Chapter XIV. A Young Rajah

The Secret Garden

by Francis Hodgson Burnett

The moor was hidden in mist when the morning came, and the rain
had not stopped pouring down. There could be no going out of doors.
Martha was so busy that Mary had no opportunity of talking to her,
but in the afternoon she asked her to come and sit with her in the
nursery. She came bringing the stocking she was always knitting when
she was doing nothing else.

"What's the matter with thee?" she asked as soon as they sat
down. "Tha' looks as if tha'd somethin' to say."

"I have. I have found out what the crying was," said Mary.

Martha let her knitting drop on her knee and gazed at her with
startled eyes.

"Tha' hasn't!" she exclaimed. "Never!"

"I heard it in the night," Mary went on. "And I got up and went
to see where it came from. It was Colin. I found him."

Martha's face became red with fright.

"Eh! Miss Mary!" she said half crying. "Tha' shouldn't have
done it--tha' shouldn't! Tha'll get me in trouble. I never told thee
nothin' about him--but tha'll get me in trouble. I shall lose my
place and what'll mother do!"

"You won't lose your place," said Mary. "He was glad I came. We
talked and talked and he said he was glad I came."

"Was he?" cried Martha. "Art tha' sure? Tha' doesn't know what
he's like when anything vexes him. He's a big lad to cry like a baby,
but when he's in a passion he'll fair scream just to frighten us. He
knows us daren't call our souls our own."

"He wasn't vexed," said Mary. "I asked him if I should go away
and he made me stay. He asked me questions and I sat on a big
footstool and talked to him about India and about the robin and
gardens. He wouldn't let me go. He let me see his mother's picture.
Before I left him I sang him to sleep."

Martha fairly gasped with amazement.

"I can scarcely believe thee!" she protested. "It's as if tha'd
walked straight into a lion's den. If he'd been like he is most times
he'd have throwed himself into one of his tantrums and roused th'
house. He won't let strangers look at him."

"He let me look at him. I looked at him all the time and he
looked at me. We stared!" said Mary.

"I don't know what to do!" cried agitated Martha. "If Mrs.
Medlock finds out, she'll think I broke orders and told thee and I
shall be packed back to mother."

"He is not going to tell Mrs. Medlock anything about it yet.
It's to be a sort of secret just at first," said Mary firmly. "And he
says everybody is obliged to do as he pleases."

"Aye, that's true enough--th' bad lad!" sighed Martha, wiping
her forehead with her apron.

"He says Mrs. Medlock must. And he wants me to come and talk to
him every day. And you are to tell me when he wants me."

"Me!" said Martha; "I shall lose my place--I shall for sure!"

"You can't if you are doing what he wants you to do and
everybody is ordered to obey him," Mary argued.

"Does tha' mean to say," cried Martha with wide open eyes, "that
he was nice to thee!"

"I think he almost liked me," Mary answered.

"Then tha' must have bewitched him!" decided Martha, drawing a
long breath.

"Do you mean Magic?" inquired Mary. "I've heard about Magic in
India, but I can't make it. I just went into his room and I was so
surprised to see him I stood and stared. And then he turned round and
stared at me. And he thought I was a ghost or a dream and I thought
perhaps he was. And it was so queer being there alone together in the
middle of the night and not knowing about each other. And we began to
ask each other questions. And when I asked him if I must go away he
said I must not."

"Th' world's comin' to a end!" gasped Martha.

"What is the matter with him?" asked Mary.

"Nobody knows for sure and certain," said Martha. "Mr. Craven
went off his head like when he was born. Th' doctors thought he'd
have to be put in a 'sylum. It was because Mrs. Craven died like I
told you. He wouldn't set eyes on th' baby. He just raved and said
it'd be another hunchback like him and it'd better die."

"Is Colin a hunchback?" Mary asked. "He didn't look like
one."

"He isn't yet," said Martha. "But he began all wrong. Mother
said that there was enough trouble and raging in th' house to set any
child wrong. They was afraid his back was weak an' they've always
been takin' care of it--keepin' him lyin' down and not lettin' him
walk. Once they made him wear a brace but he fretted so he was
downright ill. Then a big doctor came to see him an' made them take
it off. He talked to th' other doctor quite rough--in a polite way.
He said there'd been too much medicine and too much lettin' him have
his own way."

"I think he's a very spoiled boy," said Mary.

"He's th' worst young nowt as ever was!" said Martha. "I won't
say as he hasn't been ill a good bit. He's had coughs an' colds
that's nearly killed him two or three times. Once he had rheumatic
fever an' once he had typhoid. Eh! Mrs. Medlock did get a fright
then. He'd been out of his head an' she was talkin' to th' nurse,
thinkin' he didn't know nothin', an' she said, `He'll die this time
sure enough, an' best thing for him an' for everybody.' An' she
looked at him an' there he was with his big eyes open, starin' at her
as sensible as she was herself. She didn't know wha'd happen but he
just stared at her an' says, `You give me some water an' stop
talkin'.'"

"Do you think he will die?" asked Mary.

"Mother says there's no reason why any child should live that
gets no fresh air an' doesn't do nothin' but lie on his back an' read
picture-books an' take medicine. He's weak and hates th' trouble o'
bein' taken out o' doors, an' he gets cold so easy he says it makes
him ill."

Mary sat and looked at the fire. "I wonder," she said slowly,
"if it would not do him good to go out into a garden and watch things
growing. It did me good."

"One of th' worst fits he ever had," said Martha, "was one time
they took him out where the roses is by the fountain. He'd been
readin' in a paper about people gettin' somethin' he called `rose
cold' an' he began to sneeze an' said he'd got it an' then a new
gardener as didn't know th' rules passed by an' looked at him
curious. He threw himself into a passion an' he said he'd looked at
him because he was going to be a hunchback. He cried himself into a
fever an' was ill all night."

"If he ever gets angry at me, I'll never go and see him again,"
said Mary.

"He'll have thee if he wants thee," said Martha. "Tha' may as
well know that at th' start."

Very soon afterward a bell rang and she rolled up her
knitting.

"I dare say th' nurse wants me to stay with him a bit," she
said. "I hope he's in a good temper."

She was out of the room about ten minutes and then she came back
with a puzzled expression.

"Well, tha' has bewitched him," she said. "He's up on his sofa
with his picture-books. He's told the nurse to stay away until six
o'clock. I'm to wait in the next room. Th' minute she was gone he
called me to him an' says, `I want Mary Lennox to come and talk to
me, and remember you're not to tell any one.' You'd better go as
quick as you can."

Mary was quite willing to go quickly. She did not want to see
Colin as much as she wanted to see Dickon; but she wanted to see him
very much.

There was a bright fire on the hearth when she entered his room,
and in the daylight she saw it was a very beautiful room indeed.
There were rich colors in the rugs and hangings and pictures and
books on the walls which made it look glowing and comfortable even in
spite of the gray sky and falling rain. Colin looked rather like a
picture himself. He was wrapped in a velvet dressing-gown and sat
against a big brocaded cushion. He had a red spot on each cheek.

"Come in," he said. "I've been thinking about you all
morning."

"I've been thinking about you, too," answered Mary. "You don't
know how frightened Martha is. She says Mrs. Medlock will think she
told me about you and then she will be sent away."

He frowned.

"Go and tell her to come here," he said. "She is in the next
room."

Mary went and brought her back. Poor Martha was shaking in her
shoes. Colin was still frowning.

"Have you to do what I please or have you not?" he demanded.

"I have to do what you please, sir," Martha faltered, turning
quite red.

"Has Medlock to do what I please?"

"Everybody has, sir," said Martha.

"Well, then, if I order you to bring Miss Mary to me, how can
Medlock send you away if she finds it out?"

"Please don't let her, sir," pleaded Martha.

"I'll send her away if she dares to say a word about such a
thing," said Master Craven grandly. "She wouldn't like that, I can
tell you."

"Thank you, sir," bobbing a curtsy, "I want to do my duty,
sir."

"What I want is your duty" said Colin more grandly still. "I'll
take care of you. Now go away."

When the door closed behind Martha, Colin found Mistress Mary
gazing at him as if he had set her wondering.

"Why do you look at me like that?" he asked her. "What are you
thinking about?"

"I am thinking about two things."

"What are they? Sit down and tell me."

"This is the first one," said Mary, seating herself on the big
stool. "Once in India I saw a boy who was a Rajah. He had rubies and
emeralds and diamonds stuck all over him. He spoke to his people just
as you spoke to Martha. Everybody had to do everything he told
them--in a minute. I think they would have been killed if they
hadn't."

"I shall make you tell me about Rajahs presently," he said, "but
first tell me what the second thing was."

"I was thinking," said Mary, "how different you are from
Dickon."

"Who is Dickon?" he said. "What a queer name!"

She might as well tell him, she thought she could talk about
Dickon without mentioning the secret garden. She had liked to hear
Martha talk about him. Besides, she longed to talk about him. It
would seem to bring him nearer.

"He is Martha's brother. He is twelve years old," she
explained. "He is not like any one else in the world. He can charm
foxes and squirrels and birds just as the natives in India charm
snakes. He plays a very soft tune on a pipe and they come and
listen."

There were some big books on a table at his side and he dragged
one suddenly toward him. "There is a picture of a snake-charmer in
this," he exclaimed. "Come and look at it"

The book was a beautiful one with superb colored illustrations
and he turned to one of them.

"Can he do that?" he asked eagerly.

"He played on his pipe and they listened," Mary explained. "But
he doesn't call it Magic. He says it's because he lives on the moor
so much and he knows their ways. He says he feels sometimes as if he
was a bird or a rabbit himself, he likes them so. I think he asked
the robin questions. It seemed as if they talked to each other in
soft chirps."

Colin lay back on his cushion and his eyes grew larger and
larger and the spots on his cheeks burned.

"Tell me some more about him," he said.

"He knows all about eggs and nests," Mary went on. "And he knows
where foxes and badgers and otters live. He keeps them secret so that
other boys won't find their holes and frighten them. He knows about
everything that grows or lives on the moor."

"Does he like the moor?" said Colin. "How can he when it's such
a great, bare, dreary place?"

"It's the most beautiful place," protested Mary. "Thousands of
lovely things grow on it and there are thousands of little creatures
all busy building nests and making holes and burrows and chippering
or singing or squeaking to each other. They are so busy and having
such fun under the earth or in the trees or heather. It's their
world."

"How do you know all that?" said Colin, turning on his elbow to
look at her.

"I have never been there once, really," said Mary suddenly
remembering. "I only drove over it in the dark. I thought it was
hideous. Martha told me about it first and then Dickon. When Dickon
talks about it you feel as if you saw things and heard them and as if
you were standing in the heather with the sun shining and the gorse
smelling like honey--and all full of bees and butterflies."

"You never see anything if you are ill," said Colin restlessly.
He looked like a person listening to a new sound in the distance and
wondering what it was.

"You can't if you stay in a room, " said Mary.

"I couldn't go on the moor" he said in a resentful tone.

Mary was silent for a minute and then she said something
bold.

"You might--sometime."

He moved as if he were startled.

"Go on the moor! How could I? I am going to die." "How do you
know?" said Mary unsympathetically. She didn't like the way he had of
talking about dying. She did not feel very sympathetic. She felt
rather as if he almost boasted about it.

"Oh, I've heard it ever since I remember," he answered crossly.
"They are always whispering about it and thinking I don't notice.
They wish I would, too."

Mistress Mary felt quite contrary. She pinched her lips
together.

"If they wished I would," she said, "I wouldn't. Who wishes you
would?"

"The servants--and of course Dr. Craven because he would get
Misselthwaite and be rich instead of poor. He daren't say so, but he
always looks cheerful when I am worse. When I had typhoid fever his
face got quite fat. I think my father wishes it, too."

"I don't believe he does," said Mary quite obstinately.

That made Colin turn and look at her again.

"Don't you?" he said.

And then he lay back on his cushion and was still, as if he were
thinking. And there was quite a long silence. Perhaps they were both
of them thinking strange things children do not usually think. "I
like the grand doctor from London, because he made them take the iron
thing off," said Mary at last "Did he say you were going to die?"

"No.".

"What did he say?"

"He didn't whisper," Colin answered. "Perhaps he knew I hated
whispering. I heard him say one thing quite aloud. He said, 'The lad
might live if he would make up his mind to it. Put him in the
humor.' It sounded as if he was in a temper."

"I'll tell you who would put you in the humor, perhaps," said
Mary reflecting. She felt as if she would like this thing to be
settled one way or the other. "I believe Dickon would. He's always
talking about live things. He never talks about dead things or things
that are ill. He's always looking up in the sky to watch birds
flying--or looking down at the earth to see something growing. He has
such round blue eyes and they are so wide open with looking about.
And he laughs such a big laugh with his wide mouth--and his cheeks
are as red--as red as cherries." She pulled her stool nearer to the
sofa and her expression quite changed at the remembrance of the wide
curving mouth and wide open eyes.

"See here," she said. "Don't let us talk about dying; I don't
like it. Let us talk about living. Let us talk and talk about
Dickon. And then we will look at your pictures."

It was the best thing she could have said. To talk about Dickon
meant to talk about the moor and about the cottage and the fourteen
people who lived in it on sixteen shillings a week--and the children
who got fat on the moor grass like the wild ponies. And about
Dickon's mother--and the skipping-rope--and the moor with the sun on
it--and about pale green points sticking up out of the black sod. And
it was all so alive that Mary talked more than she had ever talked
before--and Colin both talked and listened as he had never done
either before. And they both began to laugh over nothings as
children will when they are happy together. And they laughed so that
in the end they were making as much noise as if they had been two
ordinary healthy natural ten-year-old creatures--instead of a hard,
little, unloving girl and a sickly boy who believed that he was going
to die.

They enjoyed themselves so much that they forgot the pictures
and they forgot about the time. They had been laughing quite loudly
over Ben Weatherstaff and his robin, and Colin was actually sitting
up as if he had forgotten about his weak back, when he suddenly
remembered something. "Do you know there is one thing we have never
once thought of," he said. "We are cousins."

It seemed so queer that they had talked so much and never
remembered this simple thing that they laughed more than ever,
because they had got into the humor to laugh at anything. And in the
midst of the fun the door opened and in walked Dr. Craven and Mrs.
Medlock.

Dr. Craven started in actual alarm and Mrs. Medlock almost fell
back because he had accidentally bumped against her.

"Good Lord!" exclaimed poor Mrs. Medlock with her eyes almost
starting out of her head. "Good Lord!"

"What is this?" said Dr. Craven, coming forward. "What does it
mean?"

Then Mary was reminded of the boy Rajah again. Colin answered as
if neither the doctor's alarm nor Mrs. Medlock's terror were of the
slightest consequence. He was as little disturbed or frightened as if
an elderly cat and dog had walked into the room.

"This is my cousin, Mary Lennox," he said. "I asked her to come
and talk to me. I like her. She must come and talk to me whenever I
send for her."

Dr. Craven turned reproachfully to Mrs. Medlock. "Oh, sir" she
panted. "I don't know how it's happened. There's not a servant on
the place tha'd dare to talk--they all have their orders."

"Nobody told her anything," said Colin. "She heard me crying
and found me herself. I am glad she came. Don't be silly,
Medlock."

Mary saw that Dr. Craven did not look pleased, but it was quite
plain that he dare not oppose his patient. He sat down by Colin and
felt his pulse.

"I am afraid there has been too much excitement. Excitement is
not good for you, my boy," he said.

"I should be excited if she kept away," answered Colin, his eyes
beginning to look dangerously sparkling. "I am better. She makes me
better. The nurse must bring up her tea with mine. We will have tea
together."

Mrs. Medlock and Dr. Craven looked at each other in a troubled
way, but there was evidently nothing to be done.

"He does look rather better, sir," ventured Mrs. Medlock.
"But"--thinking the matter over--"he looked better this morning
before she came into the room."

"She came into the room last night. She stayed with me a long
time. She sang a Hindustani song to me and it made me go to sleep,"
said Colin. "I was better when I wakened up. I wanted my breakfast.
I want my tea now. Tell nurse, Medlock."

Dr. Craven did not stay very long. He talked to the nurse for a
few minutes when she came into the room and said a few words of
warning to Colin. He must not talk too much; he must not forget that
he was ill; he must not forget that he was very easily tired. Mary
thought that there seemed to be a number of uncomfortable things he
was not to forget.

Colin looked fretful and kept his strange black-lashed eyes
fixed on Dr. Craven's face.

"I want to forget it," he said at last. "She makes me forget
it. That is why I want her."

Dr. Craven did not look happy when he left the room. He gave a
puzzled glance at the little girl sitting on the large stool. She
had become a stiff, silent child again as soon as he entered and he
could not see what the attraction was. The boy actually did look
brighter, however--and he sighed rather heavily as he went down the
corridor.

"They are always wanting me to eat things when I don't want to,"
said Colin, as the nurse brought in the tea and put it on the table
by the sofa. "Now, if you'll eat I will. Those muffins look so nice
and hot. Tell me about Rajahs."