Читать книгу Таинственный сад / The secret garden - Фрэнсис-Элиза Ходжсон Бёрнетт - Страница 10

It was the most mysterious-looking place anyone can imagine. The high walls were covered with the leafless stems of climbing roses. Mary Lennox knew they were roses because she saw many roses in India. All the ground was covered with grass. There were many trees in the garden, too. here were neither leaves nor roses on them now and Mary did not know whether they were dead or alive.

“How still it is!” she whispered. “How still!”

Then she waited a moment and listened at the stillness. The robin did not flutter his wings; he sat and looked at Mary.

“No wonder,” she whispered again. “I am the first person who has spoken in here for ten years.”

She moved away from the door. She was glad that there was grass under her feet and that her steps made no sounds. She walked under one of the gray arches between the trees.

“Are they are all dead?” she said. “Is it a dead garden?”

She was inside the wonderful secret garden. The sun was shining inside the four walls and the high arch of blue sky seemed even more brilliant than it was over the moor. The robin flew after her from one bush to another. Everything was strange and silent, but somehow she did not feel lonely at all.

She did not want it to be a dead garden. Her skipping-rope hung over her arm. She came near the alcove. There was a flower-bed in it, and she knelt down.

“These 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. I will go all over the garden and look.”

She did not skip, but walked. She went slowly. She looked in the old border beds and among the grass.

“It isn’t a dead garden,” she cried out softly to herself. “Even if the roses are dead, there are other things alive.”

She found a sharp piece of wood and dug and weeded out the weeds and grass until she made nice little clear places around them.

“Now they can breathe,” she said. “I am going to do more. I’ll do all I can see. If I have no time today I can come tomorrow.”

She went from place to place, and dug and weeded, and enjoyed herself immensely. The robin was busy. He was very much pleased to see that.

Mary worked in her garden until it was time to go to her midday dinner. She put on her coat and hat, and picked up her skipping-rope. She was really happy.

“I shall come back this afternoon,” she said, looking all round at her new kingdom, and speaking to the trees and the rose-bushes.

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

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

“They’re bulbs,” answered Martha. “Dickon has planted a lot of them in our garden.”

“Does Dickon know all about them?” asked Mary.

“Our Dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk.”

Mary finished her dinner and went to her favorite seat on the hearth-rug.

“I want to have a little spade,” she said.

“Are you going to dig?” asked Martha, laughing.

Mary looked at the fire and pondered a little. She must be careful. She wasn’t doing any harm. But if Mr. Craven knows about the open door he will be angry and get a new key.

“This is such a big lonely place,” she said slowly. “The house is lonely, and the park is lonely, and the gardens are lonely. There is no one to talk to here except you and Ben Weatherstaff. But you must work and Ben Weatherstaff doesn’t speak to me often. I will make a little garden if he gives me some seeds.”

“There now![19]” Martha exclaimed. “My mother says, ‘That girl from India can dig and rake and be happy.’”

“Really?” said Mary. “How many things she knows, doesn’t she?”

“Eh!” said Martha. “Of course, she does.’”

“How much does a spade cost-a little one?” Mary asked.

“Well, at Thwaite village there’s a shop. I saw little garden sets with a spade and a rake and a fork for two shillings.”

“I’ve got more in my purse,” said Mary. “Mrs. Morrison gave me five shillings and Mrs. Medlock gave me some money from Mr. Craven. I didn’t know what to buy.”

“Oh, you’re rich,” said Martha. “You can buy anything you want. In the shop at Thwaite they sell packages of flower-seeds for a penny each, and our Dickon knows which are the prettiest ones and how to make them grow. Do you know how to write?”

“Yes,” Mary answered.

“We can write a letter to Dickon and ask him to go and buy the garden tools and the seeds.”

“Oh! you’re a good girl!” Mary cried. “You are, really! I didn’t know you were so nice!”

“I’ll bring a pen and ink and some paper.”

Martha 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.”

When Martha returned with her pen and ink and paper, she dictated a letter to Mary:

“My Dear Dickon:

Miss Mary has plenty of money. 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. Give my love to mother and everyone of you. Miss Mary is going to tell me a lot. So you will hear about elephants and camels and lions and tigers.

Your loving sister,

Martha Phoebe Sowerby.”

“We’ll put the money in the envelope and I’ll get the butcher’s boy to take it in his cart. He’s a great Dickon’s friend,” said Martha.

“How shall I get the things when Dickon buys them?” asked Mary.

“He’ll bring them to you himself.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mary, “then I shall see him!”

“Do you want to see him?” asked Martha suddenly.

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

Martha stayed with her until tea-time, but they talked very little. Just before Martha went down-stairs for the tea-tray, Mary asked a question.

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

Martha certainly started slightly.

“Why do you ask?” she said.

“I opened the door and walked down the corridor. And I heard that crying again, just as we heard it the other night. There isn’t a wind today.”

“Eh!” said Martha restlessly. “There’s Mrs. Medlock’s bell.”

And Martha almost ran out of the room.

“It’s a very strange house,” said Mary drowsily and she fell asleep.