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“Us is near bein’ wild things ourselves. Us is nest buildin’ too, bless thee. Look out tha’ doesn’t tell on us.” —Dickon Sowerby
When Mary awoke she lay with her eyes closed for a moment, listening. It had rained steadily during the long carriage ride across Thwaite moor and she had fallen asleep to the sound of the wind wuthering around the house, but now there was no patter of raindrops against the glass. Mary sat up and looked eagerly toward the window.
It must have been very early still because it was only beginning to grow light, just light enough for her to see that the storm had blown away in the night and the sky was clear. In the distance the rising sun was slowly painting the moor, transforming dreary gray into violet-blue and soft pink dotted here and there with the rich purple of blooming heather.
Mary got out of bed and went to open the window, leaning over the sill and drawing in a deep breath. The air smelled fresh and clean, as if the rain had washed the whole world and everything was new again. High above a skylark was singing but inside the house was hushed and still; it seemed that no one was awake yet except for Mary and the birds.
“I don’t want to wait until after breakfast,” thought Mary. “I’ll go and see the garden now before anyone else is up.”
She got dressed quickly and slipped silently through the corridors to the side door. Outside it was rather cool, already hinting at the coming autumn, but Mary’s anticipation warmed her as she ran through the kitchen gardens to the door beneath the ivy. It was unlocked, as it had remained for two years now, and brushing aside the thick ivy curtain she pushed it open easily.
The garden was a riot of late summer roses, tangling from tree to tree and falling in loose sprays almost to the ground, and in the morning light everything within the old walls seemed tinged with gold. Mary stood looking about and breathing in the rose-scented air until the unexpected caw-caw of a rook made her heart stutter. She found herself remembering that spring day years ago when she had discovered Dickon in the garden so early, and hurried forward a little breathlessly.
Sure enough when she stepped further along the path she saw Dickon kneeling on the grass under the plum tree, already working hard. He looked much as he had that first morning, perhaps taller and a bit broader in the shoulders, but with the same tousled head and funny, cheerful face. Soot was perched on a branch above him and announced Mary’s presence with another loud caw.
“Dickon!” cried Mary, running to meet him. “I’m so glad you came! I thought perhaps you would be helping the farrier again.”
Dickon stood up, smiling his wide smile and shaking his head. “Mr. Phillips is visitin’ his sister this week,” he told her. “But I would have come anyway. I knowed tha’ would be back today.”
“I’m glad,” said Mary again. “And it’s so nice to be home!” She felt almost startled as she said this, because she had never spoken of having a home before. The word gave her a contented, comforted sort of feeling. She remembered Basil teasing her in India because she had not known where home was, and thinking always that she did not belong anywhere. But now, standing in her garden with Dickon, she felt that Misselthwaite was her home and she knew she did not want to leave it again.
It had rained more than once during the week she had been away and there was plenty of weeding to be done in the garden. Mary settled down beside Dickon and began to tell him about her trip as they worked. As he had never been out of Yorkshire he was very curious about everything she and Colin had seen and done, and of course he was anxious to know if Colin was going to like being at school.
“The school is very nice,” Mary told him. “I think Colin will be happy there. He was shut up in his room here for so long, now that he is well it’s as if he wants to learn and do as many new things as he can, to sort of catch up I suppose. And it will be good for him to be around more boys his own age.” She laughed a little, remembering her cousin’s excitement before they had said their goodbyes. “I believe we will miss him more than he will miss us!”
Dickon chuckled too. “Tha’ may be right,” he agreed, “an’ good for Colin.” Then his smile faded slightly and he added, “But I warrant Mester Craven’s like to be feelin’ lonely without th’ lad. Tha’ mun try to cheer him up.”
“I know,” nodded Mary. “I’ll still have supper with him every day, and if he keeps coming out to the gardens surely he won’t be able to feel gloomy for very long. Besides, Colin promised to write to him every week. I’m sure Uncle will feel better once he’s certain that Colin is enjoying himself.”
Dickon felt the same, and he was glad that Lord Craven had allowed Mary to stay at Misselthwaite rather than go away to school as well. But he worried that Mary might be a bit sorry she had stayed now that she had seen what boarding would be like, and asked her as much.
“Oh, no!” answered Mary decidedly. “I don’t think I could bear leaving Misselthwaite for so long!”
“Did tha’ not like London?” asked Dickon.
“I liked it better than the first time I was there, when I came from India,” said Mary. “I hated it then, but I hated almost everything before I came here,” she admitted. “This time was much nicer because I was with Uncle and Colin and we had time to do things. There are ever so many shops and places to see, and everyone hurries about looking tremendously busy and important. I thought it was quite grand and very interesting, but I shouldn’t like to live there.”
“Why not?” wondered Dickon.
Mary considered for a moment before answering. “London is so crowded,” she said slowly. “You can’t look at the sky and feel as if it goes on forever, the way it looks over the moor. There are parks, of course, and little green spaces, but there are so many buildings all close together and people bustling about and it seems always to be quite noisy.” She paused thoughtfully, looking around at the garden and the sunlight creeping slowly over the roses.
“Do you remember what I told you about when I first got in here?” she asked Dickon softly. “I didn’t know anything about gardens but I thought the flowers looked as if they couldn’t breathe with all the grass growing so close about them. Perhaps it’s silly to say but I think—I think that’s exactly how I should feel if I lived in London.”
Dickon was watching her with an expression on his face that she had never seen before. He looked at once pleased and oddly wistful.
“Eh!” he smiled, “Mother was right about thee.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mary.
“Tha’ put me in mind of what she said once. She said tha’lt be like a blush rose when tha’ grows up,” he told her, “and now here th’ art, pretty as a bud in th’ springtime.”
And then a queer thing happened. Dickon actually blushed; his ruddy cheeks grew even pinker and a slow flush crept over the tips of his ears. Mary did not know quite what to say. Dickon thought she was like a rose! It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. She felt warm all over and knew she must be blushing too until Dickon rubbed his curly head and chuckled a bit and went on.
“For sure tha’ needs fresh air an’ sunshine, same as them roses,” he grinned, pointing with his spade at the delicate pink canopy above them, “and tha’ll get plenty o’ both stayin’ here.”
Mary laughed too and the brief awkwardness passed, but the warm feeling stayed with her for the rest of the morning and she couldn’t help smiling whenever she thought of the strange new look in Dickon’s eyes.
Presently it was time for Mary to return to the house for breakfast. She ate quickly in her room, saving a bit of muffin for Soot, and when she returned to the garden she was carrying a parcel carefully wrapped in brown paper.
“I brought you something from London,” she said to Dickon with a hint of her old stiffness. She did not have much experience with giving presents, especially not to boys, and she felt rather shy about it. What was a proper gift for a Magic boy who could charm animals?
But Dickon’s eyes had grown wide with surprise and delight. “A present!” he cried. “For me?”
“Of course!” said Mary, forgetting to be shy and pushing the parcel into his hands.
With an excited grin Dickon sat down on the grass and began to unwrap the paper while Mary nervously watched his face. Soot became very much interested as well and flew down to perch on Dickon’s shoulder for a closer look. In a moment all the paper had been tossed aside and Dickon sat holding a thick leather-bound book and a set of fine sketching pencils. Slowly he ran one rough hand over the cover and lovely cream-colored blank pages inside.
“I do hope you like it,” said Mary anxiously, hoping she had not made the wrong choice.
Dickon looked at her with his nicest, widest smile. “I like it wonderful!” he exclaimed. His eyes were shining and seemed bluer than ever. “What was it Colin used to say? Tha’ has been most bounteous—”
“—and my gratitude is extreme,” joined in Mary, her own eyes bright with relief and happiness, and they both laughed.
~*~
But Mary did not feel much like laughing when she met Dickon in the garden the next day. He saw at once that something was troubling her and asked what was the matter. Mary told him her news bluntly, pulling up weeds rather viciously as she spoke.
“My uncle had a letter yesterday,” she began. “He told me about it over supper last night. It was from Miss Lewis, the lady who is coming to be my governess. She is coming from London and her letter said that she plans to arrive next week.”
Dickon was puzzled by the misery in her voice. “Tha’ knowed she would be like to come at th’ end o’ th’ summer,” he reminded her gently.
“Yes,” said Mary sadly, “but I hoped it wouldn’t be quite so soon. I only wanted a little more time, to stay here in the garden just as we are.”
In truth Mistress Mary had not wanted a governess at all. She had felt much of her old contrariness returning when she had first discussed the matter with her uncle, but Lord Craven had been firm.
“I know too well the dangers of keeping apart from all society,” he had said with traces of sorrow in his dark eyes. “I won’t let you and Colin suffer from my mistakes. You must get a good education and you must learn what is expected of a young lady. But,” he had added, seeing her about to protest, “I don’t want you to be unhappy. You know that Colin wants to go away to school. You may go to a school for girls if you like, or you may stay here and I will send for a governess.”
Of course Mary had not wanted to go away, and they had agreed that she would get a governess when Colin began his term at the boarding school. But Mary had been so busy over the summer in the garden and preparing for the trip to London that she had managed to put Miss Lewis mostly out of her mind, and until last night she had been secretly hoping that her uncle might have forgotten about their agreement as well.
When she met him in the library for supper she had seen that Lord Craven was still weary from their journey, and she could tell he had been staring at the chair where Colin usually sat to eat. Mary had talked as cheerfully as she could while they ate, telling her uncle what she and Dickon had done in the garden and sharing all the news from Thwaite that she had heard from Martha. By the end of supper Lord Craven had actually been smiling, and when the dishes had been cleared away he had looked at Mary and said in his quiet way, “I am glad you decided to stay, Mary.”
“So am I,” Mary had replied, but then he had told her about the letter from Miss Lewis and she had begun to feel fretful and obstinate rather than glad.
At least her uncle had promised that she would not have to stay inside and do her studies all day. She was to have her lessons in the mornings, and if she finished her work to Miss Lewis’ satisfaction she would be allowed to play in the gardens in the afternoons. When she told Dickon this his concerned face brightened considerably.
“Eh!” he said, “that’s none so bad. I knowed Mester Craven wouldn’t keep thee shut up inside.”
“It could be worse,” conceded Mary with a sigh. She knew she was being contrary and even a little spoiled, but she couldn’t seem to help it. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful, really I don’t,” she explained, “it’s just that I’ve been so happy. I don’t want anything else to change.”
“Plenty o’ good things come from change,” Dickon pointed out wisely. “And doesn’t tha’ want to learn things same as Mester Colin?”
“I do,” admitted Mary. “I do feel interested in things the way I never did before I came here, and I like to read and I want to know all the strange sorts of things Colin learned from his books. I only wish Miss Lewis would stay away for a little while longer. A week isn’t very much time at all.”
“Well then,” said Dickon solemnly, “tha’ mun make th’ best of it.”
And they did make the best of it. Mary always remembered that week as one of the happiest of her life. The days were all fine, with cool, clear mornings slipping into long golden afternoons. Dickon came every day and they stayed in the garden almost until suppertime. Lord Craven sometimes joined them, sitting on the grass with a book or offering suggestions when they discussed plans for next season’s plantings, and once or twice pruning things beyond Dickon’s reach. But most of the time Mary and Dickon were alone, as they had been when the Magic first began and the secret garden started to come back to life.
They did not spend every hour working, of course. They still did Bob Haworth’s exercises every other day or so, and they ran races in the orchards and roasted potatoes in the little stone oven in the wood. Sometimes Dickon would play his pipe, and whenever Mary wanted to rest she would lie on the grass stroking Captain’s head and watching as curious birds and squirrels crept nearer to listen to the animal charmer.
Dickon always carried his sketchbook with him and often had drawings to show Mary of things he had seen on his walks across the moor. Once it was a badger just peeking out of his burrow; another day it was a herd of shaggy ponies grazing in the sunshine. Mary thought Dickon had a delightful knack for drawing animals, perhaps because he understood them so well. Her favourite was a picture of the robin perched in a rose-bush with his head tilted curiously, staring out of the page with one bright eye and looking for all the world as if he might burst into song at any moment.
But all things must end in time, and on the last afternoon before Miss Lewis arrived Mary sat with Dickon under a cherry tree watching the sun sinking down and the shadows lengthening on the grass. She knew they would have to leave soon yet somehow she was almost afraid to move. Not for the first time she felt as if the garden were under an enchantment like in the fairy stories she used to read. Tomorrow the spell would be broken, and all her lovely days of freedom would be over.
Dickon had noticed Mary growing quieter as the afternoon wore on and seeing her wistful face now he tried to shake her from her sorrowful thoughts.
“I’ve something to show thee,” he said, reaching for his sketchbook. He drew out a loose page with a picture on it and held it up for Mary to see.
It was a very large drawing, much more detailed than most of his other sketches, of a bird with a spotted breast sitting on her nest. Mary gasped when she recognized what it was.
“Why,” she exclaimed, “it’s a missel thrush! Oh, Dickon, she’s beautiful! How real she looks!”
Dickon grinned at her delight. “Tha’ mun keep her,” he said, pressing the drawing into her hands.
“Oh, thank you, Dickon!” beamed Mary. Then on impulse she did something she had never done before: she leaned over and kissed his ruddy cheek.
It was hard to say who was more surprised when she faced him again. Mary should have been embarrassed if she hadn’t seen that Dickon was smiling, and there was a look in his eyes that made her feel a funny sort of fluttering inside. For a moment they simply looked at each other silently, and then Dickon took Mary’s hand in his and squeezed it gently.
“Tha’ munnot worry thysel’ so, my lass,” he said softly. “Tha’lt still have thy nest, tha’ knows.”
How well he understood her, and how clever he was! He always seemed to know exactly what needed to be said. Mary secretly thought that must be part of his Magic, and perhaps it was. By the time they parted in the twilight at the rhododendron walk she had quite forgotten to be sad. Dickon was right, of course. From now on she would have to spend time doing her lessons and other grown-up sorts of things, just as he helped the farrier with his work. But the garden would always be there waiting for her, and so would Dickon.
When she returned to her room with Dickon’s gift Mary sat down at the dressing table and opened her treasure box. Lord Craven had found it during his travels and given it to her as a birthday present. It was a wooden box with a cunning hinged lid, beautifully carved on each side and inlaid with ivory. Mary was very fond of it and kept her most precious possessions in it.
A faint, sweet scent of roses drifted into the room when Mary lifted the lid. Carefully she took out her treasures, smiling as she looked at each one: her skipping rope, a small dried nosegay of late roses from her first summer in the secret garden, a tail feather from the robin, and a rusted old key that still made her shiver every time she held it. Beneath all of these was a little scrap of paper, worn and beginning to fade but not so much that she could no longer make out the missel thrush on her nest and the simple message underneath.
Mary laid the two sketches side by side on the table and admired them for a moment. She knew Dickon had meant the new drawing as a message, just as the first had been. She thought of the warm press of his hand against hers, and the fluttery sort of feeling that seemed to quiver through her whenever he looked at her a certain way.
Since she came to Misselthwaite she had learned a great deal from Dickon and he had shown her many different sorts of Magic. Perhaps, thought Mary, feeling her heart fluttering again, perhaps now he was teaching her the best Magic of them all.