



THE SECRET GARDEN

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

_Author of

“The Shuttle,” “The Making of a Marchioness,” “The Methods of Lady
Walderhurst,” “The Lass o’ Lowries,” “Through One Administration,”
“Little Lord Fauntleroy,” “A Lady of Quality,” etc._


Contents

 I. THERE IS NO ONE LEFT
 II. MISTRESS MARY QUITE CONTRARY
 III. ACROSS THE MOOR
 IV. MARTHA
 V. THE CRY IN THE CORRIDOR
 VI. “THERE WAS SOMEONE CRYING—THERE WAS!”
 VII. THE KEY TO THE GARDEN
 VIII. THE ROBIN WHO SHOWED THE WAY
 IX. THE STRANGEST HOUSE ANYONE EVER LIVED IN
 X. DICKON
 XI. THE NEST OF THE MISSEL THRUSH
 XII. “MIGHT I HAVE A BIT OF EARTH?”
 XIII. “I AM COLIN”
 XIV. A YOUNG RAJAH
 XV. NEST BUILDING
 XVI. “I WON’T!” SAID MARY
 XVII. A TANTRUM
 XVIII. “THA’ MUNNOT WASTE NO TIME”
 XIX. “IT HAS COME!”
 XX. “I SHALL LIVE FOREVER—AND EVER—AND EVER!”
 XXI. BEN WEATHERSTAFF
 XXII. WHEN THE SUN WENT DOWN
 XXIII. MAGIC
 XXIV. “LET THEM LAUGH”
 XXV. THE CURTAIN
 XXVI. “IT’S MOTHER!”
 XXVII. IN THE GARDEN




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.
It was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body,
thin light hair and a sour expression. Her hair was yellow, and her
face was yellow because she had been born in India and had always been
ill in one way or another. Her father had held a position under the
English Government and had always been busy and ill himself, and her
mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and
amuse herself with gay people. She had not wanted a little girl at all,
and when Mary was born she handed her over to the care of an Ayah, who
was made to understand that if she wished to please the Mem Sahib she
must keep the child out of sight as much as possible. So when she was a
sickly, fretful, ugly little baby she was kept out of the way, and when
she became a sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was kept out of the
way also. She never remembered seeing familiarly anything but the dark
faces of her Ayah and the other native servants, and as they always
obeyed her and gave her her own way in everything, because the Mem
Sahib would be angry if she was disturbed by her crying, by the time
she was six years old she was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as
ever lived. The young English governess who came to teach her to read
and write disliked her so much that she gave up her place in three
months, and when other governesses came to try to fill it they always
went away in a shorter time than the first one. So if Mary had not
chosen to really want to know how to read books she would never have
learned her letters at all.

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 someone. 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. The child
stared at him, but she stared most at her mother. She always did this
when she had a chance to see her, because the Mem Sahib—Mary used to
call her that oftener than anything else—was such a tall, slim, pretty
person and wore such lovely clothes. Her hair was like curly silk and
she had a delicate little nose which seemed to be disdaining things,
and she had large laughing eyes. All her clothes were thin and
floating, and Mary said they were “full of lace.” They looked fuller of
lace than ever this morning, but her eyes were not laughing at all.
They were large and scared and lifted imploringly to the fair boy
officer’s face.

“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.

“Someone 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 anyone. 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 someone 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.”

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, of course. Our grandmama lives there and our
sister Mabel was sent to her last year. You are not going to your
grandmama. You have none. You are going to your uncle. His name is Mr.
Archibald Craven.”

“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 in a few
days and go to her uncle, Mr. Archibald Craven, who lived at
Misselthwaite Manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested
that they did not know what to think about her. They tried to be kind
to her, but she only turned her face away when Mrs. Crawford attempted
to kiss her, and held herself stiffly when Mr. Crawford patted her
shoulder.

“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 under the care of an officer’s
wife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school.
She was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was
rather glad to hand the child over to the woman Mr. Archibald Craven
sent to meet her, in London. The woman was his housekeeper at
Misselthwaite Manor, and her name was Mrs. Medlock. She was a stout
woman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. She wore a very
purple dress, a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black
bonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she
moved her head. Mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom
liked people there was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was
very evident Mrs. Medlock did not think much of her.

“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 just when her sister Maria’s
daughter was going to be married, but she had a comfortable, well paid
place as housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor and the only way in which
she could keep it was to do at once what Mr. Archibald Craven told her
to do. She never dared even to ask a question.

“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 and bring her yourself.”

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 crêpe 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, and anything new rather attracted her. But she did not intend to
look as if she were interested. That was one of her unhappy,
disagreeable ways. So she sat still.

“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 à
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 anyone 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 native servants always picked up or carried things and
it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one.

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 in the morning.”

“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 were not in the least like this.
They were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to their
masters as if they were their equals. They made salaams and called them
“protector of the poor” and names of that sort. Indian servants were
commanded to do things, not asked. It was not the custom to say
“please” and “thank you” and Mary had always slapped her Ayah in the
face when she was angry. She wondered a little what this girl would do
if one slapped her in the face. She was a round, rosy, good-natured
looking creature, but she had a sturdy way which made Mistress Mary
wonder if she might not even slap back—if the person who slapped her
was only a little girl.

“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
housemaids. 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,” said Mistress Mary disdainfully. She could
scarcely stand this.

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 I
thought you was a black too.”

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. You know nothing about anything!”

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. He 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 anyone 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 and it might amuse her to look at them.

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 to know that she was
coming upon the kitchen-gardens where the vegetables and fruit were
growing. She went toward the wall and found that there was a green door
in the ivy, and that it stood open. This was not the closed garden,
evidently, and she could go into it.

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?” he asked.

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 anyone.”

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 anyone can find, an’ none as is anyone’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 herself.

“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, 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 had always felt hot and too languid to care much
about anything. The fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had
begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a
little.

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, and been waited upon by “blacks,” was novelty enough to
attract her.

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 anyone 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 someone.

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 anyone crying?” she said.

Martha suddenly looked confused.

“No,” she answered. “It’s th’ wind. Sometimes it sounds like as if
someone 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 someone 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 SOMEONE 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 had been quite unlike those Martha had to tell
about the moorland cottage which held fourteen people who lived in four
little rooms and never had quite enough to eat. The children seemed to
tumble about and amuse themselves like a litter of rough, good-natured
collie puppies. Mary was most attracted by the mother and Dickon. When
Martha told stories of what “mother” said or did they always sounded
comfortable.

“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 anyone 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 she had always been attended by her
Ayah, who had followed her about and waited on her, hand and foot. She
had often been tired of her company. Now she was followed by nobody and
was learning to dress herself because Martha looked as though she
thought she was silly and stupid when she wanted to have things handed
to her and put on.

“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 was
doing in their house. Some were pictures of children—little girls in
thick satin frocks which reached to their feet and stood out about
them, and boys with puffed sleeves and lace collars and long hair, or
with big ruffs around their necks. She always stopped to look at the
children, and wonder what their names were, and where they had gone,
and why they wore such odd clothes. There was a stiff, plain little
girl rather like herself. She wore a green brocade dress and held a
green parrot on her finger. Her eyes had a sharp, curious look.

“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 stood about the
room. A broad window with leaded panes looked out upon the moor; and
over the mantel was another portrait of the stiff, plain little girl
who seemed to stare at her more curiously than ever.

“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 and she knew all about elephants. She opened
the door of the cabinet and stood on a footstool and played with these
for quite a long time. When she got tired she set the elephants in
order and shut the door of the cabinet.

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 someone 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 someone 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_ someone 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 skies were hot and blazing;
this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the
waters of some lovely bottomless lake, and here and there, high, high
in the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow-white fleece. The
far-reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of
gloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray.

“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,” Mary
said.

“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 the natives spoke
different dialects which only a few people understood, so she was not
surprised when Martha used words she did not know.

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 at 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’ good-natured 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,”
said Mary. “And I think things grow up in a night.”

“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 had always
been too hot and languid and weak to care much about anything, but in
this place she was beginning to care and to want to do new things.
Already she felt less “contrary,” though she did not know why.

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 to live in.”

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 once.”

“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 anyone 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, for all they’ve got elephants and tigers and
camels! No wonder most of ’em’s black. This is what it’s for; just
watch me.”

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 of ivy. He had followed her and
he greeted her with a chirp. As Mary had skipped toward him she felt
something heavy in her pocket strike against her at each jump, and when
she saw the robin she laughed again.

“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 anyone 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 ANYONE EVER LIVED IN


It was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place anyone 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. All the ground was covered with grass of a wintry
brown and out of it grew clumps of bushes which were surely rosebushes
if they were alive. There were numbers of standard roses which had so
spread their branches that they were like little trees. There were
other trees in the garden, and one of the things which made the place
look strangest and loveliest was that climbing roses had run all over
them and swung down long tendrils which made light swaying curtains,
and here and there they had caught at each other or at a far-reaching
branch and had crept from one tree to another and made lovely bridges
of themselves. There were neither leaves nor roses on them now and Mary
did not know whether they were dead or alive, but their thin gray or
brown branches and sprays looked like a sort of hazy mantle spreading
over everything, walls, and trees, and even brown grass, where they had
fallen from their fastenings and run along the ground. It was this hazy
tangle from tree to tree which made it all look so mysterious. Mary had
thought it must be different from other gardens which had not been left
all by themselves so long; and indeed it was different from any other
place she had ever seen in her life.

“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 someone. 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 anyone, 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, but there were more people to look
at—natives and soldiers marching by—and sometimes bands playing, and my
Ayah told me stories. There is no one to talk to here except you and
Ben Weatherstaff. And you have to do your work and Ben Weatherstaff
won’t speak to me often. I thought if I had a little spade I could dig
somewhere as he does, and I might make a little garden if he would give
me some seeds.”

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 which is different. Give my love to mother and
everyone of you. Miss Mary is going to tell me a lot more so that on my
next day out you can hear about elephants and camels and gentlemen
going hunting lions and tigers.

    “Your loving sister,

                “Martha Phœbe 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 anyone 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 was what Mary called it when she was thinking of it. She liked
the name, and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful
old walls shut her in no one knew where she was. It seemed almost like
being shut out of the world in some fairy place. The few books she had
read and liked had been fairy-story books, and she had read of secret
gardens in some of the stories. Sometimes people went to sleep in them
for a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid. She
had no intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becoming
wider awake every day which passed at Misselthwaite. She was beginning
to like to be out of doors; she no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed
it. She could run faster, and longer, and she could skip up to a
hundred. The bulbs in the secret garden must have been much astonished.
Such nice clear places were made round them that they had all the
breathing space they wanted, and really, if Mistress Mary had known it,
they began to cheer up under the dark earth and work tremendously. The
sun could get at them and warm them, and when the rain came down it
could reach them at once, so they began to feel very much alive.

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 everyone 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 across. 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? He had a wide, red, curving mouth and
his smile spread all over his face.

“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’ someone 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 anyone 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 someone’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. No one never comin’ near an’ tangles
o’ trees an’ roses to build in. I wonder all th’ birds on th’ moor
don’t build here.”

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 someone
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
and of how she had hated them and of their calling her “Mistress Mary
Quite Contrary.”

“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.’

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 anyone before. And she tried
to ask it in Yorkshire because that was his language, and in India a
native was always pleased if you knew his speech.

“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 anyone? 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 someone 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 someone 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 absent-mindedly.

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. It makes me hungry here, and I
am getting fatter.”

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 today
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,” said Mary. “I was always ill and
tired and it was too hot. I sometimes made little beds in the sand and
stuck flowers in them. But here it is different.”

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
someone 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 someone 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 to
see me and said it was stupid. He told them to take it off and keep me
out in the fresh air. I hate fresh air and I don’t want to go out.”

“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 and about her voyage across the
ocean. She found out that because he had been an invalid he had not
learned things as other children had. One of his nurses had taught him
to read when he was quite little and he was always reading and looking
at pictures in splendid books.

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 anyone 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 will pat your hand and stroke it
and sing something quite low.”

“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 and about the robin and gardens. He wouldn’t
let me go. He let me see his mother’s picture. Before I left him I sang
him to sleep.”

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,
but I can’t make it. I just went into his room and I was so surprised
to see him I stood and stared. And then he turned round and stared at
me. And he thought I was a ghost or a dream and I thought perhaps he
was. And it was so queer being there alone together in the middle of
the night and not knowing about each other. And we began to ask each
other questions. And when I asked him if I must go away he said I must
not.”

“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 anyone.’ 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 saw a boy who was a Rajah. He had rubies and emeralds
and diamonds stuck all over him. He spoke to his people just as you
spoke to Martha. Everybody had to do everything he told them—in a
minute. I think they would have been killed if they hadn’t.”

“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 anyone else in the world. He can charm foxes and squirrels and
birds just as the natives in India charm snakes. He plays a very soft
tune on a pipe and they come and listen.”

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 of.

“I like the grand doctor from London, because he made them take the
iron thing off,” said Mary at last “Did he say you were going to die?”

“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.
NEST BUILDING


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 anyone 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 flight 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 anyone
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 she had done her best to see that everybody else also
had a headache or something quite as bad. And she felt she was quite
right; but of course now she felt that Colin was quite wrong.

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. Anyone 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 anyone
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 anyone 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 anyone 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 someone 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 anyone
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
someone 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 anyone’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 anyone 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 doctor’s words.

“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 someone 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. Very clever people try to learn them. I
like it and so does Colin.”

“Well, well,” he said. “If it amuses you perhaps it won’t do you any
harm. Did you take your bromide last night, Colin?”

“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,” said Mary. “And they can put their
snakes’ heads in their mouths.”

“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 and now I always want it.”

“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 or at the bottom of a coal mine,”
he said. “And yet it’s not impudence, either. He’s just fine, is that
lad.”

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 was sitting on a big footstool looking on.

“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 when you have finished talking and want people to go?”

“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
everyone 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 because there wasn’t any,” said Mary.

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 downstairs 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 someone’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 crowded 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
someone 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 anyone knows
anything about it except a few people in old books—and Mary a little,
because she was born in India where there are fakirs. I believe Dickon
knows some Magic, but perhaps he doesn’t know he knows it. He charms
animals and people. I would never have let him come to see me if he had
not been an animal charmer—which is a boy charmer, too, because a boy
is an animal. I am sure there is Magic in everything, only we have not
sense enough to get hold of it and make it do things for us—like
electricity and horses and steam.”

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 tell my mother that there were fakirs
who said words over and over thousands of times,” said Mary.

“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 everyone 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 anyone 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’ theirselves 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 anyone know where I go,” he answered. “I go to a place
I like. Everyone 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 anyone.”

“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 for th’ sports some years. He’s knowed me ever
since I was a little ’un an’ he’s a friendly sort an’ I axed him some
questions. Th’ gentry calls him a athlete and I thought o’ thee, Mester
Colin, and I says, ‘How did tha’ make tha’ muscles stick out that way,
Bob? Did tha’ do anythin’ extra to make thysel’ so strong?’ An’ he says
‘Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong man in a show that came to Thwaite
once showed me how to exercise my arms an’ legs an’ every muscle in my
body. An’ I says, ‘Could a delicate chap make himself stronger with
’em, Bob?’ an’ he laughed an’ says, ‘Art tha’ th’ delicate chap?’ an’ I
says, ‘No, but I knows a young gentleman that’s gettin’ well of a long
illness an’ I wish I knowed some o’ them tricks to tell him about.’ I
didn’t say no names an’ he didn’t ask none. He’s friendly same as I
said an’ he stood up an’ showed me good-natured like, an’ I imitated
what he did till I knowed it by heart.”

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 on business and had not
seen the boy for nearly two weeks. When young things begin to gain
health they gain it rapidly. The waxen tinge had left, Colins skin and
a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the
hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out. His
once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily
from his forehead and were soft and warm with life. His lips were
fuller and of a normal color. In fact as an imitation of a boy who was
a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his
chin in his hand and thought him over.

“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 downstairs 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 today 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,” he said.

“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 anyone 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.”

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 anyone 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. Th’ same thing as set th’ seeds
swellin’ an’ th’ sun shinin’ made thee a well lad an’ it’s th’ Good
Thing. It isn’t like us poor fools as think it matters if us is called
out of our names. Th’ Big Good Thing doesn’t stop to worrit, bless
thee. It goes on makin’ worlds by th’ million—worlds like us. Never
thee stop believin’ in th’ Big Good Thing an’ knowin’ th’ world’s full
of it—an’ call it what tha’ likes. Tha’ wert singin’ to it when I come
into th’ garden.”

“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 anyone 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 anyone 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.”

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 and he was a man who for ten years had kept his mind
filled with dark and heart-broken thinking. He had not been courageous;
he had never tried to put any other thoughts in the place of the dark
ones. He had wandered by blue lakes and thought them; he had lain on
mountain-sides with sheets of deep blue gentians blooming all about him
and flower breaths filling all the air and he had thought them. A
terrible sorrow had fallen upon him when he had been happy and he had
let his soul fill itself with blackness and had refused obstinately to
allow any rift of light to pierce through. He had forgotten and
deserted his home and his duties. When he traveled about, darkness so
brooded over him that the sight of him was a wrong done to other people
because it was as if he poisoned the air about him with gloom. Most
strangers thought he must be either half mad or a man with some hidden
crime on his soul. He, was a tall man with a drawn face and crooked
shoulders and the name he always entered on hotel registers was,
“Archibald Craven, Misselthwaite Manor, 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 anyone
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. There he found the loveliness of a dream. He spent his
days upon the crystal blueness of the lake or he walked back into the
soft thick verdure of the hills and tramped until he was tired so that
he might sleep. But by this time he had begun to sleep better, he knew,
and his dreams had ceased to be a terror to him.

“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.”

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 shouts 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!

THE END



