The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett

T >> the end of the year but we >> The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett

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"Is Colin a hunchback?" Mary asked. "He didn't look
like one."

"He isn't yet," said Martha. "But he began all wrong.
Mother said that there was enough trouble and raging in th'
house to set any child wrong. They was afraid his back
was weak an' they've always been takin' care of it--keepin'
him lyin' down and not lettin' him walk. Once they made
him wear a brace but he fretted so he was downright ill.
Then a big doctor came to see him an' made them take it off.
He talked to th' other doctor quite rough--in a polite way.
He said there'd been too much medicine and too much lettin'
him have his own way."

"I think he's a very spoiled boy," said Mary.

"He's th' worst young nowt as ever was!" said Martha.
"I won't say as he hasn't been ill a good bit.
He's had coughs an' colds that's nearly killed him two
or three times. Once he had rheumatic fever an' once he
had typhoid. Eh! Mrs. Medlock did get a fright then.
He'd been out of his head an' she was talkin' to th'
nurse, thinkin' he didn't know nothin', an' she said,
`He'll die this time sure enough, an' best thing for him an'
for everybody.' An' she looked at him an' there he
was with his big eyes open, starin' at her as sensible
as she was herself. She didn't know wha'd happen but he
just stared at her an' says, `You give me some water an'
stop talkin'.'"

"Do you think he will die?" asked Mary.

"Mother says there's no reason why any child should live
that gets no fresh air an' doesn't do nothin' but lie
on his back an' read picture-books an' take medicine.
He's weak and hates th' trouble o' bein' taken out o'
doors, an' he gets cold so easy he says it makes him ill."

Mary sat and looked at the fire. "I wonder," she said slowly,
"if it would not do him good to go out into a garden
and watch things growing. It did me good."

"One of th' worst fits he ever had," said Martha, "was one
time they took him out where the roses is by the fountain.
He'd been readin' in a paper about people gettin'
somethin' he called `rose cold' an' he began to sneeze an'
said he'd got it an' then a new gardener as didn't
know th' rules passed by an' looked at him curious.
He threw himself into a passion an' he said he'd
looked at him because he was going to be a hunchback.
He cried himself into a fever an' was ill all night."

"If he ever gets angry at me, I'll never go and see
him again," said Mary.

"He'll have thee if he wants thee," said Martha.
"Tha' may as well know that at th' start."

Very soon afterward a bell rang and she rolled up
her knitting.

"I dare say th' nurse wants me to stay with him a bit,"
she said. "I hope he's in a good temper."

She was out of the room about ten minutes and then she
came back with a puzzled expression.

"Well, tha' has bewitched him," she said. "He's up on his
sofa with his picture-books. He's told the nurse to stay
away until six o'clock. I'm to wait in the next room.
Th' minute she was gone he called me to him an' says, `I want
Mary Lennox to come and talk to me, and remember you're
not to tell any one.' You'd better go as quick as you can."

Mary was quite willing to go quickly. She did not want
to see Colin as much as she wanted to see Dickon;
but she wanted to see him very much.

There was a bright fire on the hearth when she entered
his room, and in the daylight she saw it was a very
beautiful room indeed. There were rich colors in the
rugs and hangings and pictures and books on the walls
which made it look glowing and comfortable even in spite
of the gray sky and falling rain. Colin looked rather
like a picture himself. He was wrapped in a velvet
dressing-gown and sat against a big brocaded cushion.
He had a red spot on each cheek.

"Come in," he said. "I've been thinking about you
all morning."

"I've been thinking about you, too," answered Mary.
"You don't know how frightened Martha is. She says
Mrs. Medlock will think she told me about you and then she
will be sent away."

He frowned.

"Go and tell her to come here," he said. "She is
in the next room."

Mary went and brought her back. Poor Martha was shaking
in her shoes. Colin was still frowning.

"Have you to do what I please or have you not?" he demanded.

"I have to do what you please, sir," Martha faltered,
turning quite red.

"Has Medlock to do what I please?"

"Everybody has, sir," said Martha.

"Well, then, if I order you to bring Miss Mary to me,
how can Medlock send you away if she finds it out?"

"Please don't let her, sir," pleaded Martha.

"I'll send her away if she dares to say a word about such
a thing," said Master Craven grandly. "She wouldn't
like that, I can tell you."

"Thank you, sir," bobbing a curtsy, "I want to do my duty, sir."

"What I want is your duty" said Colin more grandly still.
"I'll take care of you. Now go away."

When the door closed behind Martha, Colin found Mistress
Mary gazing at him as if he had set her wondering.

"Why do you look at me like that?" he asked her.
"What are you thinking about?"

"I am thinking about two things."

"What are they? Sit down and tell me."

"This is the first one," said Mary, seating herself on the
big stool. "Once in India I 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 any one 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. "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 he 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
any one find it out? The grand doctor had said that he must
have fresh air and Colin had said that he would not mind
fresh air in a secret garden. Perhaps if he had a great
deal of fresh air and knew Dickon and the robin and saw
things growing he might not think so much about dying.
Mary had seen herself in the glass sometimes lately when she
had realized that she looked quite a different creature
from the child she had seen when she arrived from India.
This child looked nicer. Even Martha had seen a change
in her.

"Th' air from th' moor has done thee good already,"
she had said. "Tha'rt not nigh so yeller and tha'rt not
nigh so scrawny. Even tha' hair doesn't slamp down on tha'
head so flat. It's got some life in it so as it sticks
out a bit."

"It's like me," said Mary. "It's growing stronger
and fatter. I'm sure there's more of it."

"It looks it, for sure," said Martha, ruffling it up
a little round her face. "Tha'rt not half so ugly when
it's that way an' there's a bit o' red in tha' cheeks."

If gardens and fresh air had been good for her perhaps they
would be good for Colin. But then, if he hated people
to look at him, perhaps he would not like to see Dickon.

"Why does it make you angry when you are looked at?"
she inquired one day.

"I always hated it," he answered, "even when I was very little.
Then when they took me to the seaside and I used to lie
in my carriage everybody used to stare and ladies would
stop and talk to my nurse and then they would begin to
whisper and I knew then they were saying I shouldn't live
to grow up. Then sometimes the ladies would pat my cheeks
and say `Poor child!' Once when a lady did that I screamed
out loud and bit her hand. She was so frightened she ran away."

"She thought you had gone mad like a dog," said Mary,
not at all admiringly.

"I don't care what she thought," said Colin, frowning.

"I wonder why you didn't scream and bite me when I came
into your room?" said Mary. Then she began to smile slowly.

"I thought you were a ghost or a dream," he said.
"You can't bite a ghost or a dream, and if you scream they
don't care."

"Would you hate it if--if a boy looked at you?"
Mary asked uncertainly.

He lay back on his cushion and paused thoughtfully.

"There's one boy," he said quite slowly, as if he were thinking
over every word, "there's one boy I believe I shouldn't mind.
It's that boy who knows where the foxes live--Dickon."

"I'm sure you wouldn't mind him," said Mary.

"The birds don't and other animals," he said, still thinking
it over, "perhaps that's why I shouldn't. He's a sort
of animal charmer and I am a boy animal."

Then he laughed and she laughed too; in fact it ended
in their both laughing a great deal and finding the idea
of a boy animal hiding in his hole very funny indeed.

What Mary felt afterward was that she need not fear
about Dickon.

On that first morning when the sky was blue again Mary wakened
very early. The sun was pouring in slanting rays through
the blinds and there was something so joyous in the sight
of it that she jumped out of bed and ran to the window.
She drew up the blinds and opened the window itself
and a great waft of fresh, scented air blew in upon her.
The moor was blue and the whole world looked as if something
Magic had happened to it. There were tender little
fluting sounds here and there and everywhere, as if scores
of birds were beginning to tune up for a concert.
Mary put her hand out of the window and held it in the sun.

"It's warm--warm!" she said. "It will make the green
points push up and up and up, and it will make the bulbs
and roots work and struggle with all their might under
the earth."

She kneeled down and leaned out of the window as far
as she could, breathing big breaths and sniffing the air
until she laughed because she remembered what Dickon's
mother had said about the end of his nose quivering
like a rabbit's. "It must be very early," she said.
"The little clouds are all pink and I've never seen
the sky look like this. No one is up. I don't even hear
the stable boys."

A sudden thought made her scramble to her feet.

"I can't wait! I am going to see the garden!"

She had learned to dress herself by this time and she put
on her clothes in five minutes. She knew a small side door
which she could unbolt herself and she flew downstairs
in her stocking feet and put on her shoes in the hall.
She unchained and unbolted and unlocked and when the door
was open she sprang across the step with one bound,
and there she was standing on the grass, which seemed
to have turned green, and with the sun pouring down on
her and warm sweet wafts about her and the fluting and
twittering and singing coming from every bush and tree.
She clasped her hands for pure joy and looked up in the sky
and it was so blue and pink and pearly and white and flooded
with springtime light that she felt as if she must flute
and sing aloud herself and knew that thrushes and robins
and skylarks could not possibly help it. She ran around
the shrubs and paths towards the secret garden.

"It is all different already," she said. "The grass is
greener and things are sticking up every- where 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!"

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