CHAPTER IX.

THE STRANGEST HOUSE ANYONE EVER LIVED IN

It was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place anyone 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 someone. 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 anyone, 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

everyone 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 Phœbe 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 anyone 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.