The Secret Garden Chapter X. Dickon The sun shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden. The Secret Garden was what Mary called it when she was thinking of it. She liked the name, and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shut her in no one knew where she was. It seemed almost like being shut out of the world in some fairy place. The few books she had read and liked had been fairy-story books, and she had read of secret gardens in some of the stories. Sometimes people went to sleep in them for a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid. She had no intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becoming wider awake every day which passed at Misselthwaite. She was beginning to like to be out of doors; she no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed it. She could run faster, and longer, and she could skip up to a hundred. The bulbs in the secret garden must have been much astonished. Such nice clear places were made round them that they had all the breathing space they wanted, and really, if Mistress Mary had known it, they began to cheer up under the dark earth and work tremendously. The sun could get at them and warm them, and when the rain came down it could reach them at once, so they began to feel very much alive. Mary was an odd, determined little person, and now she had something interesting to be determined about, she was very much absorbed, indeed. She worked and dug and pulled up weeds steadily, only becoming more pleased with her work every hour instead of tiring of it. It seemed to her like a fascinating sort of play. She found many more of the sprouting pale green points than she had ever hoped to find. They seemed to be starting up everywhere and each day she was sure she found tiny new ones, some so tiny that they barely peeped above the earth. There were so many that she remembered what Martha had said about the snowdrops by the thousands, and about bulbs spreading and making new ones. These had been left to themselves for ten years and perhaps they had spread, like the snowdrops, into thousands. She wondered how long it would be before they showed that they were flowers. Sometimes she stopped digging to look at the garden and try to imagine what it would 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. Thart 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 thall come from. Hes friends with me now, said Mary. Thats like him, snapped Ben Weatherstaff. Makin up to th women folk just for vanity an flightiness. Theres nothin he wouldnt do for th sake o showin off an flirtin his tail-feathers. Hes as full o pride as an eggs full o meat. He very seldom talked much and sometimes did not even answer Marys 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 its about a month, she answered. Thas beginnin to do Misselthwaite credit, he said. Thas a bit fatter than tha was an thas 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 Im fatter, she said. My stockings are getting tighter. They used to make wrinkles. Theres 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 thas got no one better. Thas been reddenin up thy waistcoat an polishin thy feathers this two weeks. I know what thas up to. Thas 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 thall 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--thats what tha thinks. The robin spread his wings--Mary could scarcely believe her eyes. He flew right up to the handle of Ben Weatherstaffs spade and alighted on the top of it. Then the old mans 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, Im danged! he said as softly as if he were saying something quite different. Tha does know how to get at a chap--tha does! Thas fair unearthly, thas 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. Im 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. Marys 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. Ive 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, Id got to like em--an I liked her--an she liked em, Ben Weatherstaff admitted reluctantly. Once or twice a year Id 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 thall 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, thats true. Tha hasnt. 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 every one 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. Dont tha ask so many questions. Thart th worst wench for askin questions Ive ever come a cross. Get thee gone an play thee. Ive 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 boys 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. Dont tha move, he said. Itd 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. Im Dickon, the boy said. I know thart 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 Marthas letter? she asked. He nodded his curly, rust-colored head. Thats why I come. He stooped to pick up something which had been lying on the ground beside him when he piped. Ive got th garden tools. Theres a little spade an rake an a fork an hoe. Eh! they are good uns. Theres 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. They sat down and he took a clumsy little brown paper package out of his coat pocket. He untied the string and inside there were ever so many neater and smaller packages with a picture of a flower on each one. Theres a lot o mignonette an poppies, he said. Mignonettes th sweetest smellin thing as grows, an itll grow wherever you cast it, same as poppies will. Them asll come up an bloom if you just whistle to em, thems th nicest of all. He stopped and turned his head quickly, his poppy-cheeked face lighting up. Wheres that robin as is callin us? he said. The chirp came from a thick holly bush, bright with scarlet berries, and Mary thought she knew whose it was. Is it really calling us? she asked. Aye, said Dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, hes callin some one hes friends with. Thats same as sayin `Here I am. Look at me. I wants a bit of a chat. There he is in the bush. Whose is he? Hes Ben Weatherstaffs, but I think he knows me a little, answered Mary. Aye, he knows thee, said Dickon in his low voice again. An he likes thee. Hes took thee on. Hell tell me all about thee in a minute. He moved quite close to the bush with the slow movement Mary had noticed before, and then he made a sound almost like the robins own twitter. The robin listened a few seconds, intently, and then answered quite as if he were replying to a question. Aye, hes a friend o yours, chuckled Dickon. Do you think he is? cried Mary eagerly. She did so want to know. Do you think he really likes me? He wouldnt come near thee if he didnt, answered Dickon. Birds is rare choosers an a robin can flout a body worse than a man. See, hes making up to thee now. `Cannot tha see a chap? hes sayin. And it really seemed as if it must be true. He so sidled and twittered and tilted as he hopped on his bush. Do you understand everything birds say? said Mary. Dickons grin spread until he seemed all wide, red, curving mouth, and he rubbed his rough head. I think I do, and they think I do, he said. Ive lived on th moor with em so long. Ive watched em break shell an come out an fledge an learn to fly an begin to sing, till I think Im one of em. Sometimes I think praps Im a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a squirrel, or even a beetle, an I dont know it. He laughed and came back to the log and began to talk about the flower seeds again. He told her what they looked like when they were flowers; he told her how to plant them, and watch them, and feed and water them. See here, he said suddenly, turning round to look at her. Ill plant them for thee myself. Where is tha garden? Marys thin hands clutched each other as they lay on her lap. She did not know what to say, so for a whole minute she said nothing. She had never thought of this. She felt miserable. And she felt as if she went red and then pale. Thas got a bit o garden, hasnt tha? Dickon said. It was true that she had turned red and then pale. Dickon saw her do it, and as she still said nothing, he began to be puzzled. Wouldnt they give thee a bit? he asked. Hasnt tha got any yet? She held her hands tighter and turned her eyes toward him. I dont know anything about boys, she said slowly. Could you keep a secret, if I told you one? Its a great secret. I dont know what I should do if any one found it out. I believe I should die! She said the last sentence quite fiercely. Dickon looked more puzzled than ever and even rubbed his hand over his rough head again, but he answered quite good-humoredly. Im keepin secrets all th time, he said. If I couldnt keep secrets from th other lads, secrets about foxes cubs, an birds nests, an wild things holes, thered be naught safe on th moor. Aye, I can keep secrets. Mistress Mary did not mean to put out her hand and clutch his sleeve but she did it. Ive stolen a garden, she said very fast. It isnt mine. It isnt anybodys. Nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into it. Perhaps everything is dead in it already. I dont know. She began to feel hot and as contrary as she had ever felt in her life. I dont care, I dont care! Nobody has any right to take it from me when I care about it and they dont. Theyre letting it die, all shut in by itself, she ended passionately, and she threw her arms over her face and burst out crying-poor little Mistress Mary. Dickons curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder. Eh-h-h! he said, drawing his exclamation out slowly, and the way he did it meant both wonder and sympathy. Ive nothing to do, said Mary. Nothing belongs to me. I found it myself and I got into it myself. I was only just like the robin, and they wouldnt take it from the robin. Where is it? asked Dickon in a dropped voice. Mistress Mary got up from the log at once. She knew she felt contrary again, and obstinate, and she did not care at all. She was imperious and Indian, and at the same time hot and sorrowful. Come with me and Ill show you, she said. She led him round the laurel path and to the walk where the ivy grew so thickly. Dickon followed her with a queer, almost pitying, look on his face. He felt as if he were being led to look at some strange birds nest and must move softly. When she stepped to the wall and lifted the hanging ivy he started. There was a door and Mary pushed it slowly open and they passed in together, and then Mary stood and waved her hand round defiantly. Its this, she said. Its a secret garden, and Im the only one in the world who wants it to be alive. Dickon looked round and round about it, and round and round again. Eh! he almost whispered, it is a queer, pretty place! Its like as if a body was in a dream.
Posted on: Tue, 27 Jan 2015 12:34:37 +0000
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