The Secret Garden Frances Hodgson Burnett (recommended reading .TXT) đ
- Author: Frances Hodgson Burnett
Book online «The Secret Garden Frances Hodgson Burnett (recommended reading .TXT) đ». Author Frances Hodgson Burnett
âYes, I do. I never saw a boy foxes and crows loved. I want to see him very much.â
Martha gave a little start, as if she suddenly remembered something.
âNow to think,â she broke out, âto think oâ me forgettinâ that there; anâ I thought I was goinâ to tell you first thing this morninâ. I asked motherâ âand she said sheâd ask Mrs. Medlock her own self.â
âDo you meanâ ââ Mary began.
âWhat I said Tuesday. Ask her if you might be driven over to our cottage some day and have a bit oâ motherâs hot oat cake, anâ butter, anâ a glass oâ milk.â
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!
âDoes she think Mrs. Medlock would let me go?â she asked, quite anxiously.
âAye, she thinks she would. She knows what a tidy woman mother is and how clean she keeps the cottage.â
âIf I went I should see your mother as well as Dickon,â said Mary, thinking it over and liking the idea very much. âShe doesnât seem to be like the mothers in India.â
Her work in the garden and the excitement of the afternoon ended by making her feel quiet and thoughtful. Martha stayed with her until teatime, but they sat in comfortable quiet and talked very little. But just before Martha went downstairs for the tea-tray, Mary asked a question.
âMartha,â she said, âhas the scullery-maid had the toothache again today?â
Martha certainly started slightly.
âWhat makes thee ask that?â she said.
âBecause 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 isnât a wind today, so you see it couldnât have been the wind.â
âEh!â said Martha restlessly. âThaâ mustnât go walkinâ about in corridors anâ listeninâ. Mr. Craven would be that there angry thereâs no knowinâ what heâd do.â
âI wasnât listening,â said Mary. âI was just waiting for youâ âand I heard it. Thatâs three times.â
âMy word! Thereâs Mrs. Medlockâs bell,â said Martha, and she almost ran out of the room.
âItâs the strangest house anyone ever lived in,â 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.
X DickonThe 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 âsnowdrops by the thousands,â 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
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