into her sour little face which was almost a smile. She listened to him until he flew away. He was not like an Indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should ever see him again. Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it.
Perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought so much of the deserted garden. She was curious about it and wanted to see what it was like. She wanted to ask Mr. Craven why he had done such queer things.
“She thought of the robin [51] and of the way he seemed to sing his song at her, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped rather suddenly on the path.
“I believe that tree was in the secret garden-I feel sure it was,” she said. “There was a wall round the place and there was no door.”
She walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found the old man digging there. She went and stood beside him and watched him a few moments in her cold little way. He took no notice of her and so at last she spoke to him.
“I have been into the other gardens,” she said.
“There was nothin' to prevent thee,” he answered crustily.
“I went into the orchard.”
“There was no dog at th' door to bite thee,” he answered. “There was no door there into the other garden,” said Mary. “What garden?” he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a moment.
“The one on the other side of the wall,” answered Mistress Mary. “There are trees there-I saw the tops of them. A bird with a red breast was sitting on one of them and he sang.”
To her surprise the face of the gardener actually changed its expression. And he looked quite different. He turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to whistle. Almost the next moment a wonderful thing happened. She heard a soft little rushing flight through the air-and it was the bird with the red breast flying to them. Then he spoke to the bird as if he were speaking to a child.
The bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his soft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop [52]. He seemed quite familiar and not the least afraid. He hopped about and pecked the earth briskly, looking for seeds and insects. It actually gave Mary a queer feeling in her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerful and seemed so like a person. He had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak [53], and slender delicate legs.
“Will he always come when you call him?” she asked almost in a whisper.
“Aye, that he will. I've knowed him ever since he was a fledgling [54]. He come out of th' nest in th' other garden an' when first he flew over th' wall he was too weak to fly back for a few days an' we got friendly. When he went over th' wall again th' rest of th' brood was gone an' he was lonely an' he come back to me.”
The gardener told about the bird with such a love. He looked at the plump little robin as if he were proud of him. The robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and now and then stopped and looked at Mary a little. It really seemed as if he were finding out all about her. Mistress Mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very hard. She said that she was very lonely. The old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald head and stared at her a minute. Then he began to dig again, driving his spade deep into the rich black garden soil while the robin hopped about very busily employed.
“What is your name?” Mary inquired.
He stood up to answer her.
“Ben Weatherstaff,” he answered, and then he added with a surly chuckle [55], “I'm lonely mysel' except when he's with me,” and he jerked his thumb toward the robin. “He's th' only friend I've got.”
“I have no friends at all,” said Mary. “I never had. My Ayah didn't like me and I never played with any one.”
It is a Yorkshire habit to say what you think with blunt frankness [56], and old Ben Weatherstaff was a Yorkshire moor man.
“Tha' an' me are a good bit alike,” he said. “We was wove out of th' same cloth. We're neither of us good lookin' an' we're both of us as sour as we look. We've got the same nasty tempers, both of us, I'll warrant.”
This was plain speaking, and Mary Lennox had never heard the truth about herself in her life. Native servants always salaamed and submitted to you, whatever you did. She had never thought much about her looks, but she wondered if she was as unattractive as Ben Weatherstaff and she also wondered if she looked as sour as he had looked before the robin came. She actually began to wonder also if she was “nasty tempered.” She felt uncomfortable.
Suddenly a clear little sound broke out near her and she turned round. It was the robin. He had flown on to one of the branches and had burst out into a song. Mary asked why he did it. The man answered that just to make friends with her. Mary was very surprised to hear that and she began to talk to the bird. The man said that she talk to him like Dickon talked to his wild things on the moor. Mary was amazed to hear that the old man knew Dickon.
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 [57]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 [58] 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.
Chapter V
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
