Mary ran so fast that she was rather out of breath when she
reached her room. Her hair was ruffled on her forehead
and her cheeks were bright pink. Her dinner was waiting
on the table, and Martha was waiting near it.
"Tha's a bit late," she said. "Where has tha' been?"
"I've seen Dickon!" said Mary. "I've seen Dickon!"
"I knew he'd come," said Martha exultantly. "How does tha'
like him?"
"I think--I think he's beautiful!" said Mary in a determined
voice.
Martha looked rather taken aback but she looked pleased, too.
"Well," she said, "he's th' best lad as ever was born,
but us never thought he was handsome. His nose turns up
too much."
"I like it to turn up," said Mary.
"An' his eyes is so round," said Martha, a trifle doubtful.
"Though they're a nice color." "I like them round,"
said Mary. "And they are exactly the color of the sky
over the moor."
Martha beamed with satisfaction.
"Mother says he made 'em that color with always lookin'
up at th' birds an' th' clouds. But he has got a big mouth,
hasn't he, now?"
"I love his big mouth," said Mary obstinately. "I wish
mine were just like it."
Martha chuckled delightedly.
"It'd look rare an' funny in thy bit of a face," she said.
"But I knowed it would be that way when tha' saw him.
How did tha' like th' seeds an' th' garden tools?"
"How did you know he brought them?" asked Mary.
"Eh! I never thought of him not bringin' 'em. He'd
be sure to bring 'em if they was in Yorkshire.
He's such a trusty lad."
Mary was afraid that she might begin to ask
difficult questions, but she did not. She was very
much interested in the seeds and gardening tools,
and there was only one moment when Mary was frightened.
This was when she began to ask where the flowers were to be
planted.
"Who did tha' ask about it?" she inquired.
"I haven't asked anybody yet," said Mary, hesitating.
"Well, I wouldn't ask th' head gardener. He's too grand,
Mr. Roach is."
"I've never seen him," said Mary. "I've only seen
undergardeners and Ben Weatherstaff."
"If I was you, I'd ask Ben Weatherstaff," advised Martha.
"He's not half as bad as he looks, for all he's so crabbed.
Mr. Craven lets him do what he likes because he was here
when Mrs. Craven was alive, an' he used to make her laugh.
She liked him. Perhaps he'd find you a corner somewhere out o'
the way."
"If it was out of the way and no one wanted it, no one
could mind my having it, could they?" Mary said anxiously.
"There wouldn't be no reason," answered Martha.
"You wouldn't do no harm."
Mary ate her dinner as quickly as she could and when she
rose from the table she was going to run to her room
to put on her hat again, but Martha stopped her.
"I've got somethin' to tell you," she said. "I thought
I'd let you eat your dinner first. Mr. Craven came back
this mornin' and I think he wants to see you."
Mary turned quite pale.
"Oh!" she said. "Why! Why! He didn't want to see me when I came.
I heard Pitcher say he didn't." "Well," explained Martha,
"Mrs. Medlock says it's because o' mother. She was walkin'
to Thwaite village an' she met him. She'd never spoke
to him before, but Mrs. Craven had been to our cottage
two or three times. He'd forgot, but mother hadn't an'
she made bold to stop him. I don't know what she said
to him about you but she said somethin' as put him in th'
mind to see you before he goes away again, tomorrow."
"Oh!" cried Mary, "is he going away tomorrow? I am so glad!"
"He's goin' for a long time. He mayn't come back till
autumn or winter. He's goin' to travel in foreign places.
He's always doin' it."
"Oh! I'm so glad--so glad!" said Mary thankfully.
If he did not come back until winter, or even autumn,
there would be time to watch the secret garden come alive.
Even if he found out then and took it away from her she
would have had that much at least.
"When do you think he will want to see--"
She did not finish the sentence, because the door opened,
and Mrs. Medlock walked in. She had on her best black
dress and cap, and her collar was fastened with a
large brooch with a picture of a man's face on it.
It was a colored photograph of Mr. Medlock who had died
years ago, and she always wore it when she was dressed up.
She looked nervous and excited.
"Your hair's rough," she said quickly. "Go and
brush it. Martha, help her to slip on her best dress.
Mr. Craven sent me to bring her to him in his study."
All the pink left Mary's cheeks. Her heart began to
thump and she felt herself changing into a stiff, plain,
silent child again. She did not even answer Mrs. Medlock,
but turned and walked into her bedroom, followed by Martha.
She said nothing while her dress was changed, and her
hair brushed, and after she was quite tidy she followed
Mrs. Medlock down the corridors, in silence. What was there
for her to say? She was obliged to go and see Mr. Craven
and he would not like her, and she would not like him.
She knew what he would think of her.
She was taken to a part of the house she had not been
into before. At last Mrs. Medlock knocked at a door,
and when some one said, "Come in," they entered the
room together. A man was sitting in an armchair before
the fire, and Mrs. Medlock spoke to him.
"This is Miss Mary, sir," she said.
"You can go and leave her here. I will ring for you
when I want you to take her away," said Mr. Craven.
When she went out and closed the door, Mary could only
stand waiting, a plain little thing, twisting her thin
hands together. She could see that the man in the
chair was not so much a hunchback as a man with high,
rather crooked shoulders, and he had black hair streaked
with white. He turned his head over his high shoulders
and spoke to her.
"Come here!" he said.
Mary went to him.
He was not ugly. His face would have been handsome if it
had not been so miserable. He looked as if the sight
of her worried and fretted him and as if he did not know
what in the world to do with her.
"Are you well?" he asked.
"Yes," answered Mary.
"Do they take good care of you?"
"Yes."
He rubbed his forehead fretfully as he looked her over.
"You are very thin," he said.
"I am getting fatter," Mary answered in what she knew
was her stiffest way.
What an unhappy face he had! His black eyes seemed as if they
scarcely saw her, as if they were seeing something else,
and he could hardly keep his thoughts upon her.
"I forgot you," he said. "How could I remember you? I
intended to send you a governess or a nurse, or some
one of that sort, but I forgot."
"Please," began Mary. "Please--" and then the lump
in her throat choked her.
"What do you want to say?" he inquired.
"I am--I am too big for a nurse," said Mary.
"And please--please don't make me have a governess yet."
He rubbed his forehead again and stared at her.
"That was what the Sowerby woman said," he muttered
absentmindedly.
Then Mary gathered a scrap of courage.
"Is she--is she Martha's mother?" she stammered.
"Yes, I think so," he replied.
"She knows about children," said Mary. "She has twelve.
She knows."
He seemed to rouse himself.
"What do you want to do?"
"I want to play out of doors," Mary answered, hoping that
her voice did not tremble. "I never liked it in India.
It makes me hungry here, and I am getting fatter."
He was watching her.
"Mrs. Sowerby said it would do you good. Perhaps it will,"
he said. "She thought you had better get stronger before
you had a governess."
"It makes me feel strong when I play and the wind comes
over the moor," argued Mary.
"Where do you play?" he asked next.
"Everywhere," gasped Mary. "Martha's mother sent me
a skipping-rope. I skip and run--and I look about to see
if things are beginning to stick up out of the earth.
I don't do any harm."
"Don't look so frightened," he said in a worried voice.
"You could not do any harm, a child like you! You may do
what you like."
Mary put her hand up to her throat because she was afraid
he might see the excited lump which she felt jump into it.
She came a step nearer to him.
"May I?" she said tremulously.
Her anxious little face seemed to worry him more than ever.
"Don't look so frightened," he exclaimed. "Of course you may.
I am your guardian, though I am a poor one for any child.
I cannot give you time or attention. I am too ill,
and wretched and distracted; but I wish you to be happy
and comfortable. I don't know anything about children,
but Mrs. Medlock is to see that you have all you need.
I sent for you to-day because Mrs. Sowerby said I
ought to see you. Her daughter had talked about you.
She thought you needed fresh air and freedom and running
about."
"She knows all about children," Mary said again in spite
of herself.
"She ought to," said Mr. Craven. "I thought her rather
bold to stop me on the moor, but she said--Mrs. Craven
had been kind to her." It seemed hard for him to speak
his dead wife's name. "She is a respectable woman.
Now I have seen you I think she said sensible things.
Play out of doors as much as you like. It's a big place
and you may go where you like and amuse yourself as you like.
Is there anything you want?" as if a sudden thought had
struck him. "Do you want toys, books, dolls?"
"Might I," quavered Mary, "might I have a bit of earth?"
In her eagerness she did not realize how queer the words
would sound and that they were not the ones she had meant
to say. Mr. Craven looked quite startled.
"Earth!" he repeated. "What do you mean?"
"To plant seeds in--to make things grow--to see them
come alive," Mary faltered.
He gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quickly
over his eyes.
"Do you--care about gardens so much," he said slowly.
"I didn't know about them in India," said Mary. "I was
always ill and tired and it was too hot. I sometimes
made littlebeds in the sand and stuck flowers in them.
But here it is different."
Mr. Craven got up and began to walk slowly across the room.
"A bit of earth," he said to himself, and Mary thought
that somehow she must have reminded him of something.
When he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almost
soft and kind.
"You can have as much earth as you want," he said.
"You remind me of some one else who loved the earth and
things that grow. When you see a bit of earth you want,"
with something like a smile, "take it, child, and make it
come alive."
"May I take it from anywhere--if it's not wanted?"
"Anywhere," he answered. "There! You must go now,
I am tired." He touched the bell to call Mrs. Medlock.
"Good-by. I shall be away all summer."
Mrs. Medlock came so quickly that Mary thought she must
have been waiting in the corridor.
"Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Craven said to her, "now I have
seen the child I understand what Mrs. Sowerby meant.
She must be less delicate before she begins lessons.
Give her simple, healthy food. Let her run wild in
the garden. Don't look after her too much. She needs
liberty and fresh air and romping about. Mrs. Sowerby
is to come and see her now and then and she may sometimes
go to the cottage."
Mrs. Medlock looked pleased. She was relieved to
hear that she need not "look after" Mary too much.
She had felt her a tiresome charge and had indeed seen
as little of her as she dared. In addition to this
she was fond of Martha's mother.
"Thank you, sir," she said. "Susan Sowerby and me went to
school together and she's as sensible and good-hearted a woman
as you'd find in a day's walk. I never had any children
myself and she's had twelve, and there never was healthier
or better ones. Miss Mary can get no harm from them.
I'd always take Susan Sowerby's advice about children myself.
She's what you might call healthy-minded--if you understand me."
"I understand," Mr. Craven answered. "Take Miss Mary
away now and send Pitcher to me."
When Mrs. Medlock left her at the end of her own corridor
Mary flew back to her room. She found Martha waiting there.
Martha had, in fact, hurried back after she had removed
the dinner service.
"I can have my garden!" cried Mary. "I may have it
where I like! I am not going to have a governess
for a long time! Your mother is coming to see me
and I may go to your cottage! He says a little girl
like me could not do any harm and I may do what I
like--anywhere!"
"Eh!" said Martha delightedly, "that was nice of him
wasn't it?"
"Martha," said Mary solemnly, "he is really a nice man,
only his face is so miserable and his forehead is all
drawn together."
She ran as quickly as she could to the garden. She had
been away so much longer than she had thought she should
and she knew Dickon would have to set out early on his
five-mile walk. When she slipped through the door under
the ivy, she saw he was not working where she had left him.
The gardening tools were laid together under a tree.
She ran to them, looking all round the place, but there
was no Dickon to be seen. He had gone away and the secret
garden was empty--except for the robin who had just flown
across the wall and sat on a standard rose-bush watching her.
"He's gone," she said woefully. "Oh! was he--was he--was
he only a wood fairy?"
Something white fastened to the standard rose-bush caught
her eye. It was a piece of paper, in fact, it was a
piece of the letter she had printed for Martha to send
to Dickon. It was fastened on the bush with a long thorn,
and in a minute she knew Dickon had left it there.
There were some roughly printed letters on it and a sort
of picture. At first she could not tell what it was.
Then she saw it was meant for a nest with a bird sitting
on it. Underneath were the printed letters and they
said:
"I will cum bak."
CHAPTER XIII
"I AM COLIN"
Mary took the picture back to the house when she went
to her supper and she showed it to Martha.
"Eh!" said Martha with great pride. "I never knew our
Dickon was as clever as that. That there's a picture
of a missel thrush on her nest, as large as life an'
twice as natural."
Then Mary knew Dickon had meant the picture to be a message.
He had meant that she might be sure he would keep her secret.
Her garden was her nest and she was like a missel thrush.
Oh, how she did like that queer, common boy!
She hoped he would come back the very next day and she
fell asleep looking forward to the morning.
But you never know what the weather will do in Yorkshire,
particularly in the springtime. She was awakened in
the night by the sound of rain beating with heavy drops
against her window. It was pouring down in torrents
and the wind was "wuthering" round the corners and in
the chimneys of the huge old house. Mary sat up in bed
and felt miserable and angry.
"The rain is as contrary as I ever was," she said.
"It came because it knew I did not want it."
She threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face.
She did not cry, but she lay and hated the sound of the
heavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its "wuthering."
She could not go to sleep again. The mournful sound kept
her awake because she felt mournful herself. If she had
felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep.
How it "wuthered" and how the big raindrops poured down
and beat against the pane!
"It sounds just like a person lost on the moor
and wandering on and on crying," she said.
She had been lying awake turning from side to side
for about an hour, when suddenly something made her sit
up in bed and turn her head toward the door listening.
She listened and she listened.
"It isn't the wind now," she said in a loud whisper.
"That isn't the wind. It is different. It is that crying I
heard before."
The door of her room was ajar and the sound came down
the corridor, a far-off faint sound of fretful crying.
She listened for a few minutes and each minute she became
more and more sure. She felt as if she must find out
what it was. It seemed even stranger than the secret
garden and the buried key. Perhaps the fact that she
was in a rebellious mood made her bold. She put her foot
out of bed and stood on the floor.
"I am going to find out what it is," she said. "Everybody is
in bed and I don't care about Mrs. Medlock--I don't care!"
There was a candle by her bedside and she took it up
and went softly out of the room. The corridor looked
very long and dark, but she was too excited to mind that.
She thought she remembered the corners she must turn
to find the short corridor with the door covered with
tapestry--the one Mrs. Medlock had come through the day
she lost herself. The sound had come up that passage.
So she went on with her dim light, almost feeling her way,
her heart beating so loud that she fancied she could
hear it. The far-off faint crying went on and led her.
Sometimes it stopped for a moment or so and then began again.
Was this the right corner to turn? She stopped and thought.
Yes it was. Down this passage and then to the left,
and then up two broad steps, and then to the right again.
Yes, there was the tapestry door.
She pushed it open very gently and closed it behind her,
and she stood in the corridor and could hear the crying
quite plainly, though it was not loud. It was on the other
side of the wall at her left and a few yards farther on
there was a door. She could see a glimmer of light coming
from beneath it. The Someone was crying in that room,
and it was quite a young Someone.
So she walked to the door and pushed it open, and there
she was standing in the room!
It was a big room with ancient, handsome furniture in it.
There was a low fire glowing faintly on the hearth and a
night light burning by the side of a carved four-posted
bed hung with brocade, and on the bed was lying a boy,
crying fretfully.
Mary wondered if she was in a real place or if she had
fallen asleep again and was dreaming without knowing it.
The boy had a sharp, delicate face the color of ivory
and he seemed to have eyes too big for it. He had
also a lot of hair which tumbled over his forehead
in heavy locks and made his thin face seem smaller.
He looked like a boy who had been ill, but he was crying
more as if he were tired and cross than as if he were in pain.
Mary stood near the door with her candle in her hand,
holding her breath. Then she crept across the room, and,
as she drew nearer, the light attracted the boy's attention
and he turned his head on his pillow and stared at her,
his gray eyes opening so wide that they seemed immense.
"Who are you?" he said at last in a half-frightened whisper.
"Are you a ghost?"
"No, I am not," Mary answered, her own whisper sounding
half frightened. "Are you one?"
He stared and stared and stared. Mary could not help
noticing what strange eyes he had. They were agate
gray and they looked too big for his face because they
had black lashes all round them.
"No," he replied after waiting a moment or so.
"I am Colin."
"Who is Colin?" she faltered.
"I am Colin Craven. Who are you?"
"I am Mary Lennox. Mr. Craven is my uncle."
"He is my father," said the boy.
"Your father!" gasped Mary. "No one ever told me he
had a boy! Why didn't they?"
"Come here," he said, still keeping his strange eyes
fixed on her with an anxious expression.
She came close to the bed and he put out his hand
and touched her.
"You are real, aren't you?" he said. "I have such real
dreams very often. You might be one of them."
Mary had slipped on a woolen wrapper before she left
her room and she put a piece of it between his fingers.
"Rub that and see how thick and warm it is," she said.
"I will pinch you a little if you like, to show you how real
I am. For a minute I thought you might be a dream too."
"Where did you come from?" he asked.
"From my own room. The wind wuthered so I couldn't go
to sleep and I heard some one crying and wanted to find
out who it was. What were you crying for?"
"Because I couldn't go to sleep either and my head ached.
Tell me your name again."
"Mary Lennox. Did no one ever tell you I had come
to live here?"
He was still fingering the fold of her wrapper, but he
began to look a little more as if he believed in her reality.
"No," he answered. "They daren't."
"Why?" asked Mary.
"Because I should have been afraid you would see me.
I won't let people see me and talk me over."
"Why?" Mary asked again, feeling more mystified every moment.
"Because I am like this always, ill and having to lie down.
My father won't let people talk me over either.
The servants are not allowed to speak about me.
If I live I may be a hunchback, but I shan't live.
My father hates to think I may be like him."
"Oh, what a queer house this is!" Mary said.
"What a queer house! Everything is a kind of secret.
Rooms are locked up and gardens are locked up--and you!
Have you been locked up?"
"No. I stay in this room because I don't want to be moved
out of it. It tires me too much."
"Does your father come and see you?" Mary ventured.
"Sometimes. Generally when I am asleep. He doesn't want
to see me."
"Why?" Mary could not help asking again.
A sort of angry shadow passed over the boy's face.
"My mother died when I was born and it makes him wretched
to look at me. He thinks I don't know, but I've heard
people talking. He almost hates me."
"He hates the garden, because she died," said Mary half
speaking to herself.
"What garden?" the boy asked.
"Oh! just--just a garden she used to like," Mary stammered.
"Have you been here always?" "Nearly always. Sometimes I
have been taken to places at the seaside, but I won't
stay because people stare at me. I used to wear an iron
thing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor came
from London to see me and said it was stupid. He told
them to take it off and keep me out in the fresh air.
I hate fresh air and I don't want to go out."
"I didn't when first I came here," said Mary. "Why do
you keep looking at me like that?"
"Because of the dreams that are so real," he answered
rather fretfully. "Sometimes when I open my eyes I don't
believe I'm awake."
"We're both awake," said Mary. She glanced round the room
with its high ceiling and shadowy corners and dim fire-light.
"It looks quite like a dream, and it's the middle of the night,
and everybody in the house is asleep--everybody but us.
We are wide awake."
"I don't want it to be a dream," the boy said restlessly.
Mary thought of something all at once.
"If you don't like people to see you," she began,
"do you want me to go away?"
He still held the fold of her wrapper and he gave it
a little pull.
"No," he said. "I should be sure you were a dream if you went.
If you are real, sit down on that big footstool and talk.
I want to hear about you."
Mary put down her candle on the table near the bed
and sat down on the cushioned stool. She did not want
to go away at all. She wanted to stay in the mysterious
hidden-away room and talk to the mysterious boy.
"What do you want me to tell you?" she said.
He wanted to know how long she had been at Misselthwaite;
he wanted to know which corridor her room was on; he wanted
to know what she had been doing; if she disliked the moor
as he disliked it; where she had lived before she came
to Yorkshire. She answered all these questions and many
more and he lay back on his pillow and listened. He made
her tell him a great deal about India and about her voyage
across the ocean. She found out that because he had been
an invalid he had not learned things as other children had.
One of his nurses had taught him to read when he was quite
little and he was always reading and looking at pictures
in splendid books.
Though his father rarely saw him when he was awake, he was
given all sorts of wonderful things to amuse himself with.
He never seemed to have been amused, however. He could have
anything he asked for and was never made to do anything he did
not like to do. "Everyone is obliged to do what pleases me,"
he said indifferently. "It makes me ill to be angry.
No one believes I shall live to grow up."
He said it as if he was so accustomed to the idea that it
had ceased to matter to him at all. He seemed to like
the sound of Mary's voice. As she went on talking he
listened in a drowsy, interested way. Once or twice she
wondered if he were not gradually falling into a doze.
But at last he asked a question which opened up a new subject.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"I am ten," answered Mary, forgetting herself for the moment,
"and so are you."
"How do you know that?" he demanded in a surprised voice.
"Because when you were born the garden door was locked
and the key was buried. And it has been locked for ten years."
Colin half sat up, turning toward her, leaning on his elbows.
"What garden door was locked? Who did it? Where was
the key buried?" he exclaimed as if he were suddenly
very much interested.
"It--it was the garden Mr. Craven hates," said Mary nervously.
"He locked the door. No one--no one knew where he buried
the key." "What sort of a garden is it?" Colin persisted eagerly.
"No one has been allowed to go into it for ten years,"
was Mary's careful answer.
But it was too late to be careful. He was too much
like herself. He too had had nothing to think about
and the idea of a hidden garden attracted him as it
had attracted her. He asked question after question.
Where was it? Had she never looked for the door? Had she
never asked the gardeners?
"They won't talk about it," said Mary. "I think they
have been told not to answer questions."
"I would make them," said Colin.
"Could you?" Mary faltered, beginning to feel frightened.
If he could make people answer questions, who knew what
might happen!
"Everyone is obliged to please me. I told you that,"
he said. "If I were to live, this place would sometime
belong to me. They all know that. I would make them
tell me."
Mary had not known that she herself had been spoiled,
but she could see quite plainly that this mysterious boy
had been. He thought that the whole world belonged to him.
How peculiar he was and how coolly he spoke of not living.
"Do you think you won't live?" she asked, partly because
she was curious and partly in hope of making him forget
the garden.
"I don't suppose I shall," he answered as indifferently
as he had spoken before. "Ever since I remember anything
I have heard people say I shan't. At first they thought
I was too little to understand and now they think I
don't hear. But I do. My doctor is my father's cousin.
He is quite poor and if I die he will have all Misselthwaite
when my father is dead. I should think he wouldn't want
me to live."
"Do you want to live?" inquired Mary.
"No," he answered, in a cross, tired fashion. "But I
don't want to die. When I feel ill I lie here and think
about it until I cry and cry."
"I have heard you crying three times," Mary said, "but I
did not know who it was. Were you crying about that?"
She did so want him to forget the garden.
"I dare say," he answered. "Let us talk about something else.
Talk about that garden. Don't you want to see it?"
"Yes," answered Mary, in quite a low voice.
"I do," he went on persistently. "I don't think I ever really
wanted to see anything before, but I want to see that garden.
I want the key dug up. I want the door unlocked.
I would let them take me there in my chair. That would
be getting fresh air. I am going to make them open the door."
He had become quite excited and his strange eyes began
to shine like stars and looked more immense than ever.
"They have to please me," he said. "I will make them
take me there and I will let you go, too."
Mary's hands clutched each other. Everything would
be spoiled--everything! Dickon would never come back.
She would never again feel like a missel thrush with a
safe-hidden nest.
"Oh, don't--don't--don't--don't do that!" she cried out.
He stared as if he thought she had gone crazy!
"Why?" he exclaimed. "You said you wanted to see it."
"I do," she answered almost with a sob in her throat,
"but if you make them open the door and take you in like
that it will never be a secret again."
He leaned still farther forward.
"A secret," he said. "What do you mean? Tell me."
Mary's words almost tumbled over one another.
"You see--you see," she panted, "if no one knows but
ourselves--if there was a door, hidden somewhere under
the ivy--if there was--and we could find it; and if we
could slip through it together and shut it behind us,
and no one knew any one was inside and we called it our
garden and pretended that--that we were missel thrushes
and it was our nest, and if we played there almost every
day and dug and planted seeds and made it all come alive--"
"Is it dead?" he interrupted her.
"It soon will be if no one cares for it," she went on.
"The bulbs will live but the roses--"
He stopped her again as excited as she was herself.
"What are bulbs?" he put in quickly.
"They are daffodils and lilies and snowdrops. They are
working in the earth now--pushing up pale green points
because the spring is coming."
"Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like? You
don't see it in rooms if you are ill."
"It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling
on the sunshine, and things pushing up and working under
the earth," said Mary. "If the garden was a secret and we
could get into it we could watch the things grow bigger
every day, and see how many roses are alive. Don't you.
see? Oh, don't you see how much nicer it would be if it
was a secret?"
He dropped back on his pillow and lay there with an odd
expression on his face.
"I never had a secret," he said, "except that one about
not living to grow up. They don't know I know that,
so it is a sort of secret. But I like this kind better."
"If you won't make them take you to the garden," pleaded Mary,
"perhaps--I feel almost sure I can find out how to get
in sometime. And then--if the doctor wants you to go out
in your chair, and if you can always do what you want to do,
perhaps--perhaps we might find some boy who would push you,
and we could go alone and it would always be a secret garden."
"I should--like--that," he said very slowly, his eyes
looking dreamy. "I should like that. I should not mind
fresh air in a secret garden."
Mary began to recover her breath and feel safer because
the idea of keeping the secret seemed to please him.
She felt almost sure that if she kept on talking and could
make him see the garden in his mind as she had seen it
he would like it so much that he could not bear to think
that everybody might tramp in to it when they chose.
"I'll tell you what I think it would be like, if we could
go into it," she said. "It has been shut up so long
things have grown into a tangle perhaps."
He lay quite still and listened while she went on talking
about the roses which might have clambered from tree
to tree and hung down--about the many birds which might
have built their nests there because it was so safe.
And then she told him about the robin and Ben Weatherstaff,
and there was so much to tell about the robin and it
was so easy and safe to talk about it that she ceased
to be afraid. The robin pleased him so much that he
smiled until he looked almost beautiful, and at first
Mary had thought that he was even plainer than herself,
with his big eyes and heavy locks of hair.
"I did not know birds could be like that," he said.
"But if you stay in a room you never see things.
What a lot of things you know. I feel as if you had been
inside that garden."
She did not know what to say, so she did not say anything.
He evidently did not expect an answer and the next moment
he gave her a surprise.
"I am going to let you look at something," he said.
"Do you see that rose-colored silk curtain hanging on the
wall over the mantel-piece?"
Mary had not noticed it before, but she looked up and saw it.
It was a curtain of soft silk hanging over what seemed
to be some picture.
"Yes," she answered.
"There is a cord hanging from it," said Colin.
"Go and pull it."
Mary got up, much mystified, and found the cord.
When she pulled it the silk curtain ran back on
rings and when it ran back it uncovered a picture.
It was the picture of a girl with a laughing face.
She had bright hair tied up with a blue ribbon and her gay,
lovely eyes were exactly like Colin's unhappy ones,
agate gray and looking twice as big as they really were
because of the black lashes all round them.
"She is my mother," said Colin complainingly. "I don't
see why she died. Sometimes I hate her for doing it."
"How queer!" said Mary.
"If she had lived I believe I should not have been ill always,"
he grumbled. "I dare say I should have lived, too.
And my father would not have hated to look at me. I dare
say I should have had a strong back. Draw the curtain again."
Mary did as she was told and returned to her footstool.
"She is much prettier than you," she said, "but her eyes
are just like yours--at least they are the same shape
and color. Why is the curtain drawn over her?"
He moved uncomfortably.
"I made them do it," he said. "Sometimes I don't like to
see her looking at me. She smiles too much when I am ill
and miserable. Besides, she is mine and I don't want everyone
to see her." There were a few moments of silence and then Mary
spoke.
"What would Mrs. Medlock do if she found out that I
had been here?" she inquired.
"She would do as I told her to do," he answered.
"And I should tell her that I wanted you to come here
and talk to me every day. I am glad you came."
"So am I," said Mary. "I will come as often as I can,
but"--she hesitated--"I shall have to look every day
for the garden door."
"Yes, you must," said Colin, "and you can tell me about
it afterward."
He lay thinking a few minutes, as he had done before,
and then he spoke again.
"I think you shall be a secret, too," he said. "I will not
tell them until they find out. I can always send the nurse
out of the room and say that I want to be by myself.
Do you know Martha?"
"Yes, I know her very well," said Mary. "She waits on me."
He nodded his head toward the outer corridor.
"She is the one who is asleep in the other room.
The nurse went away yesterday to stay all night with her
sister and she always makes Martha attend to me when she
wants to go out. Martha shall tell you when to come here."
Then Mary understood Martha's troubled look when she
had asked questions about the crying.
"Martha knew about you all the time?" she said.
"Yes; she often attends to me. The nurse likes to get
away from me and then Martha comes."
"I have been here a long time," said Mary. "Shall I go
away now? Your eyes look sleepy."
"I wish I could go to sleep before you leave me,"
he said rather shyly.
"Shut your eyes," said Mary, drawing her footstool closer,
"and I will do what my Ayah used to do in India.
I will pat your hand and stroke it and sing something
quite low."
"I should like that perhaps," he said drowsily.
Somehow she was sorry for him and did not want him
to lie awake, so she leaned against the bed and began
to stroke and pat his hand and sing a very low little
chanting song in Hindustani.
"That is nice," he said more drowsily still, and she went
on chanting and stroking, but when she looked at him again
his black lashes were lying close against his cheeks,
for his eyes were shut and he was fast asleep. So she
got up softly, took her candle and crept away without
making a sound.
CHAPTER XIV