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Chapter IX
THE STRANGEST HOUSE ANY ONE EVER LIVED IN
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.
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