and
Dickon wheeled about and looked. There was Ben Weatherstaff's indignant face
glaring at them over the wall from the top of a ladder! He actually shook his
fist at Mary.
"If I
wasn't a bachelder, an' tha' was a wench o' mine," he cried, "I'd
give thee a hidin'!"
He mounted
another step threateningly as if it were his energetic intention to jump down
and deal with her; but as she came toward him he evidently thought better of it
and stood on the top step of his ladder shaking his fist down at her.
"I never
thowt much o' thee!" he harangued. "I couldna' abide thee th' first
time I set eyes on thee. A scrawny buttermilk-faced young besom, allus askin'
questions an' pokin' tha' nose where it wasna, wanted. I never knowed how tha'
got so thick wi' me. If it hadna' been for th' robin— Drat him—"
"Ben
Weatherstaff," called out Mary, finding her breath. She stood below him
and called up to him with a sort of gasp. "Ben Weatherstaff, it was the
robin who showed me the way!"
Then it
did seem as if Ben really would scramble down on her side of the wall, he was
so outraged.
"Tha'
young bad 'un!" he called down at her. "Layin' tha' badness on a
robin—not but what he's impidint enow for anythin'. Him showin' thee th' way!
Him! Eh! tha' young nowt"—she could see his next words burst out because
he was overpowered by curiosity—"however i' this world did tha' get
in?"
"It
was the robin who showed me the way," she protested obstinately. "He
didn't know he was doing it but he did. And I can't tell you from here while you're
shaking your fist at me."
He stopped
shaking his fist very suddenly at that very moment and his jaw actually dropped
as he stared over her head at something he saw coming over the grass toward
him.
At the
first sound of his torrent of words Colin had been so surprised that he had
only sat up and listened as if he were spellbound. But in the midst of it he
had recovered himself and beckoned imperiously to Dickon.
"Wheel
me over there!" he commanded. "Wheel me quite close and stop right in
front of him!"
And this,
if you please, this is what Ben Weatherstaff beheld and which made his jaw
drop. A wheeled chair with luxurious cushions and robes which came toward him
looking rather like some sort of State Coach because a young Rajah leaned back
in it with royal command in his great black-rimmed eyes and a thin white hand
extended haughtily toward him. And it stopped right under Ben Weatherstaff's
nose. It was really no wonder his mouth dropped open.
"Do
you know who I am?" demanded the Rajah.
How Ben Weatherstaff
stared! His red old eyes fixed themselves on what was before him as if he were
seeing a ghost. He gazed and gazed and gulped a lump down his throat and did
not say a word. "Do you know who I am?" demanded Colin still more
imperiously. "Answer!"
Ben
Weatherstaff put his gnarled hand up and passed it over his eyes and over his
forehead and then he did answer in a queer shaky voice.
"Who
tha' art?" he said. "Aye, that I do—wi' tha' mother's eyes starin' at
me out o' tha' face. Lord knows how tha' come here. But tha'rt th' poor
cripple."
Colin
forgot that he had ever had a back. His face flushed scarlet and he sat bolt
upright.
"I'm
not a cripple!" he cried out furiously. "I'm not!"
"He's
not!" cried Mary, almost shouting up the wall in her fierce indignation.
"He's not got a lump as big as a pin! I looked and there was none
there—not one!"
Ben
Weatherstaff passed his hand over his forehead again and gazed as if he could
never gaze enough. His hand shook and his mouth shook and his voice shook. He
was an ignorant old man and a tactless old man and he could only remember the
things he had heard.
"Tha'—tha'
hasn't got a crooked back?" he said hoarsely.
"No!"
shouted Colin.
"Tha'—tha'
hasn't got crooked legs?" quavered Ben more hoarsely yet. It was too much.
The strength which Colin usually threw into his tantrums rushed through him now
in a new way. Never yet had he been accused of crooked legs—even in
whispers—and the perfectly simple belief in their existence which was revealed
by Ben Weatherstaff's voice was more than Rajah flesh and blood could endure.
His anger and insulted pride made him forget everything but this one moment and
filled him with a power he had never known before, an almost unnatural
strength.
"Come
here!" he shouted to Dickon, and he actually began to tear the coverings
off his lower limbs and disentangle himself. "Come here! Come here! This
minute!"
Dickon was
by his side in a second. Mary caught her breath in a short gasp and felt
herself turn pale.
"He
can do it! He can do it! He can do it! He can!" she gabbled over to
herself under her breath as fast as ever she could.
There was
a brief fierce scramble, the rugs were tossed on the ground, Dickon held
Colin's arm, the thin legs were out, the thin feet were on the grass. Colin was
standing upright—upright—as straight as an arrow and looking strangely tall—his
head thrown back and his strange eyes flashing lightning. "Look at
me!" he flung up at Ben Weatherstaff. "Just look at me—you! Just look
at me!"
"He's
as straight as I am!" cried Dickon. "He's as straight as any lad i' Yorkshire !"
What Ben
Weatherstaff did Mary thought queer beyond measure. He choked and gulped and
suddenly tears ran down his weather-wrinkled cheeks as he struck his old hands
together.
"Eh!"
he burst forth, "th' lies folk tells! Tha'rt as thin as a lath an' as
white as a wraith, but there's not a knob on thee. Tha'lt make a mon yet. God
bless thee!"
Dickon
held Colin's arm strongly but the boy had not begun to falter. He stood
straighter and straighter and looked Ben Weatherstaff in the face.
"I'm
your master," he said, "when my father is away. And you are to obey
me. This is my garden. Don't dare to say a word about it! You get down from
that ladder and go out to the Long Walk and Miss Mary will meet you and bring
you here. I want to talk to you. We did not want you, but now you will have to
be in the secret. Be quick!"
Ben
Weatherstaff's crabbed old face was still wet with that one queer rush of
tears. It seemed as if he could not take his eyes from thin straight Colin
standing on his feet with his head thrown back.
"Eh!
lad," he almost whispered. "Eh! my lad!" And then remembering
himself he suddenly touched his hat gardener fashion and said, "Yes, sir!
Yes, sir!" and obediently disappeared as he descended the ladder.
CHAPTER XXII
WHEN THE
SUN WENT DOWN
When his
head was out of sight Colin turned to Mary.
"Go
and meet him," he said; and Mary flew across the grass to the door under
the ivy.
Dickon was
watching him with sharp eyes. There were scarlet spots on his cheeks and he
looked amazing, but he showed no signs of falling.
"I
can stand," he said, and his head was still held up and he said it quite
grandly.
"I
told thee tha' could as soon as tha' stopped bein' afraid," answered
Dickon. "An' tha's stopped."
"Yes,
I've stopped," said Colin.
Then
suddenly he remembered something Mary had said.
"Are
you making Magic?" he asked sharply.
Dickon's
curly mouth spread in a cheerful grin.
"Tha's
doin' Magic thysel'," he said. "It's same Magic as made these 'ere
work out o' th' earth," and he touched with his thick boot a clump of
crocuses in the grass. Colin looked down at them.
"Aye,"
he said slowly, "there couldna' be bigger Magic than that there—there
couldna' be."
He drew
himself up straighter than ever.
"I'm
going to walk to that tree," he said, pointing to one a few feet away from
him. "I'm going to be standing when Weatherstaff comes here. I can rest
against the tree if I like. When I want to sit down I will sit down, but not
before. Bring a rug from the chair."
He walked
to the tree and though Dickon held his arm he was wonderfully steady. When he
stood against the tree trunk it was not too plain that he supported himself
against it, and he still held himself so straight that he looked tall.
When Ben
Weatherstaff came through the door in the wall he saw him standing there and he
heard Mary muttering something under her breath.
"What
art sayin'?" he asked rather testily because he did not want his attention
distracted from the long thin straight boy figure and proud face.
But she
did not tell him. What she was saying was this:
"You
can do it! You can do it! I told you you could! You can do it! You can do it!
You can!" She was saying it to Colin because she wanted to make Magic and
keep him on his feet looking like that. She could not bear that he should give
in before Ben Weatherstaff. He did not give in. She was uplifted by a sudden
feeling that he looked quite beautiful in spite of his thinness. He fixed his
eyes on Ben Weatherstaff in his funny imperious way.
"Look
at me!" he commanded. "Look at me all over! Am I a hunchback? Have I
got crooked legs?"
Ben
Weatherstaff had not quite got over his emotion, but he had recovered a little
and answered almost in his usual way.
"Not
tha'," he said. "Nowt o' th' sort. What's tha' been doin' with
thysel'—hidin' out o' sight an' lettin' folk think tha' was cripple an'
half-witted?"
"Half-witted!"
said Colin angrily. "Who thought that?"
"Lots
o' fools," said Ben. "Th' world's full o' jackasses brayin' an' they
never bray nowt but lies. What did tha' shut thysel' up for?"
"Everyone
thought I was going to die," said Colin shortly. "I'm not!"
And he
said it with such decision Ben Weatherstaff looked him over, up and down, down
and up.
"Tha'
die!" he said with dry exultation. "Nowt o' th' sort! Tha's got too
much pluck in thee. When I seed thee put tha' legs on th' ground in such a
hurry I knowed tha' was all right. Sit thee down on th' rug a bit young Mester
an' give me thy orders."
There was
a queer mixture of crabbed tenderness and shrewd understanding in his manner.
Mary had poured out speech as rapidly as she could as they had come down the
Long Walk. The chief thing to be remembered, she had told him, was that Colin
was getting well—getting well. The garden was doing it. No one must let him
remember about having humps and dying.
The Rajah
condescended to seat himself on a rug under the tree.
"What
work do you do in the gardens, Weatherstaff?" he inquired.
"Anythin'
I'm told to do," answered old Ben. "I'm kep' on by favor—because she
liked me."
"She?"
said Colin.
"Tha'
mother," answered Ben Weatherstaff.
"My
mother?" said Colin, and he looked about him quietly. "This was her
garden, wasn't it?"
"Aye,
it was that!" and Ben Weatherstaff looked about him too. "She were
main fond of it."
"It
is my garden now. I am fond of it. I shall come here every day," announced
Colin. "But it is to be a secret. My orders are that no one is to know
that we come here. Dickon and my cousin have worked and made it come alive. I
shall send for you sometimes to help—but you must come when no one can see
you."
Ben
Weatherstaff's face twisted itself in a dry old smile.
"I've
come here before when no one saw me," he said.
"What!"
exclaimed Colin.
"When?"
"Th'
last time I was here," rubbing his chin and looking round, "was about
two year' ago."
"But
no one has been in it for ten years!" cried Colin.
"There
was no door!"
"I'm
no one," said old Ben dryly. "An' I didn't come through th' door. I
come over th' wall. Th' rheumatics held me back th' last two year'."
"Tha'
come an' did a bit o' prunin'!" cried Dickon. "I couldn't make out
how it had been done."
"She
was so fond of it—she was!" said Ben Weatherstaff slowly. "An' she
was such a pretty young thing. She says to me once, 'Ben,' says she laughin',
'if ever I'm ill or if I go away you must take care of my roses.' When she did
go away th' orders was no one was ever to come nigh. But I come," with
grumpy obstinacy. "Over th' wall I come—until th' rheumatics stopped
me—an' I did a bit o' work once a year. She'd gave her order first."
"It
wouldn't have been as wick as it is if tha' hadn't done it," said Dickon.
"I did wonder."
"I'm
glad you did it, Weatherstaff," said Colin. "You'll know how to keep
the secret."
"Aye,
I'll know, sir," answered Ben. "An' it'll be easier for a man wi'
rheumatics to come in at th' door."
On the
grass near the tree Mary had dropped her trowel. Colin stretched out his hand
and took it up. An odd expression came into his face and he began to scratch at
the earth. His thin hand was weak enough but presently as they watched him—Mary
with quite breathless interest—he drove the end of the trowel into the soil and
turned some over.
"You
can do it! You can do it!" said Mary to herself. "I tell you, you
can!"
Dickon's
round eyes were full of eager curiousness but he said not a word. Ben
Weatherstaff looked on with interested face.
Colin
persevered. After he had turned a few trowelfuls of soil he spoke exultantly to
Dickon in his best Yorkshire .
"Tha'
said as tha'd have me walkin' about here same as other folk—an' tha' said tha'd
have me diggin'. I thowt tha' was just leein' to please me. This is only th'
first day an' I've walked—an' here I am diggin'."
Ben
Weatherstaff's mouth fell open again when he heard him, but he ended by
chuckling.
"Eh!"
he said, "that sounds as if tha'd got wits enow. Tha'rt a Yorkshire lad for sure. An' tha'rt diggin', too. How'd
tha' like to plant a bit o' somethin'? I can get thee a rose in a pot."
"Go
and get it!" said Colin, digging excitedly. "Quick! Quick!"
It was
done quickly enough indeed. Ben Weatherstaff went his way forgetting
rheumatics. Dickon took his spade and dug the hole deeper and wider than a new
digger with thin white hands could make it. Mary slipped out to run and bring
back a watering-can. When Dickon had deepened the hole Colin went on turning
the soft earth over and over. He looked up at the sky, flushed and glowing with
the strangely new exercise, slight as it was.
"I
want to do it before the sun goes quite—quite down," he said.
Mary
thought that perhaps the sun held back a few minutes just on purpose. Ben
Weatherstaff brought the rose in its pot from the greenhouse. He hobbled over
the grass as fast as he could. He had begun to be excited, too. He knelt down
by the hole and broke the pot from the mould.
"Here,
lad," he said, handing the plant to Colin. "Set it in the earth
thysel' same as th' king does when he goes to a new place."
The thin
white hands shook a little and Colin's flush grew deeper as he set the rose in
the mould and held it while old Ben made firm the earth. It was filled in and
pressed down and made steady. Mary was leaning forward on her hands and knees.
Soot had flown down and marched forward to see what was being done. Nut and
Shell chattered about it from a cherry-tree.
"It's
planted!" said Colin at last. "And the sun is only slipping over the
edge. Help me up, Dickon. I want to be standing when it goes. That's part of the
Magic."
And Dickon
helped him, and the Magic—or whatever it was—so gave him strength that when the
sun did slip over the edge and end the strange lovely afternoon for them there
he actually stood on his two feet—laughing.
CHAPTER XXIII
MAGIC
Dr. Craven
had been waiting some time at the house when they returned to it. He had indeed
begun to wonder if it might not be wise to send some one out to explore the
garden paths. When Colin was brought back to his room the poor man looked him
over seriously.
"You
should not have stayed so long," he said. "You must not overexert
yourself."
"I am
not tired at all," said Colin. "It has made me well. Tomorrow I am
going out in the morning as well as in the afternoon."
"I am
not sure that I can allow it," answered Dr. Craven. "I am afraid it
would not be wise."
"It
would not be wise to try to stop me," said Colin quite seriously. "I
am going."
Even Mary
had found out that one of Colin's chief peculiarities was that he did not know
in the least what a rude little brute he was with his way of ordering people
about. He had lived on a sort of desert island all his life and as he had been
the king of it he had made his own manners and had had no one to compare
himself with. Mary had indeed been rather like him herself and since she had
been at Misselthwaite had gradually discovered that her own manners had not
been of the kind which is usual or popular. Having made this discovery she
naturally thought it of enough interest to communicate to Colin. So she sat and
looked at him curiously for a few minutes after Dr. Craven had gone. She wanted
to make him ask her why she was doing it and of course she did.
"What
are you looking at me for?" he said.
"I'm
thinking that I am rather sorry for Dr. Craven."
"So
am I," said Colin calmly, but not without an air of some satisfaction.
"He won't get Misselthwaite at all now I'm not going to die."
"I'm
sorry for him because of that, of course," said Mary, "but I was
thinking just then that it must have been very horrid to have had to be polite
for ten years to a boy who was always rude. I would never have done it."
"Am I
rude?" Colin inquired undisturbedly.
"If
you had been his own boy and he had been a slapping sort of man," said
Mary, "he would have slapped you."
"But
he daren't," said Colin.
"No,
he daren't," answered Mistress Mary, thinking the thing out quite without
prejudice. "Nobody ever dared to do anything you didn't like—because you
were going to die and things like that. You were such a poor thing."
"But,"
announced Colin stubbornly, "I am not going to be a poor thing. I won't
let people think I'm one. I stood on my feet this afternoon."
"It
is always having your own way that has made you so queer," Mary went on,
thinking aloud.
Colin
turned his head, frowning.
"Am I
queer?" he demanded.
"Yes,"
answered Mary, "very. But you needn't be cross," she added
impartially, "because so am I queer—and so is Ben Weatherstaff. But I am
not as queer as I was before I began to like people and before I found the
garden."
"I don't
want to be queer," said Colin. "I am not going to be," and he
frowned again with determination.
He was a
very proud boy. He lay thinking for a while and then Mary saw his beautiful
smile begin and gradually change his whole face.
"I
shall stop being queer," he said, "if I go every day to the garden.
There is Magic in there—good Magic, you know, Mary. I am sure there is."
"So am I," said Mary.
"Even
if it isn't real Magic," Colin said, "we can pretend it is. Something
is there—something!"
"It's
Magic," said Mary, "but not black. It's as white as snow."
They
always called it Magic and indeed it seemed like it in the months that
followed—the wonderful months—the radiant months—the amazing ones. Oh! the
things which happened in that garden! If you have never had a garden you cannot
understand, and if you have had a garden you will know that it would take a
whole book to describe all that came to pass there. At first it seemed that
green things would never cease pushing their way through the earth, in the
grass, in the beds, even in the crevices of the walls. Then the green things
began to show buds and the buds began to unfurl and show color, every shade of
blue, every shade of purple, every tint and hue of crimson. In its happy days
flowers had been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner. Ben
Weatherstaff had seen it done and had himself scraped out mortar from between
the bricks of the wall and made pockets of earth for lovely clinging things to
grow on. Iris and white lilies rose out of the grass in sheaves, and the green
alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and white flower
lances of tall delphiniums or columbines or campanulas.
"She
was main fond o' them—she was," Ben Weatherstaff said. "She liked
them things as was allus pointin' up to th' blue sky, she used to tell. Not as
she was one o' them as looked down on th' earth—not her. She just loved it but
she said as th' blue sky allus looked so joyful."
The seeds
Dickon and Mary had planted grew as if fairies had tended them. Satiny poppies
of all tints danced in the breeze by the score, gaily defying flowers which had
lived in the garden for years and which it might be confessed seemed rather to
wonder how such new people had got there. And the roses—the roses! Rising out of
the grass, tangled round the sun-dial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging
from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long
garlands falling in cascades—they came alive day by day, hour by hour. Fair
fresh leaves, and buds—and buds—tiny at first but swelling and working Magic
until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves
over their brims and filling the garden air.
Colin saw
it all, watching each change as it took place. Every morning he was brought out
and every hour of each day when it didn't rain he spent in the garden. Even
gray days pleased him. He would lie on the grass "watching things
growing," he said. If you watched long enough, he declared, you could see
buds unsheath themselves. Also you could make the acquaintance of strange busy
insect things running about on various unknown but evidently serious errands,
sometimes carrying tiny scraps of straw or feather or food, or climbing blades
of grass as if they were trees from whose tops one could look out to explore
the country. A mole throwing up its mound at the end of its burrow and making
its way out at last with the long-nailed paws which looked so like elfish
hands, had absorbed him one whole morning. Ants' ways, beetles' ways, bees'
ways, frogs' ways, birds' ways, plants' ways, gave him a new world to explore
and when Dickon revealed them all and added foxes' ways, otters' ways, ferrets'
ways, squirrels' ways, and trout' and water-rats' and badgers' ways, there was
no end to the things to talk about and think over.
And this
was not the half of the Magic. The fact that he had really once stood on his
feet had set Colin thinking tremendously and when Mary told him of the spell
she had worked he was excited and approved of it greatly. He talked of it
constantly.
"Of
course there must be lots of Magic in the world," he said wisely one day,
"but people don't know what it is like or how to make it. Perhaps the
beginning is just to say nice things are going to happen until you make them happen.
I am going to try and experiment."
The next
morning when they went to the secret garden he sent at once for Ben
Weatherstaff. Ben came as quickly as he could and found the Rajah standing on
his feet under a tree and looking very grand but also very beautifully smiling.
"Good
morning, Ben Weatherstaff," he said. "I want you and Dickon and Miss
Mary to stand in a row and listen to me because I am going to tell you
something very important."
"Aye,
aye, sir!" answered Ben Weatherstaff, touching his forehead. (One of the
long concealed charms of Ben Weatherstaff was that in his boyhood he had once
run away to sea and had made voyages. So he could reply like a sailor.)
"I am
going to try a scientific experiment," explained the Rajah. "When I
grow up I am going to make great scientific discoveries and I am going to begin
now with this experiment."
"Aye,
aye, sir!" said Ben Weatherstaff promptly, though this was the first time
he had heard of great scientific discoveries.
It was the
first time Mary had heard of them, either, but even at this stage she had begun
to realize that, queer as he was, Colin had read about a great many singular
things and was somehow a very convincing sort of boy. When he held up his head
and fixed his strange eyes on you it seemed as if you believed him almost in
spite of yourself though he was only ten years old—going on eleven. At this
moment he was especially convincing because he suddenly felt the fascination of
actually making a sort of speech like a grown-up person.
"The
great scientific discoveries I am going to make," he went on, "will
be about Magic. Magic is a great thing and scarcely any one knows anything
about it except a few people in old books—and Mary a little, because she was
born in India
This
sounded so imposing that Ben Weatherstaff became quite excited and really could
not keep still. "Aye, aye, sir," he said and he began to stand up
quite straight.
"When
Mary found this garden it looked quite dead," the orator proceeded.
"Then something began pushing things up out of the soil and making things
out of nothing. One day things weren't there and another they were. I had never
watched things before and it made me feel very curious. Scientific people are
always curious and I am going to be scientific. I keep saying to myself, 'What
is it? What is it?' It's something. It can't be nothing! I don't know its name
so I call it Magic. I have never seen the sun rise but Mary and Dickon have and
from what they tell me I am sure that is Magic too. Something pushes it up and
draws it. Sometimes since I've been in the garden I've looked up through the
trees at the sky and I have had a strange feeling of being happy as if
something were pushing and drawing in my chest and making me breathe fast.
Magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing.
Everything is made out of Magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers
and foxes and squirrels and people. So it must be all around us. In this
garden—in all the places. The Magic in this garden has made me stand up and
know I am going to live to be a man. I am going to make the scientific experiment
of trying to get some and put it in myself and make it push and draw me and
make me strong. I don't know how to do it but I think that if you keep thinking
about it and calling it perhaps it will come. Perhaps that is the first baby
way to get it. When I was going to try to stand that first time Mary kept
saying to herself as fast as she could, 'You can do it! You can do it!' and I
did. I had to try myself at the same time, of course, but her Magic helped
me—and so did Dickon's. Every morning and evening and as often in the daytime
as I can remember I am going to say, 'Magic is in me! Magic is making me well!
I am going to be as strong as Dickon, as strong as Dickon!' And you must all do
it, too. That is my experiment Will you help, Ben Weatherstaff?"
"Aye,
aye, sir!" said Ben Weatherstaff. "Aye, aye!"
"If
you keep doing it every day as regularly as soldiers go through drill we shall
see what will happen and find out if the experiment succeeds. You learn things
by saying them over and over and thinking about them until they stay in your
mind forever and I think it will be the same with Magic. If you keep calling it
to come to you and help you it will get to be part of you and it will stay and
do things." "I once heard an officer in India
"I've
heard Jem Fettleworth's wife say th' same thing over thousands o' times—callin'
Jem a drunken brute," said Ben Weatherstaff dryly. "Summat allus come
o' that, sure enough. He gave her a good hidin' an' went to th' Blue Lion an'
got as drunk as a lord."
Colin drew
his brows together and thought a few minutes. Then he cheered up.
"Well,"
he said, "you see something did come of it. She used the wrong Magic until
she made him beat her. If she'd used the right Magic and had said something
nice perhaps he wouldn't have got as drunk as a lord and perhaps—perhaps he
might have bought her a new bonnet."
Ben
Weatherstaff chuckled and there was shrewd admiration in his little old eyes.
"Tha'rt
a clever lad as well as a straight-legged one, Mester Colin," he said.
"Next time I see Bess Fettleworth I'll give her a bit of a hint o' what
Magic will do for her. She'd be rare an' pleased if th' sinetifik 'speriment
worked—an' so 'ud Jem."
Dickon had
stood listening to the lecture, his round eyes shining with curious delight.
Nut and Shell were on his shoulders and he held a long-eared white rabbit in
his arm and stroked and stroked it softly while it laid its ears along its back
and enjoyed itself.
"Do
you think the experiment will work?" Colin asked him, wondering what he
was thinking. He so often wondered what Dickon was thinking when he saw him
looking at him or at one of his "creatures" with his happy wide
smile.
He smiled
now and his smile was wider than usual.
"Aye,"
he answered, "that I do. It'll work same as th' seeds do when th' sun
shines on 'em. It'll work for sure. Shall us begin it now?"
Colin was
delighted and so was Mary. Fired by recollections of fakirs and devotees in
illustrations Colin suggested that they should all sit cross-legged under the
tree which made a canopy.
"It
will be like sitting in a sort of temple," said Colin. "I'm rather
tired and I want to sit down."
"Eh!"
said Dickon, "tha' mustn't begin by sayin' tha'rt tired. Tha' might spoil
th' Magic."
Colin
turned and looked at him—into his innocent round eyes.
"That's
true," he said slowly. "I must only think of the Magic." It all
seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben
Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a
prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called
"agen' prayer-meetin's" but this being the Rajah's affair he did not
resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to
assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his
arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat
down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb
slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of
rest as if of their own desire.
"The
'creatures' have come," said Colin gravely. "They want to help
us."
Colin
really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high as if he
felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them.
The light shone on him through the tree canopy.
"Now
we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary,
as if we were dervishes?"
"I
canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff.
"I've got th' rheumatics."
"The
Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we
won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant."
"I
canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They
turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it."
No one
smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by
a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic.
"Then
I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit.
"The sun is shining—the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are
growing—the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the
Magic—being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me—the Magic is in me. It is
in me—it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back.
Magic! Magic! Come and help!"
He said it
a great many times—not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary
listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she
wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort
of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms
mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat
cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's
back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder,
the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped.
"Now
I am going to walk round the garden," he announced.
Ben
Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk.
"You
have been asleep," said Colin.
"Nowt
o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow—but I'm bound to
get out afore th' collection."
He was not
quite awake yet.
"You're
not in church," said Colin.
"Not
me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every
bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it
rheumatics."
The Rajah
waved his hand.
"That
was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my
permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow."
"I'd
like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben.
It was not
an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party
and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were
sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be
ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling.
The Rajah
did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did
look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary
on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures"
trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white
rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the
solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge.
It was a
procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to
rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp
lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few
steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand.
"The
Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I
can feel it! I can feel it!"
It seemed
very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the
seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several
times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up
until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his
cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant.
"I
did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific
discovery.".
"What
will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary.
"He
won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told.
This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it
until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall
come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have
people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it
until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to
Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his study and say 'Here I am; I am like
any other boy. I am quite well and I shall live to be a man. It has been done
by a scientific experiment.'"
"He
will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won't believe his
eyes."
Colin
flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get
well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it.
And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining
what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as
straight and strong as other fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in the
unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed
boy whose father was afraid to look at him.
"He'll
be obliged to believe them," he said.
"One
of the things I am going to do, after the Magic works and before I begin to
make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete."
"We
shall have thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff.
"Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an' bein' champion prize-fighter of all England
Colin
fixed his eyes on him sternly.
"Weatherstaff,"
he said, "that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties because you
are in the secret. However much the Magic works I shall not be a prize-fighter.
I shall be a Scientific Discoverer."
"Ax
pardon—ax pardon, sir" answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute.
"I ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin' matter," but his eyes
twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being
snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit.
CHAPTER XXIV
"LET
THEM LAUGH"
The secret
garden was not the only one Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on the moor
there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in
the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colin and Mary
did not see him, Dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages,
turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother. In the company of his
"creatures" he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them,
it seemed. While he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of Yorkshire
moor songs or talked to Soot or Captain or the brothers and sisters he had
taught to help him.
"We'd
never get on as comfortable as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it
wasn't for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow for him. His 'taters and cabbages
is twice th' size of any one else's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as
nobody's has."
When she
found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him. After supper there
was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time. She
could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day. She
loved this time. There were not only vegetables in this garden. Dickon had
bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright
sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew
borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could
save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time
into fine clumps. The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and
ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here
and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen.
"All
a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mother," he would say, "is to
be friends with 'em for sure. They're just like th' 'creatures.' If they're
thirsty give 'em drink and if they're hungry give 'em a bit o' food. They want
to live same as we do. If they died I should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and
somehow treated them heartless."
It was in
these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of all that happened at
Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was only told that "Mester Colin"
had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with Miss Mary and that it was
doing him good. But it was not long before it was agreed between the two
children that Dickon's mother might "come into the secret." Somehow
it was not doubted that she was "safe for sure."
So one
beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling
details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like
deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned never to reveal. The coming
of Dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of Mester Colin and the
final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the
incident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering over the wall and Mester
Colin's sudden indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite
change color several times.
"My
word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th'
Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet!
An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in
him."
She asked
a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking.
"What
do they make of it at th' Manor—him being so well an' cheerful an' never
complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of
it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks
different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy color is
goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a highly entertained
grin.
"What
for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby.
Dickon
chuckled.
"He
does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd
found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and tell Mester Craven.
Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself. He's goin' to practise his
Magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an' then he's goin' to
march into his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads. But him an'
Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an'
then to throw folk off th' scent."
Mrs.
Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his
last sentence.
"Eh!"
she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a
good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children likes as much as play
actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and
sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun.
"Mester
Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he explained.
"An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin' him careful
enough. He makes himself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his head
until we're out o' sight o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a good bit when
he's bein' settled into his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it
an' when he groans an' complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does it hurt you so
much? Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?'—but th' trouble is that sometimes
they can scarce keep from burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe into the
garden they laugh till they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they have to
stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners from
hearin', if any of, 'em's about."
"Th'
more they laugh th' better for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing
herself. "Good healthy child laughin's better than pills any day o' th'
year. That pair'll plump up for sure."
"They
are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungry they don't know
how to get enough to eat without makin' talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps
sendin' for more food they won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says
she'll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she'll get
thin an' they mun both get fat at once."
Mrs.
Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite
rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her.
"I'll
tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when she could speak. "I've
thought of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shall
take a pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em a crusty cottage loaf or some
buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like. Nothin's so good as fresh
milk an' bread. Then they could take off th' edge o' their hunger while they
were in their garden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polish off th'
corners."
"Eh!
mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always
sees a way out o' things. They was quite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see
how they was to manage without orderin' up more food—they felt that empty
inside."
"They're
two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin' back to both of 'em. Children
like that feels like young wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," said
Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but they're
enjoyin' theirselves for sure," she said.
She was
quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature—and she had never been
more so than when she said their "play actin'" would be their joy.
Colin and Mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment.
The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously
suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself.
"Your
appetite. Is improving very much, Master Colin," the nurse had said one
day. "You used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with
you."
"Nothing
disagrees with me now" replied Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at
him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too
well just yet. "At least things don't so often disagree with me. It's the
fresh air."
"Perhaps
it is," said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression.
"But I must talk to Dr. Craven about it."
"How
she stared at you!" said Mary when she went away. "As if she thought
there must be something to find out."
"I
won't have her finding out things," said Colin. "No one must begin to
find out yet." When Dr. Craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also.
He asked a number of questions, to Colin's great annoyance.
"You
stay out in the garden a great deal," he suggested. "Where do you
go?"
Colin put
on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion.
"I
will not let any one know where I go," he answered. "I go to a place
I like. Every one has orders to keep out of the way. I won't be watched and
stared at. You know that!"
"You
seem to be out all day but I do not think it has done you harm—I do not think
so. The nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before."
"Perhaps,"
said Colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an unnatural
appetite."
"I do
not think so, as your food seems to agree with you," said Dr. Craven.
"You are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better."
"Perhaps—perhaps
I am bloated and feverish," said Colin, assuming a discouraging air of
gloom. "People who are not going to live are often—different." Dr.
Craven shook his head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed up his sleeve
and felt his arm.
"You
are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you have
gained is healthy. If you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying.
Your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement."
"I
won't have him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. "It will only
disappoint him if I get worse again—and I may get worse this very night. I
might have a raging fever. I feel as if I might be beginning to have one now. I
won't have letters written to my father—I won't—I won't! You are making me
angry and you know that is bad for me. I feel hot already. I hate being written
about and being talked over as much as I hate being stared at!"
"Hush-h!
my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shall be written without
your permission. You are too sensitive about things. You must not undo the good
which has been done."
He said no
more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned
her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient.
"The
boy is extraordinarily better," he said. "His advance seems almost
abnormal. But of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not
make him do before. Still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be
said to irritate him." Mary and Colin were much alarmed and talked
together anxiously. From this time dated their plan of "play actin'."
"I
may be obliged to have a tantrum," said Colin regretfully. "I don't
want to have one and I'm not miserable enough now to work myself into a big
one. Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat
now and I keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones. But if they
talk about writing to my father I shall have to do something."
He made up
his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this
brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the
table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh
butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary always
breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table—particularly
if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from
under a hot silver cover—they would look into each other's eyes in desperation.
"I
think we shall have to eat it all this morning, Mary," Colin always ended
by saying. "We can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the
dinner."
But they
never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of
the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment.
"I do
wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slices of ham were
thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for any one."
"It's
enough for a person who is going to die," answered Mary when first she
heard this, "but it's not enough for a person who is going to live. I
sometimes feel as if I could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse
smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window."
The
morning that Dickon—after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for
about two hours—went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and
revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and
that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white
napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot
of surprised joyfulness. What a wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What
a kind, clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! And what delicious
fresh milk!
"Magic
is in her just as it is in Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think
of ways to do things—nice things. She is a Magic person. Tell her we are
grateful, Dickon—extremely grateful." He was given to using rather
grown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked this so much that he
improved upon it.
"Tell
her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme."
And then
forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk
out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who
had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose
breakfast was more than two hours behind him.
This was the
beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind. They actually awoke to
the fact that as Mrs. Sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might
not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So they asked her to
let them send some of their shillings to buy things.
Dickon
made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden
where Mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep
little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast
potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very
hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland
king—besides being deliciously satisfying. You could buy both potatoes and eggs
and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of
the mouths of fourteen people.
Every
beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree
which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time
was ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walking exercise and
throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals. Each day he
grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground. And each day
his belief in the Magic grew stronger—as well it might. He tried one experiment
after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickon who showed
him the best things of all.
"Yesterday,"
he said one morning after an absence, "I went to Thwaite for mother an'
near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor.
He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than any other chap an' throw
th' hammer farther. He's gone all th' way to Scotland
Colin had
been listening excitedly.
"Can
you show me?" he cried. "Will you?"
"Aye,
to be sure," Dickon answered, getting up. "But he says tha' mun do
'em gentle at first an' be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times
an' take deep breaths an' don't overdo."
"I'll
be careful," said Colin. "Show me! Show me! Dickon, you are the most
Magic boy in the world!"
Dickon
stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple
series of muscle exercises. Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do
a few while he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gently while he stood
upon his already steadied feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot, who was
watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped
about restlessly because he could not do them too.
From that
time the exercises were part of the day's duties as much as the Magic was. It
became possible for both Colin and Mary to do more of them each time they
tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket Dickon put
down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost.
But the little oven in the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so
satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified
again. You can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if
you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new
milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream.
"They
are eating next to nothing," said the nurse. "They'll die of
starvation if they can't be persuaded to take some nourishment. And yet see how
they look."
"Look!"
exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death with them.
They're a pair of young Satans. Bursting their jackets one day and the next
turning up their noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with. Not a
mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into
yesterday—and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them—and back it's
sent. She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if they starve themselves
into their graves."
Dr. Craven
came and looked at Colin long and carefully, He wore an extremely worried
expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched
tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at—but it was even more worried
when he sat down by Colin's sofa and examined him. He had been called to London
"I am
sorry to hear that you do not eat anything," he said. "That will not
do. You will lose all you have gained—and you have gained amazingly. You ate so
well a short time ago."
"I
told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin.
Mary was
sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she
tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking.
"What
is the matter?" said Dr. Craven, turning to look at her.
Mary
became quite severe in her manner.
"It
was something between a sneeze and a cough," she replied with reproachful
dignity, "and it got into my throat."
"But,"
she said afterward to Colin, "I couldn't stop myself. It just burst out
because all at once I couldn't help remembering that last big potato you ate
and the way your mouth stretched when you bit through that thick lovely crust
with jam and clotted cream on it."
"Is
there any way in which those children can get food secretly?" Dr. Craven
inquired of Mrs. Medlock.
"There's
no way unless they dig it out of the earth or pick it off the trees," Mrs.
Medlock answered. "They stay out in the grounds all day and see no one but
each other. And if they want anything different to eat from what's sent up to
them they need only ask for it."
"Well,"
said Dr. Craven, "so long as going without food agrees with them we need
not disturb ourselves. The boy is a new creature."
"So
is the girl," said Mrs. Medlock. "She's begun to be downright pretty
since she's filled out and lost her ugly little sour look. Her hair's grown
thick and healthy looking and she's got a bright color. The glummest,
ill-natured little thing she used to be and now her and Master Colin laugh
together like a pair of crazy young ones. Perhaps they're growing fat on
that."
"Perhaps
they are," said Dr. Craven. "Let them laugh."
CHAPTER XXV
THE
CURTAIN
And the
secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles. In
the robin's nest there were Eggs and the robin's mate sat upon them keeping
them warm with her feathery little breast and careful wings. At first she was
very nervous and the robin himself was indignantly watchful. Even Dickon did
not go near the close-grown corner in those days, but waited until by the quiet
working of some mysterious spell he seemed to have conveyed to the soul of the
little pair that in the garden there was nothing which was not quite like themselves—nothing
which did not understand the wonderfulness of what was happening to them—the
immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty and solemnity of Eggs. If
there had been one person in that garden who had not known through all his or
her innermost being that if an Egg were taken away or hurt the whole world
would whirl round and crash through space and come to an end—if there had been
even one who did not feel it and act accordingly there could have been no
happiness even in that golden springtime air. But they all knew it and felt it
and the robin and his mate knew they knew it.
At first
the robin watched Mary and Colin with sharp anxiety. For some mysterious reason
he knew he need not watch Dickon. The first moment he set his dew-bright black eye
on Dickon he knew he was not a stranger but a sort of robin without beak or
feathers. He could speak robin (which is a quite distinct language not to be
mistaken for any other). To speak robin to a robin is like speaking French to a
Frenchman. Dickon always spoke it to the robin himself, so the queer gibberish
he used when he spoke to humans did not matter in the least. The robin thought
he spoke this gibberish to them because they were not intelligent enough to
understand feathered speech. His movements also were robin. They never startled
one by being sudden enough to seem dangerous or threatening. Any robin could
understand Dickon, so his presence was not even disturbing.
But at the
outset it seemed necessary to be on guard against the other two. In the first
place the boy creature did not come into the garden on his legs. He was pushed
in on a thing with wheels and the skins of wild animals were thrown over him.
That in itself was doubtful. Then when he began to stand up and move about he
did it in a queer unaccustomed way and the others seemed to have to help him.
The robin used to secrete himself in a bush and watch this anxiously, his head
tilted first on one side and then on the other. He thought that the slow
movements might mean that he was preparing to pounce, as cats do. When cats are
preparing to pounce they creep over the ground very slowly. The robin talked
this over with his mate a great deal for a few days but after that he decided
not to speak of the subject because her terror was so great that he was afraid
it might be injurious to the Eggs.
When the
boy began to walk by himself and even to move more quickly it was an immense
relief. But for a long time—or it seemed a long time to the robin—he was a
source of some anxiety. He did not act as the other humans did. He seemed very
fond of walking but he had a way of sitting or lying down for a while and then
getting up in a disconcerting manner to begin again.
One day
the robin remembered that when he himself had been made to learn to fly by his
parents he had done much the same sort of thing. He had taken short flights of
a few yards and then had been obliged to rest. So it occurred to him that this
boy was learning to fly—or rather to walk. He mentioned this to his mate and
when he told her that the Eggs would probably conduct themselves in the same
way after they were fledged she was quite comforted and even became eagerly
interested and derived great pleasure from watching the boy over the edge of
her nest—though she always thought that the Eggs would be much cleverer and
learn more quickly. But then she said indulgently that humans were always more
clumsy and slow than Eggs and most of them never seemed really to learn to fly
at all. You never met them in the air or on tree-tops.
After a while
the boy began to move about as the others did, but all three of the children at
times did unusual things. They would stand under the trees and move their arms
and legs and heads about in a way which was neither walking nor running nor
sitting down. They went through these movements at intervals every day and the
robin was never able to explain to his mate what they were doing or tying to
do. He could only say that he was sure that the Eggs would never flap about in
such a manner; but as the boy who could speak robin so fluently was doing the
thing with them, birds could be quite sure that the actions were not of a
dangerous nature. Of course neither the robin nor his mate had ever heard of
the champion wrestler, Bob Haworth, and his exercises for making the muscles
stand out like lumps. Robins are not like human beings; their muscles are
always exercised from the first and so they develop themselves in a natural
manner. If you have to fly about to find every meal you eat, your muscles do
not become atrophied (atrophied means wasted away through want of use).
When the
boy was walking and running about and digging and weeding like the others, the
nest in the corner was brooded over by a great peace and content. Fears for the
Eggs became things of the past. Knowing that your Eggs were as safe as if they
were locked in a bank vault and the fact that you could watch so many curious
things going on made setting a most entertaining occupation. On wet days the
Eggs' mother sometimes felt even a little dull because the children did not
come into the garden.
But even
on wet days it could not be said that Mary and Colin were dull. One morning
when the rain streamed down unceasingly and Colin was beginning to feel a
little restive, as he was obliged to remain on his sofa because it was not safe
to get up and walk about, Mary had an inspiration.
"Now
that I am a real boy," Colin had said, "my legs and arms and all my
body are so full of Magic that I can't keep them still. They want to be doing
things all the time. Do you know that when I waken in the morning, Mary, when
it's quite early and the birds are just shouting outside and everything seems
just shouting for joy—even the trees and things we can't really hear—I feel as
if I must jump out of bed and shout myself. If I did it, just think what would
happen!"
Mary
giggled inordinately.
"The
nurse would come running and Mrs. Medlock would come running and they would be
sure you had gone crazy and they'd send for the doctor," she said.
Colin
giggled himself. He could see how they would all look—how horrified by his
outbreak and how amazed to see him standing upright.
"I
wish my father would come home," he said. "I want to tell him myself.
I'm always thinking about it—but we couldn't go on like this much longer. I can't
stand lying still and pretending, and besides I look too different. I wish it
wasn't raining today."
It was
then Mistress Mary had her inspiration.
"Colin,"
she began mysteriously, "do you know how many rooms there are in this
house?"
"About
a thousand, I suppose," he answered.
"There's
about a hundred no one ever goes into," said Mary. "And one rainy day
I went and looked into ever so many of them. No one ever knew, though Mrs.
Medlock nearly found me out. I lost my way when I was coming back and I stopped
at the end of your corridor. That was the second time I heard you crying."
Colin
started up on his sofa.
"A
hundred rooms no one goes into," he said. "It sounds almost like a
secret garden. Suppose we go and look at them. Wheel me in my chair and nobody
would know we went."
"That's
what I was thinking," said Mary. "No one would dare to follow us.
There are galleries where you could run. We could do our exercises. There is a
little Indian room where there is a cabinet full of ivory elephants. There are
all sorts of rooms."
"Ring
the bell," said Colin.
When the
nurse came in he gave his orders.
"I
want my chair," he said. "Miss Mary and I are going to look at the
part of the house which is not used. John can push me as far as the picture-gallery
because there are some stairs. Then he must go away and leave us alone until I
send for him again."
Rainy days
lost their terrors that morning. When the footman had wheeled the chair into
the picture-gallery and left the two together in obedience to orders, Colin and
Mary looked at each other delighted. As soon as Mary had made sure that John
was really on his way back to his own quarters below stairs, Colin got out of
his chair.
"I am
going to run from one end of the gallery to the other," he said, "and
then I am going to jump and then we will do Bob Haworth's exercises."
And they
did all these things and many others. They looked at the portraits and found
the plain little girl dressed in green brocade and holding the parrot on her
finger.
"All
these," said Colin, "must be my relations. They lived a long time
ago. That parrot one, I believe, is one of my great, great, great, great aunts.
She looks rather like you, Mary—not as you look now but as you looked when you
came here. Now you are a great deal fatter and better looking."
"So
are you," said Mary, and they both laughed.
They went
to the Indian room and amused themselves with the ivory elephants. They found
the rose-colored brocade boudoir and the hole in the cushion the mouse had left,
but the mice had grown up and run away and the hole was empty. They saw more
rooms and made more discoveries than Mary had made on her first pilgrimage.
They found new corridors and corners and flights of steps and new old pictures
they liked and weird old things they did not know the use of. It was a
curiously entertaining morning and the feeling of wandering about in the same
house with other people but at the same time feeling as if one were miles away
from them was a fascinating thing.
"I'm
glad we came," Colin said. "I never knew I lived in such a big queer
old place. I like it. We will ramble about every rainy day. We shall always be
finding new queer corners and things."
That
morning they had found among other things such good appetites that when they
returned to Colin's room it was not possible to send the luncheon away
untouched.
When the
nurse carried the tray down-stairs she slapped it down on the kitchen dresser
so that Mrs. Loomis, the cook, could see the highly polished dishes and plates.
"Look
at that!" she said. "This is a house of mystery, and those two
children are the greatest mysteries in it."
"If
they keep that up every day," said the strong young footman John,
"there'd be small wonder that he weighs twice as much to-day as he did a
month ago. I should have to give up my place in time, for fear of doing my
muscles an injury."
That
afternoon Mary noticed that something new had happened in Colin's room. She had
noticed it the day before but had said nothing because she thought the change
might have been made by chance. She said nothing today but she sat and looked
fixedly at the picture over the mantel. She could look at it because the
curtain had been drawn aside. That was the change she noticed.
"I
know what you want me to tell you," said Colin, after she had stared a few
minutes. "I always know when you want me to tell you something. You are
wondering why the curtain is drawn back. I am going to keep it like that."
"Why?"
asked Mary.
"Because
it doesn't make me angry any more to see her laughing. I wakened when it was
bright moonlight two nights ago and felt as if the Magic was filling the room
and making everything so splendid that I couldn't lie still. I got up and
looked out of the window. The room was quite light and there was a patch of
moonlight on the curtain and somehow that made me go and pull the cord. She
looked right down at me as if she were laughing because she was glad I was
standing there. It made me like to look at her. I want to see her laughing like
that all the time. I think she must have been a sort of Magic person
perhaps."
"You
are so like her now," said Mary, "that sometimes I think perhaps you
are her ghost made into a boy."
That idea
seemed to impress Colin. He thought it over and then answered her slowly.
"If I
were her ghost—my father would be fond of me."
"Do
you want him to be fond of you?" inquired Mary.
"I
used to hate it because he was not fond of me. If he grew fond of me I think I
should tell him about the Magic. It might make him more cheerful."
CHAPTER XXVI
"IT'S
MOTHER!"
Their
belief in the Magic was an abiding thing. After the morning's incantations
Colin sometimes gave them Magic lectures.
"I
like to do it," he explained, "because when I grow up and make great scientific
discoveries I shall be obliged to lecture about them and so this is practise. I
can only give short lectures now because I am very young, and besides Ben
Weatherstaff would feel as if he were in church and he would go to sleep."
"Th'
best thing about lecturin'," said Ben, "is that a chap can get up an'
say aught he pleases an' no other chap can answer him back. I wouldn't be agen'
lecturin' a bit mysel' sometimes."
But when
Colin held forth under his tree old Ben fixed devouring eyes on him and kept
them there. He looked him over with critical affection. It was not so much the
lecture which interested him as the legs which looked straighter and stronger
each day, the boyish head which held itself up so well, the once sharp chin and
hollow cheeks which had filled and rounded out and the eyes which had begun to
hold the light he remembered in another pair. Sometimes when Colin felt Ben's
earnest gaze meant that he was much impressed he wondered what he was
reflecting on and once when he had seemed quite entranced he questioned him.
"What
are you thinking about, Ben Weatherstaff?" he asked.
"I
was thinkin'" answered Ben, "as I'd warrant tha's, gone up three or
four pound this week. I was lookin' at tha' calves an' tha' shoulders. I'd like
to get thee on a pair o' scales."
"It's
the Magic and—and Mrs. Sowerby's buns and milk and things," said Colin.
"You see the scientific experiment has succeeded."
That
morning Dickon was too late to hear the lecture. When he came he was ruddy with
running and his funny face looked more twinkling than usual. As they had a good
deal of weeding to do after the rains they fell to work. They always had plenty
to do after a warm deep sinking rain. The moisture which was good for the
flowers was also good for the weeds which thrust up tiny blades of grass and
points of leaves which must be pulled up before their roots took too firm hold.
Colin was as good at weeding as any one in these days and he could lecture
while he was doing it. "The Magic works best when you work, yourself,"
he said this morning. "You can feel it in your bones and muscles. I am
going to read books about bones and muscles, but I am going to write a book
about Magic. I am making it up now. I keep finding out things."
It was not
very long after he had said this that he laid down his trowel and stood up on
his feet. He had been silent for several minutes and they had seen that he was
thinking out lectures, as he often did. When he dropped his trowel and stood
upright it seemed to Mary and Dickon as if a sudden strong thought had made him
do it. He stretched himself out to his tallest height and he threw out his arms
exultantly. Color glowed in his face and his strange eyes widened with
joyfulness. All at once he had realized something to the full.
"Mary!
Dickon!" he cried. "Just look at me!"
They
stopped their weeding and looked at him.
"Do
you remember that first morning you brought me in here?" he demanded.
Dickon was
looking at him very hard. Being an animal charmer he could see more things than
most people could and many of them were things he never talked about. He saw
some of them now in this boy. "Aye, that we do," he answered.
Mary
looked hard too, but she said nothing.
"Just
this minute," said Colin, "all at once I remembered it myself—when I
looked at my hand digging with the trowel—and I had to stand up on my feet to
see if it was real. And it is real! I'm well—I'm well!"
"Aye,
that th' art!" said Dickon.
"I'm
well! I'm well!" said Colin again, and his face went quite red all over.
He had
known it before in a way, he had hoped it and felt it and thought about it, but
just at that minute something had rushed all through him—a sort of rapturous
belief and realization and it had been so strong that he could not help calling
out.
"I
shall live forever and ever and ever!" he cried grandly. "I shall
find out thousands and thousands of things. I shall find out about people and
creatures and everything that grows—like Dickon—and I shall never stop making
Magic. I'm well! I'm well! I feel—I feel as if I want to shout out
something—something thankful, joyful!"
Ben
Weatherstaff, who had been working near a rose-bush, glanced round at him.
"Tha'
might sing th' Doxology," he suggested in his dryest grunt. He had no
opinion of the Doxology and he did not make the suggestion with any particular
reverence.
But Colin
was of an exploring mind and he knew nothing about the Doxology.
"What
is that?" he inquired.
"Dickon
can sing it for thee, I'll warrant," replied Ben Weatherstaff.
Dickon
answered with his all-perceiving animal charmer's smile.
"They
sing it i' church," he said. "Mother says she believes th' skylarks
sings it when they gets up i' th' mornin'."
"If
she says that, it must be a nice song," Colin answered. "I've never
been in a church myself. I was always too ill. Sing it, Dickon. I want to hear
it."
Dickon was
quite simple and unaffected about it. He understood what Colin felt better than
Colin did himself. He understood by a sort of instinct so natural that he did
not know it was understanding. He pulled off his cap and looked round still
smiling.
"Tha'
must take off tha' cap," he said to Colin, "an' so mun tha', Ben—an'
tha' mun stand up, tha' knows."
Colin took
off his cap and the sun shone on and warmed his thick hair as he watched Dickon
intently. Ben Weatherstaff scrambled up from his knees and bared his head too
with a sort of puzzled half-resentful look on his old face as if he didn't know
exactly why he was doing this remarkable thing.
Dickon
stood out among the trees and rose-bushes and began to sing in quite a simple
matter-of-fact way and in a nice strong boy voice:
"Praise
God from whom all blessings flow,
Praise Him all creatures here below,
Praise Him above ye Heavenly Host,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Amen."
Praise Him all creatures here below,
Praise Him above ye Heavenly Host,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Amen."
When he
had finished, Ben Weatherstaff was standing quite still with his jaws set
obstinately but with a disturbed look in his eyes fixed on Colin. Colin's face
was thoughtful and appreciative.
"It
is a very nice song," he said. "I like it. Perhaps it means just what
I mean when I want to shout out that I am thankful to the Magic." He
stopped and thought in a puzzled way. "Perhaps they are both the same
thing. How can we know the exact names of everything? Sing it again, Dickon.
Let us try, Mary. I want to sing it, too. It's my song. How does it begin?
'Praise God from whom all blessings flow'?"
And they
sang it again, and Mary and Colin lifted their voices as musically as they
could and Dickon's swelled quite loud and beautiful—and at the second line Ben
Weatherstaff raspingly cleared his throat and at the third line he joined in
with such vigor that it seemed almost savage and when the "Amen" came
to an end Mary observed that the very same thing had happened to him which had
happened when he found out that Colin was not a cripple—his chin was twitching
and he was staring and winking and his leathery old cheeks were wet.
"I
never seed no sense in th' Doxology afore," he said hoarsely, "but I
may change my mind i' time. I should say tha'd gone up five pound this week
Mester Colin—five on 'em!"
Colin was
looking across the garden at something attracting his attention and his
expression had become a startled one.
"Who
is coming in here?" he said quickly. "Who is it?"
The door
in the ivied wall had been pushed gently open and a woman had entered. She had
come in with the last line of their song and she had stood still listening and
looking at them. With the ivy behind her, the sunlight drifting through the
trees and dappling her long blue cloak, and her nice fresh face smiling across
the greenery she was rather like a softly colored illustration in one of
Colin's books. She had wonderful affectionate eyes which seemed to take
everything in—all of them, even Ben Weatherstaff and the "creatures"
and every flower that was in bloom. Unexpectedly as she had appeared, not one
of them felt that she was an intruder at all. Dickon's eyes lighted like lamps.
"It's
mother—that's who it is!" he cried and went across the grass at a run.
Colin
began to move toward her, too, and Mary went with him. They both felt their
pulses beat faster.
"It's
mother!" Dickon said again when they met halfway. "I knowed tha'
wanted to see her an' I told her where th' door was hid."
Colin held
out his hand with a sort of flushed royal shyness but his eyes quite devoured
her face.
"Even
when I was ill I wanted to see you," he said, "you and Dickon and the
secret garden. I'd never wanted to see any one or anything before."
The sight
of his uplifted face brought about a sudden change in her own. She flushed and
the corners of her mouth shook and a mist seemed to sweep over her eyes.
"Eh!
dear lad!" she broke out tremulously. "Eh! dear lad!" as if she
had not known she were going to say it. She did not say, "Mester Colin,"
but just "dear lad" quite suddenly. She might have said it to Dickon
in the same way if she had seen something in his face which touched her. Colin
liked it.
"Are
you surprised because I am so well?" he asked. She put her hand on his
shoulder and smiled the mist out of her eyes. "Aye, that I am!" she
said; "but tha'rt so like thy mother tha' made my heart jump."
"Do
you think," said Colin a little awkwardly, "that will make my father
like me?"
"Aye,
for sure, dear lad," she answered and she gave his shoulder a soft quick
pat. "He mun come home—he mun come home."
"Susan
Sowerby," said Ben Weatherstaff, getting close to her. "Look at th'
lad's legs, wilt tha'? They was like drumsticks i' stockin' two month' ago—an'
I heard folk tell as they was bandy an' knock-kneed both at th' same time. Look
at 'em now!"
Susan
Sowerby laughed a comfortable laugh.
"They're
goin' to be fine strong lad's legs in a bit," she said. "Let him go
on playin' an' workin' in the garden an' eatin' hearty an' drinkin' plenty o' good
sweet milk an' there'll not be a finer pair i' Yorkshire, thank God for
it."
She put
both hands on Mistress Mary's shoulders and looked her little face over in a
motherly fashion.
"An'
thee, too!" she said. "Tha'rt grown near as hearty as our 'Lisabeth
Ellen. I'll warrant tha'rt like thy mother too. Our Martha told me as Mrs.
Medlock heard she was a pretty woman. Tha'lt be like a blush rose when tha'
grows up, my little lass, bless thee."
She did
not mention that when Martha came home on her "day out" and described
the plain sallow child she had said that she had no confidence whatever in what
Mrs. Medlock had heard. "It doesn't stand to reason that a pretty woman
could be th' mother o' such a fou' little lass," she had added
obstinately.
Mary had
not had time to pay much attention to her changing face. She had only known
that she looked "different" and seemed to have a great deal more hair
and that it was growing very fast. But remembering her pleasure in looking at
the Mem Sahib in the past she was glad to hear that she might some day look
like her.
Susan
Sowerby went round their garden with them and was told the whole story of it
and shown every bush and tree which had come alive. Colin walked on one side of
her and Mary on the other. Each of them kept looking up at her comfortable rosy
face, secretly curious about the delightful feeling she gave them—a sort of
warm, supported feeling. It seemed as if she understood them as Dickon
understood his "creatures." She stooped over the flowers and talked
about them as if they were children. Soot followed her and once or twice cawed
at her and flew upon her shoulder as if it were Dickon's. When they told her
about the robin and the first flight of the young ones she laughed a motherly
little mellow laugh in her throat.
"I
suppose learnin' 'em to fly is like learnin' children to walk, but I'm feared I
should be all in a worrit if mine had wings instead o' legs," she said.
It was
because she seemed such a wonderful woman in her nice moorland cottage way that
at last she was told about the Magic.
"Do
you believe in Magic?" asked Colin after he had explained about Indian
fakirs. "I do hope you do."
"That
I do, lad," she answered. "I never knowed it by that name but what
does th' name matter? I warrant they call it a different name i' France an' a
different one i' Germany
"I
felt so joyful," said Colin, opening his beautiful strange eyes at her.
"Suddenly I felt how different I was—how strong my arms and legs were, you
know—and how I could dig and stand—and I jumped up and wanted to shout out
something to anything that would listen."
"Th'
Magic listened when tha' sung th' Doxology. It would ha' listened to anything
tha'd sung. It was th' joy that mattered. Eh! lad, lad—what's names to th' Joy
Maker," and she gave his shoulders a quick soft pat again.
She had
packed a basket which held a regular feast this morning, and when the hungry
hour came and Dickon brought it out from its hiding place, she sat down with
them under their tree and watched them devour their food, laughing and quite
gloating over their appetites. She was full of fun and made them laugh at all
sorts of odd things. She told them stories in broad Yorkshire
and taught them new words. She laughed as if she could not help it when they
told her of the increasing difficulty there was in pretending that Colin was
still a fretful invalid.
"You
see we can't help laughing nearly all the time when we are together,"
explained Colin. "And it doesn't sound ill at all. We try to choke it back
but it will burst out and that sounds worse than ever."
"There's
one thing that comes into my mind so often," said Mary, "and I can
scarcely ever hold in when I think of it suddenly. I keep thinking suppose
Colin's face should get to look like a full moon. It isn't like one yet but he
gets a tiny bit fatter every day—and suppose some morning it should look like
one—what should we do!"
"Bless
us all, I can see tha' has a good bit o' play actin' to do," said Susan
Sowerby. "But tha' won't have to keep it up much longer. Mester Craven'll
come home."
"Do
you think he will?" asked Colin. "Why?"
Susan
Sowerby chuckled softly.
"I
suppose it 'ud nigh break thy heart if he found out before tha' told him in
tha' own way," she said. "Tha's laid awake nights plannin' it."
"I
couldn't bear any one else to tell him," said Colin. "I think about
different ways every day, I think now I just want to run into his room."
"That'd be a fine start for him," said Susan Sowerby. "I'd like
to see his face, lad. I would that! He mun come back—that he mun."
One of the
things they talked of was the visit they were to make to her cottage. They
planned it all. They were to drive over the moor and lunch out of doors among
the heather. They would see all the twelve children and Dickon's garden and
would not come back until they were tired.
Susan
Sowerby got up at last to return to the house and Mrs. Medlock. It was time for
Colin to be wheeled back also. But before he got into his chair he stood quite
close to Susan and fixed his eyes on her with a kind of bewildered adoration
and he suddenly caught hold of the fold of her blue cloak and held it fast.
"You
are just what I—what I wanted," he said. "I wish you were my
mother—as well as Dickon's!"
All at
once Susan Sowerby bent down and drew him with her warm arms close against the
bosom under the blue cloak—as if he had been Dickon's brother. The quick mist
swept over her eyes.
"Eh!
dear lad!" she said. "Thy own mother's in this 'ere very garden, I do
believe. She couldna' keep out of it. Thy father mun come back to thee—he
mun!"
CHAPTER XXVII
IN THE
GARDEN
In each
century since the beginning of the world wonderful things have been discovered.
In the last century more amazing things were found out than in any century
before. In this new century hundreds of things still more astounding will be
brought to light. At first people refuse to believe that a strange new thing
can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be
done—then it is done and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries
ago. One of the new things people began to find out in the last century was
that thoughts—just mere thoughts—are as powerful as electric batteries—as good
for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. To let a sad thought or a
bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get
into your body. If you let it stay there after it has got in you may never get
over it as long as you live.
So long as
Mistress Mary's mind was full of disagreeable thoughts about her dislikes and
sour opinions of people and her determination not to be pleased by or
interested in anything, she was a yellow-faced, sickly, bored and wretched
child. Circumstances, however, were very kind to her, though she was not at all
aware of it. They began to push her about for her own good. When her mind
gradually filled itself with robins, and moorland cottages crowded with
children, with queer crabbed old gardeners and common little Yorkshire
housemaids, with springtime and with secret gardens coming alive day by day,
and also with a moor boy and his "creatures," there was no room left
for the disagreeable thoughts which affected her liver and her digestion and made
her yellow and tired.
So long as
Colin shut himself up in his room and thought only of his fears and weakness
and his detestation of people who looked at him and reflected hourly on humps
and early death, he was a hysterical half-crazy little hypochondriac who knew
nothing of the sunshine and the spring and also did not know that he could get
well and could stand upon his feet if he tried to do it. When new beautiful
thoughts began to push out the old hideous ones, life began to come back to
him, his blood ran healthily through his veins and strength poured into him
like a flood. His scientific experiment was quite practical and simple and
there was nothing weird about it at all. Much more surprising things can happen
to any one who, when a disagreeable or discouraged thought comes into his mind,
just has the sense to remember in time and push it out by putting in an
agreeable determinedly courageous one. Two things cannot be in one place.
"Where,
you tend a rose, my lad,
A thistle cannot grow."
A thistle cannot grow."
While the
secret garden was coming alive and two children were coming alive with it,
there was a man wandering about certain far-away beautiful places in the
Norwegian fiords and the valleys and mountains of Switzerland Yorkshire , England
He had
traveled far and wide since the day he saw Mistress Mary in his study and told
her she might have her "bit of earth." He had been in the most
beautiful places in Europe , though he had
remained nowhere more than a few days. He had chosen the quietest and remotest
spots. He had been on the tops of mountains whose heads were in the clouds and
had looked down on other mountains when the sun rose and touched them with such
light as made it seem as if the world were just being born.
But the
light had never seemed to touch himself until one day when he realized that for
the first time in ten years a strange thing had happened. He was in a wonderful
valley in the Austrian Tyrol and he had been walking alone through such beauty
as might have lifted, any man's soul out of shadow. He had walked a long way
and it had not lifted his. But at last he had felt tired and had thrown himself
down to rest on a carpet of moss by a stream. It was a clear little stream
which ran quite merrily along on its narrow way through the luscious damp
greenness. Sometimes it made a sound rather like very low laughter as it
bubbled over and round stones. He saw birds come and dip their heads to drink
in it and then flick their wings and fly away. It seemed like a thing alive and
yet its tiny voice made the stillness seem deeper. The valley was very, very
still.
As he sat
gazing into the clear running of the water, Archibald Craven gradually felt his
mind and body both grow quiet, as quiet as the valley itself. He wondered if he
were going to sleep, but he was not. He sat and gazed at the sunlit water and
his eyes began to see things growing at its edge. There was one lovely mass of
blue forget-me-nots growing so close to the stream that its leaves were wet and
at these he found himself looking as he remembered he had looked at such things
years ago. He was actually thinking tenderly how lovely it was and what wonders
of blue its hundreds of little blossoms were. He did not know that just that
simple thought was slowly filling his mind—filling and filling it until other
things were softly pushed aside. It was as if a sweet clear spring had begun to
rise in a stagnant pool and had risen and risen until at last it swept the dark
water away. But of course he did not think of this himself. He only knew that
the valley seemed to grow quieter and quieter as he sat and stared at the
bright delicate blueness. He did not know how long he sat there or what was
happening to him, but at last he moved as if he were awakening and he got up
slowly and stood on the moss carpet, drawing a long, deep, soft breath and
wondering at himself. Something seemed to have been unbound and released in
him, very quietly.
"What
is it?" he said, almost in a whisper, and he passed his hand over his
forehead. "I almost feel as if—I were alive!"
I do not
know enough about the wonderfulness of undiscovered things to be able to
explain how this had happened to him. Neither does any one else yet. He did not
understand at all himself—but he remembered this strange hour months afterward
when he was at Misselthwaite again and he found out quite by accident that on
this very day Colin had cried out as he went into the secret garden:
"I am
going to live forever and ever and ever!"
The
singular calmness remained with him the rest of the evening and he slept a new
reposeful sleep; but it was not with him very long. He did not know that it
could be kept. By the next night he had opened the doors wide to his dark
thoughts and they had come trooping and rushing back. He left the valley and
went on his wandering way again. But, strange as it seemed to him, there were
minutes—sometimes half-hours—when, without his knowing why, the black burden
seemed to lift itself again and he knew he was a living man and not a dead one.
Slowly—slowly—for no reason that he knew of—he was "coming alive"
with the garden.
As the
golden summer changed into the deep golden autumn he went to the Lake of Como
"Perhaps,"
he thought, "my body is growing stronger."
It was
growing stronger but—because of the rare peaceful hours when his thoughts were
changed—his soul was slowly growing stronger, too. He began to think of
Misselthwaite and wonder if he should not go home. Now and then he wondered
vaguely about his boy and asked himself what he should feel when he went and
stood by the carved four-posted bed again and looked down at the sharply
chiseled ivory-white face while it slept and, the black lashes rimmed so
startlingly the close-shut eyes. He shrank from it.
One marvel
of a day he had walked so far that when he returned the moon was high and full
and all the world was purple shadow and silver. The stillness of lake and shore
and wood was so wonderful that he did not go into the villa he lived in. He
walked down to a little bowered terrace at the water's edge and sat upon a seat
and breathed in all the heavenly scents of the night. He felt the strange
calmness stealing over him and it grew deeper and deeper until he fell asleep.
He did not
know when he fell asleep and when he began to dream; his dream was so real that
he did not feel as if he were dreaming. He remembered afterward how intensely
wide awake and alert he had thought he was. He thought that as he sat and
breathed in the scent of the late roses and listened to the lapping of the
water at his feet he heard a voice calling. It was sweet and clear and happy
and far away. It seemed very far, but he heard it as distinctly as if it had
been at his very side.
"Archie!
Archie! Archie!" it said, and then again, sweeter and clearer than before,
"Archie! Archie!"
He thought
he sprang to his feet not even startled. It was such a real voice and it seemed
so natural that he should hear it.
"Lilias!
Lilias!" he answered. "Lilias! where are you?"
"In
the garden," it came back like a sound from a golden flute. "In the
garden!"
And then
the dream ended. But he did not awaken. He slept soundly and sweetly all
through the lovely night. When he did awake at last it was brilliant morning
and a servant was standing staring at him. He was an Italian servant and was
accustomed, as all the servants of the villa were, to accepting without
question any strange thing his foreign master might do. No one ever knew when
he would go out or come in or where he would choose to sleep or if he would
roam about the garden or lie in the boat on the lake all night. The man held a
salver with some letters on it and he waited quietly until Mr. Craven took
them. When he had gone away Mr. Craven sat a few moments holding them in his
hand and looking at the lake. His strange calm was still upon him and something
more—a lightness as if the cruel thing which had been done had not happened as
he thought—as if something had changed. He was remembering the dream—the
real—real dream.
"In
the garden!" he said, wondering at himself. "In the garden! But the
door is locked and the key is buried deep."
When he
glanced at the letters a few minutes later he saw that the one lying at the top
of the rest was an English letter and came from Yorkshire .
It was directed in a plain woman's hand but it was not a hand he knew. He
opened it, scarcely thinking of the writer, but the first words attracted his
attention at once.
"Dear Sir:
I am Susan
Sowerby that made bold to speak to you once on the moor. It was about Miss Mary
I spoke. I will make bold to speak again. Please, sir, I would come home if I
was you. I think you would be glad to come and—if you will excuse me, sir—I
think your lady would ask you to come if she was here.
Your obedient
servant,
Susan Sowerby."
Susan Sowerby."
Mr. Craven
read the letter twice before he put it back in its envelope. He kept thinking
about the dream.
"I
will go back to Misselthwaite," he said. "Yes, I'll go at once."
And he
went through the garden to the villa and ordered Pitcher to prepare for his
return to England
In a few
days he was in Yorkshire again, and on his
long railroad journey he found himself thinking of his boy as he had never
thought in all the ten years past. During those years he had only wished to
forget him. Now, though he did not intend to think about him, memories of him
constantly drifted into his mind. He remembered the black days when he had
raved like a madman because the child was alive and the mother was dead. He had
refused to see it, and when he had gone to look at it at last it had been, such
a weak wretched thing that everyone had been sure it would die in a few days.
But to the surprise of those who took care of it the days passed and it lived
and then everyone believed it would be a deformed and crippled creature.
He had not
meant to be a bad father, but he had not felt like a father at all. He had
supplied doctors and nurses and luxuries, but he had shrunk from the mere
thought of the boy and had buried himself in his own misery. The first time
after a year's absence he returned to Misselthwaite and the small miserable
looking thing languidly and indifferently lifted to his face the great gray
eyes with black lashes round them, so like and yet so horribly unlike the happy
eyes he had adored, he could not bear the sight of them and turned away pale as
death. After that he scarcely ever saw him except when he was asleep, and all
he knew of him was that he was a confirmed invalid, with a vicious, hysterical,
half-insane temper. He could only be kept from furies dangerous to himself by
being given his own way in every detail.
All this
was not an uplifting thing to recall, but as the train whirled him through
mountain passes and golden plains the man who was "coming alive"
began to think in a new way and he thought long and steadily and deeply.
"Perhaps
I have been all wrong for ten years," he said to himself. "Ten years
is a long time. It may be too late to do anything—quite too late. What have I
been thinking of!"
Of course
this was the wrong Magic—to begin by saying "too late." Even Colin
could have told him that. But he knew nothing of Magic—either black or white.
This he had yet to learn. He wondered if Susan Sowerby had taken courage and
written to him only because the motherly creature had realized that the boy was
much worse—was fatally ill. If he had not been under the spell of the curious
calmness which had taken possession of him he would have been more wretched
than ever. But the calm had brought a sort of courage and hope with it. Instead
of giving way to thoughts of the worst he actually found he was trying to
believe in better things.
"Could
it be possible that she sees that I may be able to do him good and control
him?" he thought. "I will go and see her on my way to
Misselthwaite."
But when
on his way across the moor he stopped the carriage at the cottage, seven or
eight children who were playing about gathered in a group and bobbing seven or
eight friendly and polite curtsies told him that their mother had gone to the
other side of the moor early in the morning to help a woman who had a new baby.
"Our Dickon," they volunteered, was over at the Manor working in one
of the gardens where he went several days each week.
Mr. Craven
looked over the collection of sturdy little bodies and round red-cheeked faces,
each one grinning in its own particular way, and he awoke to the fact that they
were a healthy likable lot. He smiled at their friendly grins and took a golden
sovereign from his pocket and gave it to "our 'Lizabeth Ellen" who
was the oldest.
"If
you divide that into eight parts there will be half a crown for each of,
you," he said.
Then amid
grins and chuckles and bobbing of curtsies he drove away, leaving ecstasy and
nudging elbows and little jumps of joy behind.
The drive
across the wonderfulness of the moor was a soothing thing. Why did it seem to
give him a sense of homecoming which he had been sure he could never feel
again—that sense of the beauty of land and sky and purple bloom of distance and
a warming of the heart at drawing, nearer to the great old house which had held
those of his blood for six hundred years? How he had driven away from it the
last time, shuddering to think of its closed rooms and the boy lying in the
four-posted bed with the brocaded hangings. Was it possible that perhaps he
might find him changed a little for the better and that he might overcome his
shrinking from him? How real that dream had been—how wonderful and clear the
voice which called back to him, "In the garden—In the garden!"
"I
will try to find the key," he said. "I will try to open the door. I
must—though I don't know why."
When he
arrived at the Manor the servants who received him with the usual ceremony
noticed that he looked better and that he did not go to the remote rooms where
he usually lived attended by Pitcher. He went into the library and sent for
Mrs. Medlock. She came to him somewhat excited and curious and flustered.
"How
is Master Colin, Medlock?" he inquired. "Well, sir," Mrs.
Medlock answered, "he's—he's different, in a manner of speaking."
"Worse?"
he suggested.
Mrs.
Medlock really was flushed.
"Well,
you see, sir," she tried to explain, "neither Dr. Craven, nor the
nurse, nor me can exactly make him out."
"Why
is that?"
"To
tell the truth, sir, Master Colin might be better and he might be changing for
the worse. His appetite, sir, is past understanding—and his ways—"
"Has
he become more—more peculiar?" her master, asked, knitting his brows
anxiously.
"That's
it, sir. He's growing very peculiar—when you compare him with what he used to
be. He used to eat nothing and then suddenly he began to eat something
enormous—and then he stopped again all at once and the meals were sent back
just as they used to be. You never knew, sir, perhaps, that out of doors he
never would let himself be taken. The things we've gone through to get him to
go out in his chair would leave a body trembling like a leaf. He'd throw
himself into such a state that Dr. Craven said he couldn't be responsible for
forcing him. Well, sir, just without warning—not long after one of his worst
tantrums he suddenly insisted on being taken out every day by Miss Mary and
Susan Sowerby's boy Dickon that could push his chair. He took a fancy to both
Miss Mary and Dickon, and Dickon brought his tame animals, and, if you'll
credit it, sir, out of doors he will stay from morning until night."
"How
does he look?" was the next question.
"If
he took his food natural, sir, you'd think he was putting on flesh—but we're
afraid it may be a sort of bloat. He laughs sometimes in a queer way when he's
alone with Miss Mary. He never used to laugh at all. Dr. Craven is coming to
see you at once, if you'll allow him. He never was as puzzled in his
life."
"Where
is Master Colin now?" Mr. Craven asked.
"In
the garden, sir. He's always in the garden—though not a human creature is
allowed to go near for fear they'll look at him."
Mr. Craven
scarcely heard her last words.
"In
the garden," he said, and after he had sent Mrs. Medlock away he stood and
repeated it again and again. "In the garden!"
He had to
make an effort to bring himself back to the place he was standing in and when
he felt he was on earth again he turned and went out of the room. He took his
way, as Mary had done, through the door in the shrubbery and among the laurels
and the fountain beds. The fountain was playing now and was encircled by beds
of brilliant autumn flowers. He crossed the lawn and turned into the Long Walk
by the ivied walls. He did not walk quickly, but slowly, and his eyes were on
the path. He felt as if he were being drawn back to the place he had so long
forsaken, and he did not know why. As he drew near to it his step became still
more slow. He knew where the door was even though the ivy hung thick over
it—but he did not know exactly where it lay—that buried key.
So he
stopped and stood still, looking about him, and almost the moment after he had
paused he started and listened—asking himself if he were walking in a dream.
The ivy
hung thick over the door, the key was buried under the shrubs, no human being
had passed that portal for ten lonely years—and yet inside the garden there
were sounds. They were the sounds of running scuffling feet seeming to chase
round and round under the trees, they were strange sounds of lowered suppressed
voices—exclamations and smothered joyous cries. It seemed actually like the
laughter of young things, the uncontrollable laughter of children who were
trying not to be heard but who in a moment or so—as their excitement
mounted—would burst forth. What in heaven's name was he dreaming of—what in
heaven's name did he hear? Was he losing his reason and thinking he heard
things which were not for human ears? Was it that the far clear voice had
meant?
And then
the moment came, the uncontrollable moment when the sounds forgot to hush
themselves. The feet ran faster and faster—they were nearing the garden
door—there was quick strong young breathing and a wild outbreak of laughing
shows which could not be contained—and the door in the wall was flung wide
open, the sheet of ivy swinging back, and a boy burst through it at full speed
and, without seeing the outsider, dashed almost into his arms.
Mr. Craven
had extended them just in time to save him from falling as a result of his
unseeing dash against him, and when he held him away to look at him in
amazement at his being there he truly gasped for breath.
He was a
tall boy and a handsome one. He was glowing with life and his running had sent
splendid color leaping to his face. He threw the thick hair back from his
forehead and lifted a pair of strange gray eyes—eyes full of boyish laughter
and rimmed with black lashes like a fringe. It was the eyes which made Mr.
Craven gasp for breath. "Who—What? Who!" he stammered.
This was
not what Colin had expected—this was not what he had planned. He had never
thought of such a meeting. And yet to come dashing out—winning a race—perhaps
it was even better. He drew himself up to his very tallest. Mary, who had been
running with him and had dashed through the door too, believed that he managed
to make himself look taller than he had ever looked before—inches taller.
"Father,"
he said, "I'm Colin. You can't believe it. I scarcely can myself. I'm
Colin."
Like Mrs.
Medlock, he did not understand what his father meant when he said hurriedly:
"In
the garden! In the garden!"
"Yes,"
hurried on Colin. "It was the garden that did it—and Mary and Dickon and
the creatures—and the Magic. No one knows. We kept it to tell you when you
came. I'm well, I can beat Mary in a race. I'm going to be an athlete."
He said it
all so like a healthy boy—his face flushed, his words tumbling over each other
in his eagerness—that Mr. Craven's soul shook with unbelieving joy.
Colin put
out his hand and laid it on his father's arm.
"Aren't
you glad, Father?" he ended. "Aren't you glad? I'm going to live
forever and ever and ever!"
Mr. Craven
put his hands on both the boy's shoulders and held him still. He knew he dared
not even try to speak for a moment.
"Take
me into the garden, my boy," he said at last. "And tell me all about
it."
And so
they led him in.
The place
was a wilderness of autumn gold and purple and violet blue and flaming scarlet
and on every side were sheaves of late lilies standing together—lilies which
were white or white and ruby. He remembered well when the first of them had
been planted that just at this season of the year their late glories should
reveal themselves. Late roses climbed and hung and clustered and the sunshine
deepening the hue of the yellowing trees made one feel that one, stood in an
embowered temple of gold. The newcomer stood silent just as the children had
done when they came into its grayness. He looked round and round.
"I
thought it would be dead," he said.
"Mary
thought so at first," said Colin. "But it came alive."
Then they
sat down under their tree—all but Colin, who wanted to stand while he told the
story.
It was the
strangest thing he had ever heard, Archibald Craven thought, as it was poured
forth in headlong boy fashion. Mystery and Magic and wild creatures, the weird
midnight meeting—the coming of the spring—the passion of insulted pride which
had dragged the young Rajah to his feet to defy old Ben Weatherstaff to his
face. The odd companionship, the play acting, the great secret so carefully
kept. The listener laughed until tears came into his eyes and sometimes tears
came into his eyes when he was not laughing. The Athlete, the Lecturer, the
Scientific Discoverer was a laughable, lovable, healthy young human thing.
"Now,"
he said at the end of the story, "it need not be a secret any more. I dare
say it will frighten them nearly into fits when they see me—but I am never
going to get into the chair again. I shall walk back with you, Father—to the
house."
Ben
Weatherstaff's duties rarely took him away from the gardens, but on this
occasion he made an excuse to carry some vegetables to the kitchen and being
invited into the servants' hall by Mrs. Medlock to drink a glass of beer he was
on the spot—as he had hoped to be—when the most dramatic event Misselthwaite
Manor had seen during the present generation actually took place. One of the
windows looking upon the courtyard gave also a glimpse of the lawn. Mrs.
Medlock, knowing Ben had come from the gardens, hoped that he might have caught
sight of his master and even by chance of his meeting with Master Colin.
"Did
you see either of them, Weatherstaff?" she asked.
Ben took
his beer-mug from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
"Aye,
that I did," he answered with a shrewdly significant air.
"Both
of them?" suggested Mrs. Medlock.
"Both
of 'em," returned Ben Weatherstaff. "Thank ye kindly, ma'am, I could
sup up another mug of it."
"Together?"
said Mrs. Medlock, hastily overfilling his beer-mug in her excitement.
"Together,
ma'am," and Ben gulped down half of his new mug at one gulp.
"Where
was Master Colin? How did he look? What did they say to each other?"
"I
didna' hear that," said Ben, "along o' only bein' on th' stepladder
lookin, over th' wall. But I'll tell thee this. There's been things goin' on
outside as you house people knows nowt about. An' what tha'll find out tha'll
find out soon."
And it was
not two minutes before he swallowed the last of his beer and waved his mug
solemnly toward the window which took in through the shrubbery a piece of the
lawn.
"Look
there," he said, "if tha's curious. Look what's comin' across th'
grass."
When Mrs.
Medlock looked she threw up her hands and gave a little shriek and every man
and woman servant within hearing bolted across the servants' hall and stood
looking through the window with their eyes almost starting out of their heads.
Across the
lawn came the Master of Misselthwaite and he looked as many of them had never
seen him. And by his, side with his head up in the air and his eyes full of
laughter walked as strongly and steadily as any boy in Yorkshire—Master Colin.
