The Secret Garden
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.