The Secret Garden
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