Таинственный сад / The secret garden

“I’m keeping secrets all the time,” he said. “Aye, I can keep secrets.”

“I’ve stolen a garden,” she said very fast. “It isn’t mine. It isn’t anybody’s. Nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into it. Perhaps everything is dead in it already; I don’t know.”

Dickon’s curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder.

“Eh-h-h!” he said.

“I’ve 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.”

“Where is it?” asked Dickon.

Mary got up from the log at once.

“Come with me and I’ll 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 look on his face. He moved 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.

“It’s this,” she said. “It’s a secret garden, and I’m the only one in the world who wants it to be alive.”

Dickon looked round it, and round and round again.

“Eh!” he almost whispered, “it is a queer, pretty place! It’s like a dream.”

Chapter XI

Mary’s nest

“What a garden!” Dickon said, in a whisper.

“Did you know about it?” asked Mary.

Dickon nodded.

“Martha told me about it,” he answered.

He stopped and looked round at the lovely gray tangle about him, and his eyes looked happy.

“Eh! It will be the safest nesting place in England.”

Mary put her hand on his arm.

“Will there be roses?” she whispered. “Can you tell? Perhaps they were all dead.”

“Eh! No! Not all of them!” he answered. “Look here!”

He stepped over to the nearest tree with a curtain of tangled sprays and branches. He took a thick knife out of his pocket and opened one of its blades.

“I see dead wood here,” he said. “But this one is alive,” and he touched a shoot which looked green instead of hard, dry gray.

Mary touched it herself.

“That one?” she said. “Is that one quite alive?”

“It’s as alive as you or me,” he said.

“I’m glad it’s alive!” she cried out. “I want them all to be alive. Let us go round the garden and count how many alive ones there are.”

They went from tree to tree and from bush to bush. Dickon carried his knife in his hand and showed her things which she thought wonderful.

“These are dead,” he said, “but those are strong. See here!” and he pulled down a thick gray branch. He knelt and with his knife cut the branch through, not far above the earth.

“There!” he said exultantly. “I told you so. It’s alive. Look at it. There’s a big root here,” he stopped and lifted his face. “There will be a fountain of roses here this summer.”

They went from bush to bush and from tree to tree. He was very strong and clever with his knife and knew how to cut the dry and dead wood away. The spade, and hoe, and fork were very useful. He showed her how to use the fork while he dug about roots with the spade and stirred the earth. They were working industriously.

“Why!” he cried, pointing to the grass a few feet away. “Who did that there?”

It was one of Mary’s own little clearings.

“I did it,” said Mary.

“I thought that you didn’t know anything about gardening,” he exclaimed.

“I don’t,” she answered, “but they were so little, and the grass was so thick and strong. They had no room to breathe. So I made a place for them.”

Dickon went and knelt down by them, smiling.

“That was right,” he said. “They will grow now. They’re crocuses and snowdrops, and these here are narcissuses. A lot of work for such a little wench!”

“I’m growing stronger,” said Mary, “And when I dig I’m not tired at all. I like to smell the earth.”

“It’s good for you,” he said, nodding his head wisely. “When it’s raining I lie under a bush and listen to the soft swish of drops.”

“Do you never catch cold?” inquired Mary, gazing at him wonderingly.

“Not me,” he said, grinning. “I have never caught cold since I was born.”

He was working all the time he was talking and Mary was following him and helping him with her fork or the trowel.

“There’s a lot of work to do here!” he said.

“Will you come again and help me to do it?” Mary begged. “I can dig and pull up weeds, and do whatever you tell me. Oh! do come, Dickon!”

“I’ll come every day if you want, rain or shine,” he answered stoutly. “Eh! We’ll have a lot of fun.”

He began to walk about, looking up in the trees and at the walls and bushes with a thoughtful expression.

“It’s a secret garden,” he said, “right?”