Frances Eliza Hodgson Burnett - Таинственный сад / The secret garden

She did not want it to be a dead garden. Her skipping-rope hung over her arm. She came near the alcove. There was a flower-bed in it, and she knelt down.

“These 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. I will go all over the garden and look.”

She did not skip, but walked. She went slowly. She looked in the old border beds and among the grass.

“It isn’t a dead garden,” she cried out softly to herself. “Even if the roses are dead, there are other things alive.”

She found a sharp piece of wood and dug and weeded out the weeds and grass until she made nice little clear places around them.

“Now they can breathe,” she said. “I am going to do more. I’ll do all I can see. If I have no time today I can come tomorrow.”

She went from place to place, and dug and weeded, and enjoyed herself immensely. The robin was busy. He was very much pleased to see that.

Mary worked in her garden until it was time to go to her midday dinner. She put on her coat and hat, and picked up her skipping-rope. She was really happy.

“I shall come back this afternoon,” she said, looking all round at her new kingdom, and speaking to the trees and the rose-bushes.

Then she ran lightly across the grass, pushed the old door and slipped through it under the ivy. She had such red cheeks and such bright eyes that Martha was delighted.

“Martha,” she said, “what are those white roots that look like onions?”

“They’re bulbs,” answered Martha. “Dickon has planted a lot of them in our garden.”

“Does Dickon know all about them?” asked Mary.

“Our Dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk.”

Mary finished her dinner and went to her favorite seat on the hearth-rug.

“I want to have a little spade,” she said.

“Are you going to dig?” asked Martha, laughing.

Mary looked at the fire and pondered a little. She must be careful. She wasn’t doing any harm. But if Mr. Craven knows about the open door he will be angry and get a new key.

“This is such a big lonely place,” she said slowly. “The house is lonely, and the park is lonely, and the gardens are lonely. There is no one to talk to here except you and Ben Weatherstaff. But you must work and Ben Weatherstaff doesn’t speak to me often. I will make a little garden if he gives me some seeds.”

“ There now! [19] There now! – Вот как! ” Martha exclaimed. “My mother says, ‘That girl from India can dig and rake and be happy.’”

“Really?” said Mary. “How many things she knows, doesn’t she?”

“Eh!” said Martha. “Of course, she does.’”

“How much does a spade cost-a little one?” Mary asked.

“Well, at Thwaite village there’s a shop. I saw little garden sets with a spade and a rake and a fork for two shillings.”

“I’ve got more in my purse,” said Mary. “Mrs. Morrison gave me five shillings and Mrs. Medlock gave me some money from Mr. Craven. I didn’t know what to buy.”

“Oh, you’re rich,” said Martha. “You can buy anything you want. In the shop at Thwaite they sell packages of flower-seeds for a penny each, and our Dickon knows which are the prettiest ones and how to make them grow. Do you know how to write?”

“Yes,” Mary answered.

“We can write a letter to Dickon and ask him to go and buy the garden tools and the seeds.”

“Oh! you’re a good girl!” Mary cried. “You are, really! I didn’t know you were so nice!”

“I’ll bring a pen and ink and some paper.”

Martha 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.”

When Martha returned with her pen and ink and paper, she dictated a letter to Mary:

“My Dear Dickon:

Miss Mary has plenty of money. Will you go to Thwaite and buy her some flower seeds and a set of garden tools to make a flower-bed? Pick the prettiest ones and easy to grow. Give my love to mother and everyone of you. Miss Mary is going to tell me a lot. So you will hear about elephants and camels and lions and tigers.

Your loving sister,

Martha Phoebe Sowerby.”

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

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

“He’ll bring them to you himself.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mary, “then I shall see him!”

“Do you want to see him?” asked Martha suddenly.

“Yes, I do. I never saw a boy foxes and crows loved. I want to see him very much.”

Martha stayed with her until tea-time, but they talked very little. 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.

“Why do you ask?” she said.

“I opened the door and walked down the corridor. And I heard that crying again, just as we heard it the other night. There isn’t a wind today.”

“Eh!” said Martha restlessly. “There’s Mrs. Medlock’s bell.”

And Martha almost ran out of the room.

“It’s a very strange house,” said Mary drowsily and she fell asleep.

Mary was beginning to like to be out of doors; she no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed it. She could run faster, and longer, and she could skip very well.

Mary was an odd, determined little person, and now she had something interesting. She was very much absorbed, indeed. She worked and dug and pulled up weeds steadily. It seemed to her like a game. Sometimes she stopped digging to look at the garden and try to imagine it with thousands of flowers.

“How long have you been here?” Ben Weatherstaff asked her one day.

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

“That’s just the beginning,” he said.

“Have you a garden of your own?” she asked.

“No. I’m a bachelor and lodge with Martin.”

“If you have one,” said Mary, “what will you plant?”

“Cabbages and potatoes an onions.”

“But what about a flower garden?” persisted Mary.

“Mostly roses.”

“Do you like roses?” she said.

“Well, yes, I do. The young lady was fond of them. She loved them like they were children-or robins. She kissed them. Ten years ago.”

“Where is she now?” asked Mary.

“Heaven,” he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil.

“What happened to the roses?” Mary asked again.

“ They were left to themselves [20] They were left to themselves. – Их забросили. . Why do you care so much about roses?”

Mary was almost afraid to answer.

“I–I want to play that-that I have a garden of my own,” she stammered. “I-there is nothing for me to do. I have nothing-and no one.”

“Well,” said Ben Weatherstaff slowly, as he watched her, “that’s true.”

Mary went skipping slowly down the outside walk. The walk curved round the secret garden and ended at a gate which opened into a wood, in the park. Suddenly she heard a low, peculiar whistling sound.

It was a very strange thing indeed. A boy was sitting under a tree, playing on a rough wooden pipe. He was about twelve. He looked very clean and his nose turned up and his cheeks were as red as poppies. And on the trunk of the tree, a brown squirrel was clinging and watching him, and from behind a bush nearby a cock pheasant was delicately stretching his neck to peep out, and quite near him were two rabbits sitting up and sniffing with tremulous noses.