The Secret Garden
after he had paused he started and listened—asking himself if he were
walking in a dream.
The ivy hung thick over the door, the key was buried under the shrubs,
no human being had passed that portal for ten lonely years—and yet
inside the garden there were sounds. They were the sounds of running
scuffling feet seeming to chase round and round under the trees, they
were strange sounds of lowered suppressed voices—exclamations and
smothered joyous cries. It seemed actually like the laughter of young
things, the uncontrollable laughter of children who were trying not to
be heard but who in a moment or so—as their excitement mounted—would
burst forth. What in heaven’s name was he dreaming of—what in heaven’s
name did he hear? Was he losing his reason and thinking he heard things
which were not for human ears? Was it that the far clear voice had
meant?
And then the moment came, the uncontrollable moment when the sounds
forgot to hush themselves. The feet ran faster and faster—they were
nearing the garden door—there was quick strong young breathing and a
wild outbreak of laughing shouts which could not be contained—and the
door in the wall was flung wide open, the sheet of ivy swinging back,
and a boy burst through it at full speed and, without seeing the
outsider, dashed almost into his arms.
Mr. Craven had extended them just in time to save him from falling as a
result of his unseeing dash against him, and when he held him away to
look at him in amazement at his being there he truly gasped for breath.
He was a tall boy and a handsome one. He was glowing with life and his
running had sent splendid color leaping to his face. He threw the thick
hair back from his forehead and lifted a pair of strange gray eyes—eyes
full of boyish laughter and rimmed with black lashes like a fringe. It
was the eyes which made Mr. Craven gasp for breath.
“Who—What? Who!” he stammered.
This was not what Colin had expected—this was not what he had planned.
He had never thought of such a meeting. And yet to come dashing
out—winning a race—perhaps it was even better. He drew himself up to
his very tallest. Mary, who had been running with him and had dashed
through the door too, believed that he managed to make himself look
taller than he had ever looked before—inches taller.
“Father,” he said, “I’m Colin. You can’t believe it. I scarcely can
myself. I’m Colin.”
Like Mrs. Medlock, he did not understand what his father meant when he
said hurriedly:
“In the garden! In the garden!”
“Yes,” hurried on Colin. “It was the garden that did it—and Mary and
Dickon and the creatures—and the Magic. No one knows. We kept it to
tell you when you came. I’m well, I can beat Mary in a race. I’m going
to be an athlete.”
He said it all so like a healthy boy—his face flushed, his words
tumbling over each other in his eagerness—that Mr. Craven’s soul shook
with unbelieving joy.
Colin put out his hand and laid it on his father’s arm.
“Aren’t you glad, Father?” he ended. “Aren’t you glad? I’m going to
live forever and ever and ever!”
Mr. Craven put his hands on both the boy’s shoulders and held him
still. He knew he dared not even try to speak for a moment.
“Take me into the garden, my boy,” he said at last. “And tell me all
about it.”
And so they led him in.
The place was a wilderness of autumn gold and purple and violet blue
and flaming scarlet and on every side were sheaves of late lilies
standing together—lilies which were white or white and ruby. He
remembered well when the first of them had been planted that just at
this season of the year their late glories should reveal themselves.
Late roses climbed and hung and clustered and the sunshine deepening
the hue of the yellowing trees made one feel that one, stood in an
embowered temple of gold. The newcomer stood silent just as the
children had done when they came into its grayness. He looked round and
round.
“I thought it would be dead,” he said.
“Mary thought so at first,” said Colin. “But it came alive.”
Then they sat down under their tree—all but Colin, who wanted to stand
while he told the story.
It was the strangest thing he had ever heard, Archibald Craven thought,
as it was poured forth in headlong boy fashion. Mystery and Magic and
wild creatures, the weird midnight meeting—the coming of the spring—the
passion of insulted pride which had dragged the young Rajah to his feet
to defy old Ben Weatherstaff to his face. The odd companionship, the
play acting, the great secret so carefully kept. The listener laughed
until tears came into his eyes and sometimes tears came into his eyes
when he was not laughing. The Athlete, the Lecturer, the Scientific
Discoverer was a laughable, lovable, healthy young human thing.
“Now,” he said at the end of the story, “it need not be a secret any
more. I dare say it will frighten them nearly into fits when they see
me—but I am never going to get into the chair again. I shall walk back
with you, Father—to the house.”
Ben Weatherstaff’s duties rarely took him away from the gardens, but on
this occasion he made an excuse to carry some vegetables to the kitchen
and being invited into the servants’ hall by Mrs. Medlock to drink a
glass of beer he was on the spot—as he had hoped to be—when the most
dramatic event Misselthwaite Manor had seen during the present
generation actually took place.
One of the windows looking upon the courtyard gave also a glimpse of
the lawn. Mrs. Medlock, knowing Ben had come from the gardens, hoped
that he might have caught sight of his master and even by chance of his
meeting with Master Colin.
“Did you see either of them, Weatherstaff?” she asked.
Ben took his beer-mug from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back
of his hand.
“Aye, that I did,” he answered with a shrewdly significant air.
“Both of them?” suggested Mrs. Medlock.
“Both of ’em,” returned Ben Weatherstaff. “Thank ye kindly, ma’am, I
could sup up another mug of it.”
“Together?” said Mrs. Medlock, hastily overfilling his beer-mug in her
excitement.
“Together, ma’am,” and Ben gulped down half of his new mug at one gulp.
“Where was Master Colin? How did he look? What did they say to each
other?”
“I didna’ hear that,” said Ben, “along o’ only bein’ on th’ stepladder
lookin over th’ wall. But I’ll tell thee this. There’s been things
goin’ on outside as you house people knows nowt about. An’ what tha’ll
find out tha’ll find out soon.”
And it was not two minutes before he swallowed the last of his beer and
waved his mug solemnly toward the window which took in through the
shrubbery a piece of the lawn.
“Look there,” he said, “if tha’s curious. Look what’s comin’ across th’
grass.”
When Mrs. Medlock looked she threw up her hands and gave a little
shriek and every man and woman servant within hearing bolted across the
servants’ hall and stood looking through the window with their eyes
almost starting out of their heads.
Across the lawn came the Master of Misselthwaite and he looked as many
of them had never seen him. And by his side with his head up in the air
and his eyes full of laughter walked as strongly and steadily as any
boy in Yorkshire—Master Colin!
THE END