“Everybody knows him. Dickon’s wanderin’
about everywhere. Th’ very blackberries
an’ heather-bells knows him. I warrant th’
foxes shows him where their cubs lies an’ th’
skylarks doesn’t hide their nests from him.”
Mary would have liked to ask some more questions.
She was almost as curious about Dickon as she was
about the deserted garden. But just that moment
the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake
of his wings, spread them and flew away. He had
made his visit and had other things to do.
“He has flown over the wall!” Mary cried
out, watching him. “He has flown into the
orchard—he has flown across the other wall—into
the garden where there is no door!”
“He lives there,” said old Ben. “He
came out o’ th’ egg there. If he’s
courtin’, he’s makin’ up to some
young madam of a robin that lives among th’
old rose-trees there.”
“Rose-trees,” said Mary. “Are
there rose-trees?”
Ben Weatherstaff took up his spade again and began
to dig.
“There was ten year’ ago,” he mumbled.
“I should like to see them,” said Mary.
“Where is the green door? There must be
a door somewhere.”
Ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable
as he had looked when she first saw him.
“There was ten year’ ago, but there isn’t
now,” he said.
“No door!” cried Mary. “There
must be.”
“None as any one can find, an’ none as
is any one’s business. Don’t you
be a meddlesome wench an’ poke your nose where
it’s no cause to go. Here, I must go on
with my work. Get you gone an’ play you.
I’ve no more time.”
And he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over
his shoulder and walked off, without even glancing
at her or saying good-by.
THE CRY IN THE CORRIDOR
At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox
was exactly like the others. Every morning she
awoke in her tapestried room and found Martha kneeling
upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she
ate her breakfast in the nursery which had nothing
amusing in it; and after each breakfast she gazed
out of the window across to the huge moor which seemed
to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky,
and after she had stared for a while she realized
that if she did not go out she would have to stay
in and do nothing—and so she went out.
She did not know that this was the best thing she
could have done, and she did not know that, when she
began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and
down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and
making herself stronger by fighting with the wind
which swept down from the moor. She ran only
to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which
rushed at her face and roared and held her back as
if it were some giant she could not see. But
the big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather
filled her lungs with something which was good for
her whole thin body and whipped some red color into
her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when she did
not know anything about it.
