The Secret Garden
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.