Таинственный сад / The secret garden. Фрэнсис-Элиза Ходжсон Бёрнетт

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      “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]” 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:

      “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.

      Chapter X

      Dickon

      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]. 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 СКАЧАТЬ