The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett

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"I'm glad it's wick!" she cried out in her whisper.
"I want them all to be wick. Let us go round the garden
and count how many wick ones there are."

She quite panted with eagerness, and Dickon was as eager
as she was. They went from tree to tree and from bush
to bush. Dickon carried his knife in his hand and showed
her things which she thought wonderful.

"They've run wild," he said, "but th' strongest ones
has fair thrived on it. The delicatest ones has
died out, but th' others has growed an' growed, an'
spread an' spread, till they's a wonder. See here!"
and he pulled down a thick gray, dry-looking branch.
"A body might think this was dead wood, but I don't believe
it is--down to th' root. I'll cut it low down an' see."

He knelt and with his knife cut the lifeless-looking
branch through, not far above the earth.

"There!" he said exultantly. "I told thee so.
There's green in that wood yet. Look at it."

Mary was down on her knees before he spoke, gazing with
all her might.

"When it looks a bit greenish an' juicy like that,
it's wick," he explained. "When th' inside is dry an'
breaks easy, like this here piece I've cut off,
it's done for. There's a big root here as all this live
wood sprung out of, an' if th' old wood's cut off an'
it's dug round, and took care of there'll be--"
he stopped and lifted his face to look up at the climbing
and hanging sprays above him--"there'll be a fountain o'
roses here this summer."

They went from bush to bush and from tree to tree.
He was very strong and clever with his knife and knew
how to cut the dry and dead wood away, and could tell when
an unpromising bough or twig had still green life in it.
In the course of half an hour Mary thought she could tell too,
and when he cut through a lifeless-looking branch she would
cry out joyfully under her breath when she caught sight
of the least shade of moist green. The spade, and hoe,
and fork were very useful. He showed her how to use the
fork while he dug about roots with the spade and stirred
the earth and let the air in.

They were working industriously round one of the biggest
standard roses when he caught sight of something which
made him utter an exclamation of surprise.

"Why!" he cried, pointing to the grass a few feet away.
"Who did that there?"

It was one of Mary's own little clearings round the pale
green points.

"I did it," said Mary.

"Why, I thought tha' didn't know nothin' about gardenin',"
he exclaimed.

"I don't," she answered, "but they were so little, and the
grass was so thick and strong, and they looked as if they
had no room to breathe. So I made a place for them.
I don't even know what they are."

Dickon went and knelt down by them, smiling his wide smile.

"Tha' was right," he said. "A gardener couldn't have told
thee better. They'll grow now like Jack's bean-stalk. They're
crocuses an' snowdrops, an' these here is narcissuses,"
turning to another patch, "an here's daffydowndillys.
Eh! they will be a sight."

He ran from one clearing to another.

"Tha' has done a lot o' work for such a little wench,"
he said, looking her over.

"I'm growing fatter," said Mary, "and I'm growing stronger.
I used always to be tired. When I dig I'm not tired at all.
I like to smell the earth when it's turned up."

"It's rare good for thee," he said, nodding his
head wisely. "There's naught as nice as th' smell o'
good clean earth, except th' smell o' fresh growin'
things when th' rain falls on 'em. I get out on th'
moor many a day when it's rainin' an' I lie under a bush an'
listen to th' soft swish o' drops on th' heather an,
I just sniff an, sniff. My nose end fair quivers like a
rabbit's, mother says."

"Do you never catch cold?" inquired Mary, gazing at
him wonderingly. She had never seen such a funny boy,
or such a nice one.

"Not me," he said, grinning. "I never ketched cold
since I was born. I wasn't brought up nesh enough.
I've chased about th' moor in all weathers same as th'
rabbits does. Mother says I've sniffed up too much fresh
air for twelve year' to ever get to sniffin' with cold.
I'm as tough as a white-thorn knobstick."

He was working all the time he was talking and Mary was
following him and helping him with her fork or the trowel.

"There's a lot of work to do here!" he said once,
looking about quite exultantly.

"Will you come again and help me to do it?" Mary begged.
"I'm sure I can help, too. I can dig and pull up weeds,
and do whatever you tell me. Oh! do come, Dickon!"

"I'll come every day if tha' wants me, rain or shine,"
he answered stoutly. "It's the best fun I ever had in my
life-- shut in here an' wakenin' up a garden."

"If you will come," said Mary, "if you will help me
to make it alive I'll--I don't know what I'll do,"
she ended helplessly. What could you do for a boy like that?

"I'll tell thee what tha'll do," said Dickon, with his
happy grin. "Tha'll get fat an' tha'll get as hungry
as a young fox an' tha'll learn how to talk to th'
robin same as I do. Eh! we'll have a lot o' fun."

He began to walk about, looking up in the trees and at
the walls and bushes with a thoughtful expression.

"I wouldn't want to make it look like a gardener's
garden, all clipped an' spick an' span, would you?"
he said. "It's nicer like this with things runnin'
wild, an' swingin' an' catchin' hold of each other."

"Don't let us make it tidy," said Mary anxiously.
"It wouldn't seem like a secret garden if it was tidy."

Dickon stood rubbing his rusty-red head with a rather
puzzled look. "It's a secret garden sure enough," he said,
"but seems like some one besides th' robin must have been
in it since it was shut up ten year' ago."

"But the door was locked and the key was buried," said Mary.
"No one could get in."

"That's true," he answered. "It's a queer place.
Seems to me as if there'd been a bit o' prunin' done here an'
there, later than ten year' ago."

"But how could it have been done?" said Mary.

He was examining a branch of a standard rose and he shook
his head.

"Aye! how could it!" he murmured. "With th'
door locked an' th' key buried."

Mistress Mary always felt that however many years
she lived she should never forget that first morning
when her garden began to grow. Of course, it did seem
to begin to grow for her that morning. When Dickon
began to clear places to plant seeds, she remembered
what Basil had sung at her when he wanted to tease her.

"Are there any flowers that look like bells?" she inquired.

"Lilies o' th' valley does," he answered, digging away
with the trowel, "an' there's Canterbury bells, an' campanulas."

"Let's plant some," said Mary. "There's lilies o' th,
valley here already; I saw 'em. They'll have growed too
close an' we'll have to separate 'em, but there's plenty.
Th' other ones takes two years to bloom from seed, but I
can bring you some bits o' plants from our cottage garden.
Why does tha' want 'em?"

Then Mary told him about Basil and his brothers
and sisters in India 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
any one before. And she tried to ask it in Yorkshire
because that was his lan- guage, 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 any one? Not me," he said.
"Tha' art as safe as a missel thrush."

And she was quite sure she was.

CHAPTER XII

"MIGHT I HAVE A BIT OF EARTH?"

Mary ran so fast that she was rather out of breath when she
reached her room. Her hair was ruffled on her forehead
and her cheeks were bright pink. Her dinner was waiting
on the table, and Martha was waiting near it.

"Tha's a bit late," she said. "Where has tha' been?"

"I've seen Dickon!" said Mary. "I've seen Dickon!"

"I knew he'd come," said Martha exultantly. "How does tha'
like him?"

"I think--I think he's beautiful!" said Mary in a determined voice.

Martha looked rather taken aback but she looked pleased, too.

"Well," she said, "he's th' best lad as ever was born,
but us never thought he was handsome. His nose turns up
too much."

"I like it to turn up," said Mary.

"An' his eyes is so round," said Martha, a trifle doubtful.
"Though they're a nice color." "I like them round,"
said Mary. "And they are exactly the color of the sky
over the moor."

Martha beamed with satisfaction.

"Mother says he made 'em that color with always lookin'
up at th' birds an' th' clouds. But he has got a big mouth,
hasn't he, now?"

"I love his big mouth," said Mary obstinately. "I wish
mine were just like it."

Martha chuckled delightedly.

"It'd look rare an' funny in thy bit of a face," she said.
"But I knowed it would be that way when tha' saw him.
How did tha' like th' seeds an' th' garden tools?"

"How did you know he brought them?" asked Mary.

"Eh! I never thought of him not bringin' 'em. He'd
be sure to bring 'em if they was in Yorkshire.
He's such a trusty lad."

Mary was afraid that she might begin to ask
difficult questions, but she did not. She was very
much interested in the seeds and gardening tools,
and there was only one moment when Mary was frightened.
This was when she began to ask where the flowers were to be planted.

"Who did tha' ask about it?" she inquired.

"I haven't asked anybody yet," said Mary, hesitating.
"Well, I wouldn't ask th' head gardener. He's too grand,
Mr. Roach is."

"I've never seen him," said Mary. "I've only seen
undergardeners and Ben Weatherstaff."

"If I was you, I'd ask Ben Weatherstaff," advised Martha.
"He's not half as bad as he looks, for all he's so crabbed.
Mr. Craven lets him do what he likes because he was here
when Mrs. Craven was alive, an' he used to make her laugh.
She liked him. Perhaps he'd find you a corner somewhere out o'
the way."

"If it was out of the way and no one wanted it, no one
could mind my having it, could they?" Mary said anxiously.

"There wouldn't be no reason," answered Martha.
"You wouldn't do no harm."

Mary ate her dinner as quickly as she could and when she
rose from the table she was going to run to her room
to put on her hat again, but Martha stopped her.

"I've got somethin' to tell you," she said. "I thought
I'd let you eat your dinner first. Mr. Craven came back
this mornin' and I think he wants to see you."

Mary turned quite pale.

"Oh!" she said. "Why! Why! He didn't want to see me when I came.
I heard Pitcher say he didn't." "Well," explained Martha,
"Mrs. Medlock says it's because o' mother. She was walkin'
to Thwaite village an' she met him. She'd never spoke
to him before, but Mrs. Craven had been to our cottage
two or three times. He'd forgot, but mother hadn't an'
she made bold to stop him. I don't know what she said
to him about you but she said somethin' as put him in th'
mind to see you before he goes away again, tomorrow."

"Oh!" cried Mary, "is he going away tomorrow? I am so glad!"

"He's goin' for a long time. He mayn't come back till
autumn or winter. He's goin' to travel in foreign places.
He's always doin' it."

"Oh! I'm so glad--so glad!" said Mary thankfully.

If he did not come back until winter, or even autumn,
there would be time to watch the secret garden come alive.
Even if he found out then and took it away from her she
would have had that much at least.

"When do you think he will want to see--"

She did not finish the sentence, because the door opened,
and Mrs. Medlock walked in. She had on her best black
dress and cap, and her collar was fastened with a
large brooch with a picture of a man's face on it.
It was a colored photograph of Mr. Medlock who had died
years ago, and she always wore it when she was dressed up.
She looked nervous and excited.

"Your hair's rough," she said quickly. "Go and
brush it. Martha, help her to slip on her best dress.
Mr. Craven sent me to bring her to him in his study."

All the pink left Mary's cheeks. Her heart began to
thump and she felt herself changing into a stiff, plain,
silent child again. She did not even answer Mrs. Medlock,
but turned and walked into her bedroom, followed by Martha.
She said nothing while her dress was changed, and her
hair brushed, and after she was quite tidy she followed
Mrs. Medlock down the corridors, in silence. What was there
for her to say? She was obliged to go and see Mr. Craven
and he would not like her, and she would not like him.
She knew what he would think of her.

She was taken to a part of the house she had not been
into before. At last Mrs. Medlock knocked at a door,
and when some one said, "Come in," they entered the
room together. A man was sitting in an armchair before
the fire, and Mrs. Medlock spoke to him.

"This is Miss Mary, sir," she said.

"You can go and leave her here. I will ring for you
when I want you to take her away," said Mr. Craven.

When she went out and closed the door, Mary could only
stand waiting, a plain little thing, twisting her thin
hands together. She could see that the man in the
chair was not so much a hunchback as a man with high,
rather crooked shoulders, and he had black hair streaked
with white. He turned his head over his high shoulders
and spoke to her.

"Come here!" he said.

Mary went to him.

He was not ugly. His face would have been handsome if it
had not been so miserable. He looked as if the sight
of her worried and fretted him and as if he did not know
what in the world to do with her.

"Are you well?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Mary.

"Do they take good care of you?"

"Yes."

He rubbed his forehead fretfully as he looked her over.

"You are very thin," he said.

"I am getting fatter," Mary answered in what she knew
was her stiffest way.

What an unhappy face he had! His black eyes seemed as if they
scarcely saw her, as if they were seeing something else,
and he could hardly keep his thoughts upon her.

"I forgot you," he said. "How could I remember you? I
intended to send you a governess or a nurse, or some
one of that sort, but I forgot."

"Please," began Mary. "Please--" and then the lump
in her throat choked her.

"What do you want to say?" he inquired.

"I am--I am too big for a nurse," said Mary.
"And please--please don't make me have a governess yet."

He rubbed his forehead again and stared at her.

"That was what the Sowerby woman said," he muttered absentmindedly.

Then Mary gathered a scrap of courage.

"Is she--is she Martha's mother?" she stammered.

"Yes, I think so," he replied.

"She knows about children," said Mary. "She has twelve.
She knows."

He seemed to rouse himself.

"What do you want to do?"

"I want to play out of doors," Mary answered, hoping that
her voice did not tremble. "I never liked it in India.
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 to-day because Mrs. Sowerby said I
ought to see you. Her daughter had talked about you.
She thought you needed fresh air and freedom and running
about."

"She knows all about children," Mary said again in spite
of herself.

"She ought to," said Mr. Craven. "I thought her rather
bold to stop me on the moor, but she said--Mrs. Craven
had been kind to her." It seemed hard for him to speak
his dead wife's name. "She is a respectable woman.
Now I have seen you I think she said sensible things.
Play out of doors as much as you like. It's a big place
and you may go where you like and amuse yourself as you like.
Is there anything you want?" as if a sudden thought had
struck him. "Do you want toys, books, dolls?"

"Might I," quavered Mary, "might I have a bit of earth?"

In her eagerness she did not realize how queer the words
would sound and that they were not the ones she had meant
to say. Mr. Craven looked quite startled.

"Earth!" he repeated. "What do you mean?"

"To plant seeds in--to make things grow--to see them
come alive," Mary faltered.

He gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quickly
over his eyes.

"Do you--care about gardens so much," he said slowly.

"I didn't know about them in India," said Mary. "I was
always ill and tired and it was too hot. I sometimes
made littlebeds 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 some one else who loved the earth and
things that grow. When you see a bit of earth you want,"
with something like a smile, "take it, child, and make it
come alive."

"May I take it from anywhere--if it's not wanted?"

"Anywhere," he answered. "There! You must go now,
I am tired." He touched the bell to call Mrs. Medlock.
"Good-by. I shall be away all summer."

Mrs. Medlock came so quickly that Mary thought she must
have been waiting in the corridor.

"Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Craven said to her, "now I have
seen the child I understand what Mrs. Sowerby meant.
She must be less delicate before she begins lessons.
Give her simple, healthy food. Let her run wild in
the garden. Don't look after her too much. She needs
liberty and fresh air and romping about. Mrs. Sowerby
is to come and see her now and then and she may sometimes
go to the cottage."

Mrs. Medlock looked pleased. She was relieved to
hear that she need not "look after" Mary too much.
She had felt her a tiresome charge and had indeed seen
as little of her as she dared. In addition to this
she was fond of Martha's mother.

"Thank you, sir," she said. "Susan Sowerby and me went to
school together and she's as sensible and good-hearted a woman
as you'd find in a day's walk. I never had any children
myself and she's had twelve, and there never was healthier
or better ones. Miss Mary can get no harm from them.
I'd always take Susan Sowerby's advice about children myself.
She's what you might call healthy-minded--if you understand me."

"I understand," Mr. Craven answered. "Take Miss Mary
away now and send Pitcher to me."

When Mrs. Medlock left her at the end of her own corridor
Mary flew back to her room. She found Martha waiting there.
Martha had, in fact, hurried back after she had removed
the dinner service.

"I can have my garden!" cried Mary. "I may have it
where I like! I am not going to have a governess
for a long time! Your mother is coming to see me
and I may go to your cottage! He says a little girl
like me could not do any harm and I may do what I like--anywhere!"

"Eh!" said Martha delightedly, "that was nice of him
wasn't it?"

"Martha," said Mary solemnly, "he is really a nice man,
only his face is so miserable and his forehead is all
drawn together."

She ran as quickly as she could to the garden. She had
been away so much longer than she had thought she should
and she knew Dickon would have to set out early on his
five-mile walk. When she slipped through the door under
the ivy, she saw he was not working where she had left him.
The gardening tools were laid together under a tree.
She ran to them, looking all round the place, but there
was no Dickon to be seen. He had gone away and the secret
garden was empty--except for the robin who had just flown
across the wall and sat on a standard rose-bush watching her.
"He's gone," she said woefully. "Oh! was he--was he--was
he only a wood fairy?"

Something white fastened to the standard rose-bush caught
her eye. It was a piece of paper, in fact, it was a
piece of the letter she had printed for Martha to send
to Dickon. It was fastened on the bush with a long thorn,
and in a minute she knew Dickon had left it there.
There were some roughly printed letters on it and a sort
of picture. At first she could not tell what it was.
Then she saw it was meant for a nest with a bird sitting
on it. Underneath were the printed letters and they
said:

"I will cum bak."

CHAPTER XIII

"I AM COLIN"

Mary took the picture back to the house when she went
to her supper and she showed it to Martha.

"Eh!" said Martha with great pride. "I never knew our
Dickon was as clever as that. That there's a picture
of a missel thrush on her nest, as large as life an'
twice as natural."

Then Mary knew Dickon had meant the picture to be a message.
He had meant that she might be sure he would keep her secret.
Her garden was her nest and she was like a missel thrush.
Oh, how she did like that queer, common boy!

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