Chapter IX. The Strangest House any one Ever Lived In

The Secret Garden

by Francis Hodgson Burnett

It was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place any one could
imagine. The high walls which shut it in were covered with the
leafless stems of climbing roses which were so thick that they were
matted together. Mary Lennox knew they were roses because she had
seen a great many roses in India. All the ground was covered with
grass of a wintry brown and out of it grew clumps of bushes which
were surely rosebushes if they were alive. There were numbers of
standard roses which had so spread their branches that they were like
little trees. There were other trees in the garden, and one of the
things which made the place look strangest and loveliest was that
climbing roses had run all over them and swung down long tendrils
which made light swaying curtains, and here and there they had caught
at each other or at a far-reaching branch and had crept from one tree
to another and made lovely bridges of themselves. There were neither
leaves nor roses on them now and Mary did not know whether they were
dead or alive, but their thin gray or brown branches and sprays
looked like a sort of hazy mantle spreading over everything, walls,
and trees, and even brown grass, where they had fallen from their
fastenings and run along the ground. It was this hazy tangle from
tree to tree which made it all look so mysterious. Mary had thought
it must be different from other gardens which had not been left all
by themselves so long; and indeed it was different from any other
place she had ever seen in her life.

"How still it is!" she whispered. "How still!"

Then she waited a moment and listened at the stillness. The
robin, who had flown to his treetop, was still as all the rest. He
did not even flutter his wings; he sat without stirring, and looked
at Mary.

"No wonder it is still," she whispered again. "I am the first
person who has spoken in here for ten years."

She moved away from the door, stepping as softly as if she were
afraid of awakening some one. She was glad that there was grass
under her feet and that her steps made no sounds. She walked under
one of the fairy-like gray arches between the trees and looked up at
the sprays and tendrils which formed them. "I wonder if they are all
quite dead," she said. "Is it all a quite dead garden? I wish it
wasn't."

If she had been Ben Weatherstaff she could have told whether the
wood was alive by looking at it, but she could only see that there
were only gray or brown sprays and branches and none showed any signs
of even a tiny leaf-bud anywhere.

But she was inside the wonderful garden and she could come
through the door under the ivy any time and she felt as if she had
found a world all her own.

The sun was shining inside the four walls and the high arch of
blue sky over this particular piece of Misselthwaite seemed even more
brilliant and soft than it was over the moor. The robin flew down
from his tree-top and hopped about or flew after her from one bush to
another. He chirped a good deal and had a very busy air, as if he
were showing her things. Everything was strange and silent and she
seemed to be hundreds of miles away from any one, but somehow she did
not feel lonely at all. All that troubled her was her wish that she
knew whether all the roses were dead, or if perhaps some of them had
lived and might put out leaves and buds as the weather got warmer.
She did not want it to be a quite dead garden. If it were a quite
alive garden, how wonderful it would be, and what thousands of roses
would grow on every side!

Her skipping-rope had hung over her arm when she came in and
after she had walked about for a while she thought she would skip
round the whole garden, stopping when she wanted to look at things.
There seemed to have been grass paths here and there, and in one or
two corners there were alcoves of evergreen with stone seats or tall
moss-covered flower urns in them.

As she came near the second of these alcoves she stopped
skipping. There had once been a flowerbed in it, and she thought she
saw something sticking out of the black earth- -some sharp little
pale green points. She remembered what Ben Weatherstaff had said and
she knelt down to look at them.

"Yes, they are tiny growing things and they might be crocuses or
snowdrops or daffodils," she whispered.

She bent very close to them and sniffed the fresh scent of the
damp earth. She liked it very much.

"Perhaps there are some other ones coming up in other places,"
she said. "I will go all over the garden and look."

She did not skip, but walked. She went slowly and kept her eyes
on the ground. She looked in the old border beds and among the
grass, and after she had gone round, trying to miss nothing, she had
found ever so many more sharp, pale green points, and she had become
quite excited again.

"It isn't a quite dead garden," she cried out softly to herself.
"Even if the roses are dead, there are other things alive."

She did not know anything about gardening, but the grass seemed
so thick in some of the places where the green points were pushing
their way through that she thought they did not seem to have room
enough to grow. She searched about until she found a rather sharp
piece of wood and knelt down and dug and weeded out the weeds and
grass until she made nice little clear places around them.

"Now they look as if they could breathe," she said, after she
had finished with the first ones. "I am going to do ever so many
more. I'll do all I can see. If I haven't time today I can come
tomorrow."

She went from place to place, and dug and weeded, and enjoyed
herself so immensely that she was led on from bed to bed and into the
grass under the trees. The exercise made her so warm that she first
threw her coat off, and then her hat, and without knowing it she was
smiling down on to the grass and the pale green points all the
time.

The robin was tremendously busy. He was very much pleased to
see gardening begun on his own estate. He had often wondered at Ben
Weatherstaff. Where gardening is done all sorts of delightful things
to eat are turned up with the soil. Now here was this new kind of
creature who was not half Ben's size and yet had had the sense to
come into his garden and begin at once.

Mistress Mary worked in her garden until it was time to go to
her midday dinner. In fact, she was rather late in remembering, and
when she put on her coat and hat, and picked up her skipping-rope,
she could not believe that she had been working two or three hours.
She had been actually happy all the time; and dozens and dozens of
the tiny, pale green points were to be seen in cleared places,
looking twice as cheerful as they had looked before when the grass
and weeds had been smothering them.

"I shall come back this afternoon," she said, looking all round
at her new kingdom, and speaking to the trees and the rose-bushes as
if they heard her.

Then she ran lightly across the grass, pushed open the slow old
door and slipped through it under the ivy. She had such red cheeks
and such bright eyes and ate such a dinner that Martha was
delighted.

"Two pieces o' meat an' two helps o' rice puddin'!" she said.
"Eh! mother will be pleased when I tell her what th' skippin'-rope's
done for thee."

In the course of her digging with her pointed stick Mistress
Mary had found herself digging up a sort of white root rather like an
onion. She had put it back in its place and patted the earth
carefully down on it and just now she wondered if Martha could tell
her what it was.

"Martha," she said, "what are those white roots that look like
onions?"

"They're bulbs," answered Martha. "Lots o' spring flowers grow
from 'em. Th' very little ones are snowdrops an' crocuses an' th' big
ones are narcissuses an' jonquils and daffydowndillys. Th' biggest
of all is lilies an' purple flags. Eh! they are nice. Dickon's got
a whole lot of 'em planted in our bit o' garden."

"Does Dickon know all about them?" asked Mary, a new idea taking
possession of her.

"Our Dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk. Mother
says he just whispers things out o' th' ground."

"Do bulbs live a long time? Would they live years and years if
no one helped them?" inquired Mary anxiously.

"They're things as helps themselves," said Martha. "That's why
poor folk can afford to have 'em. If you don't trouble 'em, most of
'em'll work away underground for a lifetime an' spread out an' have
little 'uns. There's a place in th' park woods here where there's
snowdrops by thousands. They're the prettiest sight in Yorkshire when
th' spring comes. No one knows when they was first planted."

"I wish the spring was here now," said Mary. "I want to see all
the things that grow in England."

She had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the
hearth-rug.

"I wish--I wish I had a little spade," she said. "Whatever does
tha' want a spade for?" asked Martha, laughing. "Art tha' goin' to
take to diggin'? I must tell mother that, too."

Mary looked at the fire and pondered a little. She must be
careful if she meant to keep her secret kingdom. She wasn't doing any
harm, but if Mr. Craven found out about the open door he would be
fearfully angry and get a new key and lock it up forevermore. She
really could not bear that.

"This is such a big lonely place," she said slowly, as if she
were turning matters over in her mind. "The house is lonely, and the
park is lonely, and the gardens are lonely. So many places seem shut
up. I never did many things in India, but there were more people to
look at--natives and soldiers marching by--and sometimes bands
playing, and my Ayah told me stories. There is no one to talk to
here except you and Ben Weatherstaff. And you have to do your work
and Ben Weatherstaff won't speak to me often. I thought if I had a
little spade I could dig somewhere as he does, and I might make a
little garden if he would give me some seeds."

Martha's face quite lighted up.

"There now!" she exclaimed, "if that wasn't one of th' things
mother said. She says, `There's such a lot o' room in that big
place, why don't they give her a bit for herself, even if she doesn't
plant nothin' but parsley an' radishes? She'd dig an' rake away an'
be right down happy over it.' Them was the very words she said."

"Were they?" said Mary. "How many things she knows, doesn't
she?"

"Eh!" said Martha. "It's like she says: `A woman as brings up
twelve children learns something besides her A B C. Children's as
good as 'rithmetic to set you findin' out things.'"

"How much would a spade cost--a little one?" Mary asked.

"Well," was Martha's reflective answer, "at Thwaite village
there's a shop or so an' I saw little garden sets with a spade an' a
rake an' a fork all tied together for two shillings. An' they was
stout enough to work with, too."

"I've got more than that in my purse," said Mary. "Mrs. Morrison
gave me five shillings and Mrs. Medlock gave me some money from Mr.
Craven."

"Did he remember thee that much?" exclaimed Martha.

"Mrs. Medlock said I was to have a shilling a week to spend. She
gives me one every Saturday. I didn't know what to spend it on."

"My word! that's riches," said Martha. "Tha' can buy anything
in th' world tha' wants. Th' rent of our cottage is only one an'
threepence an' it's like pullin' eye-teeth to get it. Now I've just
thought of somethin'," putting her hands on her hips.

"What?" said Mary eagerly.

"In the shop at Thwaite they sell packages o' flower-seeds for a
penny each, and our Dickon he knows which is th' prettiest ones an,
how to make 'em grow. He walks over to Thwaite many a day just for
th' fun of it. Does tha' know how to print letters?" suddenly.

"I know how to write," Mary answered.

Martha shook her head.

"Our Dickon can only read printin'. If tha' could print we could
write a letter to him an' ask him to go an' buy th' garden tools an'
th' seeds at th' same time."

"Oh! you're a good girl!" Mary cried. "You are, really! I
didn't know you were so nice. I know I can print letters if I try.
Let's ask Mrs. Medlock for a pen and ink and some paper."

"I've got some of my own," said Martha. "I bought 'em so I
could print a bit of a letter to mother of a Sunday. I'll go and get
it." She ran out of the room, and Mary stood by the fire and twisted
her thin little hands together with sheer pleasure.

"If I have a spade," she whispered, "I can make the earth nice
and soft and dig up weeds. If I have seeds and can make flowers grow
the garden won't be dead at all--it will come alive."

She did not go out again that afternoon because when Martha
returned with her pen and ink and paper she was obliged to clear the
table and carry the plates and dishes downstairs and when she got
into the kitchen Mrs. Medlock was there and told her to do something,
so Mary waited for what seemed to her a long time before she came
back. Then it was a serious piece of work to write to Dickon. Mary
had been taught very little because her governesses had disliked her
too much to stay with her. She could not spell particularly well but
she found that she could print letters when she tried. This was the
letter Martha dictated to her: "My Dear Dickon:

This comes hoping to find you well as it leaves me at present.
Miss Mary has plenty of money and will you go to Thwaite and buy her
some flower seeds and a set of garden tools to make a flower-bed.
Pick the prettiest ones and easy to grow because she has never done
it before and lived in India which is different. Give my love to
mother and every one of you. Miss Mary is going to tell me a lot
more so that on my next day out you can hear about elephants and
camels and gentlemen going hunting lions and tigers.

"Your loving sister,

Martha Phoebe Sowerby."

"We'll put the money in th' envelope an' I'll get th' butcher
boy to take it in his cart. He's a great friend o' Dickon's," said
Martha.

"How shall I get the things when Dickon buys them?"

"He'll bring 'em to you himself. He'll like to walk over this
way."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mary, "then I shall see him! I never thought I
should see Dickon."

"Does tha' want to see him?" asked Martha suddenly, for Mary had
looked so pleased.

"Yes, I do. I never saw a boy foxes and crows loved. I want to
see him very much."

Martha gave a little start, as if she remembered something. "Now
to think," she broke out, "to think o' me forgettin' that there; an'
I thought I was goin' to tell you first thing this mornin'. I asked
mother--and she said she'd ask Mrs. Medlock her own self."

"Do you mean--" Mary began.

"What I said Tuesday. Ask her if you might be driven over to
our cottage some day and have a bit o' mother's hot oat cake, an'
butter, an' a glass o' milk."

It seemed as if all the interesting things were happening in one
day. To think of going over the moor in the daylight and when the
sky was blue! To think of going into the cottage which held twelve
children!

"Does she think Mrs. Medlock would let me go?" she asked, quite
anxiously.

"Aye, she thinks she would. She knows what a tidy woman mother
is and how clean she keeps the cottage."

"If I went I should see your mother as well as Dickon," said
Mary, thinking it over and liking the idea very much. "She doesn't
seem to be like the mothers in India."

Her work in the garden and the excitement of the afternoon ended
by making her feel quiet and thoughtful. Martha stayed with her
until tea-time, but they sat in comfortable quiet and talked very
little. But just before Martha went downstairs for the tea-tray,
Mary asked a question.

"Martha," she said, "has the scullery-maid had the toothache
again today?"

Martha certainly started slightly.

"What makes thee ask that?" she said.

"Because when I waited so long for you to come back I opened the
door and walked down the corridor to see if you were coming. And I
heard that far-off crying again, just as we heard it the other night.
There isn't a wind today, so you see it couldn't have been the
wind."

"Eh!" said Martha restlessly. "Tha' mustn't go walkin' about in
corridors an' listenin'. Mr. Craven would be that there angry there's
no knowin' what he'd do."

"I wasn't listening," said Mary. "I was just waiting for
you--and I heard it. That's three times."

"My word! There's Mrs. Medlock's bell," said Martha, and she
almost ran out of the room.

"It's the strangest house any one ever lived in," said Mary
drowsily, as she dropped her head on the cushioned seat of the
armchair near her. Fresh air, and digging, and skipping-rope had
made her feel so comfortably tired that she fell asleep.