秘密花园(txt+pdf+epub+mobi电子书下载)

作者：伯内特

出版社：北京理工大学出版社

格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT

秘密花园试读：

Chapter 1　There Is No One Left

When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable—looking child ever seen.It was true，too.She had a little thin face and a little thin body，thin light hair and a sour expression.Her hair was yellow，and her face was yellow because she had been born in India and had always been ill in one way or another.Her father had held a position under the English Government and had always been busy and ill himself，and her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and amuse herself with gay people.She had not wanted a little girl at all，and when Mary was born she handed her over to the care of an Ayah，who was made to understand that if she wished to please the Mem Sahib she must keep the child out of sight as much as possible.So when she was a sickly，fretful，ugly little baby she was kept out of the way，and when she became a sickly，fretful，toddling thing she was kept out of the way also.She never remembered seeing familiarly anything but the dark faces of her Ayah and the other native servants，and as they always obeyed her and gave her her own way in everything，because the Mem Sahib would be angry if she was dis-turbed by her crying，by the time she was six years old she was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as ever lived.The young English governess who came to teach her to read and write disliked her so much that she gave up her place in three months，and when other governesses came to try to fill it they always went away in a shorter time than the first one.So if Mary had not chosen to really want to know how to read books she would never have learned her letters at all.

One frightfully hot morning，when she was about nine years old，she awak-ened feeling very cross，and she became crosser still when she saw that the servant who stood by her bedside was not her Ayah.

“Why did you come？”she said to the strange woman.“I will not let you stay.Send my Ayah to me.”

The woman looked frightened，but she only stammered that the Ayah could not come and when Mary threw herself into a passion and beat and kicked her，she looked only more frightened and repeated that it was not possible for the Ayah to come to Missie Sahib.

There was something mysterious in the air that morning.Nothing was done in its regular order and several of the native servants seemed missing，while those whom Mary saw slunk or hurried about with ashy and scared faces.But no one would tell her anything and her Ayah did not come.She was actually left alone as the morning went on，and at last she wandered out into the garden and began toplay by herself under a tree near the veranda.She pretended that she was making a flower—bed，and she stuck big scarlet hibiscus blossoms into little heaps of earth，all the time growing more and more angry and muttering to herself the things she would say and the names she would call Saidie when she returned.

“Pig！Pig！Daughter of Pigs！”she said，because to call a native a pig is the worst insult of all.

She was grinding her teeth and saying this over and over again when she heard her mother come out on the veranda with some one.She was with a fair young man and they stood talking together in low strange voices.Mary knew the fair young man who looked like a boy.She had heard that he was a very young officer who had just come from England.

The child stared at him，but she stared most at her mother.She always did this when she had a chance to see her，because the Mem Sahib—Mary used to call her that oftener than anything else—was such a tall，slim，pretty person and wore such lovely clothes.Her hair was like curly silk and she had a delicate little nose which seemed to be disdaining things，and she had large laughing eyes.All her clothes were thin and floating，and Mary said they were“full of lace.”They looked fuller of lace than ever this morning，but her eyes were not laughing at all.They were large and scared and lifted imploringly to the fair boy officer's face.

“Is it so very bad？Oh，is it？”Mary heard her say.

“Awfully，”the young man answered in a trembling voice.“Awfully，Mrs.Lennox.You ought to have gone to the hills two weeks ago.”

The Mem Sahib wrung her hands.

“Oh，I know I ought！”she cried.“I only stayed to go to that silly dinner party.What a fool I was！”

At that very moment such a loud sound of wailing broke out from the ser-vants'quarters that she clutched the young man's arm，and Mary stood shivering from head to foot.The wailing grew wilder and wilder.

“What is it？What is it？”Mrs.Lennox gasped.

“Some one has died，”answered the boy officer.“You did not say it had bro-ken out among your servants.”

“I did not know！”the Mem Sahib cried.“Come with me！Come with me！”and she turned and ran into the house.

After that，appalling things happened，and the mysteriousness of the morning was explained to Mary.The cholera had broken out in its most fatal form and people were dying like flies.The Ayah had been taken ill in the night，and it was because she had just died that the servants had wailed in the huts.Before the next day three other servants were dead and others had run away in terror.There was panic on every side，and dying people in all the bungalows.

During the confusion and bewilderment of the second day Mary hid herselfin the nursery and was forgotten by everyone.Nobody thought of her，nobody wanted her，and strange things happened of which she knew nothing.Mary alter-nately cried and slept through the hours.She only knew that people were ill and that she heard mysterious and tightening sounds.Once she crept into the dining—room and found it empty，though a partly finished meal was on the table and chairs and plates looked as if they had been hastily pushed back when the diners rose suddenly for some reason.The child ate some fruit and biscuits，and being thirsty she drank a glass of wine which stood nearly filled.It was sweet，and she did not know how strong it was.Very soon it made her intensely drowsy，and she went back to her nursery and shut herself in again，frightened by cries she heard in the huts and by the hurrying sound of feet.The wine made her so sleepy that she could scarcely keep her eyes open and she lay down on her bed and knew nothing more for a long time.

Many things happened during the hours in which she slept so heavily，but she was not disturbed by the wails and the sound of things being carried in and out of the bungalow.

When she awakened she lay and stared at the wall.The house was perfectly still.She had never known it to be so silent before.She heard neither voices nor footsteps，and wondered if everybody had got well of the cholera and all the trou-ble was over.She wondered also who would take care of her now her Ayah was dead.There would be a new Ayah，and perhaps she would know some new sto-ries.Mary had been rather tired of the old ones.She did not cry because her nurse had died.She was not an affectionate child and had never cared much for any one.The noise and hurrying about and wailing over the cholera had frightened her，and she had been angry because no one seemed to remember that she was alive.Ev-eryone was too panic—stricken to think of a little girl no one was fond of.When people had the cholera it seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves.But if everyone had got well again，surely some one would remember and come to look for her.

But no one came，and as she lay waiting the house seemed to grow more and more silent.She heard something rustling on the matting and when she looked down she saw a little snake gliding along and watching her with eyes like jewels.She was not frightened，because he was a harmless little thing who would not hurt her and he seemed in a hurry to get out of the room.He slipped under the door as she watched him.

“How queer and quiet it is，”she said.“It sounds as if there were no one in the bungalow but me and the snake.”

Almost the next minute she heard footsteps in the compound，and then on the veranda.They were men's footsteps，and the men entered the bungalow and talked in low voices.No one went to meet or speak to them and they seemed toopen doors and look into rooms.

”What desolation！”she heard one voice say.“That pretty，pretty woman！I suppose the child，too.I heard there was a child，though no one ever saw her.”

Mary was standing in the middle of the nursery when they opened the door a few minutes later.She looked an ugly，cross little thing and was frowning because she was beginning to be hungry and feel disgracefully neglected.The first man who came in was a large officer she had once seen talking to her father.He looked tired and troubled，but when he saw her he was so startled that he almost jumped back.

“Barney！”he cried out.“There is a child here！A child alone！In a place like this！Mercy on us，who is she！”

“I am Mary Lennox，”the little girl said，drawing herself up stiffly.She thought the man was very rude to call her father's bungalow“A place like this！”

“I fell asleep when everyone had the cholera and I have only just wakened up.Why does nobody come？”

“It is the child no one ever saw！”exclaimed the man，turning to his com-panions.“She has actually been forgotten！”

“Why was I forgotten？”Mary said，stamping her foot.“Why does nobody come？”

The young man whose name was Barney looked at her very sadly.Mary even thought she saw him wink his eyes as if to wink tears away.

“Poor little kid！”he said.“There is nobody left to come.”

It was in that strange and sudden way that Mary found out that she had nei-ther father nor mother left；that they had died and been carried away in the night，and that the few native servants who had not died also had left the house as quickly as they could get out of it，none of them even remembering that there was a Missie Sahib.That was why the place was so quiet.It was true that there was no one in the bungalow but herself and the little rustling snake.

第一章　一个人也没有了

当玛丽·伦诺克斯被送到米瑟斯韦特庄园的姑姑家时，大家都说没见过这么别扭的孩子。的确如此。她的脸蛋瘦削，身材单薄，头发稀疏，还一脸乖张的样子。她不光头发是黄色的，脸也是蜡黄的。她是在印度出生的，不是这儿生病就是那儿生病。她的爸爸在英国政府任职，公务繁忙，也总是生病。她妈妈是位大美人，但却只钟热衷参加宴会，总想着寻欢作乐。她根本就不想要这个小女孩，玛丽刚出生，她就把玛丽交给印度奶妈照顾。奶妈当然明白，想让女主人高兴，就要让孩子离女主人越远越好。于是，当玛丽还是个多病、喜怒无常、难看的婴儿时，就被撇到一边；当她长成一个多病、烦躁、蹒跚学步的孩子时，她依然被父母忽视。除了印度奶妈和其他土著仆人黑黑的脸庞外，她不记得见过什么让她熟悉的面孔，而他们只是服从于她，让她随心所欲。因为女主人被她的哭声打搅到会发怒。当她6岁时，她像小猪崽一样，是世界上最自私、最蛮横的孩子。连那位年轻的英国女家庭教师都非常讨厌她，只做了3个月就辞职了。此后的家庭教师留下来的时间比第一个还短。如果不是玛丽自己非常想读书的话，她怕是连一个字母都不认识。

玛丽9岁时的一个早晨，天气非常热，她醒来后就觉得心里很烦躁。她看到站在床边的仆人不是她的奶妈，就更烦躁了。“你来做什么？”她对陌生的女人说道，“我不让你留下来。去把我的奶妈叫过来。”

那个女人看上去很害怕，但她只是结结巴巴地告诉玛丽，奶妈来不了了。玛丽非常生气，对她又打又踢，她就更害怕了，不断重复着说奶妈的确不能到小姐这里来。

那个早晨的气氛有些诡异。所有的事情都很反常，几个土著仆人不见了，而玛丽看到的仆人们也都面如死灰，不然就是四处乱窜。但是没有人告诉她发生什么事情，她的奶妈没有来。那个早晨，就只剩她一个人了，最后她闲逛到花园里，在游廊旁边的一棵树下独自玩耍。她假装正在造花坛，她把一朵朵深红的木槿花插进一个个小土堆里，心里却越来越生气了，她自言自语地嘟哝着奶妈回来之后，一定要骂她之类的话。“猪！猪！猪的孩子！”她说，因为叫印度土著猪是最具侮辱性的。

她正咬牙切齿地一遍遍骂着，就听到妈妈和人走到游廊的脚步声。妈妈和一个帅气的小伙子在一起，他们正在低声谈话，但谈话的声音很奇怪。玛丽认识这个小伙子，他长得像个小男孩。她曾听说这个小伙子是位年轻的军官，刚从英国来。小女孩盯着他看，但更多的时候是盯着她妈妈看。一有机会见到妈妈，她就这样，因为女主人——玛丽经常这样称呼妈妈——是那么高挑、苗条，穿着如此美丽的衣服。她的头发像卷曲的丝缎，小巧玲珑的鼻子像是对什么都不屑一顾，她的大眼睛像是在笑，她所有的衣服都轻薄而飘逸，玛丽常说它们“满是蕾丝”。这个早晨，妈妈穿的衣服蕾丝好像比任何时候都多。但她的眼睛中却没有往常的笑意，她的眼睛睁得大大的，充满悲伤地看向年轻英俊的军官。“真有这么糟糕吗？哦，真是这样吗？”玛丽听到妈妈说。“糟透了，”年轻的军官声音颤抖地回答，“糟透了，伦诺克斯太太。两个星期之前你就应该到山上去。”

女主人的双手紧紧地握在一起。“哦，我知道我该那么做！”她叫道，“我是为了那个该死的宴会。我真是个傻瓜！”

正在此时，一声响亮的号哭声从仆人住的地方传出来，她一把抓住年轻军官的手臂，玛丽也浑身颤抖地站了起来。嚎哭声越来越凄厉了。“那是什么声音？怎么回事？”伦诺克斯太太上气不接下气地问道。“有人死了，”年轻军官回答，“你没跟我说过你家的仆人中也爆发了。”“我不知道！”女主人哭喊着，“快跟我来！跟我来！”她转身跑进屋子里。

然后，让人毛骨悚然的事情发生了，玛丽明白了这个诡秘早晨中一切神秘的事情。

这里爆发了严重的霍乱，人们像苍蝇一样纷纷死去。奶妈是在夜里发病的，刚才棚屋里的嚎哭声就是因为她死了。一天之内，又有三个仆人丧命了。其他人都纷纷惊慌失措地逃跑了。恐惧充斥在每个角落，每间小平房里都有人死掉。

第二天，在一片混乱和狼藉之中，玛丽躲在她的幼儿室中，被人们忘记了。没有人想起她，也没有人需要她，诡异的事情一直发生着，但她一无所知。在那段时间里，玛丽有时哭，有时睡。她知道人们都在生病，她听到过神秘的、恐惧的声音。她曾爬到餐厅中，发现里面一个人也没有，尽管桌子上的饭只吃了一半，好像是吃饭的人因为什么原因突然站起来，椅子、盘子被慌张地推开。玛丽吃了些水果和饼干，她觉得口渴，拿起一杯酒喝了，那杯酒几乎是满的，而且挺甜，她不知道那酒有多烈，但很快她就感觉非常困，她回到幼儿室后，又把自己关起来，小平房里的喊叫、匆忙的脚步声，让她恐惧。但那杯酒让她打起瞌睡，她几乎睁不开眼睛，她躺在床上，一会儿就睡得天昏地暗了。

在她沉睡的时候，发生了许多事情，但是小平房里的哀号声和东西抬出抬进的种种声音都没有吵醒她。

后来她醒了，躺在床上盯着墙看。屋子里一点儿声音都没有。她从没感到这座屋子如此安静。她听不到人声，也听不到脚步声，她想着人们是否都从霍乱中恢复过来了，所有的麻烦都过去了？她还想着，她的奶妈死了，那么现在会是谁来照顾她呢？会来一个新奶妈，或许还会讲新故事。那些重复的故事玛丽已经听了很多遍，已经感到很厌倦了。她不是个人情味重的小孩子，也从来没有关心过谁。霍乱带来的种种嘈杂、忙乱和号哭吓坏了她，同时也让她非常生气，因为看来没有一个人想起她来，她还活着。恐惧把所有人都击垮了，没有人有工夫去想起一个“小讨厌”来。不过，等人们都好起来了，一定会有人想起她，然后来找她，肯定会的。

但没人来，房子在等待中变得越来越安静。玛丽躺在床上，她听到地毯上有模糊的窸窸窣窣声，她低头看到一条小蛇爬过，盯着她，眼睛像宝石一样。她没感到害怕，因为它看上去是个安全的小东西，而且它正急于离开这个房间。她看着它从门缝溜过。“多么奇怪，多么安静啊，”她说，“听上去这房子里好像只有我和那条小蛇。”

正在这时，她听见院子里响起脚步声，脚步声到了游廊上。是男人的脚步声，他们进了房子，低声说话。可听起来没有人接待他们或跟他们对话，他们好像正在打开门，朝一个个房间里看。“一片废墟！”她听到一个声音说。“那么美的一个人啊！我想那个孩子也……我知道这儿有个孩子，但从来没人见过她。”

几分钟之后，他们打开门，玛丽正站在幼儿室的中间。她皱着眉头，看上去是个丑陋、愤怒的小东西，因为她饿了，而且觉得被可恨地忽视了。

第一个进来的男人是个高大的军官，她有一次见过他和她爸爸谈话。他看上去疲惫不堪，但是当他看到她的时候，他吃惊得像是要跳起来。“班尼！”他惊叫道，“这儿有个小孩！就一个孤零零的小孩！在这么个地方！我的老天，她是谁？”“我是玛丽·伦诺克斯，”小女孩说，她就那么直挺挺地站着。她觉得这个男人很粗鲁，把她爸爸的房子说成“这么个地方！”“人们染上霍乱的时候，我睡着了，我刚刚才睡醒。怎么没有人过来？”“这就是那个大家都没见过的孩子！”男军官惊呼起来，转向他的伙伴。“她居然被人们忘了！”“为什么我会被忘了？”玛丽跺着脚问，“为什么没有人来？”

那个叫班尼的年轻人伤感地看着她。玛丽甚至觉得她看到他在努力眨着眼睛，试图把眼泪眨掉。“真是个可怜的孩子！”他说，“因为这里没有人剩下，没有人能来了。”

事情就这么莫名其妙，它来得突然，玛丽得知她没有爸爸了，也没有妈妈了；他们已经在夜里死去，被抬出去了，剩下的几个没有死的印度仆人都很快逃离了这座屋子，没有人想起还有位玛丽小姐。所以屋子里这么安静。嗯，这座大屋子里，只有她和那条窸窸窣窣作响的小蛇。

Chapter 2　Mistress Mary Quite Contrary

Mary had liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had thought her very pretty，but as she knew very little of her she could scarcely have been ex-pected to love her or to miss her very much when she was gone.She did not miss her at all，in fact，and as she was a self—absorbed child she gave her entire thought to herself，as she had always done.If she had been older she would no doubt have been very anxious at being left alone in the world，but she was very young，and asshe had always been taken care of，she supposed she always would be.What she thought was that she would like to know if she was going to nice people，who would be polite to her and give her her own way as her Ayah and the other native servants had done.

She knew that she was not going to stay at the English clergyman's house where she was taken at first.She did not want to stay.The English clergyman was poor and he had five children nearly all the same age and they wore shabby clothes and were always quarreling and snatching toys from each other.Mary hated their untidy bungalow and was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody would play with her.By the second day they had given her a nickname which made her furious.

It was Basil who thought of it first.Basil was a little boy with impudent blue eyes and a turned—up nose，and Mary hated him.She was playing by herself un-der a tree，just as she had been playing the day the cholera broke out.She was making heaps of earth and paths for a garden and Basil came and stood near to watch her.Presently he got rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion.

“Why don't you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery？”he said.“There in the middle，”and he leaned over her to point.

“Go away！”cried Mary.“I don't want boys.Go away！”

For a moment Basil looked angry，and then he began to tease.He was always teasing his sisters.He danced round and round her and made faces and sang and laughed.

“Mistress Mary，quite contrary，How does your garden grow？With silver bells，and cockle shells，And marigolds all in a row.”

He sang it until the other children heard and laughed，too；and the crosser Mary got，the more they sang“Mistress Mary，quite contrary”；and after that as long as she stayed with them they called her“Mistress Mary Quite Contrary”when they spoke of her to each other，and often when they spoke to her.

“You are going to be sent home，”Basil said to her，“at the end of the week.And we're glad of it.”

“I am glad of it，too，”answered Mary.“Where is home？”

“She doesn't know where home is！”said Basil，with seven—year—old scorn.“It's England，of course.Our grandmama lives there and our sister Mabel was sent to her last year.You are not going to your grandmama.You have none.You are going to your uncle.His name is Mr.Archibald Craven.”

“I don't know anything about him，”snapped Mary.

“I know you don't，”Basil answered.“You don't know anything.Girls never do.I heard father and mother talking about him.He lives in a great，big，desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him.He's so cross he won't let them，and they wouldn't come if he would let them.He’s a hunch-back，and he’s horrid.”

“I don't believe you，”said Mary；and she turned her back and stuck her fin-gers in her ears，because she would not listen any more.

But she thought over it a great deal afterward；and when Mrs.Crawford told her that night that she was going to sail away to England in a few days and go to her uncle，Mr.Archibald Craven，who lived at Misselthwaite Manor，she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested that they did not know what to think about her.They tried to be kind to her，but she only turned her face away when Mrs.Crawford attempted to kiss her，and held herself stiffly when Mr.Crawford patted her shoulder.

“She is such a plain child，”Mrs.Crawford said pityingly，afterward.“And her mother was such a pretty creature.She had a very pretty manner，too，and Mary has the most unattractive ways I ever saw in a child.The children call herMistress Mary Quite Contrary，'and though it's naughty of them，one can't help under-standing it.”

“Perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners of-tener into the nursery Mary might have learned some pretty ways too.It is very sad，now the poor beautiful thing is one，to remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all.”

“I believe she scarcely ever looked at her，”sighed Mrs.Crawford.“When her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing.Think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow.Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room.”

Mary made the long voyage to England under the care of an officer's wife，who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding—school.She was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl，and was rather glad to hand the child over to the woman Mr.Archibald Craven sent to meet her，in London.The woman was his housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor，and her name was Mrs.Medlock.She was a stout woman，with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes.She wore a very purple dress，a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black bon-net with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she moved her head.Mary did not like her at all，but as she very seldom liked people there was nothing remarkable in that；besides which it was very evident Mrs.Medlock did not think much of her.

“My word！she's a plain little piece of goods！”she said.“And we'd heard that her mother was a beauty.She hasn't handed much of it down，has she，ma'am？”

“Perhaps she will improve as she grows older，”the officer's wife said good—naturedly.“If she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression，her features are rather good.Children alter so much.”

“She'll have to alter a good deal，”answered Mrs.Medlock.“And，there's nothing likely to improve children at Misselthwaite—if you ask me！”

They thought Mary was not listening because she was standing a little apart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to.She was watching the passing buses and cabs and people，but she heard quite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he lived in.What sort of a place was it，and what would he be like？What was a hunchback？She had never seen one.Perhaps there were none in India.

Since she had been living in other people's houses and had had no Ayah，she had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new to her.She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to anyone even when her father and mother had been alive.Other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers，but she had never seemed to really be anyone's little girl.She had had servants，and food and clothes，but no one had taken any notice of her.She did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child；but then，of course，she did not know she was disagreeable.She often thought that other peo-ple were，but she did not know that she was so herself.

She thought Mrs.Medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever seen，with her common，highly colored face and her common fine bonnet.When the next day they set out on their journey to Yorkshire，she walked through the sta-tion to the railway carriage with her head up and trying to keep as far away from her as she could，because she did not want to seem to belong to her.It would have made her angry to think people imagined she was her little girl.

But Mrs.Medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her thoughts.She was the kind of woman who would“stand no nonsense from young ones.”At least，that is what she would have said if she had been asked.She had not wanted to go to London just when her sister Maria's daughter was going to be married，but she had a comfortable，well paid place as housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor and the only way in which she could keep it was to do at once what Mr.Archibald Craven told her to do.She never dared even to ask a question.

“Captain Lennox and his wife died of the cholera，”Mr.Craven had said in his short，cold way.

“Captain Lennox was my wife's brother and I am their daughter's guardian.The child is to be brought here.You must go to London and bring her yourself.”

So she packed her small trunk and made the journey.

Mary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain and fretful.She had nothing to read or to look at，and she had folded her thin little black—gloved hands in her lap.Her black dress made her look yellower than ever，and her limp light hair straggled from under her black crepe hat.

“A more marred—looking young one I never saw in my life，”Mrs.Med-lock thought.（Marred is a Yorkshire word and means spoiled and pettish.）She had never seen a child who sat so still without doing anything；and at last she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk，hard voice.

“I suppose I may as well tell you something about where you are going to，”she said.“Do you know anything about your uncle？”

“No，”said Mary.

“Never heard your father and mother talk about him？”

“No，”said Mary frowning.She frowned because she remembered that her father and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular.Certainly they had never told her things.

“Humph，”muttered Mrs.Medlock，staring at her queer，unresponsive little face.She did not say any more for a few moments and then she began again.

“I suppose you might as well be told something—to prepare you.You are going to a queer place.”

Mary said nothing at all，and Mrs.Medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent indifference，but，after taking a breath，she went on.

“Not but that it's a grand big place in a gloomy way，and Mr.Craven's proud of it in his way—and that's gloomy enough，too.The house is six hundred years old and it's on the edge of the moor，and there's near a hundred rooms in it，though most of them’s shut up and locked.And there’s pictures and fine old fur-niture and things that’s been there for ages，and there’s a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground—some of them.”She paused and took another breath.“But there’s nothing else，”she ended suddenly.

Mary had begun to listen in spite of herself.It all sounded so unlike India，and anything new rather attracted her.But she did not intend to look as if she were interested.That was one of her unhappy，disagreeable ways.So she sat still.

“Well，”said Mrs.Medlock.“What do you think of it？”

“Nothing，”she answered.“I know nothing about such places.”

That made Mrs.Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh.

“Eh！”she said，“but you are like an old woman.Don't you care？”

“It doesn't matter”said Mary，“whether I care or not.”

“You are right enough there，”said Mrs.Medlock.“It doesn't.What you're to be kept at

Misselthwaite Manor for I don't know，unless because it's the easiest way.He's not going to trouble himself about you，that's sure and certain.He never troubles himself about no one.”

She stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time.

“He's got a crooked back，”she said.“That set him wrong.He was a sour young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was married.”

Mary's eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to care.She had never thought of the hunchback's being married and she was a trifle sur-prised.Mrs.Medlock saw this，and as she was a talkative woman she continued with more interest.This was one way of passing some of the time，at any rate.

“She was a sweet，pretty thing and he'd have walked the world over to get her a blade of grass she wanted.Nobody thought she'd marry him，but she did，and people said she married him for his money.But she didn't—she didn't，”positively.“When she died—”

Mary gave a little involuntary jump.

“Oh！did she die！”she exclaimed，quite without meaning to.She had just re-membered a French fairy story she had once read called“Riquet a la Houppe.”It had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess and it had made her suddenly sorry for Mr.Archibald Craven.

“Yes，she died，”Mrs.Medlock answered.“And it made him queerer than ever.He cares about nobody.He won't see people.Most of the time he goes away，and when he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself up in the West Wing and won't let any one but Pitcher see him.Pitcher's an old fellow，but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows his ways.”

It sounded like something in a book and it did not make Mary feel cheerful.A house with a hundred rooms，nearly all shut up and with their doors locked—a house on the edge of a moor—whatsoever a moor was—sounded dreary.A man with a crooked back who shut himself up also！She stared out of the window with her lips pinched together，and it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down in gray slanting lines and splash and stream down the win-dow—panes.If the pretty wife had been alive she might have made things cheerful by being something like her own mother and by running in and out and going to parties as she had done in frocks“full of lace.”But she was not there any more.

“You needn't expect to see him，because ten to one you won't，”said Mrs.Medlock.“And you mustn't expect that there will be people to talk to you.You'll have to play about and look after yourself.You'll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms you’re to keep out of.There’s gardens enough.But when you’re in the house don’t go wandering and poking about.Mr.Craven won’t have it.”

“I shall not want to go poking about，”said sour little Mary and just as sud-denly as she had begun to be rather sorry for Mr.Archibald Craven she began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant enough to deserve all that had happened to him.

And she turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of the railway carriage and gazed out at the gray rain—storm which looked as if it would go on forever and ever.She watched it so long and steadily that the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep.

第二章　倔犟的玛丽小姐

玛丽以前喜欢远远地看着妈妈，觉得她非常美丽。可是，她去世后，玛丽没有想念她，因为玛丽对她并不太了解，她根本不想念她。事实上，玛丽是个只关心自己的孩子，她所想的事情都是关于她自己的，一直如此。不用问，假如她年龄再大一些的话，一个人孤零零地被留在这世上，她一定会焦虑不安，但她还没有那么大，总是被人照顾，她想一切还会照旧。她想知道的只是自己要去的人家是不是很好。好人家会像奶妈和其他印度仆人一样对她百依百顺。

开始，她被送到一个英国牧师家中，她知道她不会留在那里。她也不想留下来。英国牧师很穷，有五个几乎年龄相同的孩子。他们穿着破旧，还总是争吵，相互争夺玩具。玛丽不喜欢他们乱糟糟的小屋子。她脾气不好，与他们很难相处，一两天之后，再没有谁愿意和她玩了。第二天，他们就给她取了个让她非常气愤的绰号。

是巴兹尔最先提出来的。巴兹尔是个小男孩，一双蓝眼睛既显得冒失又显得无礼，鼻子还向上翘着，玛丽很讨厌他。她自己在树下玩，就像霍乱爆发那天一样。巴兹尔走过来，站在旁边看她垒起小土堆，做花园里的小路。这时他显得感兴趣，他突然提起了建议。“你为什么不在那里垒一堆石头做假山？”他说，“在中间的地方，”他俯到她头上方指着。“离我远点儿！”玛丽叫着，“我不想理男孩。你离我远点儿！”

巴兹尔脸色难看了一阵子，之后开始捉弄人。他总爱捉弄他的姐妹们。他围着玛丽一圈圈蹦跳着，边做鬼脸边又唱又笑：

玛丽小姐，实在倔犟，

你的花园，长得怎样？

银色铃铛，鸟蛤贝壳，

金盏花儿，排成一行。

他一直唱到其他孩子听到，也跟着大笑起来。玛丽越是觉得生气，他们唱得越起劲，“玛丽小姐，实在倔犟”。从那以后，只要她和他们在一起，他们就都会称她“玛丽小姐实在倔犟”。“你要被送回家去了，”巴兹尔告诉她，“这个周末。我们感到非常高兴。”“我也感到很高兴，”玛丽问道，“哪里的家？”“她不知道家在哪里！”巴兹尔说，一副7岁小孩的蔑视神气。“当然是英国。我奶奶住在那儿，我姐姐梅布尔也住在那儿，她是去年被送到奶奶那儿去的。你不是去你奶奶那儿。你没有奶奶。你会去你姑姑那里。他的名字叫阿奇博尔德·克兰文。”“我压根不认识他。”玛丽说。“我知道你不认识他，”巴兹尔答道，“你什么都不知道。女孩总是这样。我听到爸爸妈妈议论他。他住在乡下一所又大又荒凉的老屋子里，没人愿意接近他。他脾气很差，不允许别人靠近他，不过即使他愿意，人们也不愿意接近他。他是个驼背，很吓人。”“我不会相信你说的。”玛丽说着，转过身，用手捂着耳朵，因为她不想继续听了。

但是后来她对这件事想了很多。那天晚上克劳福太太跟她说几天后她会坐船去英国，去她姑姑阿奇博尔德·克兰文的米瑟斯韦特庄园住着。她看上去非常冷漠，毫无兴趣，夫妻俩不知道要拿她怎么办。他们试着温和地对待她，可是当克劳福太太想亲她一下时，她却把脸扭开了；克劳福先生安抚性地拍了一下她的肩膀，她只是全身紧绷着。“她实在是个平凡的孩子，”克劳福太太惋惜地说，“她妈妈是那么一个漂亮人儿，也很有风度，但玛丽的举止是我见过的孩子里最平庸和乏味的。孩子们说她‘玛丽小姐实在倔犟’，虽然他们是调皮了点儿，但也的确是可以理解的。”“如果她妈妈能把自己的美丽和优雅举止多带些给孩子的话，玛丽可能也会学到一些。可惜的是，现在那个可怜的美人已经走了，要知道很多人从来不知道她有个孩子。”“我相信她连看都没看过她几眼，”克劳福太太叹息道，“她的奶妈死了，没人会想到这个小可怜了。想想看，仆人都离开了，就剩她一个人孤零零地在那个荒废的屋子里。麦克格鲁上校说他当时吓了一大跳，他开门时，发现她一个人站在屋子中央。”

玛丽在一位军官妻子的照顾下，长途航行到英国。军官妻子带着她自己的几个孩子，她要把他们留在一所寄宿学校里。当然，她的心思都在自己的孩子身上，所以在伦敦，她非常高兴地把玛丽交给阿奇博尔德·克兰文派来接玛丽的中年妇女。这个女人是米瑟斯韦特庄园的管家，人们叫她莫德劳克太太。她是个很强壮的女人，脸蛋红润，眼睛黑且锐利。她身着一件深紫色的裙子，戴着黑色丝斗篷，镶着黑色的边，戴着一顶黑色女帽，上面点缀了些紫色的小花儿。她的头摇晃的时候，那些花儿就会伸出来跟着颤动。玛丽一点儿都不喜欢她，不过也没有几个人是她喜欢的，所以这不值得奇怪，再说莫德劳克太太显然也不太把她放在心上。“我的天！她是这么一个平庸的小东西！”

她说，“我们听说她妈妈是位美人。看来她没有把美丽传给女儿，是不是？”“或许她长大一点儿，会变得好看些。”

军官妻子好心地说：“如果她脸色不是这么蜡黄，表情好一点儿的话……她的脸型其实还可以。小孩的变化会很大。”“那她得改变许多才行，”莫德劳克太太说道，“而且，米瑟斯韦特可没有能让孩子变化的地方。”

他们认为玛丽听不到，因为玛丽离他们有段距离，但她听到了。来到这家私人旅馆后，她一直站在窗边，看着来往的公共汽车、出租车和行人，可是她听得很清楚，开始对她姑夫和他的家好奇。那是个什么样的地方，他会是怎样的人呢？什么叫驼背？她从来没见过。可能印度根本没有驼背。

自从奶妈离开她，她开始住到别人家后，她渐渐感到孤单，产生许多以前根本没有的奇怪念头。她开始为自己从来不属于任何人而感到疑惑，哪怕在父母都活着的时候。其他孩子好像都是他们的爸爸妈妈的，但她似乎从来不属于哪个人。她以前有仆人、食品和衣服，可是从没有谁注意过她。她不明白这是因为她脾气很坏。不过那时候，她当然没有意识到自己的脾气不好。她还经常觉得别人脾气坏，并不知道是自己脾气更坏。

她觉得莫德劳克太太是自己见过的最讨厌的人，她脸色浓重得显得低俗，连精致的帽子也让她低俗。第二天她们踏上旅途去约克郡，她穿过火车站走向列车车厢，头高高抬起，尽量和莫德劳克太太离远些，因为她不想让别人误会自己是她的孩子。她一想起别人可能认为自己是莫德劳克太太的女儿，就觉得非常生气。

可是莫德劳克太太毫不在意玛丽和她的想法。她是那种“绝不容忍小孩子胡闹”的女人。至少，如果有人问起，她就会这么说。她本来不想去伦敦，她妹妹玛丽亚的女儿要结婚了，可是，米瑟斯韦特庄园的管家这份工作薪水很高而且安逸，她想继续做这份工作，唯一的办法就是立刻执行阿奇博尔德·克兰文先生的要求——连句质疑的话都没有。“伦诺克斯上尉和他的妻子感染霍乱去世了，”克兰文先生简短而冷淡地说，“伦诺克斯上尉是我妻子的弟弟，我是他女儿的监护人。你去把孩子接过来。你要自己去伦敦把她带回来。”

于是她整理好她的小皮箱，才有了这趟旅行。

玛丽坐在列车车厢的角落里，看上去平凡而焦躁。她没有东西可看，也没有东西可读，她戴着黑手套的一双瘦小的手绞着放在大腿上。她的黑裙子衬得她脸色更黄，稀疏的头发无精打采地从黑色帽子下散落出来。“我活这么久从来没见过这么‘糟’的小孩儿。”莫德劳克太太想着。（“糟”是约克郡话，指惯坏了，任性。）

她从没见过一个小孩儿可以一直保持僵坐的姿势，什么都不做。终于，她看玛丽看累了，开始说话，声音既快又呆板。“我想我也该跟你说说你要到哪儿去，”她说，“你知道你有个姑夫吗？”“不知道。”玛丽答道。“你从没听你父母提到过他吗？”“没听过。”

玛丽皱起眉头。她皱起眉头的原因是，因为她想起她父母从来没有和她谈过任何事情。他们没有告诉她什么事情。“哦”，莫德劳克太太嘟哝着，瞪着她古怪的、毫无反应的小脸。有那么一小会儿，她什么都没说，然后她又开始说了。“我该让你知道一些——这样你就可以做好准备。你要去一个古怪的地方。”

玛丽没有说话，莫德劳克太太似乎对她表现出来的冷漠感到不舒服，不过，她吸了一口气，继续说。“虽然那是一幢壮观的大房子，但大得有些阴森。克兰文先生为这样的房子感到骄傲，他的个性也很忧郁。房子有600年的历史了，在沼泽地边上。里面有将近100个房间，不过大部分都锁了起来。里头有画、精致的古家具，还有其他各种东西都在那儿不知多少年了。房子四周是个大花园，树木的枝叶都长到拖在地上了，有些树是这样的。”

她停了一下，喘了口气说，“不过别的什么都没了”。她像是想起了什么突然停下了。

玛丽不由自主地开始认真听着。这里一切都和印度不同，任何新鲜的东西对她都很有吸引力。但是她不愿意表现得感兴趣，那是她表示不高兴、不听话的做法之一。于是她仍然一动不动地呆坐着。“那么，”莫德劳克太太问，“你感觉如何？”“没什么感觉，”她回答，“我不知道那是个什么样的地方。”

莫德劳克太太微微一笑。“哦！”她说，“可你看上去像是个老太太。你不介意吗？”“我才不介意，”玛丽说，“事实上，我介不介意都无关紧要。”“这个你倒是说对了，”莫德劳克太太说，“对，无关紧要。你为什么要来米瑟斯韦特庄园我不知道。他是不会为你费神的，这是肯定的。他从不会为任何人困扰自己。”

她停了一会儿，似乎想起了什么事。“他的背是驼的，”她说，“这把他毁了。结婚前，他就是个脾气古怪的年轻人，他的钱和大房子对他来说没有什么用。”

玛丽想表现得漠不关心，可是眼睛却不由自主地转向了她。她从没想过驼背也会结婚，她稍微吃了一惊。莫德劳克太太看到了玛丽的变化，她是个爱聊的人，她兴致高昂地接着说。这或许多多少少是个打发时间的办法吧。“夫人是个亲切、漂亮的人。如果她想要一棵草，克兰文先生愿意为找它而走遍全世界。没有人相信她会嫁给他，但是她就是嫁了。有人说她是为了他的钱。可是她不是，她不是。”她口气很坚定。“她去世的时候——”

玛丽不由自主地跳了起来。“哦！她死了吗！”

玛丽惊叫起来，非常不情愿地惊呼。她立刻想到一个法国童话。童话里也有一个很穷的驼背和一个美丽的公主，她突然对阿奇博尔德·克兰文先生同情起来。“是的，她死了，”莫德劳克太太回答，“这让他变得比以前更古怪了。他谁都不关心，也不见人。他把大多数时间都放在出门旅行上，在米瑟斯韦特的时候他就把自己关到西边楼里，除了皮切尔不见任何人。皮切尔是个从小就照顾他的老人，他了解他的脾气。”

听起来像书中的故事，但这故事让玛丽觉得不愉快。一幢有上百个房间的大屋子，几乎全部关着，门都上了锁，这幢沼泽地边上的房子听起来很阴沉。一个驼背男人，把自己关起来！她盯着窗外，嘴唇紧紧地抿着。这个地方经常下大雨，灰蒙蒙的雨丝顺着窗玻璃往下流。如果他那个漂亮的妻子还活着，或许她会像妈妈一样把一切弄得生机勃勃，她会跑出跑进，参加宴会，像她母亲一样穿着“蕾丝边”的衣服。但是她不在那里了。“你别指望能看到他，十有八九你也见不到他，”莫德劳克太太说，“你绝对不要想着有人来和你聊天。你得学会自己玩，自己照顾自己。到时候我会告诉你哪些房间可以进，哪些不能进。那儿还有很多花园。但是你住到房子里以后，不准四处乱逛，四处乱摸。克兰文先生可不允许这么做。”“我不想乱摸乱碰。”乖张的小玛丽突然回嘴，就像她对克兰文先生的可怜之情一样突然，她马上觉得他很讨厌，他身上发生的事情都是他自找的。

之后，她把脸转向满是雨水的列车窗玻璃，目不转睛地看着灰蒙蒙的暴雨。暴雨好像一直无休无止，永远地下着。她目不转睛地看了很久，那片灰色在她眼前越来越沉，越来越沉，直到她睡着了。

Chapter 3　Across The Moor

She slept a long time，and when she awakened Mrs.Medlock had bought a lunchbasket at one of the stations and they had some chicken and cold beef and bread and butter and some hot tea.The rain seemed to be streaming down more heavily than ever and everybody in the station wore wet and glistening water-proofs.The guard lighted the lamps in the carriage，and Mrs.Medlock cheered up very much over her tea and chicken and beef.She ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep herself，and Mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet slip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage，lulled by the splashing of the rain against the windows.It was quite dark when she awakened again.The train had stopped at a station and Mrs.Medlock was shaking her.

“You have had a sleep！”she said.“It's time to open your eyes！We're at Thwaite Station and we've got a long drive before us.”

Mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while Mrs.Medlock collected her parcels.The little girl did not offer to help her，because in India native servants always picked up or carried things and it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one.

The station was a small one and nobody but themselves seemed to be getting out of the train.The station—master spoke to Mrs.Medlock in a rough，good—natured way，pronouncing his words in a queer broad fashion which Mary found out afterward was Yorkshire.

“I see you have got back，”he said.“And you have browt the young'un with thee.”

“Aye，that's her，”answered Mrs.Medlock，speaking with a Yorkshire accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward Mary.“How's thy Missus？”

“Well enow.The carriage is waiting outside for thee.”

A brougham stood on the road before the little outside platform.Mary saw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who helped her in.His long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of his hat were shining and dripping with rain as everything was，the burly station—master included.

When he shut the door，mounted the box with the coachman，and they drove off，the little girl found herself seated in a comfortably cushioned corner，but she was not inclined to go to sleep again.She sat and looked out of the window，curious to see something of the road over which she was being driven to the queerplace Mrs.Medlock had spoken of.She was not at all a timid child and she was not exactly frightened，but she felt that there was no knowing what might happen in a house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up—a house standing on the edge of a moor.

“What is a moor？”she said suddenly to Mrs.Medlock.

“Look out of the window in about ten minutes and you'll see，”the woman an-swered.“We've got to drive five miles across Missel Moor before we get to the Manor.You won't see much because it's a dark night，but you can see something.”

Mary asked no more questions but waited in the darkness of her corner，keeping her eyes on the window.The carriage lamps cast rays of light a little dis-tance ahead of them and she caught glimpses of the things they passed.After they had left the station they had driven through a tiny village and she had seen white-washed cottages and the lights of a public house.Then they had passed a church and a vicarage and a little shop—window or so in a cottage with toys and sweets and odd things set our for sale.Then they were on the highroad and she saw hedges and trees.After that there seemed nothing different for a long time—or at least it seemed a long time to her.

At last the horses began to go more slowly，as if they were climbing up—hill，and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more trees.She could see nothing，in fact，but a dense darkness on either side.She leaned forward and pressed her face against the window just as the carriage gave a big jolt.

“Eh！We're on the moor now sure enough，”said Mrs.Medlock.

The carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough—looking road which seemed to be cut through bushes and low—growing things which ended in the great expanse of dark apparently spread out before and around them.A wind was rising and making a singular，wild，low，rushing sound.

“It's—it's not the sea，is it？”said Mary，looking round at her companion.

“No，not it，”answered Mrs.Medlock.“Nor it isn't fields nor mountains，it's just miles and miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom，and nothing lives on but wild ponies and sheep.”

“I feel as if it might be the sea，if there were water on it，”said Mary.“It sounds like the sea just now.”

“That's the wind blowing through the bushes，”Mrs.Medlock said.“It's a wild，dreary enough place to my mind，though there's plenty that likes it—partic-ularly when the heather's in bloom.”

On and on they drove through the darkness，and though the rain stopped，the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds.The road went up and down，and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which wa-ter rushed very fast with a great deal of noise.Mary felt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide，bleak moor was a wide expanse of black oceanthrough which she was passing on a strip of dry land.

“I don't like it，”she said to herself.“I don't like it，”and she pinched her thin lips more tightly together.

The horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught sight of a light.Mrs.

Medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a long sigh of relief.

“Eh，I am glad to see that bit of light twinkling，”she exclaimed.“It's the light in the lodge window.We shall get a good cup of tea after a bit，at all events.”

It was“after a bit，”as she said，for when the carriage passed through the park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through and the trees（which nearly met overhead）made it seem as if they were driving through a long dark vault.

They drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an im-mensely long but low—built house which seemed to ramble round a stone court.At first Mary thought that there were no lights at all in the windows，but as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a corner upstairs showed a dull glow.

The entrance door was a huge one made of massive，curiously shaped panels of oak studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars.It opened into an enormous hall，which was so dimly lighted that the faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of armor made Mary feel that she did not want to look at them.As she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small，odd little black figure，and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked.

A neat，thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for them.

“You are to take her to her room，”he said in a husky voice.“He doesn't want to see her.He's going to London in the morning.”

“Very well，Mr.Pitcher，”Mrs.Medlock answered.“So long as I know what's expected of me，I can manage.”

“What's expected of you，Mrs.Medlock，”Mr.Pitcher said，“is that you make sure that he's not disturbed and that he doesn't see what he doesn't want to see.”

And then Mary Lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long corridor and up a short flight of steps and through another corridor and another，until a door opened in a wall and she found herself in a room with a fire in it and a supper on a table.

Mrs.Medlock said unceremoniously：“Well，here you are！This room and the next are where you'll live—and you must keep to them.Don't you forget that！”

It was in this way Mistress Mary arrived at Misselthwaite Manor and she had perhaps never felt quite so contrary in all her life.

第三章　穿过沼泽地

玛丽睡了很久，醒来的时候，莫德劳克太太已经从车站买来了装在篮子里的午饭。她们吃了些鸡肉、抹黄油的面包和冷牛肉，又喝了些热乎乎的茶。

雨似乎下得更大一点儿了，车站上的每一个人身上都穿着湿漉漉、闪亮的雨衣。保安打开了车厢的灯，莫德劳克太太喝了茶，吃了鸡肉和牛肉之后，心情好了许多，然后她睡着了。玛丽坐在那儿，盯着她，看着她精致的帽子滑到一边，直到她自己在雨水敲打窗子声中再一次入睡。等她再次醒来的时候，外面很黑。火车已经停在一个站台，莫德劳克太太正在推她。“你睡得够多了！”她说，“该睁开眼睛了！斯威特车站到了，接下来我们还要赶很远的路呢。”

玛丽站起来，努力睁开眼睛，莫德劳克太太收拾她的行李。玛丽没有帮忙的意思，因为在印度，总是土著仆人替她拿东西或搬东西，在她看来，别人伺候自己是应该的。

车站很小，除了她们没有别人下车。车站站长是个粗嗓门的人，他脾气温和地和莫德劳克太太说着话，他的口音浓重而古怪，后来玛丽才知道他说的是约克郡土话。“我知道你回来了，”他说，“你把那个小孩儿也带回来了？”“哦，就是她。”莫德劳克太太回答，也带着约克郡口音，她用下巴指了指玛丽，“你的太太还好吗？”“还可以。马车已经等在外面了。”

在外面的小站台前，停放着一辆四轮马车。玛丽看到车厢很时髦，扶她进车厢的车夫也很时髦。他身上的防水长大衣、帽子上盖的防水布都往下滴着雨水，发着光，所有的东西都是这样，包括那位魁梧的车站站长。

站长关上门，和车夫一起放好行李箱，他们出发了。玛丽看到自己坐的角落有垫枕，不过她不准备再睡了。她看向窗外，这条路正带她前往莫德劳克太太所说的那个古怪地方，她好奇地想看看这条路。她并非胆小怕事的孩子，所以不能说她被吓着了，她只是觉得不知道有什么在等待着她，在一座有将近上百个上锁房间的大屋子里——一座沼泽地边上的屋子。“沼泽地是什么？”她突然问莫德劳克太太。“你往窗外看上10分钟，你就能见到它，”女人回答，“我们得跑5英里穿过米瑟沼泽地才能到庄园。你看不到多少，因为今晚天太黑，或许你也能看到一些。”

玛丽不再问，只是在黑暗的角落等着，眼睛盯着车窗外。马车灯在她们前面投下一束光线，车外的景物一闪而过，她只能匆匆一瞥。离开车站后，她们驶过一个极小的村庄，她看到白粉色的农舍，农舍里有灯光。之后她们经过了一座教堂，牧师的房子，小商铺的橱窗里有玩具、糖果和其他小东西摆着出售。之后她们上了公路，她看到灌木篱笆和树木。接下来很长时间没有变化，至少她觉得时间不算短。

马终于开始慢下来，好像在上坡，现在没有灌木篱笆和树木了。除了两边的黑色，她看不到任何东西。马车突然大大地颠簸了一下，她身体前倾，脸压到玻璃窗上。“嗯！现在可以肯定我们到了沼泽地了。”莫德劳克太太说。

马车灯的一道黄光照在粗糙的路面上，这条路看来是从灌木和低矮植物中穿过的，那些植物消失于茫茫的黑暗中，那黑暗在植物前后左右蔓延着。风声在耳边响起，单调、荒凉、低沉而急促。“那不是海，对吗？”玛丽说，转过去看着她的旅伴。“不，不是。”莫德劳克太太回答道，“也不是田野或山脉，那是一望无际的荒野，什么都不长，只有欧石楠、荆豆和金雀花，其他什么东西都长不出来，动物也只有野马驹和绵羊。”“我觉得或许是海，如果上面有水的话，”玛丽说，“刚才听着像海浪的声音。”“那是风从灌木丛刮过的声音，”莫德劳克太太说，“对我来说，那地方够荒凉够阴森的了，不过也有很多人喜欢它——尤其是欧石楠开花的时候。”

她们在黑暗里一直前行，雨虽然停了，但风又急急掠过，呼啸着发出怪声。路面时高时低，马车过了几座小桥，桥下水流很急，噪音很大。玛丽觉得这路程永远完不了，那宽广、荒凉的沼泽地是一片茫茫的海洋，她正沿着一条土路穿过它。“我不喜欢这儿，”她心想，“我不喜欢这儿。”她的嘴唇抿得更紧了。

马车正在一段上坡路的时候，玛丽看到了亮光。莫德劳克太太长舒了一口气。“啊，看到那点儿灯光让我发自内心地高兴，”她说，“那是门房的灯。等一下我们无论如何得好好喝上一杯茶。”

确实要“等一下”，正如她所说的，因为马车进了庄园大门后又在林荫道上走了两英里，两边树木在头顶几乎相接，就像行驶在一道昏暗的圆顶拱廊中。

她们的车从圆顶拱廊驶进一片开阔地，停在一栋长不可测但低矮的房子前面，房子好像稀疏地围着的一个石头院子。刚开始的时候，玛丽以为那些窗户里没有灯，但是她下马车之后看到楼上一角露出暗淡的红光。

入口处的大门是用厚重的橡木嵌板制作的，嵌板形状奇怪，装饰着大铁钉，还有巨大的铁条。进门后，是一间巨大的厅堂，灯光昏暗，墙上有许多画，有肖像，画中还有穿铠甲的人，这些都让玛丽不愿意多看一眼。她站在石头地面上，形成了一个渺小、怪异的黑影。她觉得自己是那样的微小、迷茫和古怪。

一个整洁的瘦削的人站在为他们开门的男仆身边。“你带她到她的房间去，”他的声音沙哑，“他不想见她。明天早上他就要去伦敦了。”“好的，皮切尔先生，”莫德劳克太太回答，“我早知道了，我会照他说的做。”“你要做的是，莫德劳克太太，”皮切尔先生说，“你要保证他不被打扰，不要让他看到他不想看的东西。”

之后玛丽·伦诺克斯被带去她的房间，她被领着上一段宽楼梯，沿着一段长走廊下去，上一小段台阶，穿过一个又一个走廊，直到看到一道门，她发现自己走进一个房间，有炉火，晚饭放在桌子上。

莫德劳克太太冷漠地说：“好了，到了！这个房间和隔壁的一个房间归你住，你只住这两间。千万别忘了！”

就这样，玛丽小姐来到了米瑟韦斯特庄园，她想，她这辈子从没有觉得比现在更别扭的了。

Chapter 4　Martha

When she opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young housemaid had come into her room to light the fire and was kneeling on the hearth—rug raking out the cinders noisily.Mary lay and watched her for a few moments and then began to look about the room.She had never seen a room at all like it and thought it curious and gloomy.The walls were covered with tapestry with a forest scene embroidered on it.There were fantastically dressed people under the trees and in the distance there was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle.There were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies.Mary felt as if she were in the forest with them.Out of a deep window she could see a great climbing stretch of land which seemed to have no trees on it，and to look rather like an endless，dull，purplish sea.

“What is that？”she said，pointing out of the window.

Martha，the young housemaid，who had just risen to her feet，looked and pointed also.“That there？”she said.“Yes.”

“That's the moor，”with a good—natured grin.“Does you like it？”

“No，”answered Mary.“I hate it.”

“That's because tha'rt not used to it，”Martha said，going back to her hearth.“You thinks it's too big and bare now.But you will like it.”

“Do you？”inquired Mary.

“Aye，that I do，”answered Martha，cheerfully polishing away at the grate.“I just love it.It's none bare.It's covered with growing things as smells sweet.It's fair lovely in spring and summer when the gorse and broom and heather's in flower.It smells of honey and there's such a lot of fresh air—and the sky looks so high and the bees and skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin’and singin’.Eh！I wouldn’t live away from the moor for anything.”

Mary listened to her with a grave，puzzled expression.The native servants she had been used to in India were not in the least like this.They were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to their masters as if they were their equals.They made salaams and called them“protector of the poor”and names of that sort.Indian servants were commanded to do things，not asked.

It was not the custom to say“please”and“thank you”and Mary had always slapped her Ayah in the face when she was angry.She wondered a little what this girl would do if one slapped her in the face.She was a round，rosy，good—na-tured—looking creature，but she had a sturdy way which made Mistress Mary wonder if she might not even slap back—if the person who slapped her was only alittle girl.

“You are a strange servant，”she said from her pillows，rather haughtily.

Martha sat up on her heels，with her blackingbrush in her hand，and laughed，without seeming the least out of temper.

“Eh！I know that，”she said.“If there was a grand Missus at Misselthwaite I should never have been even one of the under house—maids.I might have been let to be scullerymaid but I'd never have been let upstairs.I'm too common and I talk too much Yorkshire.But this is a funny house for all it's so grand.Seems like there's neither Master nor Mistress except Mr.Pitcher and Mrs.

Medlock.Mr.Craven，he won't be troubled about anythin'when he's here，and he's nearly always away.Mrs.Medlock gave me the place out of kindness.She told me she could never have done it if Misselthwaite had been like other big houses.”“Are you going to be my servant？”Mary asked，still in her imperious lit-tle Indian way.

Martha began to rub her grate again.

“I'm Mrs.Medlock's servant，”she said stoutly.“And she's Mr.Craven's—but I'm to do the housemaid’s work up here and wait on you a bit.But you won’t need much waiting on.”

“Who is going to dress me？”demanded Mary.

Martha sat up on her heels again and stared.She spoke in broad Yorkshire in her amazement.“Can not you dress thysen！”she said.

“What do you mean？I don't understand your language，”said Mary.

“Eh！I forgot，”Martha said.“Mrs.Medlock told me I'd have to be careful or you wouldn't know what I was sayin'.I meancan't you put on your own clothes？”

“No，”answered Mary，quite indignantly.“I never did in my life.My Ayah dressed me，of course.”

“Well，”said Martha，evidently not in the least aware that she was impudent，“it's time you should learn.You cannot begin younger.It'll do thee good to wait on thysen a bit.My mother always said she couldn't see why grand people's chil-dren didn't turn out fair fools—what with nurses and being washed and dressed and took out to walk as if they was puppies！”

“It is different in India，”said Mistress Mary disdainfully.She could scarcely stand this.

But Martha was not at all crushed.

“Eh！I can see it's different，”she answered almost sympathetically.“I dare say it's because there's such a lot of blacks there instead of respectable white people.When I heard you was coming from India I thought you was a black too.”

Mary sat up in bed furious.

“What！”she said.“What！You thought I was a native.You—you daughter of a pig！”

Martha stared and looked hot.

“Who are you callin'names？”she said.“You needn't be so vexed.That's not the way for a young lady to talk.I've nothing against the blacks.When you read about them in tracts they're always very religious.You always read as a black’s a man and a brother.I’ve never seen a black and I was fair pleased to think I was goin’to see one close.When I come in to light your fire this mornin’I crep’up to your bed and pulled the cover back careful to look at you.And there you was，”disappointedly，“no more black than me—for all you’re so yeller.”

Mary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation.

“You thought I was a native！You dared！You don't know anything about natives！They are not people—they're servants who must salaam to you.You know nothing about India.You know nothing about anything！”

She was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl's simple stare，and somehow she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away from everything she understood and which understood her，that she threw herself face downward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing.She sobbed so unrestrainedly that good—natured Yorkshire Martha was a little frightened and quite sorry for her.She went to the bed and bent over her.

“Eh！you mustn't cry like that there！“she begged.”You mustn't for sure.I didn't know you'd be vexed.I don't know anythin’about anythin’—just like you said.I beg your pardon，Miss.Do stop crying.”

There was something comforting and really friendly in her queer Yorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effect on Mary.She gradually ceased crying and became quiet.Martha looked relieved.

“It's time for thee to get up now，“she said.”Mrs.Medlock said I was to carry you breakfast and tea and dinner into the room next to this.It's been made into a nursery for thee.I'll help thee on with thy clothes if tha'll get out of bed.If the buttons are at the back you cannot button them up tha'self.”

When Mary at last decided to get up，the clothes Martha took from the wardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night before with Mrs.Medlock.

“Those are not mine，”she said.“Mine are black.”

She looked the thick white wool coat and dress over，and added with cool approval：“Those are nicer than mine.”

“These are the ones you must put on，”Martha answered.“Mr.Craven or-dered Mrs.Medlock to get them in London.He saidI won't have a child dressed in black wanderin'about like a lost soul，'he said.It'd make the place sadder than it is.Put color on her.'Mother she said she knew what he meant.Mother always knows what a body means.She doesn’t hold with black hersel’.”

“I hate black things，”said Mary.

The dressing process was one which taught them both something.Martha had“buttoned up”her little sisters and brothers but she had never seen a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things for her as if she had neither hands nor feet of her own.

“Why doesn't you put on you own shoes？”she said when Mary quietly held out her foot.

“My Ayah did it，”answered Mary，staring.“It was the custom.”

She said that very often—“It was the custom.”The native servants were al-ways saying it.If one told them to do a thing their ancestors had not done for a thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said，“It is not the custom”and one knew that was the end of the matter.

It had not been the custom that Mistress Mary should do anything but stand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll，but before she was ready for breakfast she began to suspect that her life at Misselthwaite Manor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to her—things such as putting on her own shoes and stockings，and picking up things she let fall.If Martha had been a well—trained fine young lady's maid she would have been more subservient and re-spectful and would have known that it was her business to brush hair，and button boots，and pick things up and lay them away.She was，however，only an untrained Yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland cottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never dreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger ones who were either babies in arms or just learn-ing to totter about and tumble over things.

If Mary Lennox had been a child who was ready to be amused she would perhaps have laughed at Martha's readiness to talk，but Mary only listened to her coldly and wondered at her freedom of manner.At first she was not at all interest-ed，but gradually，as the girl rattled on in her good—tempered，homely way，Mary began to notice what she was saying.

“Eh！you should see them all，”she said.“There's twelve of us and my father only gets sixteen shilling a week.I can tell you my mother's put to it to get por-ridge for them all.They tumble about on the moor and play there all day and mother says the air of the moor fattens them.She says she believes they eat the grass same as the wild ponies do.Our Dickon，he's twelve years old and he's got a young pony he calls his own.”

“Where did he get it？”asked Mary.

“He found it on the moor with its mother when it was a little one and he began to make friends with it and give it bits of bread and pluck young grass for it.And it got to like him so it follows him about and it lets him get on its back.Dickon's a kind lad and animals likes him.”

Mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always thoughtshe should like one.So she began to feel a slight interest in Dickon，and as she had never before been interested in any one but herself，it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment.When she went into the room which had been made into a nursery for her，she found that it was rather like the one she had slept in.It was not a child's room，but a grown—up person's room，with gloomy old pictures on the walls and heavy old oak chairs.A table in the center was set with a good sub-stantial breakfast.But she had always had a very small appetite，and she looked with something more than indifference at the first plate Martha set before her.

“I don't want it，”she said.

“You doesn't want thy porridge！”Martha exclaimed incredulously.

“No.”

“You doesn't know how good it is.Put a bit of treacle on it or a bit of sugar.”

“I don't want it，”repeated Mary.

“Eh！”said Martha.“I can't abide to see good victuals go to waste.If our children was at this table they'd clean it bare in five minutes.”

“Why？”said Mary coldly.

“Why！”echoed Martha.“Because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives.They're as hungry as young hawks and foxes.”

“I don't know what it is to be hungry，”said Mary，with the indifference of ignorance.

Martha looked indignant.

“Well，it would do thee good to try it.I can see that plain enough，”she said outspokenly.“I've no patience with folk as sits and just stares at good bread and meat.My word！don't I wish Dickon and Phil and Jane and the rest of them had what's here under their pinafores.”

“Why don't you take it to them？”suggested Mary.

“It's not mine，”answered Martha stoutly.“And this isn't my day out.I get my day out once a month same as the rest.Then I go home and clean up for mother and give her a day's rest.”

Mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade.

“You wrap up warm and run out and play you，”said Martha.“It'll do you good and give you some stomach for your meat.”

Mary went to the window.There were gardens and paths and big trees，but everything looked dull and wintry.

“Out？Why should I go out on a day like this？”

“Well，if you doesn't go out tha'lt have to stay in，and what has you got to do？”

Mary glanced about her.There was nothing to do.When Mrs.Medlock had prepared the nursery she had not thought of amusement.Perhaps it would be bet-ter to go and see what the gardens were like.

“Who will go with me？”she inquired.

Martha stared.

“You'll go by yourself，”she answered.“You'll have to learn to play like other children does when they haven't got sisters and brothers.Our Dickon goes off on the moor by himself and plays for hours.That's how he made friends with the pony.He's got sheep on the moor that knows him，and birds as comes and eats out of his hand.However little there is to eat，he always saves a bit of his bread to coax his pets.”

It was really this mention of Dickon which made Mary decide to go out，though she was not aware of it.There would be，birds outside though there would not be ponies or sheep.They would be different from the birds in India and it might amuse her to look at them.

Martha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stout little boots and she showed her her way downstairs.

“If you goes round that way tha'll come to the gardens，”she said，pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery.“There's lots of flowers in summer—time，but there's nothing bloomin'now.”She seemed to hesitate a second before she added，“One of the gardens is locked up.No one has been in it for ten years.”

“Why？”asked Mary in spite of herself.Here was another locked door added to the hundred in the strange house.

“Mr.Craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden.He won't let no one go inside.It was her garden.He locked the door and dug a hole and buried the key.There's Mrs.Medlock's bell ringing—I must run.”

After she was gone Mary turned down the walk which led to the door in the shrubbery.She could not help thinking about the garden which no one had been into for ten years.She wondered what it would look like and whether there were any flowers still alive in it.When she had passed through the shrubbery gate she found herself in great gardens，with wide lawns and winding walks with clipped borders.There were trees，and flower—beds，and evergreens clipped into strange shapes，and a large pool with an old gray fountain in its midst.But the flower—beds were bare and wintry and the fountain was not playing.This was not the garden which was shut up.How could a garden be shut up？You could always walk into a garden.

She was just thinking this when she saw that，at the end of the path she was following，there seemed to be a long wall，with ivy growing over it.She was not familiar enough with England to know that she was coming upon the kitchen—gardens where the vegetables and fruit were growing.She went toward the wall and found that there was a green door in the ivy，and that it stood open.This was not the closed garden，evidently，and she could go into it.

She went through the door and found that it was a garden with walls allround it and that it was only one of several walled gardens which seemed to open into one another.She saw another open green door，revealing bushes and path-ways between beds containing winter vegetables.Fruit—trees were trained flat a-gainst the wall，and over some of the beds there were glass frames.The place was bare and ugly enough，Mary thought，as she stood and stared about her.It might be nicer in summer when things were green，but there was nothing pretty about it now.

Presently an old man with a spade over his shoulder walked through the door leading from the second garden.He looked startled when he saw Mary，and then touched his cap.He had a surly old face，and did not seem at all pleased to see her—but then she was displeased with his garden and wore her“quite contrary”expression，and certainly did not seem at all pleased to see him.

“What is this place？”she asked.

“One of the kitchen—gardens，”he answered.

“What is that？”said Mary，pointing through the other green door.

“Another of them，”shortly.“There's another on theother side of the wall and there's the orchard t'other side of that.”

“Can I go in them？”asked Mary.

“If you likes.But there's nowt to see.”

Mary made no response.She went down the path and through the second green door.There，she found more walls and winter vegetables and glass frames，but in the second wall there was another green door and it was not open.Perhaps it led into the garden which no one had seen for ten years.

As she was not at all a timid child and always did what she wanted to do，Mary went to the green door and turned the handle.She hoped the door would not open because she wanted to be sure she had found the mysterious garden—but it did open quite easily and she walked through it and found herself in an orchard.There were walls all round it also and trees trained against them，and there were bare fruit—trees growing in the winter—browned grass—but there was no green door to be seen anywhere.Mary looked for it，and yet when she had entered the upper end of the garden she had noticed that the wall did not seem to end with the orchard but to extend beyond it as if it enclosed place at the other side.She could see the tops of trees above the wall，and when she stood still she saw a bird with a bright red breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them，and sud-denly he burst into his winter song—almost as if he had caught sight of her and was calling to her.

She stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful，friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling—even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely，and the big closed house and big are moor and big bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself.If she had been an affec-tionate child，who had been used to being loved，she would have broken her heart，but even though she was“Mistress Mary Quite Contrary”she was desolate，and the bright—breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile.She listened to him until he flew away.He was not like an In-dian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should ever see him again.Per-haps 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.Why had Mr.Archibald Craven buried the key？If he had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden？She wondered if she should ever see him，but she knew that if she did she should not like him，and he would not like her，and that she should only stand and stare at him and say nothing，though she should be wanting dreadfully to ask him why he had done such a queer thing.

“People never like me and I never like people，”she thought.“And I never can talk as the Crawford children could.They were always talking and laughing and making noises.”

She thought of the robin 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 nothing to prevent thee，”he answered crustily.

“I went into the orchard.”

“There was no dog at the 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 surly old weather—beaten face actually changed its ex-pression.A slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite different.It made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled.She had not thought of it before.

He turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to whistle—a low soft whistle.She could not understand how such a surly man could make sucha coaxing sound.

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，and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth quite near to the gardener's foot.

“Here he is，”chuckled the old man，and then he spoke to the bird as if he were speaking to a child.

“Where has you been，you cheeky little beggar？”he said.“I've not seen thee before today.Has tha，begun you courtin'this early in the season？Tha'rt too for-rad.”

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.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，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.He come out of the nest in the other garden and when first he flew over the wall he was too weak to fly back for a few days and we got friendly.When he went over the wall again the rest of the brood was gone and he was lonely and he come back to me.”

“What kind of a bird is he？”Mary asked.

“Doesn't you know？He's a robin redbreast and they're the friendliest，cu-riousest birds alive.They're almost as friendly as dogs—if you know how to get on with them.Watch him peckin'about there and lookin’round at us now and again.He knows we’re talkin’about him.”

It was the queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow.He looked at the plump little scarlet—waistcoated bird as if he were both proud and fond of him.

“He's a conceited one，”he chuckled.“He likes to hear folk talk about him.And curious—bless me，there never was his like for curiosity and meddling.He's always coming to see what I'm planting.He knows all the things Mester Craven never troubles hissel'to find out.He's the head gardener，he is.”

The robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and now and then stopped and looked at them a little.Mary thought his black dewdrop eyes gazed at her with great curiosity.It really seemed as if he were finding out all about her.The queer feeling in her heart increased.“Where did the rest of the brood fly to？”she asked.

“There's no knowin'.The old ones turn them out of their nest and make them fly and they're scattered before you know it.This one was a knowin'one an，he knew he was lonely.”

Mistress Mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very hard.

“I'm lonely，”she said.

She had not known before that this was one of the things which made her feel sour and cross.She seemed to find it out when the robin looked at her and she looked at the robin.

The old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald head and stared at her a minute.

“Art you the little wench from India？”he asked.

Mary nodded.

“Then no wonder tha'rt lonely.Tha'lt be lonlier before you have done，”he said.

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，“I'm lonely mysel'except when he's with me，”and he jerked his thumb toward the robin.“He's the 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，and old Ben Weatherstaff was a Yorkshire moor man.

“You and me are a good bit alike，”he said.“We was wove out of the same cloth.We're neither of us good lookin'and 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 rippling little sound broke out near her and she turned round.She was standing a few feet from a young apple—tree and the robin had flown on to one of its branches and had burst out into a scrap of a song.Ben Weatherstaff laughed outright.

“What did he do that for？”asked Mary.

“He's made up his mind to make friends with thee，”replied Ben.“Dang me if he hasn't took a fancy to thee.”

“To me？”said Mary，and she moved toward the little tree softly and looked up.

“Would you make friends with me？”she said to the robin just as if she was speaking to a person.

“Would you？”And she did not say it either in her hard little voice or in her imperious Indian voice，

but in a tone so soft and eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as sur-prised as she had been when she heard him whistle.

“Why，”he cried out，“you said that as nice and human as if you was a real child instead of a sharp old woman.You said it almost like Dickon talks to his wild things on the moor.”

“Do you know Dickon？”Mary asked，turning round rather in a hurry.

“Everybody knows him.Dickon's wanderin'about everywhere.The very blackberries and heather—bells knows him.I warrant the foxes shows him where their cubs lies and the skylarks doesn't hide their nests from him.”

Mary would have liked to ask some more questions.She was almost as curi-ous 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 of the egg there.If he's courtin'，he's makin'up to some young madam of a robin that lives among the 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，and none as is any one's business.Don't you be a meddlesome wench and poke your nose where it's no cause to go.Here，I must go on with my work.Get you gone and 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.

第四章　女仆玛莎

早上，玛丽睁开眼睛，看到一个女仆正跪在房间里的炉毯上，往外掏着煤渣，响声很大。玛丽躺着看了她一会儿，然后四处打量。她从来没见过这样的房间，感觉它新奇但又昏暗。墙上挂着壁毯，壁毯上面绣着森林的景色，树下是身着盛装的人物像，远处隐约露出一个城堡的角楼。画中还有猎人、马、狗和太太小姐们。透过一扇深陷的大窗户，她可以看到一大片缓缓向上延伸的土地，上面看不到树木，就像一片一望无际、幽暗、泛着紫色的大海。“那是什么？”她指着窗外问。

玛莎，就是那个年轻的女仆，她刚站起来，也顺着她的手指向窗外望去，她指着远处说：“那里吗？”“对。”“那是沼泽地，”玛莎善意地笑着，“你喜欢吧？”“不，”玛丽回答，“我讨厌它。”“那是因为你还没习惯，”玛莎说着，走到火炉旁，“你现在觉得它太大太空旷了。不过你以后会喜欢它的。”“那你喜欢它吗？”玛丽询问道。“哦，我喜欢这个地方。”玛莎回答，她兴致勃勃地把放着柴火的铁架子擦干净，“我非常喜欢它。它并不是光秃秃的，它上面覆盖着各种植物，闻上去很香。春天和夏天都很漂亮——荆豆花、金雀花、欧石楠开花的时候，散发着蜂蜜的香味，到处都有新鲜的空气，天显得那么的高，百灵鸟叫得又那么好听。哦！沼泽地，用什么和我换我都不愿意离开这儿。”

玛丽表情严肃而困惑地听着。这和她所习惯的印度仆人完全不一样。印度仆人像奴隶一样谦虚而卑躬屈膝，他们不敢和主人说话。他们会向主人行一种弯腰额手的礼，会说主人是“穷人的保护者”之类的话。印度仆人总是被命令做事，而不会提问。主人们也不会和他们说“请”和“谢谢”之类的话，玛丽生气的时候还总是打奶妈耳光。她真想知道，如果有谁扇玛莎一巴掌，她会是什么反应。她的脸圆圆的，红扑扑的，一副好脾气的样子，但是她有一种坚强的神态，玛丽小姐猜想她可能会扇回去，如果扇她的人只是个小女孩的话。“你是个奇怪的仆人。”她躺在枕头上有些傲慢地说。

玛莎跪坐起来，手上拿着鞋油刷，她看起来似乎一点儿都没生气。“嗯！我知道，”她说，“如果米瑟韦斯特有一个难伺候的女主人的话，那我不可能成为你的仆人。他们或许能让我做伙房里洗涮的仆人。我长得太平凡了，约克郡口音太重。可这栋房子这么有意思，这么大，好像除了皮切尔先生和莫德劳克太太，没有男主人和女主人。克兰文先生在这里的时候什么都不关心，而且他差不多都在外面。莫德劳克太太是好心才给我这份工作的。她告诉我如果米瑟韦斯特像其他大庄园的话，她可永远不会这么做的。”“那你是我的仆人吗？”玛丽问道，依然一副在印度时专横跋扈的样子。

玛莎又开始擦亮她的柴火架。“我是来这儿做些仆人的事情，顺便服侍你一下。可是并不需要过多地照顾你。”“那谁来为我穿衣服？”玛丽质问道。

玛莎又直起身来跪坐着，她瞪大眼睛，吃惊地看着玛丽，她用满口浓重的约克郡话问道：“你难道不会自己穿衣服吗！”“你在说什么？我听不懂。”玛丽说。“哦！我差点忘了，”玛莎说，“莫德劳克太太告诉过我，我得小心，否则你不知道我在说什么。我是问‘你难道不会自己穿衣服吗？’”“当然不会，”玛丽非常气愤地回答，“我长这么大从来没自己穿过。当然是我的奶妈给我穿衣服。”“那么，”玛莎说，她显然一点儿都不知道自己多么冒失，“你现在要学了。你该早些开始学自己照顾自己，这对你有好处。我妈妈常说她明白大户人家的孩子都像傻瓜一样，像洗脸啊，洗澡啊，穿衣服之类的活儿，都由别人替他们来做，就连出去散步也要由人带领，就像他们是玩偶一样！”“在印度不是这样的。”玛丽鄙夷地说，她简直受不了了。

但是玛莎没有察觉到什么。“哦！我看得出来不一样，”她说话的时候几乎带着同情，“我想是因为那里黑人太多，而受人尊敬的白人太少了。我听说你是从印度来的时候，还想着你也是黑人呢。”

玛丽气得坐起来。“什么！”她说，“你说什么！你以为我是个土著人！你真是猪养的！”

玛莎瞪大眼睛，显得激动起来。“你在说谁？”她说，“你没必要这么激动。这不是小女孩说话的样子。我没有一丁点儿看不起黑人。你看书上写的，那里的黑人总是很虔诚。‘黑人是我们的兄弟’是书里最常见的句子。我从来没有看到过黑人，我还很高兴地想着要见到一个呢。我早晨进来生火的时候，就溜到你床边，小心地把被子拉下来看你。可是你并不黑，”她的口气带着失望，“至少不比我黑，而且你要比我黄多了。”

玛丽愤怒得忍无可忍。“你以为我是土著人！你居然敢这样！你根本不懂土著人！他们不是人，他们是奴仆，必须对你行额手礼。你对印度一窍不通！你什么都不懂！”

玛丽狂怒不已，在这个姑娘平静的注视之下无能为力，不知怎的，她突然觉得很孤独，远离了所有她熟悉也熟悉她的环境。她埋头扑到枕头上伤心地哭泣。她的呜咽简直难以克制，好心的约克郡姑娘玛莎被她吓到了，觉得很不安。玛莎走到床边，向她弯下腰。“哦！你不要哭！”她恳求着，“你真的不要哭啊。我不知道这会让你生气。我什么都不懂，就像你说的。我请你原谅，小姐。不要哭了啊。”

她浓重的约克郡口音里，带着一种抚慰和真正的友好、坚定，这对玛丽起了作用。她渐渐停住了哭声，安静下来。玛莎这才松了口气。“你该起床了，”她说，“莫德劳克太太说，让我把早饭和茶送到隔壁房间里。那个房间现在是你的幼儿室了。如果你起来的话，我就帮你穿衣服。但前提必须是扣子在背后，你自己扣不上我才帮你。”

玛丽终于决定起床的时候，玛莎从衣橱里拿出来的衣服，并不是她昨天晚上和莫德劳克太太来这儿的时候穿的。“那不是我的衣服。”她说，“我的衣服颜色都是黑的。”

她看了看厚实的白色羊毛大衣和连衣裙，冷冷地肯定道：“这些比我的衣服好看。”“这些衣服你一定得穿，”玛莎说道，“这是克兰文先生吩咐莫德劳克太太从伦敦给你买来的。他说，‘我不想让一个穿黑衣服的孩子到处游荡，那会让她像个孤魂野鬼。’他还说，‘那会让这个地方看起来更加凄凉。给她穿点儿鲜艳的颜色。’我妈妈说她知道克兰文先生的意思。妈妈总是很能理解别人的意思。她自己也不穿黑颜色的衣服。”

在穿衣服的过程中，她们两个都学到了一些新东西。玛莎以前经常给她的弟弟妹妹们“扣上扣子”，但是她从没看到过孩子一直站着不动，等别人来为她做这些事，好像她自己没有手脚一样。“你为什么不自己穿上你的鞋子呢？”当玛丽安静自然地伸出脚的时候，她问。“过去这都是我的奶妈做的，”玛丽瞪大眼睛回答，“这是老规矩。”

她经常这么说——“这是老规矩。”土著仆人总把这话挂在嘴边。如果有人告诉他们去做一件他们的祖先几千年没有做过的事情，他们会温和地凝视着对方，说：“这不符合规矩。”对方就知道这事到此为止了。

过去，除了像玩偶一样站着让别人给穿衣服，要让玛丽小姐做点儿什么事情都“不符合老规矩”。不过在她吃早饭前，她就已经开始思考，她在米瑟韦斯特庄园的生活会让她学会好多新的东西——比如要自己穿鞋，自己穿袜子，捡起自己掉下的东西。如果玛莎一直服侍的是小姐们，而且训练有素，她可能会更驯服、恭敬，就会知道她该为她梳头，扣上靴子的扣，把东西捡起来放好。但她只是一个约克郡乡巴佬，并没有受过训练，淳朴而单纯，在一栋小房子里一大群兄弟姐妹一起长大。除了管好自己，照顾年幼的弟弟妹妹外，不能指望她还会做别的什么——弟弟妹妹或许是婴儿，或者正蹒跚学步，随时会摔倒。

如果玛丽是个容易被逗笑的孩子，她早已开始笑话玛莎话多了，但玛丽只是冷漠地听着，疑惑她怎么这样随便。开始她对此没有一点儿兴趣，但是慢慢地，随着那位姑娘好脾气的唠唠叨叨、像在自己家中一样无拘无束，玛丽也开始留意她都说些什么了。“啊！你真该去瞧瞧他们，”她说，“我家一共12个孩子，我爸爸每周只挣16个先令。我妈妈都用来给孩子们买粥了。孩子们在沼泽地上乱跑乱跳，成天在那儿玩耍。妈妈说沼泽地上的空气把他们养胖了。她说她相信他们和野马驹一样，也吃草。我们家的迪肯，12岁了，他有一匹野马驹，他说那是属于他的。”“他在哪儿弄到的？”玛丽问。“在沼泽地上弄到的，在野马驹还小和它妈妈在一起的时候。迪肯开始和它交朋友，有时喂它一点儿面包，或给它拔点儿嫩草。小马驹慢慢喜欢上迪肯，就跟着他走了，还让他骑到自己背上。迪肯是个友好的人，所有动物都喜欢他。”

玛丽从没养过宠物，也一直想要一只。于是她开始对迪肯产生了一丝兴趣，因为她从未对自己以外的任何人感兴趣，这真是一种健康情感的萌芽。她走到为她改成的幼儿室，发现那和她睡觉的屋子很像。这不是孩子的屋子，而是成年人的屋子，墙上挂着幽暗的老画，摆着沉重的橡木椅子。中央的桌子上摆着丰盛的早餐。不过她的胃口一直不怎么好，玛莎给她摆上一盘燕麦粥，她没有一点儿胃口。“我不想吃。”她说。“你不想吃燕麦粥吗？！”玛莎不敢置信地叫道。“对。”“你不知道它很美味。放点糖浆或白糖，味道简直好极了。”“我不想吃。”玛丽重复道。“哦！”玛莎说，“我不能眼睁睁地看着好好的粮食被浪费掉。如果我们家的孩子坐在这张桌子上，不到5分钟他们就能吃得干干净净。”“为什么？”玛丽冷冷地问道。“为什么！”玛莎重复着她的话，“因为他们几乎从没吃过一顿饱钣。他们和小鹰、小狐狸一样饥饿。”“我不知道什么是饿。”玛丽的回答带着无知的冷漠。

玛莎看上去很生气。“那么，尝试着挨饿对你有好处。我可见的多了，”她率直地说，“我对坐在那里只是盯着好面包好肉而不吃的人没耐心。我倒真希望迪肯、菲利普、简他们都围着围兜坐在这儿，把这些东西吃下去。”“你为什么不给他们带回去呢？”玛丽建议道。“因为这不是我的。”玛丽说，“今天也不该我休息。我每月休息一次，和其他人一样。之后我就回家帮妈妈干活，让妈妈也休息一天。”

玛丽喝了些茶，吃了些加果酱的烤面包。“你穿得暖暖和和的，出去玩一会儿吧。”玛莎说，“这对你有好处，它会让你胃口好一点儿。”

玛丽走到窗前。屋外有一些花园、小路、大树，但看上去却阴沉沉、冷冰冰的。“出去？这种天气我出去做什么？”“哦，如果你不出去的话就在屋里待着，你又能做什么呢？”

玛丽四处看了几眼。实在无事可做。莫德劳克太太给她准备幼儿房的时候显然没想到娱乐。或许出去看看花园是什么样子会好点儿吧。“谁跟我一起出去？”玛丽问。

玛莎瞪大眼睛。“你自己去，”她回答，“你得学着自己玩儿，就像其他没有兄弟姐妹的孩子一样。我们家迪肯自己到沼泽地上一玩就是几个钟头。他就是这样和马驹熟悉起来的。沼泽地的绵羊都认识他，鸟儿也敢到他手上吃东西。不管吃的东西多么少，他总会省下一点儿面包去哄他的动物们。”

正是迪肯的故事才让玛丽下定决心出去走走，虽然她自己没有意识到。即使外面没有马驹和绵羊也会有小鸟。它们大概和印度的小鸟不一样，也许看看它们会让她高兴。

玛莎给玛丽找来外套和帽子，一双结实的小靴子，接着领着她下楼。“你顺那条路绕过去就是花园。”她指着灌木织成的墙上的一道门说，“夏天会有很多花在那里开放，不过现在还没有花开。”她好像犹豫了一下，又说了一句，“有一个花园是锁起来的。10年都没人进去了。”“为什么？”玛丽不由自主地问。这幢古怪屋子有一百道上锁的门，现在又多了一道。“克兰文先生的妻子去世后，他就下令让人把花园锁上了。他不允许任何人进去。那花园以前是他妻子的。他锁上门，挖了个坑把钥匙埋起来了。莫德劳克太太在拉铃了，我得马上过去。”

她走了之后，玛丽沿着小路下去，走向灌木丛中打开的门。她忍不住一直想着那个10年没人进去的花园。她想知道那个花园是什么样的，那里是不是还有活着的花儿。当她穿过灌木门之后，她进入一个大花园，那儿的草坪宽阔，蜿蜒曲折的小路显然经过修理。有一些树、花圃和常绿植物被修剪成奇形怪状，一个大池塘中有座灰色的喷泉。但是喷泉没有开，衬得光秃秃的花圃显得凄凉。这不是那座锁起来的花园。花园怎么会被锁起来呢？花园总能进得去。

她正这么想着，就看到在脚下的这条小路的尽头出现了一道长长的墙，上面长满了常青藤。她对英国还不够熟，不知道她看到的是菜园，只是用来种蔬菜和水果的。她向长墙的方向走去，常青藤中有一道正打开着的门。这显然不是那座上锁的花园，她可以进去。

她穿过那道门，发现一个四周围着墙的花园，而且这只是几个有围墙的花园之一，几个花园好像互相之间都通着。她看到另一扇打开的绿门，看到灌木和菜地间的小路，菜地上种着冬季的蔬菜。果树枝条都平坦地紧贴着围墙。一些菜地上盖着玻璃罩。这个地方可真够荒凉丑陋的，玛丽边想，边站在那里目不转睛地四处看着。夏天有绿色，或许能好看点儿，现在可一点儿都不漂亮。

一会儿，一个肩扛铁锹的老人从第二个花园的门走来。他看见玛丽，先是一脸惊愕，之后碰了碰鸭舌帽。他的脸色苍老而阴沉，遇见玛丽也显得不太高兴，因为玛丽正在指责他的花园，挂着一副“非常别扭”的脸，肯定也不乐意遇到他。“这是哪儿？”她问。“一个菜园子。”那个人回答。“那是什么？”玛丽指着另外一扇门问道。“也是一个菜园子，”他稍微停顿了一下，“墙那边还有一个，那个菜园的墙那边是果园。”“我可以进去吗？”玛丽问道。“如果你愿意，可以去。不过那儿可没有什么好看的。”

玛丽没回应他。她沿着小路穿过第二道绿门。在那儿她发现更多的墙、冬季蔬菜、玻璃罩子，但是第二堵墙上有个门看上去是关着的。或许是通往那个10年没人见过的花园。玛丽可不是个胆小的孩子，她总是想做什么就做什么，她走到绿门前扭动把手。她盼望门打不开，这样一来她找到的就是那座神秘的花园了。可门却很轻易地打开了，她走进去，那儿是个果园，四周也围着墙，树木驯服地贴着墙，冬天的褐色草叶间是光秃秃的果树，只是那儿看不到绿门了。玛丽寻找着，当她来到花园高处的尽头，发现墙好像没有在果园终止，而是延伸到果园之外，好像围住那边的另一块地。她能看到露在墙外的树梢，正当她静静地站着，就看到一只胸脯鲜红的小鸟站在一棵树的最高枝上，它突然就唱起了冬天的歌——好像是它发现了她，正在和她打招呼。

她停下来听着，不知为什么，它高兴、友好的鸣叫给她愉快的感觉。脾气坏的小女孩也会觉得孤单，紧锁的大屋子、光秃秃的沼泽地和光秃秃的大花园，让这个坏脾气的小女孩觉得，世界上好像没有别人，只剩下她自己了。如果她是个感情丰富的孩子，习惯于被宠爱，她可能早就伤心到极点了。虽然她是“倔犟的玛丽小姐”，虽然她感觉非常孤独，但这胸脯亮丽的小鸟使她严肃的小脸有了一丝微笑。她听着它唱歌，直到它飞走。它和印度的小鸟不一样，她喜欢它，想着不知道能不能再看到它。或许它就住在那个神秘花园里，知道所有的事情。

也许是因为她实在无事可做，所以她对那个锁着的花园念念不忘。她对它感到好奇，想知道它是什么样的。为什么阿奇博尔德先生要把钥匙埋在地下？如果他曾经那么深爱他的妻子，为什么要恨她的花园？玛丽不知道会不会看到他，但她知道如果见到他，她是不会喜欢他的，他也不会喜欢她。她只会站在那里盯着他，一言不发，虽然她好奇得要命：为什么他会做这件奇怪的事情？“人们从来都不喜欢我，我也从来不喜欢他们，”她想，“我一辈子都不能像克劳福家的孩子一样说话。他们总是不停地吵闹和说笑，制造噪音。”

她想着那只红胸脯的小鸟对她唱歌的样子，当她想起它栖息在树顶的时候，她在小路上突然停下来。“我相信那棵树在那个秘密花园里——我感觉是这样的，”她说，“那块地方周围都是墙，而且没有门。”

她走到刚才去过的第一个菜园，看到那个老人在锄地。她走到他身边站着，看了他一会儿，一副冷淡的模样。他对她的存在毫不关心，所以最后还是她开口对他说话。“我到了其他花园。”她说。“又没有人拦着你。”他阴沉冷漠地回答。“我到果园去了。”“门口又没狗咬你。”他答道。“没有门通向另一座花园。”玛丽说。“什么花园？”他粗声粗气地说，边说边停下锄地。“墙那边的花园，”玛丽回答，“那里有树，我看到许多树梢。一只红色胸脯的小鸟站在树梢上歌唱。”

她吃惊地看到那张严肃的、饱经风霜的老脸变了表情。一个微笑慢慢舒展开来，他显得不一样了。这一幕让她心想，真奇妙，一个人微笑的时候居然会好看得多。她以前从没这样想过。

他走到花园靠近果园的地方，开始吹口哨，声音低沉而轻柔。她搞不懂，一个这么严肃的人怎么能发出如此动听的声音来。几乎转眼之间，有趣的事儿发生了。她听到一道轻轻的、柔软急促的声音划破长空——是红胸脯的小鸟朝他们飞过来，它居然停在老人脚下不远的一堆土上。“你看见的是它吗？”老人低声笑起来，他对小鸟说话的语气像对一个孩子说话。“你到哪儿去了，你这个厚脸皮的小叫花子？”他说，“到现在才看到你。你是不是已经早早地开始追女孩子了？你也太着急了。”

知更鸟把一丁点儿大的头偏向一旁，抬起头看着他，明亮温柔的眼睛像两颗黑露珠。它似乎对这儿挺熟悉，一点儿都不害怕。它轻快地跳来跳去，麻利地啄着土，寻找草子和虫子。这让玛丽心里涌起一股奇怪的感觉，因为它这么漂亮、快乐，像一个孩子。它的小身子非常饱满，有一枚精巧的喙和一双纤细的腿。“你一叫它就会来吗？”她低声问道。“当然，它会来。它刚长羽毛学飞的时候我就认识它了。它从那个花园的巢里出来，第一次飞过围墙的时候，因为太虚弱，它飞不回去。那几天我们成了朋友。等它再飞过围墙，它们那一窝幼鸟都离开了。它觉得孤单就回过头来找我了。”“它是哪种鸟？”玛丽问。“难道你不知道？它是只红胸脯知更鸟。它是世上最友好、最好奇的鸟。它们简直和狗一样友好——如果你知道怎么和它们相处。你看它一边四处啄土一边盯着我们看。它知道我们在议论它。”

这个老人看来真是世上最奇怪的一个人。他看着那只身穿鲜红背心的圆鼓鼓的小鸟，似乎他既为它骄傲，又深爱着它。“它是个骄傲的小东西，”他轻声笑，“它喜欢听到别人谈起它。一个好奇的家伙。天哪，除了好奇和管闲事，它可没有其他喜好。它总来看我在种什么。克兰文先生不想操心的事情，它全知道。它是这儿的园林总管，它是。”

知更鸟忙着跳来跳去，啄着土，还偶尔停下来瞧他们一眼。玛丽觉得它凝视自己的黑露珠般的眼睛里都是好奇。真好像它想知道她的一切。“其他的小鸟都飞到哪儿去了？”她问。“这可没人清楚了。大鸟把它们赶出鸟巢，让它们自己飞走。你还没注意到它们时，它们就各奔东西了。它是只很聪明的小鸟，它知道自己孤独。”

玛丽小姐向知更鸟走近了一步，一个劲儿地看着它。“我也觉得孤独。”

她以前并不知道，这正是让她觉得烦躁和厌倦的原因之一。知更鸟盯着她，她盯着知更鸟的一瞬间，她似乎明白了。老人把秃头上的帽子往后推了推，盯了她一阵子。“你是从印度来的小孩？”他问。

玛丽点点头。“难怪你会孤独。在这儿你会比以前更孤独。”他说。

他又开始锄地，他把铁锹深深地插入花园肥沃的黑土里。知更鸟忙碌地在周围跳来跳去。“你叫什么名字？”玛丽问。

他直起腰回答她。“本·威斯达夫，”他回答，然后苦笑着说，“我也是孤独的，除了它陪着我。”他大拇指冲知更鸟一指，“我就这么一个朋友。”“我一个朋友也没有，”玛丽说，“从来没有过。我的奶妈不喜欢我，我也从未和别人一起玩过。”

约克郡的作风是想什么就说什么，威斯达夫是个在约克郡沼泽上土生土长的人。“你和我还挺像的，”他说，“我们俩是用同一种材料做成的。我们两个都不好看，模样都很忧郁，我敢说，我们两个脾气一样差劲。”

这是大实话，玛丽·伦诺克斯从来没有听到关于她自己的实话。土著仆人总是对她行额手礼，不管她做了什么，都对她百依百顺。她以前没怎么想过自己的长相，但是她怀疑自己是不是和威斯达夫一样不讨人喜欢，她还怀疑自己的样子是不是和他在知更鸟来之前一样严肃。她居然开始怀疑自己确实“脾气差劲”。她觉得不舒服。

突然一阵“簌簌”的声音波浪般在她身边响起，她转过身。在离她几尺远的一棵小苹果树上，知更鸟飞到一根枝条上，突然唱起歌来。威斯达夫放声大笑起来。“它想做什么？”玛丽问。“它想跟你交朋友了，”威斯达夫回答，“我敢打赌，它已经迷上你了。”“我？”玛丽说，她轻轻走近小树往上看着。“你愿意和我交朋友吗？”她对知更鸟说，“你愿意吗？”她说话的神态不再那么生硬，也不像在印度那样专横跋扈，而是轻柔热情的，威斯达夫像玛丽刚看见他时一样地惊讶。“怎么回事，”他喊道，“你说话像一个正常的小孩子一样，好像你真是个小孩子，不再像是个死板的老女人。你说话的声音，都差不多和迪肯对他的那些沼泽地上的动物说话时一模一样了。”“你也知道迪肯？”玛丽忙回过头来问。“人人都认识他。在约克郡，到处都有他的影子，连每丛黑莓、欧石楠都认识他。我想，狐狸都会把他领去看自己的孩子，百灵鸟也不会对他隐藏自己的窝。”

玛丽本来想多问他些问题。她对迪肯像对那个锁着的花园一样好奇。可就在这时，刚才已经唱完歌的知更鸟稍抖了下身子，展开翅膀飞走了。它的采访已经结束了，它还有其他事情要做。“它飞过墙了！”玛丽叫道，她观察着它，“它飞进果园了，越过另一道墙，它飞到那座锁着的花园里去了！”“它住那儿。”威斯达夫说，“它是从那儿孵化出来的。如果他要求爱的话，对象也会是住在那里的老玫瑰树丛中年轻的知更鸟女士。”“玫瑰树丛”，玛丽说，“那儿有玫瑰树丛？”

威斯达夫抽出铁锹，继续挖着。“10年前有。”他咕哝着。“我想看看它们，”玛丽说，“门在哪儿？在什么地方，肯定有门能进去。”

威斯达夫把铁锹深深地往下挖，显得和最初见到他时一样不讨人喜欢。“10年前有，但现在没有了。”他说。“没有门！”玛丽叫道，“不！一定有门。”“没有人找到过，也不关谁的事。不要像个多管闲事的孩子，无缘无故到处探听消息。好了，我要干活了。你离我远点儿，自己去玩。我没时间了。”

他居然停止挖地，把铁锹放到肩膀上，就那么走了，看都没看她一眼，更别说再见了。

Chapter 5　The Cry In The Corridor

At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the oth-ers.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 nurs-ery 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 any-thing about it.

But after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one morning knowing what it was to be hungry，and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it away，but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it until her bowl was empty.

“You got on well enough with that this mornin'，didn't tha'？”said Martha.

“It tastes nice today，”said Mary，feeling a little surprised her self.

“It's the air of the moor that's givin'thee stomach for you victuals，”an-swered Martha.“It's lucky for thee that you have got victuals as well as appetite.There's been twelve in our cottage as had the stomach and nothing to put in it.You go on playin’you out of doors every day and you’ll get some flesh on your bones and you won’t be so yeller.”

“I don't play，”said Mary.“I have nothing to play with.”

“Nothing to play with！”exclaimed Martha.“Our children plays with sticks and stones.They just runs about and shouts and looks at things.”Mary did not shout，but she looked at things.There was nothing else to do.She walked round and round the gardens and wandered about the paths in the park.Sometimes she looked for Ben Weatherstaff，but though several times she saw him at work he wastoo busy to look at her or was too surly.Once when she was walking toward him he picked up his spade and turned away as if he did it on purpose.

One place she went to oftener than to any other.It was the long walk outside the gardens with the walls round them.There were bare flower—beds on either side of it and against the walls ivy grew thickly.There was one part of the wall where the creeping dark green leaves were more bushy than elsewhere.It seemed as if for a long time that part had been neglected.The rest of it had been clipped and made to look neat，but at this lower end of the walk it had not been trimmed at all.

A few days after she had talked to Ben Weatherstaff，Mary stopped to notice this and wondered why it was so.She had just paused and was looking up at a long spray of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a brilliant chirp，and there，on the top of the wall，forward perched Ben Weather-staff's robin redbreast，tilting forward to look at her with his small head on one side.

“Oh！”she cried out，“is it you—is it you？”And it did not seem at all queer to her that she spoke to him as if she were sure that he would understand and an-swer her.

He did answer.He twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if he were telling her all sorts of things.It seemed to Mistress Mary as if she understood him，too，though he was not speaking in words.It was as if he said：“Good morn-ing！Isn't the wind nice？Isn't the sun nice？Isn't everything nice？Let us both chirp and hop and twitter.Come on！Come on！”

Mary began to laugh，and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after him.Poor little thin，sallow，ugly Mary—she actually looked almost pretty for a moment.

“I like you！I like you！”she cried out，pattering down the walk；and she chirped and tried to whistle，which last she did not know how to do in the least.But the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her.At last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a tree，where he perched and sang loudly.

That reminded Mary of the first time she had seen him.He had been swing-ing on a tree—top then and she had been standing in the orchard.Now she was on the other side of the orchard and standing in the path outside a wall—much lower down—and there was the same tree inside.

“It's in the garden no one can go into，”she said to herself.“It's the garden without a door.He lives in there.How I wish I could see what it is like！”

She ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning.Then she ran down the path through the other door and then into the orchard，and when she stood and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall，and there was the robin just finishing his song and，beginning to preen his feathers with his beak.

“It is the garden，”she said.“I am sure it is.”

She walked round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall，but she only found what she had found before—that there was no door in it.Then she ran through the kitchen—gardens again and out into the walk outside the long ivy—covered wall，and she walked to the end of it and looked at it，but there was no door；and then she walked to the other end，looking again，but there was no door.

“It's very queer，”she said.“Ben Weatherstaff said there was no door and there is no door.But there must have been one ten years ago，because Mr.Craven buried the key.”

This gave her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested and feel that she was not sorry that she had come to Misselthwaite Manor.In India she had always felt hot and too languid to care much about anything.The fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a little.

She stayed out of doors nearly all day，and when she sat down to her supper at night she felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable.She did not feel cross when Martha chattered away.She felt as if she rather liked to hear her，and at last she thought she would ask her a question.She asked it after she had finished her sup-per and had sat down on the hearth—rug before the fire.

“Why did Mr.Craven hate the garden？”she said.

She had made Martha stay with her and Martha had not objected at all.She was very young，and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and sisters，and she found it dull in the great servants'hall downstairs where the footman and upper—housemaids made fun of her Yorkshire speech and looked upon her as a common little thing，and sat and whispered among themselves.Martha liked to talk，and the strange child who had lived in India，and been waited upon by“blacks，”was nov-elty enough to attract her.

She sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked.

“Art you thinking about that garden yet？”she said.“I knew you would.That was just the way with me when I first heard about it.”

“Why did he hate it？”Mary persisted.

Martha tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable.

“Listen to the wind wutherin'round the house，”she said.“You could bare stand up on the moor if you was out on it tonight.”

Mary did not know what“wutherin'”meant until she listened，and then she understood.It must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which rushed round and round the house as if the giant no one could see were buffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in.But one knew he could not get in，and somehow it made one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a red coal fire.

“But why did he hate it so？”she asked，after she had listened.She intended to know if Martha did.

Then Martha gave up her store of knowledge.

“Mind，”she said，“Mrs.Medlock said it's not to be talked about.There's lots of things in this place that's not to be talked over.That's Mr.Craven's orders.His troubles are none servants’business，he says.But for the garden he wouldn’t be like he is.It was Mrs.Craven’s garden that she had made when first they were married and she just loved it，and they used to’tend the flowers themselves.And none of the gardeners was ever let to go in.Him and her used to go in and shut the door and stay there hours and hours，readin’and talkin’.An，she was just a bit of a girl and there was an old tree with a branch bent like a seat on it.And she made roses grow over it and she used to sit there.But one day when she was sittin’there the branch broke and she fell on the ground and was hurt so bad that next day she died.The doctors thought he’d go out of his mind and die，too.That’s why he hates it.No one’s never gone in since，and he won’t let any one talk about it.”

Mary did not ask any more questions.She looked at the red fire and listened to the wind“wutherin'.”It seemed to be“wutherin'”louder than ever.At that moment a very good thing was happening to her.Four good things had happened to her，in fact，since she came to Misselthwaite Manor.She had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had understood her；she had run in the wind until her blood had grown warm；she had been healthily hungry for the first time in her life；and she had found out what it was to be sorry for some one.

But as she was listening to the wind she began to listen to something else.She did not know what it was，because at first she could scarcely distinguish it from the wind itself.It was a curious sound—it seemed almost as if a child were crying somewhere.Sometimes the wind sounded rather like a child crying，but presently Mistress Mary felt quite sure this sound was inside the house，not outside it.It was far away，but it was inside.She turned round and looked at Martha.

“Do you hear any one crying？”she said.

Martha suddenly looked confused.

“No，”she answered.“It's the wind.Sometimes it sounds like as if some one was lost on the moor and wailin'.It's got all sorts of sounds.”

“But listen，”said Mary.“It's in the house—downone of those long corridors.”

And at that very moment a door must have been opened somewhere down-stairs；for a great rushing draft blew along the passage and the door of the room they sat in was blown open with a crash，and as they both jumped to their feet the light was blown out and the crying sound was swept down the far corridor so that it was to be heard more plainly than ever.

“There！”said Mary.“I told you so！It is some one crying—and it isn't a grown—up person.”

Martha ran and shut the door and turned the key，but before she did it they both heard the sound of a door in some far passage shutting with a bang，and then everything was quiet，for even the wind ceased“wutherin'”for a few moments.

“It was the wind，”said Martha stubbornly.“And if it wasn't，it was little Betty Butterworth，the scullery—maid.She's had the toothache all day.”

But something troubled and awkward in her manner made Mistress Mary stare very hard at her.

She did not believe she was speaking the truth.

第五章　走廊中的哭声

刚到这个地方的时候，对玛丽·伦诺克斯来说，每天和每天没有没有什么区别。每天早晨，她在挂着壁毯的屋子里醒过来，看到玛莎跪在壁炉前升火，她在毫无趣味的幼儿房里吃着她的早餐，用餐后，她盯着窗外无边无际的沼泽地，那沼泽地好像向每个方向伸展着，一直爬到天上。在她盯了沼泽地一会儿后，她意识到如果不出去的话，就只有待在屋里没事可做。于是她就会出去。她并不知道自己其实已经做了最好的选择。她也不知道，当她越走越快，甚至沿着小路和大路奔跑的时候，她的血液正在流动起来，顶着沼泽地上刮来的风正让她强壮起来。她跑只是想暖和一点儿，她讨厌风吹在脸上的感觉，它咆哮着拖住她，像一个无形的巨人。然而，沼泽地上涌来的大股大股猛烈的新鲜空气，注满了她的肺。这新鲜的空气对她瘦小的身子大有好处，它使她脸颊上有了一些红晕，让她无神的眼睛开始发光，而她对这一切一无所知。

整整在户外玩了几天之后，一天早晨她醒过来，居然知道什么是饿了。她坐下来吃早餐，不再像以前一样鄙视地扫一眼她的粥然后推开，而是拿起勺子开始吃，直到吃完整碗粥。“今天早晨的粥很合你胃口，是不是？”玛莎说。“今天的粥味道很好，”玛丽说，她自己也觉得有点儿吃惊。“是沼泽地上的空气给了你胃口，”玛莎回答，“你真有福气，既有好胃口也有好吃的。我们家里有12个孩子，他们有胃口，可却没什么东西能吃。你每天坚持出去玩，就会长胖一些，也就不会这么面黄肌瘦了。”“我没玩，”玛丽说，“根本没东西可玩。”“没东西可玩！”玛莎惊叫道，“我们家的孩子玩起树枝、石头都会玩得不亦乐乎。他们就是到处乱跑、喊叫，看看各种东西。”

玛丽没有叫，也没喊，她只是看各种东西，没有其他的事做。她围着那些花园走了一圈又一圈，在庭院里的小路上乱逛。有时候她会去找威斯达夫，可是她见着他那几次，他不是忙得顾不上她，就是脾气很大。有一次她正朝他走去，他拿起铁锹转身走了，就像是故意的一样。

有一个地方她倒是经常去。就是那个用墙围着的花园外的长走道。走道两旁是裸露的花床，墙上满是密实的常青藤。墙上有一个地方，蔓延的墨绿叶子比其他地方更浓密。看起来这一带无人问津已经很长时间了。其他地方都修剪过，弄得整齐，但小路的这一边却一点儿都没有修剪过。

在她和威斯达夫说过几次话之后的一天，玛丽停下来注意到这里，奇怪它为什么这样。她停下来抬起头，正看着一簇长长的常青藤在风中摇摆，突然她看到一抹鲜红，听到一声清亮短促的鸟鸣——就在那儿，在墙头儿，是威斯达夫红胸脯的知更鸟，它就停在那儿，俯身看着她，小脑袋歪向一边。“哦！”她叫出来，“是你吗，是你吗？”她一点儿都不觉得惊奇，自己在和它说话，像是它一定会明白她说的，会回答她一样。

而它真的回答了。一会儿是婉转迭声，一会儿是短促清啼，它在墙头跳来跳去，好像在告诉她许多事情。玛丽小姐觉得自己好像也明白它，虽然它用的不是言语。它仿佛在说：“早上好！风不是很舒服吗？阳光不是很明媚吗？一切都妙不可言？我们来一起唱吧，跳吧，快点儿来啊！快点儿来啊！”

玛丽笑起来了，小鸟在墙头上时飞时跳，她就跟着它跑。可怜的瘦小的、面黄肌瘦的玛丽在这一刻居然显得好看多了。“我爱你！我喜欢你！”她大声喊着，一边顺着小路快跑着；她学着鸟叫，还试着吹口哨。可她压根不会吹口哨。不过知更鸟好像很高兴她这么做，它叫着，吹着口哨和她应和着。到最后，它展开翅膀，猛然飞到一棵树顶上，停在那里大声唱歌。这让玛丽想起初见它时，那次它立在果园里一根摇摆的树枝上。现在她在果园另一端，站在墙外的小路上。这道墙要矮得多，那里面依然是那棵树。“这一定是那个锁着的花园，”她自言自语，“这一定是。它住在那里。如果我能看看里面什么样子该有多好！”

她顺小路往上，跑到第一天早晨她进去过的绿门。接着她沿小路跑过另一道门到果园里去，她站在那里抬起头，看到墙那边是那棵树，知更鸟刚唱完一首歌，它开始用喙梳理着羽毛。“就是那个花园，”她说，“我肯定它一定是。”

她到处走着，走近仔细观察果园墙壁的那一面，但是她看到的依然和以前一模一样，墙上面并没有门。然后，她又穿过菜园，来到覆盖着常青藤的长墙外面那条小路上，她走到尽头仔细看，但那儿也没有门。她又走到另一头，再看了一遍，那儿仍然没有门。“这太奇怪了，”她说，“威斯达夫说它没有门，它的确没有门。可10年前一定是有门的，因为克兰文先生把钥匙埋起来了。”

这件事够让她好好想的，她开始对这件事感兴趣了，觉得在米瑟韦斯特庄园住着也挺好。在印度她总是觉得热，厌烦到对任何事都不关心。实际情况是，沼泽地上的新鲜空气已经一点点儿吹散了这颗年轻头脑中的郁闷、烦躁，让她变得清醒了一点儿。

她几乎在外面待了整整一天，坐下来吃晚饭的时候，她觉得很饿很晕又比较舒服。玛莎唠叨的时候，她不觉得厌烦了，最后她想要问玛莎一件事。吃完晚饭，坐到炉火前的欧石楠毯子上，她问道。“克兰文先生怎么会恨那座花园？”她问。

她让玛莎留下来，玛莎一点儿也不反对。玛莎很年轻，习惯了家里挤满了兄弟姐妹，她觉得楼下的仆人大厅太沉闷了。大厅里的脚夫和高等女佣们取笑她的约克郡口音，把她看成一个无关紧要的小东西，他们一群人坐在那儿自顾自地说悄悄话。玛莎爱聊天，这个在印度住过曾被“黑人”服侍过的乖张的孩子，她的传奇很吸引玛莎。

玛莎坐到欧石楠地毯上，没料到玛丽会向她提问。“你在想那个花园吗？”她说，“我就知道你会想它。我刚听说的时候也跟你一样。”“他为什么要恨它？”玛丽追问着。

玛莎跪坐着，以让自己坐得更舒服点儿。“听听屋子周围这呼啸的风，”她说，“如果今天晚上你在外头的沼泽地上连站都站不稳。”

玛丽不知道“呼啸”的意思，直到她仔细去听，才明白了是指那空洞、战栗般的咆哮声，它围着房子一圈圈地旋转，就像一个隐形的巨人在打击着墙和窗户，想要闯进来。但是人们知道它进不来。不知为什么，这让屋里的人坐在红红的炭火前，感觉安全而温暖。“他到底为什么这么恨它呢？”

玛丽听过风声之后，又接着问。她很想知道玛莎知不知道原因。

玛莎讲出了她知道的所有情报。“说真的，”她说，“莫德劳克太太告诉过这件事不能谈论。这个地方许多事情不能说。那是克兰文先生的命令。他说他的烦恼与任何仆人都没关系。但是如果不是那座花园的话，他也不会像现在这样。那座花园原来是克兰文太太的，他们刚结婚的时候她亲手建造的。她爱极了那座花园。他们二人亲自照顾里面的花草。一个花匠都没有到过里面。他和她过去常常进去把门关上，在里面一待就是好几个小时，读书或说话。她有点儿像个小女孩，那里有棵老树，一根弯弯的树干像座位一样。她在那儿种上玫瑰，这些花长到弯弯曲曲的树干上，她经常坐在那儿。可有一天她又坐到上面的时候，树干折断了，她从上面摔下来，伤得非常重，第二天她就死了。医生以为克兰文先生会发疯，也会跟着死去。这就是为什么他恨那座花园。从此那儿没有任何人进去过，而且他也不准任何人提起那座花园。”

玛丽没有再问。她看着红色的炉火，听着呼啸的风声。风的呼啸声比以前更大了。那一刻，玛丽又有了新的变化，实际上，自从她来到米瑟韦斯特庄园，在她身上发生了好几个新的变化。她感到自己了解知更鸟，知更鸟也了解她；她在风中跑来跑去，直到血液变得沸腾起来；有生以来她第一次正常地感到饥饿；最后，她知道了同情一个人是什么感觉。

正当她听着风声的时候，她也同时听到了别的声音。她不知道那是什么，因为刚开始她几乎无法把它和风声区分开。那是个奇怪的声音——听上去像是一个孩子在什么地方哭，要知道，有时风声很像孩子的哭声，但是这时候玛丽小姐相当肯定这个声音就在房子里，不是在房子外面。虽然隔得远，但就在屋子里。她转向玛莎。“你听到有人哭了吗？”她问道。

玛莎顿时迷惑起来。“没有，”她回答，“那是风。它有时候听起来像是有人在荒原上迷了路在哭喊。风能发出各种各样的声音。”“但是你听，”玛丽说，“在屋子里面——在那个长走廊那一边。”

就在这一刻，楼下不知什么地方的门被打开了，因为有一股猛烈的穿堂风沿过道而来，她们房间的门被猛地推开。她们两人都吓得跳起来，灯被风吹灭了，哭声从远处的走廊传了过来，她们听得比任何时候都清楚了。“那儿！”玛丽说，“我跟你说过！的确有人在哭，而且听起来不像是个大人。”

玛莎跑过去关上门，并用钥匙锁上了门。但是在她关上门之前，她们两个人都听到门“砰”的一声关上了，然后所有声音都安静下来，连风声似乎都停了一阵，没有呼啸。“那是风，”玛莎执著地说，“如果不是风的话，就是小贝蒂·巴特华斯的声音，她是洗碗的女仆人。她说她今天牙疼。”

但是玛莎的脸色和眼神里有些担心、古怪的东西，玛丽小姐使劲地盯着她看。她不相信玛莎说的是真话。

Chapter 6　“There Was Some One Crying—There Was！”

The next day the rain poured down in torrents again，and when Mary looked out of her window the moor was almost hidden by gray mist and cloud.There could be no going out today.

“What do you do in your cottage when it rains like this？”she asked Martha.

“Try to keep from under each other's feet mostly，”Martha answered.“Eh！there does seem a lot of us then.Mother's a good—tempered woman but she gets fair moithered.The biggest ones goes out in the cow—shed and plays there.Dickon he doesn't mind the wet.He goes out just the same as if the sun was shinin'.He says he sees things on rainy days as doesn't show when it’s fair weather.He once found a little fox cub half drowned in its hole and he brought it home in the bosom of his shirt to keep it warm.Its mother had been killed nearby and the hole was swum out and the rest of the litter was dead.He’s got it at home now.He found a half—drowned young crow another time and he brought it home，too，and tamed it.It’s named Soot because it’s so black，and it hops and flies about with him everywhere.”

The time had come when Mary had forgotten to resent Martha's familiar talk.She had even begun to find it interesting and to be sorry when she stopped or went away.The stories she had been told by her Ayah when she lived in India had been quite unlike those Martha had to tell about the moorland cottage which held fourteen people who lived in four little rooms and never had quite enough to eat.The children seemed to tumble about and amuse themselves like a litter of rough，good—natured collie puppies.Mary was most attracted by the mother and Dick-on.When Martha told stories of what“mother”said or did they always sounded comfortable.

“If I had a raven or a fox cub I could play with it，”said Mary.“But I have nothing.”

Martha looked perplexed.

“Can you knit？”she asked.

“No，”answered Mary.

“Can tha'sew？”

“No.”

“Can you read？”

“Yes.”

“Then why doesn't tha，read somethin'，or learn a bit of spellin'？Tha'st old enough to be learnin'thy book a good bit now.”

“I haven't any books，”said Mary.“Those I had were left in India.”

“That's a pity，”said Martha.“If Mrs.Medlock'd let thee go into the library，there's thousands of books there.”

Mary did not ask where the library was，because she was suddenly inspired by a new idea.She made up her mind to go and find it herself.She was not troubled about Mrs.Medlock.Mrs.Medlock seemed always to be in her comfortable housekeeper's sitting—room downstairs.In this queer place one scarcely ever saw any one at all.In fact，there was no one to see but the servants，and when their master was away they lived a luxurious life below stairs，where there was a huge kitchen hung about with shining brass and pewter，and a large servants'hall where there were four or five abundant meals eaten every day，and where a great deal of lively romping went on when Mrs.Medlock was out of the way.

Mary's meals were served regularly，and Martha waited on her，but no one troubled themselves about her in the least.Mrs.Medlock came and looked at her every day or two，but no one inquired what she did or told her what to do.She supposed that perhaps this was the English way of treating children.In India she had always been attended by her Ayah，who had followed her about and waited on her，hand and foot.She had often been tired of her company.Now she was fol-lowed by nobody and was learning to dress herself because Martha looked as though she thought she was silly and stupid when she wanted to have things handed to her and put on.

“Hasn't you got good sense？”she said once，when Mary had stood waiting for her to put on her gloves for her.“Our Susan Ann is twice as sharp as thee and she's only four year'old.Sometimes you looks fair soft in the head.”

Mary had worn her contrary scowl for an hour after that，but it made her think several entirely new things.

She stood at the window for about ten minutes this morning after Martha had swept up the hearth for the last time and gone downstairs.She was thinking over the new idea which had come to her when she heard of the library.She did notcare very much about the library itself，because she had read very few books；but to hear of it brought back to her mind the hundred rooms with closed doors.She wondered if they were all really locked and what she would find if she could get into any of them.Were there a hundred really？Why shouldn't she go and see how many doors she could count？It would be something to do on this morning when she could not go out.She had never been taught to ask permission to do things，and she knew nothing at all about authority，so she would not have thought it necessary to ask Mrs.Medlock if she might walk about the house，even if she had seen her.

She opened the door of the room and went into the corridor，and then she began her wanderings.It was a long corridor and it branched into other corridors and it led her up short flights of steps which mounted to others again.There were doors and doors，and there were pictures on the walls.Sometimes they were pic-tures of dark，curious landscapes，but oftenest they were portraits of men and women in queer，grand costumes made of satin and velvet.She found herself in one long gallery whose walls were covered with these portraits.She had never thought there could be so many in any house.She walked slowly down this place and stared at the faces which also seemed to stare at her.She felt as if they were wondering what a little girl from India was doing in their house.Some were pic-tures of children—little girls in thick satin frocks which reached to their feet and stood out about them，and boys with puffed sleeves and lace collars and long hair，or with big ruffs around their necks.She always stopped to look at the children，and wonder what their names were，and where they had gone，and why they wore such odd clothes.There was a stiff，plain little girl rather like herself.She wore a green brocade dress and held a green parrot on her finger.Her eyes had a sharp，curious look.

“Where do you live now？”said Mary aloud to her.“I wish you were here.”Surely no other little girl ever spent such a queer morning.It seemed as if

there was no one in all the huge rambling house but her own small self，wandering about upstairs and down，through narrow passages and wide ones，where it seemed to her that no one but herself had ever walked.Since so many rooms had been built，people must have lived in them，but it all seemed so empty that she could not quite believe it true.

It was not until she climbed to the second floor that she thought of turning the handle of a door.All the doors were shut，as Mrs.Medlock had said they were，but at last she put her hand on the handle of one of them and turned it.She was almost frightened for a moment when she felt that it turned without difficulty and that when she pushed upon the door itself it slowly and heavily opened.It was a massive door and opened into a big bedroom.There were embroidered hangings on the wall，and inlaid furniture such as she had seen in India stood about theroom.A broad window with leaded panes looked out upon the moor；and over the mantel was another portrait of the stiff，plain little girl who seemed to stare at her more curiously than ever.

“Perhaps she slept here once，”said Mary.“She stares at me so that she makes me feel queer.”

After that she opened more doors and more.She saw so many rooms that she became quite tired and began to think that there must be a hundred，though she had not counted them.In all of them there were old pictures or old tapestries with strange scenes worked on them.There were curious pieces of furniture and curi-ous ornaments in nearly all of them.

In one room，which looked like a lady's sitting—room，the hangings were all embroidered velvet，and in a cabinet were about a hundred little elephants made of ivory.They were of different sizes，and some had their mahouts or palanquins on their backs.Some were much bigger than the others and some were so tiny that they seemed only babies.Mary had seen carved ivory in India and she knew all about elephants.She opened the door of the cabinet and stood on a footstool and played with these for quite a long time.When she got tired she set the elephants in order and shut the door of the cabinet.

In all her wanderings through the long corridors and the empty rooms，she had seen nothing alive；but in this room she saw something.Just after she had closed the cabinet door she heard a tiny rustling sound.It made her jump and look around at the sofa by the fireplace，from which it seemed to come.In the corner of the sofa there was a cushion，and in the velvet which covered it there was a hole，and out of the hole peeped a tiny head with a pair of tightened eyes in it.

Mary crept softly across the room to look.The bright eyes belonged to a little gray mouse，and the mouse had eaten a hole into the cushion and made a com-fortable nest there.Six baby mice were cuddled up asleep near her.If there was no one else alive in the hundred rooms there were seven mice who did not look lonely at all.

“If they wouldn't be so frightened I would take them back with me，”said Mary.

She had wandered about long enough to feel too tired to wander any farther，and she turned back.Two or three times she lost her way by turning down the wrong corridor and was obliged to ramble up and down until she found the right one；but at last she reached her own floor again，though she was some distance from her own room and did not know exactly where she was.

“I believe I have taken a wrong turning again，”she said，standing still at what seemed the end of a short passage with tapestry on the wall.“I don't know which way to go.How still everything is！”

It was while she was standing here and just after she had said this that thestillness was broken by a sound.It was another cry，but not quite like the one she had heard last night；it was only a short

one，a fretful childish whine muffled by passing through walls.

“It's nearer than it was，”said Mary，her heart beating rather faster.“And it is crying.”

She put her hand accidentally upon the tapestry near her，and then sprang back，feeling quite startled.The tapestry was the covering of a door which fell open and showed her that there was another part of the corridor behind it，and Mrs.Medlock was coming up it with her bunch of keys in her hand and a very cross look on her face.

“What are you doing here？”she said，and she took Mary by the arm and pulled her away.“What did I tell you？”

“I turned round the wrong corner，”explained Mary.“I didn't know which way to go and I heard some one crying.”

She quite hated Mrs.Medlock at the moment，but she hated her more the next.

“You didn't hear anything of the sort，”said the housekeeper.“You come a-long back to your own nursery or I'll box your ears.”

And she took her by the arm and half pushed，half pulled her up one passage and down another until she pushed her in at the door of her own room.

“Now，”she said，“you stay where you're told to stay or you'll find yourself locked up.The master had better get you a governess，same as he said he would.You're one that needs some one to look sharp after you.I've got enough to do.”

She went out of the room and slammed the door after her，and Mary went and sat on the hearthrug，pale with rage.She did not cry，but ground her teeth.

“There was some one crying—there was—there was！”she said to herself.

She had heard it twice now，and sometime she would find out.She had found out a great deal this morning.She felt as if she had been on a long journey，and at any rate she had had something to amuse her all the time，and she had played with the ivory elephants and had seen the gray mouse and its babies in their nest in the velvet cushion.

第六章　曾经的哭泣声

第二天又下大雨了，玛丽往窗外看的时候，只见沼泽地几乎隐藏在灰蒙蒙的云霭中。看来今天是出不去了。

她问玛莎：“像这样下雨的时候你们在家里会做什么？”“最要紧的是想办法不要被别人绊到，”玛莎回答，“哦！那个时候我们确实显得人有点儿多了。妈妈是个好脾气的人，但是她也觉得担心。大点儿的孩子就跑到牛棚里去玩。迪肯可不怕下雨潮湿，他照样会出去，就像阳光很明媚的时候一样。他说雨天他能看到晴天看不到的东西。有一次他见到一只小狐狸，在洞里被淹了半个身子，他救了它，把它放在胸口的衣服上取暖并带了回来。小狐狸的妈妈在附近的地方被杀掉了，整个洞都被淹平了，其他的狐狸崽都死了。现在他把它放在家里养着。还有一次，他发现一只快淹死的小乌鸦，就把它带回家来养着，他叫它”煤烟“因为它很黑。它整天跟着他飞来飞去，又跳又蹦的。”

慢慢地，玛丽已经不厌恶玛莎的唠叨了。她已经开始对玛莎的闲聊很感兴趣，玛莎停下来或是离开的时候，她甚至还有点儿舍不得。她在印度时，奶妈讲的故事和玛莎讲的可一点儿都不一样，玛莎讲的故事里是沼泽地上的小农舍，许多人挤在一个小屋子里，没有充足的食物。孩子们到处跌跌撞撞，像长毛牧羊犬的孩子一样，粗犷、温顺，且自得其乐。这些人中最吸引玛丽的是玛莎的妈妈和迪肯。玛莎说起“妈妈”说过什么、做过什么，听起来总是那么温柔。“如果我也有一只乌鸦，或者有一只小狐狸也行，我就可以和它玩了，”玛丽说，“可我什么都没有。”

玛莎困惑起来。“你会织东西吗？”玛莎问。“不会。”玛丽答道。“那缝东西呢？”“也不会。”“看书你会吗？”“会。”“那你为什么不看些书呢，不然就学点儿单词拼写？你已经到可以看书的年龄了，能看好多书了。”“可是我没有书，”玛丽说，“我以前的书都放在印度了。”“真可惜，”玛莎说，“如果莫德劳克太太同意让你进书房的话，那儿倒是有很多很多书。”

玛丽并没有问书房在哪儿，因为一个新想法突然在她心头一闪。她决定自己去找到书房。她一点儿也不担心莫德劳克太太，因为莫德劳克太太好像总待在她舒适的起居室里，那是专门给管家用的，就在楼下。这个古怪的地方几乎看不到人影。事实上，除了仆人就没有别人了，他们在主人不在的时候，就在楼下享受着奢侈的生活。楼下有个特别大的厨房，四处挂着锃亮的铜锡餐具。还有个宽敞的仆人大厅，那里每天要吃四五顿丰盛的饭菜。莫德劳克太太不在的时候，那里经常有兴高采烈的笑闹声。

玛丽的饮食定时供应，玛莎服侍着她，但是没有一个人对她稍微关心一点儿。每过一两天，莫德劳克太太会来看看她，但是没人问她做点儿什么，或告诉她该做点儿什么。她想这种对待孩子的方式可能是英国特有的。在印度，奶妈总是百依百顺地伺候她，随时随地跟着她，等着她的命令。她常被奶妈跟得很烦。现在没有人跟着她，她学会了自己穿衣服，因为她想让玛莎把衣服给自己穿上的时候，玛莎像看傻瓜一样看着她。有一次，玛丽站着等她给自己戴手套，“你真不嫌丢人，”她说，“我们家苏珊·安虽然才4岁，却比你机灵两倍。有时候看着你真是呆头呆脑的。”

后来玛丽的脸阴沉了一个小时，不过这让她思考几件以前没想过的事。

玛莎把欧石楠的炉毯扫了最后一遍，就下楼去了，玛丽在窗前站了10分钟。她正在琢磨着那个寻找书房的新点子。她倒并不怎么关心书房本身，因为她读过的书只有很少的几本，不过听到书房，让她想起那上锁的一百个房间。她好奇地想它们果真都上锁了吗？如果她能进去随便是哪一间，能看到点儿什么呢？这里真的有上百间吗？她干吗不自己去数数呢？今天上午她是不能出去了，这样一来也有些事情可做。没有人教给她做事要得到别人的允许，她根本没有“允许”的概念，所以她不觉得有必要问莫德劳克太太，自己是否可以在房子里到处走，虽然她看到她了。

她打开房间门，来到走廊开始她的计划。走廊很长，有许多分支连着其他走廊，一个分支把她带上一小段上升的台阶，这种台阶一段连着另一段。一道门接着一道门，墙上挂着很多幅画。有的是阴沉诡秘的风景，但更多的是男男女女的肖像，都穿着缎子和天鹅绒做的古怪而华丽的衣服。玛丽在不知不觉间来到一个长长的画廊，墙上挂满了相似的画像。她从不知道，也没想过这幢屋子里有这么多画像。她慢慢地往前走，盯着那些面孔，那些面孔也像是在盯着她。她觉得他们在疑惑：这个印度来的小女孩在他们的屋子里干吗？有些画像是孩子的，一个小女孩穿着厚厚的缎质裙子，宽松的裙子垂到地上遮住两只脚。男孩的袖子膨胀，衣领都是蕾丝花边，他们留着长发，要不就是在脖子上套一圈轮子一样的皱领口。她每次都会停下来看那些孩子，猜他们叫什么名字，都去了哪里，为什么要穿这种古怪的衣服。有个小女孩的画像，她紧绷着脸，长得很平凡，这倒很像玛丽。女孩穿着一件绿色的织着花的锦缎裙子，手指头上有一只鹦鹉。她的眼神看上去既敏锐又好奇。“你现在在哪儿住着？”玛丽大声问她，“我希望你住在这儿。”

别的小女孩一定没经历过这么奇怪的早晨。在这座巨大的屋子里到处乱走，好像里面空无一人一样，只有一个小小的孤单的她，上下乱走，穿过各种窄的和宽的过道。除了她自己之外，这些过道好像从来没人走过。既然建了这么多房间，就该有人住过才对，但是这里看上去都是空的，她不大能相信自己看到的。

直到她爬上三楼，才想起去转动门把手。所有的门都锁着，和莫德劳克太太说的一样，但是当她最后把手放到一个把手上，把手毫不费力地转动了，她推了一下门，门缓慢而沉重地打开了，她吓了一跳。门很宽很厚，它通往一间大卧室。墙上有刺绣的挂件，屋子里四处摆着有镶嵌的家具，和她在印度看到的一样。一扇大窗户镶着彩色的玻璃，正对着下面的沼泽地；壁炉台上是那个紧绷着脸、长相平凡的小女孩的另一幅画像，小女孩盯着她，那眼神好像比以前更好奇了。

玛丽想，“或许她在这里住过。她总这样看着我，挺怪的。”

然后她打开了越来越多的门，看到很多屋子，她开始感觉到累了，她想，这里的房间肯定有100个，虽然她没数过。每个房间里都有古老的画或是旧挂毯，上面织着奇怪的图案。几乎每个房间都有精致的家具和精致的装饰。

有一个房间，看起来像是某位女士的起居室，屋里的挂饰全都是天鹅绒的刺绣，壁橱里大约有100只象牙做的大小不一的小象，有些带着赶象人，或者驮着轿子；有些大得多，有些小得如同大象的孩子。玛丽在印度见过象牙雕刻，对大象也很熟悉。她打开壁橱门，站在一个脚凳上，玩了好一会儿。她累了之后，就把大象按顺序摆好，关上壁橱门。

她游荡在那些长走廊和空房间的时候，没有看到任何活着的东西，但是在这个房间她见到了。她刚把壁橱门关上就听到轻微的窸窣声，她吓了一跳，开始查看着火炉附近的沙发，声音好像是从那里传来的。沙发一角有个靠枕，天鹅绒面料上有一个洞，洞中伸出一个小脑袋，露出一双惊恐的眼睛。

玛丽蹑手蹑脚地走过去看了个究竟。是一只眼睛明亮的小灰鼠，小灰鼠已经把靠枕咬了个洞，做了个舒服的窝。6只小老鼠蜷缩在一起，睡在它旁边。如果说这100个房间里没有一个活人的话，那至少这里的7只老鼠看上去不算孤单。“如果你们没这么胆小的话，我会把你们带回去的。”玛丽对它们说。

她逛得时间够长了，累得不想再逛了，她开始往回走。有几次她走错走廊迷了路，不得不上上下下乱走一通，直到找对走廊，好在最后她来到了自己那一层，虽然离她自己的房间还有一段路，她也不清楚自己的确切位置。“我想我又拐错弯了，”她思索着，一动不动地站在一个墙上有挂毯的短走道的尽头，“我不知道往哪儿走。一切都很安静！”

就在她站在那里的时候，刚想着多么安静，这种安静就被打破了。是哭声，但是和她昨晚听到的不太一样：这是很短的一声，焦躁的、孩子气的哭声，穿过墙时显得低沉而模糊。“哭声比上次近，”玛丽想，她心跳加速，“就是这哭声。”

她无意中把手放到身旁的挂毯上，挂毯马上就弹开来，她吓了一跳。挂毯后面有道门，门往后一沉就打开来，这是走廊的另一部分。莫德劳克太太正从那里走来，手上拿着她那一大串钥匙，看上去是一副很生气的表情。“你在这儿做什么？”她说完，抓起玛丽的胳膊就走，“我是怎么跟你说的？”“我拐错弯了，”玛丽解释道，“我不知道该往哪边走，然后就听到有人在哭。”这时她非常恨莫德劳克太太，不过等一会她会更恨她。“你根本没有听到任何声音，”管家说，“现在就回你自己的幼儿房，不然我要打你一个耳光。”

她抓住她的胳膊，拉拉扯扯地在许多过道中上上下下，最后把她推到她的房间里。“现在，”她说，“你待在你该待的地方，不然就把你锁起来。先生最好说到做到，给你找个家庭教师。得有人牢牢地管着你了。我的事情现在够多的了。”

她离去时把门重重地摔了一下。玛丽到欧石楠地毯那里坐下来，脸都气白了。她没哭，但气得咬牙切齿的。“有人在哭，有人，一定有人在哭！”她自言自语。

她已经听到过两次了，迟早她会弄清楚的。今天早上她已经知道很多了。她感觉自己仿佛在一个漫长的旅途上，至少她总有东西来让自己玩，她曾经玩过象牙大象，还看到了小灰鼠和它的宝宝们，它们的窝在天鹅绒靠枕中。

Chapter 7　The Key To The Garden

Two days after this，when Mary opened her eyes she sat upright in bed im-mediately，and called to

Martha.

“Look at the moor！Look at the moor！”

The rainstorm had ended and the gray mist and clouds had been swept away in the night by the wind.The wind itself had ceased and a brilliant，deep blue sky arched high over the moorland.Never，never had Mary dreamed of a sky so blue.In India skies were hot and blazing；this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the waters of some lovely bottomless lake，and here and there，high，high in the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow—white fleece.The far—reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of gloomy purple—black or awful dreary gray.

“Aye，”said Martha with a cheerful grin.“The storm's over for a bit.It does like this at this time of the year.It goes off in a night like it was pretendin'it had never been here and never meant to come again.That's because the springtime's on its way.It's a long way off yet，but it’s coming.”

“I thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in England，”Mary said.

“Eh！no！”said Martha，sitting up on her heels among her black lead brushes.“Nowt of the soart！”

“What does that mean？”asked Mary seriously.In India the natives spoke dif-ferent dialects which only a few people understood，so she was not surprised when Martha used words she did not know.

Martha laughed as she had done the first morning.

“There now，”she said.“I've talked broad Yorkshire again like Mrs.Med-lock said I mustn't.Nowt of the soart'means'nothing—of—the—sort，'”slowly and carefully，“but it takes so long to say it.Yorkshire’s the sunniest place on earth when it is sunny.I told thee tha’d like the moor after a bit.Just you wait till you see the gold—colored gorse blossoms and the blossoms of the broom，and the heather flowerin’，all purple bells，and hundreds of butterflies flutterin’and bees hummin’and skylarks soarin’up and singin’.You’ll want to get out on it as sun-rise and live out on it all day like Dickon does.”

“Could I ever get there？”asked Mary wistfully，looking through her window at the far—off blue.It was so new and big and wonderful and such a heavenly color.

“I don't know，”answered Martha.“You have never used you legs since you was born，it seems tome.Youcouldn't walk five mile.It's five mile to our cottage.”

“I should like to see your cottage.”

Martha stared at her a moment curiously before she took up her polishing brush and began to rub the grate again.She was thinking that the small plain face did not look quite as sour at this moment as it had done the first morning she saw it.It looked just a trifle like little Susan Ann's when she wanted something very much.

“I'll ask my mother about it，”she said.“She's one of them that nearly al-ways sees a way to do things.It's my day out today and I'm goin'home.Eh！I am glad.Mrs.Medlock thinks a lot of mother.Perhaps she could talk to her.”

“I like your mother，”said Mary.

“I should think you did，”agreed Martha，polishing away.

“I've never seen her，”said Mary.

“No，you hasn't，”replied Martha.

She sat up on her heels again and rubbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand as if puzzled for a moment，but she ended quite positively.

“Well，she's that sensible and hard workin'and goodnatured and clean that no one could help likin'her whether they'd seen her or not.When I'm goin’home to her on my day out I just jump for joy when I’m crossin’the moor.”

“I like Dickon，”added Mary.“And I've never seen him.”

“Well，”said Martha stoutly，“I've told thee that the very birds likes him and the rabbits and wild sheep and ponies，and the foxes themselves.I wonder，”staring at her reflectively，“what Dickon would think of thee？”

“He wouldn't like me，”said Mary in her stiff，cold little way.“No one does.”

Martha looked reflective again.

“How does you like thysel'？”she inquired，really quite as if she were curious to know.

Mary hesitated a moment and thought it over.

“Not at all—really，”she answered.“But I never thought of that before.”

Martha grinned a little as if at some homely recollection.

“Mother said that to me once，”she said.“She was at her wash—tub and I was in a bad temper and talkin'ill of folk，and she turns round on me and says：You young vixen，tha'！There you stands sayin'you doesn't like this one and you doesn't like that one.How does you like thysel’？’It made me laugh and it brought me to my senses in a minute.”

She went away in high spirits as soon as she had given Mary her breakfast.She was going to walk five miles across the moor to the cottage，and she was going to help her mother with the washing and do the week's baking and enjoy herself thoroughly.

Mary felt lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longer in the house.She went out into the garden as quickly as possible，and the first thing she did was to run round and round the fountain flower garden ten times.She counted the times carefully and when she had finished she felt in better spirits.The sunshine made the whole place look different.The high，deep，blue sky arched over Mis-selthwaite as well as over the moor，and she kept lifting her face and looking up into it，trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one of the little snow—white clouds and float about.She went into the first kitchen—garden and found Ben Weatherstaff working there with two other gardeners.The change inthe weather seemed to have done him good.He spoke to her of his own accord.“Springtime's comin，'”he said.“Cannot you smell it？”

Mary sniffed and thought she could.

“I smell something nice and fresh and damp，”she said.

“That's the good rich earth，”he answered，digging away.“It's in a good humor makin'ready to grow things.It's glad when plantin'time comes.It’s dull in the winter when it’s got nowt to do.In the flower gardens out there things will be stirrin’down below in the dark.The sun’s warmin’them.You’ll see bits of green spikes stickin’out of the black earth after a bit.”

“What will they be？”asked Mary.

“Crocuses and snowdrops and daffydowndillys.Has you never seen them？”“No.Everything is hot，and wet，and green after the rains in India，”said

Mary.“And I think things grow up in a night.”

“These won't grow up in a night，”said Weatherstaff.“Tha'll have to wait for them.They'll poke up a bit higher here，and push out a spike more there，and uncurl a leaf this day and another that.You watch them.”

“I am going to，”answered Mary.

Very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again.He was very pert and lively，and hopped about so close to her feet，and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked Ben Weatherstaff a question.

“Do you think he remembers me？”she said.

“Remembers thee！”said Weatherstaff indignantly.“He knows every cabbage stump in the gardens，let alone the people.He's never seen a little wench here before，and he's bent on findin'out all about thee.You have no need to try to hide anything from him.”

“Are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives？”Mary inquired.

“What garden？”grunted Weatherstaff，becoming surly again.

“The one where the old rose—trees are.”She could not help asking，because she wanted so much to know.“Are all the flowers dead，or do some of them come again in the summer？Are there ever any roses？”

“Ask him，”said Ben Weatherstaff，hunching his shoulders toward the robin.“He's the only one as knows.No one else has seen inside it for ten year'.”

Ten years was a long time，Mary thought.She had been born ten years ago.

She walked away，slowly thinking.She had begun to like the garden just as she had begun to like the robin and Dickon and Martha's mother.She was be-ginning to like Martha，too.That seemed a good many people to like—when you were not used to liking.She thought of the robin as one of the people.She went to her walk outside the long，ivy—covered wall over which she could see the treetops；and the second time she walked up and down the most interesting and excit-ing thing happened to her，and it was all through Ben Weatherstaff's robin.

She heard a chirp and a twitter，and when she looked at the bare flower—bed at her left side there he was hopping about and pretending to peck things out of the earth to persuade her that he had not followed her.But she knew he had fol-lowed her and the surprise so filled her with delight that she almost trembled a lit-tle.

“You do remember me！”she cried out.“You do！You are prettier than any-thing else in the world！”

She chirped，and talked，and coaxed and he hopped，and flirted his tail and twittered.It was as if he were talking.His red waistcoat was like satin and he puffed his tiny breast out and was so fine and so grand and so pretty that it was re-ally as if he were showing her how important and like a human person a robin could be.Mistress Mary forgot that she had ever been contrary in her life when he allowed her to draw closer and closer to him，and bend down and talk and try to make something like robin sounds.

Oh！to think that he should actually let her come as near to him as that！He knew nothing in the world would make her put out her hand toward him or star-tle him in the least tiniest way.He knew it because he was a real person—only nicer than any other person in the world.She was so happy that she scarcely dared to breathe.

The flower—bed was not quite bare.It was bare of flowers because the perennial plants had been cut down for their winter rest，but there were tall shrubs and low ones which grew together at the back of the bed，and as the robin hopped about under them she saw him hop over a small pile of freshly turned up earth.He stopped on it to look for a worm.The earth had been turned up because a dog had been trying to dig up a mole and he had scratched quite a deep hole.

Mary looked at it，not really knowing why the hole was there，and as she looked she saw something almost buried in the newly—turned soil.It was some-thing like a ring of rusty iron or brass and when the robin flew up into a tree nearby she put out her hand and picked the ring up.It was more than a ring，however；it was an old key which looked as if it had been buried a long time.

Mistress Mary stood up and looked at it with an almost frightened face as it hung from her finger.

“Perhaps it has been buried for ten years，”she said in a whisper.“Perhaps it is the key to the garden！”

第七章　找到花园的钥匙

一天早上，玛丽睁开眼，立刻就从床上坐起来，喊玛莎。“快看沼泽地！快看沼泽地！”

暴风雨过去了，一晚的风扫净了灰色的雾霭和乌云。风停了，晴朗的深蓝色天空高高地挂在原野上。玛丽做梦都从来没见过这么蓝的天。在印度，天空总是像火焰般灼热。现在这种凉爽的深蓝透亮得如一面不见底的湖水。这儿，那儿，在蓝蓝的天空中，飘浮着朵朵小云彩，像雪白的羊毛似的。整个沼泽地现在都是温柔的蓝色，而不是阴郁的紫黑，或者是凄凉可怕的灰色。“嗯，”玛莎开心地笑道，“暴雨会停上一段时间了。每年这个时候就是这样。雨停了一个晚上，天就晴了，就像是它从来没来过一样，而且也确实不会再来了。因为春天快到了。虽然还要等一段时间，但春天真的快要来了。”“我还以为也许英国总是下雨，要不就总是阴着天。”“哦！当然不是！”玛莎说，她在一堆黑色的铅刷子中间坐起来，“根本没这回事。”“你说什么？”玛丽好奇地问。在印度，土著说各种方言，很少有人懂，所以玛莎的话她听不懂也就不奇怪了。

玛莎笑起来，就像第一天早上那样。“哦，”她说，“我刚才说的是约克郡土话，莫德劳克太太说我是绝对不能这么说的。我是说‘根本没这回事，’”她慢慢地解释说，“约克郡天晴的时候，是世界上最漂亮、明媚的地方。我跟你说过，过些日子你会喜欢沼泽地的。当你看到金色的金雀花、欧石楠花——都是紫色的铃铛，很多蝴蝶扇动着翅膀，蜜蜂嗡嗡飞着，百灵鸟欢快唱歌时，你会看到晴天就想出去一样，就像迪肯整天待在沼泽地上一样。”“我能去那儿吗？”玛丽充满希望地轻声问。她透过窗户看着远方的蓝色。它是那么清新、那么大、那么奇妙，像天堂般的颜色。“不知道，”玛莎答道，“你似乎从生下来就没有用过你的腿，我看着你可走不了5英里。我家的小屋离这儿有5英里远呢。”“我真想去看看你们家的小屋。”

玛莎好奇地瞪了她一会儿，然后拿起她的抛光刷子，开始重新磨壁炉架。她在想，刚才这张平凡的小脸看上去不像刚来那天早上她见到的那张苦瓜脸了。这张脸看着有那么一点点儿像小苏珊·安十分想要什么东西的时候的样子。“我回家问问妈妈，”她回答道，“她是那种总能找到解决问题的办法的人。今天该我休息，我要回家了。哦！真高兴。莫德劳克太太也很想念我妈妈。或许她能和妈妈聊一聊。”“我也喜欢你妈妈。”玛丽说。“我就知道你会喜欢她的。”玛莎一边擦，一边赞同。“虽然我从没见过她。”玛丽说。“的确，你没有。”玛莎回答。她又坐起来，用手背揉了揉鼻子，好像一时间不知道怎么说，但是最后她态度非常肯定。“嗯，她明白事理，又勤快，心地又好，又干净，不管见没见过她的人都会喜欢她。轮到我休息的时候，我走在回家的路上，过沼泽地的时候我都忍不住高兴得手舞足蹈。”“我也喜欢迪肯，”玛丽补充道，“可我也从没有见过他。”“哦，”玛莎肯定地说，“我跟你说过每只鸟都会喜欢他，还有兔子、绵羊、狐狸等。我真想知道，”玛莎若有所思地盯着玛丽，“迪肯会怎么看你呢？”“他不会喜欢我的，”玛丽恢复到呆板冷漠的样子说，“没人会喜欢我。”

玛莎又陷入沉思。“那你自己喜欢自己吗？”她问道，好像真的非常想知道。

玛丽犹豫了一会儿，反复思考。“不喜欢，”她回答，“不过我以前从没想过这个。”

玛莎咧嘴笑了一下，好像回想起什么一样。“有一次她在洗衣盆边上，我心情不好，正在说别人的坏话，她转身对我说：‘你这个小姑娘，你！你就站在那儿说你不喜欢这个人也不喜欢那个人。那你喜欢你自己吗？’她的话把我逗笑了，也立刻让我变得明白了。”

玛莎照顾玛丽吃完早饭就高兴地走了。她要穿过5英里的沼泽地，回到小屋，她要帮妈妈洗洗涮涮，帮她烘烤下一周的食物，她要快快乐乐地度过一天假期。

玛丽知道玛莎不在屋里后，觉得更加孤单了。她很快跑到花园里，第一件事就是绕着带喷泉的花园跑上10圈。她认真数着跑的圈数，跑完以后觉得精神好多了。阳光让这地方完全变了样。米瑟韦斯特庄园上空，也有同沼泽地一样的深蓝色，她不停地仰起脸来往远处看，想象着躺在那些雪白的云朵上到处飘会是什么样。她走到第一个菜园，看到威斯达夫和另外两个花匠在工作。看来天气的变化也使他心情好了。他主动和她聊天：“春天到了，”他说，“你闻到了吗？”

玛丽嗅了嗅，她觉得自己能闻到。“我闻到了一股好闻的、新鲜的、潮湿的气味。”她说。“那是肥沃的土地，”他一边答话，一边挖，“现在正是它心情好的时候，它准备长东西。播种的时候到了，它心里高兴。冬天它无事可做，就闷得很。那边花园里头，地底下的东西会悄悄生长。太阳把它们烤暖和了。不久后，你能看到一些绿色的尖芽冒出来。”“会长出什么东西来？”玛丽问。“番红花、雪花莲或旱水仙。你知道这些花吗？”“没见过。在印度一直都是又热又湿的。下雨之后到处是绿色的，”玛丽说，“我还以为植物都是在一夜之间长出来的。”“这些花不会一夜之间长出来，”威斯达夫说，“你一定得等。它们会这里长出来一点儿，那里长出来一点儿。你能看到它们生长。”“我会那么做。”玛丽回答。

很快她听到轻微的拍动翅膀的声音，她马上知道知更鸟来了。它非常整洁、活泼，紧挨着她的脚边跳来跳去，把头歪向一边狡猾地看着她，她不禁问了威斯达夫一个问题。“你觉得它还记得我吗？”她问。“当然记得你！”威斯达夫有些生气，“它认识园子里每个卷心菜桩子，更别提人了。它从没在这里见过小女孩，早就弄清楚你的一切了。你别想对它隐瞒什么。”“在它住的花园里面，地底下的东西也在悄悄生长着吗？”玛丽问道。“什么花园？”威斯达夫嘟哝着，脸又变得阴沉起来。“有玫瑰树的那座花园。”她忍不住想问，因为她实在是太想知道关于那座花园的事了。“那些花都死了吗，还是有些在夏天会活过来？那儿有玫瑰吗？”“你问它去，”威斯达夫说，朝知更鸟一耸肩，“它是唯一知道的‘人’。过去10年没有一个人进去过。”

玛丽想，10年是很长一段时间，她就是10年前出生的。

她离开了，一边走一边慢慢地想着。她开始喜欢那个花园，就像她慢慢喜欢上了知更鸟、迪肯和玛莎的妈妈一样。她也开始喜欢玛莎了。看来让她喜欢的人有很多。她认为知更鸟是一个人。她在那道盖满常青藤的长墙外走着，越过墙头她能看到树梢；她来回走第二趟的时候，发生一件极有趣和激动人心的事情，这都是因为威斯达夫的知更鸟才发生的。

她听到一阵叽叽喳喳的鸟鸣，便朝左边的空白花圃看去，它正到处跳跃，假装在土里啄食，像是让她相信它没有跟踪她一样。但是她知道它一直在跟踪她，这个意外让她满心喜悦，她几乎兴奋得有些颤抖了。“你的确认得我！”她叫起来，“你真的记得我！你是世界上最漂亮、最聪明的小鸟！”

她学着鸟叫，哄着它，而它蹦蹦跳跳，炫耀着它的尾巴，婉转啼叫。它好像是在说话。它的红马甲像缎子一样，它把小小的胸脯挺起，如此精致，如此神气，如此漂亮，它好像真的在展示一只知更鸟是多么重要，多么像一个人。当它让玛丽小姐离它越来越近时，玛丽小姐忘记了烦躁的心情，她弯下腰，说着话，想办法学着发出像知更鸟一样的声音。

哦！想想它居然能让她离得那么近！它不知道到底是什么原因让她小心翼翼地对它伸出手，生怕吓到它。它以为，它是一个真正的人，甚至比世界上其他的人更棒。她兴奋得几乎不敢呼吸了。

花圃也并不完全是荒芜的。上面没有花，虽然多年生的植物要休眠都在冬天被割了，但是花圃靠里面还有高高矮矮的灌木丛，知更鸟在下面跳的时候，她看到它跳过一小堆新翻的泥土。它停下来找虫子。土是翻出来的，因为有一只狗想抓住一只鼹鼠，把那儿刨出一个很深的坑。

玛丽过去看，她不太清楚为什么那儿会有个坑。她看到像是有什么东西埋在刚翻的泥土里。像是一枚生锈的铜环或铁环，知更鸟飞上附近的一棵树，她伸出手，捡起圆环。但那不只是个铁环，上面还带着一把旧钥匙，好像埋了很长时间的样子。

玛丽小姐站起来，一脸惊奇地看着挂在她手指上的钥匙。“它可能已经被埋了10年，”她低声说道，“或许这就是通往那座花园的钥匙！”

Chapter 8　The Robin Who Showed The Way

She looked at the key quite a long time.She turned it over and over，and thought about it.As I have said before，she was not a child who had been trained to ask permission or consult her elders about things.All she thought about the key was that if it was the key to the closed garden，and she could find out where the door was，she could perhaps open it and see what was inside the walls，and what had happened to the old rose—trees.It was because it had been shut up so long that she wanted to see it.It seemed as if it must be different from other places and that something strange must have happened to it during ten years.Besides that，if she liked it she could go into it every day and shut the door behind her，and she could make up some play of her own and play it quite alone，because nobody would ever know where she was，but would think the door was still locked and the key buried in the earth.The thought of that pleased her very much.

Living as it were，all by herself in a house with a hundred mysteriously closed rooms and having nothing whatever to do to amuse herself，had set her inactive brain to working and was actually awakening her imagination.There is no doubt that the fresh，strong，pure air from the moor had agreat deal to do with it.Just as it had given her an appetite，and fighting with the wind had stirred her blood，so the same things had stirred her mind.In India she had always been too hot and languid and weak to care much about anything，but in this place she was beginning to care and to want to do new things.Already she felt less“contrary，”though she did not know why.

She put the key in her pocket and walked up and down her walk.No one but herself ever seemed to come there，so she could walk slowly and look at the wall，or，rather，at the ivy growing on it.The ivy was the baffling thing.Howso-ever carefully she looked she could see nothing but thickly growing，glossy，dark green leaves.She was very much disappointed.Something of her contrariness came back to her as she paced the walk and looked over it at the tree—tops inside.It seemed so silly，she said to herself，to be near it and not be able to get in.She took the key in her pocket when she went back to the house，and she made up her mind that she would always carry it with her when she went out，so that if she ev-er should find the hidden door she would be ready.

Mrs.Medlock had allowed Martha to sleep all night at the cottage，but she was back at her work in the morning with cheeks redder than ever and in the best of spirits.

“I got up at four o'clock，”she said.“Eh！it was pretty on the moor with the birds gettin'up and the rabbits scamperin'about and the sun risin'.I didn't walk all the way.A man gave me a ride in his cart and I did enjoy myself.”

She was full of stories of the delights of her day out.Her mother had been glad to see her and they had got the baking and washing all out of the way.She had even made each of the children a doughcake with a bit of brown sugar in it.

“I had them all pipin'hot when they came in from playin'on the moor.And the cottage all smelt of nice，clean hot bakin'and there was a good fire，and they just shouted for joy.Our Dickon he said our cottage was good enough for a king.”

In the evening they had all sat round the fire，and Martha and her mother had sewed patches on torn clothes and mended stockings and Martha had told them about the little girl who had come from India and who had been waited on all her life by what Martha called“blacks”until she didn't know how to put on her own stockings.

“Eh！they did like to hear about you，”said Martha.“They wanted to know all about the blacks and about the ship you came in.I couldn't tell them enough.”

Mary reflected a little.

“I'll tell you a great deal more before your next day out，”she said，“so that you will have more to talk about.I dare say they would like to hear about riding on elephants and camels，and about the officers going to hunt tigers.”

“My word！”cried delighted Martha.“It would set them clean off their heads.Would you really do that，Miss？It would be same as a wild beast show like we heard they had in York once.”

“India is quite different from Yorkshire，”Mary said slowly，as she thought the matter over.“I never thought of that.Did Dickon and your mother like to hear you talk about me？”

“Why，our Dickon's eyes nearly started out of his head，they got that round，”answered Martha.“But mother，she was put out about your seemin'to be all by yourself like.She said，'Hasn't Mr.Craven got no governess for her，nor no nurse？'and I said，’No，he hasn’t，though Mrs.Medlock says he will when he thinks of it，but she says he mayn’t think of it for two or three years.’”

“I don't want a governess，”said Mary sharply.

“But mother says you ought to be learnin'your book by this time and you ought to have a woman to look after you，and she says：Now，Martha，you just think how you'd feel yourself，in a big place like that，wanderin'about all alone，and no mother.You do your best to cheer her up，'she says，and I said I would.”

Mary gave her a long，steady look.

“You do cheer me up，”she said.“I like to hear you talk.”

Presently Martha went out of the room and came back with something held in her hands under her apron.

“What does you think，”she said，with a cheerful grin.“I've brought thee a present.”

“A present！”exclaimed Mistress Mary.How could a cottage full of fourteen hungry people give any one a present！

“A man was drivin'across the moor peddlin'，”Martha explained.“And he stopped his cart at our door.He had pots and pans and odds and ends，but mother had no money to buy anythin'.Just as he was goin'away our'Lizabeth Ellen called out，Mother，he’s got skippin’—ropes with red and blue handles.’And mother she calls out quite sudden，Here，stop，mister！How much are they？’And he saysTuppence，’and mother she began fumblin’in her pocket and she says to me，Martha，you have brought me thy wages like a good lass，and I’ve got four places to put every penny，but I’m just goin’to take tuppence out of it to buy that child a skippin’—rope，’and she bought one and here it is.”

She brought it out from under her apron and exhibited it quite proudly.It was a strong，slender rope with a striped red and blue handle at each end，but Mary Lennox had never seen a skipping—rope before.She gazed at it with a mystified expression.

“What is it for？”she asked curiously.

“For！”cried out Martha.“Does you mean that they've not got skippin'—ropes in India，for all they've got elephants and tigers and camels！No wonder most of them's black.This is what it's for；just watch me.”

And she ran into the middle of the room and，taking a handle in each hand，began to skip，and skip，and skip，while Mary turned in her chair to stare at her，and the queer faces in the old portraits seemed to stare at her，too，and wonder what on earth this common little cottager had the impudence to be doing under their very noses.But Martha did not even see them.The interest and curiosity in Mistress Mary's face delighted her，and she went on skipping and counted as she skipped until she had reached a hundred.

“I could skip longer than that，”she said when she stopped.“I've skipped as much as five hundred when I was twelve，but I wasn't as fat then as I am now，and I was in practice.”

Mary got up from her chair beginning to feel excited herself.

“It looks nice，”she said.“Your mother is a kind woman.Do you think I could ever skip like that？”

“You just try it，”urged Martha，handing her the skipping—rope.“You can't skip a hundred at first，but if you practice you'll mount up.That's what mother said.She says，Nothin'will do her more good than skippin'rope.It’s the sensi-blest toy a child can have.Let her play out in the fresh air skippin’and it’ll stretch her legs and arms and give her some strength in them.’”

It was plain that there was not a great deal of strength in Mistress Mary's armsand legs when she first began to skip.She was not very clever at it，but she liked it so much that she did not want to stop.

“Put on you things and run and skip out of doors，”said Martha.“Mother said I must tell you to keep out of doors as much as you could，even when it rains a bit，so as you wrap up warm.”

Mary put on her coat and hat and took her skipping—rope over her arm.She opened the door to go out，and then suddenly thought of something and turned back rather slowly.

“Martha，”she said，“they were your wages.It was your two—pence really.Thank you.”She said it stiffly because she was not used to thanking people or noticing that they did things for her.“Thank you，”she said，and held out her hand because she did not know what else to do.

Martha gave her hand a clumsy little shake，as if she was not accustomed to this sort of thing either.Then she laughed.

“Eh！the art a queer，old—womanish thing，”she said.“If tha'd been our'Lizabeth Ellen tha'd have given me a kiss.”

Mary looked stiffer than ever.

“Do you want me to kiss you？”

Martha laughed again.

“Nay，not me，”she answered.“If you was different，p'raps tha'd want to thysel'.But you isn't.Run off outside and play with thy rope.”

Mistress Mary felt a little awkward as she went out of the room.Yorkshire people seemed strange，and Martha was always rather a puzzle to her.At first she had disliked her very much，but now she did not.

The skipping—rope was a wonderful thing.She counted and skipped，and skipped and counted，until her cheeks were quite red，and she was more interested than she had ever been since she was born.The sun was shining and a little wind was blowing—not a rough wind，but one which came in delightful little gusts and brought a fresh scent of newly turned earth with it.She skipped round the foun-tain garden，and up one walk and down another.She skipped at last into the kitchen—garden and saw Ben Weatherstaff digging and talking to his robin，which was hopping about him.She skipped down the walk toward him and he lifted his head and looked at her with a curious expression.She had wondered if he would notice her.She wanted him to see her skip.

“Well！”he exclaimed.“Upon my word.P'raps you art a young'un，after all，and p'raps you have got child's blood in thy veins instead of sour buttermilk.You have skipped red into thy cheeks as sure as my name's Ben Weatherstaff.I wouldn’t have believed you could do it.”

“I never skipped before，”Mary said.“I'm just beginning.I can only go up to twenty.”

“You keep on，”said Ben.“You shapes well enough at it for a young'un that's lived with heathen.Just see how he's watchin'thee，”jerking his head to-ward the robin.“He followed after thee yesterday.He'll be at it again today.He’ll be bound to find out what the skippin’—rope is.He’s never seen one.Eh！”shaking his head at the bird，“you curiosity will be the death of thee sometime if you doesn’t look sharp.”

Mary skipped round all the gardens and round the orchard，resting every few minutes.At length she went to her own special walk and made up her mind to try if she could skip the whole length of it.It was a good long skip and she began slowly，but before she had gone half—way down the path she was so hot and breathless that she was obliged to stop.She did not mind much，because she had already counted up to thirty.She stopped with a little laugh of pleasure，and there，lo and behold，was the robin swaying on a long branch of ivy.He had followed her and he greeted her with a chirp.As Mary had skipped toward him she felt something heavy in her pocket strike against her at each jump，and when she saw the robin she laughed again.

“You showed me where the key was yesterday，”she said.“You ought to show me the door today；ut I don't believe you know！”

The robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall and he opened his beak and sang a loud，lovely trill，merely to show off.Nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off—and they are nearly always doing it.

Mary Lennox had heard a great deal about Magic in her Ayah's stories，and she always said that what happened almost at that moment was Magic.

One of the nice little gusts of wind rushed down the walk，and it was a stronger one than the rest.It was strong enough to wave the branches of the trees，and it was more than strong enough to sway the trailing sprays of untrimmed ivy hanging from the wall.Mary had stepped close to the robin，and suddenly the gust of wind swung aside some loose ivy trails，and more suddenly still she jumped to-ward it and caught it in her hand.This she did because she had seen something under it—a round knob which had been covered by the leaves hanging over it.It was the knob of a door.

She put her hands under the leaves and began to pull and push them aside.Thick as the ivy hung，it nearly all was a loose and swinging curtain，though some had crept over wood and iron.Mary's heart began to thump and her hands to shake a little in her delight and excitement.The robin kept singing and twittering away and tilting his head on one side，as if he were as excited as she was.What was this under her hands which was square and made of iron and which her fingers found a hole in？

It was the lock of the door which had been closed ten years and she put herhand in her pocket，drew out the key and found it fitted the keyhole.She put the key in and turned it.It took two hands to do it，but it did turn.

And then she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk to see if any one was coming.No one was coming.No one ever did come，it seemed，and she took another long breath，because she could not help it，and she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed back the door which opened slowly—slowly.

Then she slipped through it，and shut it behind her，and stood with her back against it，looking about her and breathing quite fast with excitement，and wonder，and delight.

She was standing inside the secret garden.

第八章　领路的知更鸟

她盯着那把钥匙看了很长时间。翻来覆去地把它看了个够，她在琢磨着它。就像前面说过的，她这个人不曾有人教她要得到允许，或者遇事要问大人。对这把钥匙，她想到的只是它是不是通往那座上锁的花园的钥匙，她能不能找到门在哪儿，也许她还能打开门，看看墙的里面都有些什么，那些许多年前种下的玫瑰树现在怎么样了。正因为它被锁了很多年，她更想去看看。好像那一定与其他地方不同，在这10年里面一定有奇怪的事情在那里发生。除了这些，如果她喜欢它，她还要天天进去，把门反锁上，她可以自己找到新的玩法，就一个人玩，因为没人知道她在哪儿，人们还以为门依旧锁着，钥匙仍然埋在地下。这个想法让她感到兴奋。

现在的生活，只有她一个人，在一座上百间紧闭的神秘屋子里，其实也没什么可玩的，这让她迟钝的头脑开始工作，她的想象力居然被唤醒了。毫无疑问，这与沼泽地上新鲜、纯净的空气有很大的关系。就像风给了她胃口，与风抗争使她的血液沸腾，同样也让她的头脑活跃起来。在印度时，她总觉得太热，整天无精打采的，还很虚弱，对任何事情都提不起精神来，但是在这里，她开始关心其他事物，开始尝试。她已经觉得不那么烦躁了，虽然她还不知道是为什么。

她把钥匙装进口袋，沿着路走来走去。除了她以外，这儿好像还没人来过，所以她可以慢慢走着，仔细看着墙，或者不如说，她在看墙上长的常青藤。常青藤是让人迷惑的东西，不管她看得如何仔细，除了密实、光滑的墨绿叶片，她什么都看不见。她非常失望。她在路上走着，看着那里面的树梢，那股烦躁劲儿又上来了。这真是太蠢了，她心想，近在咫尺却进不去。回房间的时候，她把钥匙放在口袋里随身带着。她决定以后出去时要带上钥匙，这样一旦她发现了隐藏的门，她就能随时准备出门。

莫德劳克太太允许玛莎回家过夜，她第二天早晨回来干活时，脸色比任何时候都红润，她的精神好极了。“我4点钟就起来了，”她说，“哦！沼泽地可漂亮了，小鸟都起来了，兔子到处蹦蹦跳跳，太阳正升起来。我不是一直走着的。一个男人用马车顺路搭了我一段，我很高兴。”

她脑子里装满了回家一天中发生的各种快乐的事情。她妈妈很高兴见到她，她们做完了所有烘烤食物和洗涮的活儿。她还给每个孩子都做了蛋糕，里面还加了点儿红糖。“他们从沼泽地上玩儿回来，我的蛋糕都还是热气腾腾的。整个屋子闻着都是香喷喷的、热腾腾的烘烤味儿，火烧得很旺，他们高兴得都叫起来。我们家迪肯说我们的家美妙到简直可以给国王住了。”

晚上他们围坐在炉火旁，玛莎和她妈妈给旧衣服补上补丁，缝补着袜子，玛莎告诉他们，一个从印度过来的小女孩，曾经有黑人伺候过她，一直说到她不会自己穿袜子。“哦！他们可真的很爱听你的故事呢，”玛莎说，“他们想知道所有关于黑人的事，还有你来时坐的轮船。我怎么讲他们都听不够。”

玛丽稍微想了一下说。“下次在你休息之前，我会跟你讲更多，”她说，“这样你就有更多的事情可以跟他们说。我敢说他们对骑大象、骑骆驼，还有军官们出去打猎抓老虎感兴趣。”“我的天！”玛莎高兴地惊呼起来，“这会让他们目瞪口呆的。你真的会和我说那些吗，小姐？这太像我们有一次听说的约克郡的一个野生动物展览了。”“印度和约克郡有很大区别，”玛丽慢慢说，因为她在仔细回想这件事，“我从来没想起过这一点。迪肯和你妈妈喜欢听你说起我吗？”“当然了，我们家迪肯听得眼睛睁得很大，眼珠子都要掉出来了，”玛莎回答，“不过妈妈却为就你自己一个人在大房子里感到难过。她问，‘克兰文先生没有给她请个家庭教师，或者保姆吗？’我说，‘没有，不过莫德劳克太太说，克兰文先生想起来的时候会给她请一个’，但是她又说，‘他可能两三年都想不起来。’”“我不想请家庭教师。”玛丽生硬地说。“可是妈妈说你这个时候应该读书了，该有个女人来照顾你，她又说，‘那么，玛莎，你想想你在那么大一个房子里独自一人是什么感觉，一个人到处游荡，没有妈妈。你要尽可能地让她高兴起来。’她这么说，我告诉她我会这么做。”

玛丽静静地看了她一会儿。“你的确让我高兴起来了，”她说，“我爱听你说话。”

玛莎立刻出了房间，回来时双手握着什么东西，放在围裙下面。“你觉得怎么样，”她愉快地咧嘴笑起来，“我给你带了件礼物。”“礼物！”玛丽小姐惊叫起来。一个挤满14个饥饿的人的家，怎么还能拿得出一件礼物！“一个男人驾着马车穿过沼泽地叫卖，”玛莎解释道，“他在我们家门口停下来。他卖的东西有锅碗瓢盆和一些杂七杂八的东西，但是妈妈没有钱买。他正要离开，我们家伊丽莎白·爱伦喊，‘妈妈，他有根跳绳，是红的和蓝的把手。’妈妈突然喊，‘哦，停一下，先生！那个多少钱？’他说‘两便士’，妈妈就在口袋里摸索，她对我说，‘玛莎，你是个好女儿，把所有的工钱都给我，我一分钱要掰成4瓣花，不过我得从里头拿出两便士，给那个女孩买根跳绳。’她买了一根，就是它。”

她从围裙底下拿出跳绳，很骄傲地展示着。那是一根结实、细长的绳子，两头的把手有红蓝两色条子，但是玛丽·伦诺克斯从来没有见过跳绳。她面带疑惑地凝视着它。“这是做什么的？”她好奇地问。“做什么的？”玛莎大声问，“你的意思是印度没有跳绳，就是因为他们有大象、老虎、骆驼！难怪他们多数都是黑人。是用来干这个的，你看着。”

她跑到屋子中间，一手拿一个把手，开始一下下跳着，玛丽从椅子上转过身去盯着她的动作，那些古老画像中的奇怪的脸好像也在盯着她看，琢磨不透这个普通的小农舍里出来的姑娘居然在他们的眼皮子底下有这么厚的脸皮。但是玛莎根本没有注意到它们。玛丽脸上的兴趣和好奇让她很高兴，她一直跳啊数啊，直到跳满100下。“我其实可以跳得更多，”她停下来说道，“我12岁的时候能跳满500下，不过那时候我没有现在这么胖，而且那时候经常玩这个。”

玛丽从椅子上起来，觉得自己慢慢变得兴奋了。“看上去还不错，”她说，“你妈妈是个好心人。你觉得有一天我会和你跳得一样好吗？”“试试看，”玛莎鼓励着，把跳绳递给她，“刚开始你跳不到100下，但是只要你常练习就会跳得多。这是我妈妈说的。她说，‘对她来说，没有比跳绳更好的了。这是孩子玩具中最有益的。让她到新鲜空气里蹦跳，舒展她的手脚，让她的手脚长些力气。’”

玛丽刚开始跳的时候，手脚看上去就没什么力气。她没那么灵活，但是她很喜欢这项运动，不愿意停下。“把你的衣服穿上，出去跳。”玛莎说，“妈妈让我一定要告诉你尽可能多待在屋外头，即使下点儿小雨，只要你穿得暖和就没问题。”

玛丽穿上外套，把跳绳搭在手臂上。她打开门出去，又像突然想起什么，慢慢转过身。“玛莎，”她说，“那是你的薪水。这是用了你的两便士。谢谢。”她僵硬地说，因为她不习惯向别人道谢，也不会注意到别人为她做的事。“谢谢，”她说着，伸出双手，因为她不知道除此之外，应该怎么做。

玛莎也略微别扭地握了一下她的手，她好像也不习惯这种事。之后她也笑起来。“哦！你真是个怪胎，像个老女人。”她说，“如果是我们家伊丽莎白·艾伦的话，她会亲我一下。”

玛丽显得更加僵硬了。“你想让我亲你吗？”

玛莎又笑了。“哦，不是，不是我要。”她回答，“如果你不是这种性格，恐怕你自己就会想来亲我。不过你不想。出去玩你的跳绳去吧。”

玛丽小姐离开的时候感觉有点儿不自在。约克郡的人好像很奇怪，玛莎对她来说一直是个谜团。刚开始她非常讨厌她，但是现在不会了。跳绳是件宝贝，她边数边跳，一直跳着，数着，直到她跳得双颊通红。她从出生以来从没有感到如此高兴。阳光明媚，有一阵微风吹来，不是狂风，而是一阵让人愉悦的微风，带着新翻泥土的新鲜气味。她围着喷泉花园跳，顺着这条路跳过去，顺着另一条路跳回来。最后，她跳进菜园去，看到威斯达夫一边挖地一边和他的知更鸟对话，知更鸟正围着他蹦来蹦去。她沿路朝他跳过去，他抬起头，很好奇地看着她。她刚才还在想他是否能注意到她。她想让他看到她正在跳绳。“哦！”他惊呼，“我的天。原来你到底还是个小孩儿，现在我确定你血管里流的是小孩儿的血，而不是发霉的剩牛奶。你把脸色跳得红润了，我从没想过你会玩这个。”“我以前从来没跳过。”玛丽说，“我刚刚开始学。只能跳20下。”“那你就接着练习，”威斯达夫说，“时间长了你会像兔子一样灵活。瞧它怎么看你的，”他把头朝知更鸟一扭，“昨天它跟踪你来着，今天它还要跟踪你。这回它可发誓要弄清楚跳绳是什么东西了。它从没见过这东西。哦！”他对小鸟摇头，“你如果不加倍留心，有一天你的好奇心会杀了你。”

玛丽先是围着所有的花园跳，接着又围着果园跳，她几分钟休息一下。最后她来到那条特别的小路，决定试试看能不能跳完整一段路。这段路好长，她跳得慢，还没跳到一半的时候，她就又热又喘不上来气，她不得不停下来。但她不是很在意，因为她已经数到30了。她停下来发出一阵愉快的轻笑，那里，快看呀，快看呀，知更鸟在一根长长的常青藤上摇曳着。它刚刚跟踪她了，并用一声短鸣向她问好。玛丽朝它跳过去，她觉得每跳一下，口袋里就有东西碰她一下，当她看到知更鸟，她又笑起来。“你昨天帮我找钥匙，”她说，“今天你该把门指给我，但我认为你不知道门在哪儿！”

知更鸟从那根摇曳的常青藤枝条上飞到墙头，响亮地发出一声可爱的颤音，听起来像是在炫耀一样。世界上没有什么比炫耀的知更鸟更让人羡慕了，而它们似乎总爱炫耀自己。

玛丽·伦诺克斯从她奶妈讲的故事中听到过很多关于魔法的事，她后来总是说那一刻的发生是魔法。

一阵温柔的小风沿走道吹过来，这次的风要比刚才的强一点，强到足以吹动树枝，当然更足以吹动墙上拖下的一蓬蓬未经修剪的常青藤。玛丽已经靠近知更鸟，那阵风突然把一些蓬蓬的常青藤条吹到边上，玛丽突然向前一跳，像是把什么抓在手中。她这么做是因为她看到下面有东西——那儿有一个圆形的手柄，一直被挂在上面的树叶遮住了。这儿有个门把手。

她用手把树叶拽到一边。常青藤是那么浓密，织成一道像是荡着秋千的松散帘子，已经爬满了门上的木头和铁条。玛丽的心开始怦怦跳，她兴奋得手都开始稍微发抖了。知更鸟一直在唱歌，鸣叫婉转着，歪着头看着她，好像和她一样兴奋。她手摸到一块方形的铁制品，而她的手指头摸到上面有一个洞。

那是锁了已经10年的门上的锁，她把手伸到口袋里，掏出那把钥匙，发现它正好与锁孔吻合。她把钥匙插进去扭转。要两只手才能转动，而它也的确转动了。

她深吸了一口气，看身后走道那边有没有人过来。没人过来，看起来是这样的，她又深吸一口气，因为她实在情不自禁，她把摆荡的常青藤帘子往后拽着，向后推那扇门，门缓慢地打开了。

接着她顺着门缝溜进去，在身后关上门，她的背靠在门上，环顾四周，她因为兴奋、惊奇和快乐而呼吸加快，她站到了秘密花园里面。

Chapter 9　The Strangest House Aay One Eevr Lived In

It was the sweetest，most mysterious—looking place any one 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 some one.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 be-tween 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 any-where.

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 any one，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 gar-den.If it were a quite alive garden，how wonderful it would be，and what thou-sands 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 garden-ing 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 of meat and two helps of rice puddin'！”she said.“Eh！mother will be pleased when I tell her what the 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 inits 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 of spring flowers grow from them.The very little ones are snowdrops and crocuses and the big ones are narcissuses and jonquils and daffydowndillys.The biggest of all is lilies and purple flags.Eh！they are nice.Dickon's got a whole lot of them planted in our bit of garden.”

“Does Dickon know all about them？”asked Mary，a new idea taking posses-sion of her.

“Our Dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk.Mother says he just whispers things out of the 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 them.If you don't trouble them，most of them'll work away un-derground for a lifetime and spread out and have little'uns.There’s a place in the park woods here where there’s snowdrops by thousands.They’re the prettiest sight in Yorkshire when the 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 you want a spade for？”asked Martha，laughing.“Art you 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 mat-ters 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 some-times 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 the things mother said.She says，There's such a lot of room in that big place，why don't they give her abit for herself，even if she doesn't plant nothing but parsley and radishes？She'd dig and rake away and 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 and I saw little garden sets with a spade and a rake and a fork all tied together for two shillings.And 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.“You can buy anything in the world you wants.The rent of our cottage is only one and threepence and 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 of flower—seeds for a penny each，and our Dickon he knows which is the prettiest ones an，how to make them grow.He walks over to Thwaite many a day just for the fun of it.Does you know how to print letters？”suddenly.

“I know how to write，”Mary answered.

Martha shook her head.

“Our Dickon can only read printin'.If you could print we could write a letter to him and ask him to go and buy the garden tools and the seeds at the 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 them 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 flowerbed.

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 every one 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 Phoebe Sowerby.”

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

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

“He'll bring them 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 you 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 of me forgettin'that there；and 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 of mother's hot oat cake，and butter，and a glass of 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 mak-ing 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 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.

“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.“You mustn't go walkin'about in corridors and 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 any one 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.

第九章　最古怪的房子

这是一个任何人都难以想象的最美好、最神秘的地方。锁着它的高墙满是攀缘玫瑰空无一叶的枝子，枝子浓密得纠缠在一起。玛丽·伦诺克斯知道这些是玫瑰，因为她在印度见到过很多玫瑰。地面上铺满了褐色的枯草，褐色中又长出一丛丛灌木，如果它们还活着，就应该是玫瑰花丛。有好多嫁接到树干上的玫瑰，枝条都蔓延开来，好像小树一样。花园里还有别的树。这个地方非常奇怪又非常可爱的原因之一，就是爬满这些树木的玫瑰蔓藤，它们垂下的长蔓就像轻轻摆动的帘幕，相互扭结到一起，或是扭结到一条伸得很远的枝条上。玫瑰枝条从一棵树爬到另一棵树，形成一座座漂亮的拱桥。现在枝条上没有叶子也没有玫瑰花，玛丽不清楚它们到底是死是活，不过它们纤细的灰褐色枝干和小树枝，看着好像是如烟似雾的罩子撒盖在所有东西之上，墙、树，甚至是枯黄的草都像是从高处落下来，落在地上蔓延开来。正是这些树木之间如烟似雾般的纠缠让所有的一切都显得神秘。玛丽早就猜到了，这儿肯定和别的和那些经常有人打理的花园不同，这里确实与她此生所见的任何地方不同。“这儿真安静啊！”她低喃道，“真安静！”

然后她停了一下，聆听着此刻的安静。知更鸟早就静悄悄地，无声无息地飞到树梢上，它连翅膀都不扇动一下，它一动不动地停下来，看着玛丽。“难怪这里这么安静，”她接着喃喃地说，“我是10年来第一个在这里说话的人。”

她脚步很轻地从门边移开，好像她在担心会吵到谁一样。好在她脚下是草地，所以她的脚步全无声息。她从一个树木间的灰色拱门下走过，就像童话，她抬头看着搭成拱门的枝条。“我真想知道它们是不是都还活着，”她想，“这是一座完全枯死的花园吗？我真希望它们没死。”

如果她是威斯达夫，她就能凭经验辨别树木是不是还活着，但她只能看到褐色灰色的小枝子和枝干，没有任何嫩芽的痕迹，哪怕是很小的花骨朵。

不过她已经置身于这座奇妙的花园里面了，而且她可以在任何时候从常青藤下的门进来，她觉得找到了一个属于自己的新世界。

阳光照在花园的墙上，米瑟韦斯特庄园上方的蓝天好像比沼泽地上的更加亮丽温柔了。知更鸟从树梢上飞下来，有时在她周围蹦蹦跳跳，有时跟着她的脚步从这棵树飞到那棵树。时不时叽叽喳喳了一番，好像它很忙的样子，又像是在给她做导游。所有都那么奇怪而安静，她好像远离所有人，很远很远，可是不知怎么回事，她并不觉得孤单。唯一困扰她的是她想知道这些玫瑰是不是还活着，也许有些还活着，天气变暖时可能会长叶、开花。她不希望这是座死花园。如果它是座生机勃勃的花园，该是多么美妙的事情，里面会长出多少漂亮的玫瑰啊！

她刚进来的时候就把跳绳搭在胳膊上，她四处走了一会儿，她想她可以围着整个花园跳绳，想看东西的时候就停下来。这里的小路上都长满了草，在小路拐角处还有蔓藤搭成的凉亭，里面是石凳还有长满苔藓的高脚石花瓶。

当她跳到第二个这样的凉亭时，她停下来。这儿曾经有个花床，她好像看到什么东西从黑土地里冒出了一些尖尖的灰绿色的小点。她记得威斯达夫说过的，于是跪下来察看它们。“嗯，这些小嫩芽可能会长成番红花或是雪花莲，再不然就是旱水仙。”她低喃道。

她弯腰紧紧地靠近它们，使劲闻着湿润泥土的新鲜气味。她很喜欢这种味道。“或许还有其他东西正从别的地方长出来，”她想，“我不如在整座花园里都看一下。”

她没有继续跳绳，而是走着。她慢慢地走，眼睛紧盯着地上。她观察以前的花床、草丛，她走了一圈，努力做到没有一处遗漏，她发现很多尖尖的灰绿嫩芽，她再次变得兴奋起来。“这不是一座完全枯死的花园，”她轻声地对自己呼喊，“即使玫瑰都死了，还有其他东西是活的。”

她对园艺一窍不通，但是她看到有些地方草太多，绿芽争着往外长，她觉得它们没有足够的生长空间。她开始到处寻找，找到一根很尖的木头，跪下来锄草，直到她在绿芽四周清理出一片干净的空地。“现在它们看上去能呼吸顺畅了，”清理完第一处，她想，“我要再清理很多地方。我要清理完所有我能看到的地方。如果今天我没有时间，明天我还可以来。”

她从这儿走到那儿，挖土锄草，干得很起劲，从一个花床走到另一个花床，一直走到树下的草地上。运动让她浑身发热，她先脱掉外套，然后是帽子。不知不觉间，她开始一直对着那些草和灰绿芽微笑。

知更鸟也很忙碌。它很高兴看到有人在整理这块地。它过去一直对威斯达夫的能力感到惊奇，因为有园艺的地方，各种美味的东西都随泥土翻出来。如今这里有个小女孩，身高没有威斯达夫一半高，不过懂得一进它的花园就马上开始干活。

玛丽在她的花园里一直干到吃午饭的时间。事实上，她很晚才想起这个来。她穿上外套和帽子，拿起跳绳，不敢相信自己已经干了两三个小时了。她居然一直很高兴，清理干净的地方有许多灰绿色的小嫩芽露出来，看上去比杂草围着它们的时候有生气多了。“下午我还会再来。”她朝自己的新王国四处环顾了一下，对树木和玫瑰丛说，好像它们能听懂她在说什么。

之后她愉快地跑过草地，慢慢推开那道陈旧的门，从常青藤下溜走了。她的脸色如此红润，眼睛如此明亮，吃的饭也比平时多，玛莎也非常高兴。“两块肉和两份米布丁！”她说，“哦！我要告诉妈妈跳绳对你起了作用，她会很开心的。”

在玛丽小姐用尖木头挖地的时候，她惊奇地发现一个像洋葱一样的白根。她把它放了回去，小心地把泥土轻拍下去。这时，她想到要问问玛莎那是什么东西。“玛莎，”她说，“那种像洋葱的白色的根是什么？”“你说的是球根，”玛莎回答道，“很多春季开的花从里面长出来。小一点儿的是雪花莲、番红花；大一点儿的是水仙花、长寿花、旱水仙；最大的是百合和紫菖蒲。哦！它们都很漂亮。我们家迪肯在我家周围的花园里种了很多。”“迪肯认识所有花吗？”玛丽说，一个新主意从她的心头冒出来。“我们家迪肯能让铺砖的小路长出花来。妈妈说他认识许多花而且知道它们的名字。”“球根能活很长时间吗？如果没有人管它的话，它们能活许多许多年吗？”玛丽有些着急地问。“它们能自己照顾自己的，”玛莎说，“这就是为什么穷人能买得起它们。如果你不打扰它们，它们大多数会一直在地底下生长着，播种新的秧苗。在公共林区有个地方，雪花莲成片生长着。那是约克郡春天最美丽的一景。没有人知道那是在什么时候种下的。”“我真希望现在就是春天，”玛丽说，“我想看一切在英国生长的东西。”

她吃完饭，到她最喜欢的座位——欧石楠地毯上坐下来。“我希望我能有一把小铲子，”她说。“你要铲子干什么？”玛莎大笑道，“你想挖地啊？我要把这个也对妈妈说。”

玛丽盯着火，思考着。如果她打算保留她的秘密王国的话，她一定得小心点儿。她没在那里搞破坏，但如果让克兰文先生知道门打开了，他可能会勃然大怒，换把新钥匙，把花园一直锁起来。她真的受不了那样。“这个地方又大又冷清，”她慢慢地说，像已经想了很久的样子，“屋子、院子、花园都那么冷清。很多地方好像都锁了起来。我在印度从没干过什么事，但那里可以看到的人比这里会多一些，有时是土著士兵在行军，有时候是乐队演奏，我的奶妈讲故事给我听。可在这里除了你和威斯达夫，我找不到人说话。但你要工作，威斯达夫不经常和我说话。我想如果我有一把小铲子，我可以像他那样找个地方挖挖土，如果他肯给我一些种子，或许我能建成一个小花园呢。”

玛莎的表情兴奋起来。“对！”她大叫，“妈妈也这么说过，她问，‘那个地方有那么多空地，他们怎么不给她一点儿地，即使她不种花、草，就种点儿芹菜和小胡萝卜呢！她也会一直挖个不停，她会很开心的。’这是她的原话。”“是吗？”玛丽说，“她知道那么多事情，不是吗？”“哦！”玛莎说，“正像她自己说的：‘一个带大12个小孩的女人除了知道ABC，还能知道点儿别的。让小孩子明白事理，就像数学题一样。’”“一把铲子要多少钱——一把小的？”玛丽问。“嗯，”玛莎沉吟了一会儿，“在斯威特村有个商店，我见到过一套小园艺工具，有铲子、耙子、叉子，加一起是2先令。它们都够结实耐用的。”“我的包里有2先令多一点儿，”玛丽说，“莫瑞森太太给了我5先令，莫德劳克太太给了我一点儿钱，是克兰文先生的。”“他还记得你？”玛莎惊叫道。“莫德劳克太太说我每周有一先令的零花钱。她每周六都给我。但我不知道用它来做什么。”“我的天！那是一笔财富，”玛莎说，“你可以买世界上任何你想要的东西。我们家的租金只有一又三分之一便士，那是我们拼命干活才能赚够。我刚刚想起来，”她双手叉腰。“怎么了？”玛丽急切地问。“在斯威特村的店里有包好的花籽，一便士一包，我们家迪肯知道哪种是最好看的，怎么种。他走路去过斯威特村好多次，就是为了好玩。你知道怎么一笔一笔写印刷体的字母吗？”她问得突然。“我会写手写体。”玛丽回答。

玛莎摇了摇头。“我们家迪肯只认得印刷体。如果你能写印刷体，我们可以给他写封信，让他去把园艺工具和种子一起买来。”“哦！你真是个好心的人！”玛丽喊，“你是，你真是！我以前不知道你是这么好心的人。我知道，我可以试着描印刷体。我们这就向莫德劳克太太要一支笔、墨水和一些纸来。”“我有一些，”玛莎说，“是我买的，星期天用来给妈妈写一点儿信的。我这就去拿给你。”她跑出房间，玛丽站在炉火边，绞着她瘦小的双手，高兴坏了。“如果我有一把铲子，”她低声说，“我可以把泥土弄得软一点儿，挖出杂草。如果我有种子，就能让花长出来，花园就不完全是死的了——它会活过来。”

她那天下午没有出去，因为玛莎拿回纸、笔和墨水后，又把饭桌清理了，她把碗碟拿到楼下去，进了厨房，莫德劳克太太在那里，告诉她做什么事，所以玛丽等了很长时间她才回来。接下来，给迪肯的信是一件不太容易的事。玛丽学的东西不算多，因为她的家庭教师对她太反感了，不愿意留下来教她。她拼写也不是很好，不过她发现自己努力的话居然能描字母。这封信是玛莎口述的她来写的：我亲爱的迪肯：我希望你读信时一切安好。玛丽小姐有不少钱，你能不能去斯威特村给她买些花籽和一套园艺工具。要挑那些最漂亮的，最好用的，因为她以前从没做过。她以前在印度，那边和这边不一样。请把我的爱转达给妈妈和你们其他人。玛丽小姐会告诉我更多，这样我下次休息时，就可以给你们讲大象、骆驼和绅士们出去猎捕狮子和老虎的故事了。爱你的姐姐玛莎·菲比·索尔比。“我们把钱装在信封里，我会让肉店伙计用马车带过去。他是迪肯的好朋友。”玛莎说。“迪肯买到东西之后我们怎么去拿呢？”“他会亲自送过来的。他会愿意来这儿的。”“哦！”玛丽惊叫道，“那我就能见到他了！我从来没想过我有一天能见到迪肯。”“你很想见他吗？”玛莎突然问，因为玛丽看上去是那么兴奋。“嗯，我想。我从来没见到过一个连狐狸和乌鸦都喜欢的男孩。我很想见他。”

玛莎小小地吃了一惊，好像她刚想起什么来。“想想看，”她叫起来，“想想我居然忘了，我本来说今天早上要告诉你第一件事呢。我问过妈妈，她说她自己要去问莫德劳克太太。”“你指的是什么？”玛丽问道。“我这个星期二问她能不能哪天把你带到我家去，吃一下我妈妈做的热腾腾的燕麦蛋糕加黄油，再喝杯牛奶。”

似乎所有有趣的事都在一天之中发生了。想想看，在白天晴朗的蓝天下穿过沼泽地，到一个住着12个孩子的农舍里去！“她觉得莫德劳克太太会让我去吗？”她非常紧张地问。“当然，她觉得她会那么做。她知道妈妈是多么整洁的一个人，她总把我们家收拾得那么干净。”“如果我去了，我就可以见到你妈妈和迪肯了，”玛丽说，她反复想这事，很喜欢这个点子。“她好像和印度的妈妈不一样。”

花园里的劳作和下午的兴奋过后，她终于安静下来，但脑海里仍然浮想联翩。玛莎一直跟她待到下午茶时间，她们舒服地静坐着，很少说话。可就在玛莎要下楼去端茶盘之前，玛丽问了一个问题。“玛莎，”她问，“那个洗碗仆人今天牙又疼吗？”

玛莎因此微微吃了一惊。“你怎么问这个？”她问。“因为我等你等了很长时间你都没来，就打开门到走廊那头看你来没有。我又听到远远的哭声，就像我们在那个晚上听到的。今天没有风，所以你看，那不会是风声。”“哦！”玛莎不安地答道，“你一定不要在走廊里到处走，到处偷听。克兰文先生大发脾气时，不知道他会做出什么事情来。”“我没偷听，”玛丽答道，“我只不过是在等你，然后就听到了。我已经听到3次了。”“我的老天！那是莫德劳克太太在拉铃了，”玛莎说，她赶紧跑出房间去了。“这真是世界上最古怪的房子，”玛丽昏昏欲睡地想，她的头垂到旁边扶手椅子的靠枕上。新鲜的空气和跳绳让她既舒服又疲倦，没一会儿她就睡着了。

Chapter 10　Dickon

The sun shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden.The Secret Garden was what Mary called it when she was thinking of it.She liked the name，and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shut her in no one knew where she was.It seemed almost like being shut out of the world in some fairy place.The few books she had read and liked had been fairy—story books，and she had read of secret gardens in some of the stories.Sometimes people went to sleep in them for a hundred years，which she had thought must be rather stupid.She had no intention of going to sleep，and，in fact，she was becoming wider awake every day which passed at Misselthwaite.She was beginning to like to be out of doors；she no longer hated the wind，but enjoyed it.She could runfaster，and longer，and she could skip up to a hundred.The bulbs in the secret gar-den must have been much astonished.Such nice clear places were made round them that they had all the breathing space they wanted，and really，if Mistress Mary had known it，they began to cheer up under the dark earth and work tremen-dously.The sun could get at them and warm them，and when the rain came down it could reach them at once，so they began to feel very much alive.

Mary was an odd，determined little person，and now she had something in-teresting to be determined about，she was very much absorbed，indeed.She worked and dug and pulled up weeds steadily，only becoming more pleased with her work every hour instead of tiring of it.It seemed to her like a fascinating sort of play.She found many more of the sprouting pale green points than he had ever hoped to find.They seemed to be starting up everywhere and each day she was sure she found tiny new ones，some so tiny that they barely peeped above the earth.There were so many that she remembered what Martha had said about the“snowdrops by the thousands，”and about bulbs spreading and making new ones.These had been left to themselves for ten years and perhaps they had spread，like the snowdrops，into thousands.She wondered how long it would be before they showed that they were flowers.Sometimes she stopped digging to look at the gar-den and try to imagine what it would be like when it was covered with thousands of lovely things in bloom.

During that week of sunshine，she became more intimate with Ben Weath-erstaff.She surprised him several times by seeming to start up beside him as if she sprang out of the earth.The truth was that she was afraid that he would pick up his tools and go away if he saw her coming，so she always walked toward him as silently as possible.But，in fact，he did not object to her as strongly as he had at first.Perhaps he was secretly rather flattered by her evident desire for his elderly company.Then，also，she was more civil than she had been.He did not know that when she first saw him she spoke to him as she would have spoken to a native，and had not known that a cross，sturdy old Yorkshire man was not accustomed to salaam to his masters，and be merely commanded by them to do things.

“You're like the robin，”he said to her one morning when he lifted his head and saw her standing by him.“I never knows when I shall see thee or which side tha'll come from.”

“He's friends with me now，”said Mary.

“That's like him，”snapped Ben Weatherstaff.“Makin'up to the women folk just for vanity and flightiness.There's nothing he wouldn't do for the sake of showin'off and flirtin’his tail—feathers.He’s as full of pride as an egg’s full of meat.”

He very seldom talked much and sometimes did not even answer Mary's questions except by a grunt，but this morning he said more than usual.He stood up and rested one hobnailed boot on the top of his spade while he looked herover.

“How long has you been here？”he jerked out.

“I think it's about a month，”she answered.

“You have beginning to do Misselthwaite credit，”he said.“You have a bit fatter than you was and you have not quite so yeller.You looked like a young plucked crow when you first came into this garden.

Thinks I to myself I never set eyes on an uglier，sourer faced young'un.”

Mary was not vain and as she had never thought much of her looks she was not greatly disturbed.“I know I'm fatter，”she said.“My stockings are getting tighter.They used to make wrinkles.There's the robin，Ben Weatherstaff.”

There，indeed，was the robin，and she thought he looked nicer than ever.His red waistcoat was as glossy as satin and he flirted his wings and tail and tilted his head and hopped about with all sorts of lively graces.He seemed determined to make Ben Weatherstaff admire him.But Ben was sarcastic.

“Aye，there you art！”he said.“You can put up with me for a bit sometimes when you have got no one better.You have been reddenin'up thy waistcoat and polishin'thy feathers this two weeks.I know what you have up to.You have courtin'some bold young madam somewhere tellin'thy lies to her about being the finest cock robin on Missel Moor and ready to fight all the rest of them.”

“Oh！look at him！”exclaimed Mary.

The robin was evidently in a fascinating，bold mood.He hopped closer and closer and looked at Ben Weatherstaff more and more engagingly.He flew on to the nearest currant bush and tilted his head and sang a little song right at him.

“You thinks tha'll get over me by doin'that，”said Ben，wrinkling his face up in such a way that Mary felt sure he was trying not to look pleased.“You thinks no one can stand out against thee—that's what you thinks.”

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