English
AtfirsteachdaywhichpassedbyforMaryLennoxwasexactlyliketheothers.
EverymorningsheawokeinhertapestriedroomandfoundMarthakneelinguponthehearthbuildingherfire;everymorningsheateherbreakfastinthenurserywhichhadnothingamusinginit;andaftereachbreakfastshegazedoutofthewindowacrosstothehugemoorwhichseemedtospreadoutonallsidesandclimbuptothesky,andaftershehadstaredforawhilesherealizedthatifshedidnotgooutshewouldhavetostayinanddonothing—andsoshewentout.
Shedidnotknowthatthiswasthebestthingshecouldhavedone,andshedidnotknowthat,whenshebegantowalkquicklyorevenrunalongthepathsanddowntheavenue,shewasstirringherslowbloodandmakingherselfstrongerbyfightingwiththewindwhichsweptdownfromthemoor.
Sheranonlytomakeherselfwarm,andshehatedthewindwhichrushedatherfaceandroaredandheldherbackasifitweresomegiantshecouldnotsee.
Butthebigbreathsofroughfreshairblownovertheheatherfilledherlungswithsomethingwhichwasgoodforherwholethinbodyandwhippedsomeredcolorintohercheeksandbrightenedherdulleyeswhenshedidnotknowanythingaboutit.
Butafterafewdaysspentalmostentirelyoutofdoorsshewakenedonemorningknowingwhatitwastobehungry,andwhenshesatdowntoherbreakfastshedidnotglancedisdainfullyatherporridgeandpushitaway,buttookupherspoonandbegantoeatitandwentoneatingituntilherbowlwasempty.
“Tha’gotonwellenoughwiththatthismornin’,didn’ttha’?”saidMartha.
“Ittastesnicetoday,”saidMary,feelingalittlesurprisedherself.
“It’sth’airofth’moorthat’sgivin’theestomachfortha’victuals,”answeredMartha.
“It’sluckyfortheethattha’sgotvictualsaswellasappetite.
There’sbeentwelveinourcottageashadth’stomachan’nothin’toputinit.
Yougoonplayin’yououto’doorseverydayan’you’llgetsomefleshonyourbonesan’youwon’tbesoyeller.”
“Idon’tplay,”saidMary.“Ihavenothingtoplaywith.”
“Nothin’toplaywith!”exclaimedMartha.
“Ourchildrenplayswithsticksandstones.
Theyjustrunsaboutan’shoutsan’looksatthings.”
Marydidnotshout,butshelookedatthings.Therewasnothingelsetodo.
Shewalkedroundandroundthegardensandwanderedaboutthepathsinthepark.
SometimesshelookedforBenWeatherstaff,butthoughseveraltimesshesawhimatworkhewastoobusytolookatherorwastoosurly.
Oncewhenshewaswalkingtowardhimhepickeduphisspadeandturnedawayasifhediditonpurpose.
Oneplaceshewenttooftenerthantoanyother.
Itwasthelongwalkoutsidethegardenswiththewallsroundthem.
Therewerebareflower-bedsoneithersideofitandagainstthewallsivygrewthickly.
Therewasonepartofthewallwherethecreepingdarkgreenleavesweremorebushythanelsewhere.
Itseemedasifforalongtimethatparthadbeenneglected.
Therestofithadbeenclippedandmadetolookneat,butatthislowerendofthewalkithadnotbeentrimmedatall.
AfewdaysaftershehadtalkedtoBenWeatherstaff,Marystoppedtonoticethisandwonderedwhyitwasso.
Shehadjustpausedandwaslookingupatalongsprayofivyswinginginthewindwhenshesawagleamofscarletandheardabrilliantchirp,andthere,onthetopofthewall,forwardperchedBenWeatherstaff’srobinredbreast,tiltingforwardtolookatherwithhissmallheadononeside.
“Oh!”shecriedout,“isityou—isityou?”Anditdidnotseematallqueertoherthatshespoketohimasifsheweresurethathewouldunderstandandanswerher.
Hedidanswer.Hetwitteredandchirpedandhoppedalongthewallasifheweretellingherallsortsofthings.
ItseemedtoMistressMaryasifsheunderstoodhim,too,thoughhewasnotspeakinginwords.Itwasasifhesaid:
“Goodmorning!Isn’tthewindnice?Isn’tthesunnice?Isn’teverythingnice?Letusbothchirpandhopandtwitter.Comeon!Comeon!”
Marybegantolaugh,andashehoppedandtooklittleflightsalongthewallsheranafterhim.Poorlittlethin,sallow,uglyMary—sheactuallylookedalmostprettyforamoment.
“Ilikeyou!Ilikeyou!”
shecriedout,patteringdownthewalk;andshechirpedandtriedtowhistle,whichlastshedidnotknowhowtodointheleast.
Buttherobinseemedtobequitesatisfiedandchirpedandwhistledbackather.
Atlasthespreadhiswingsandmadeadartingflighttothetopofatree,whereheperchedandsangloudly.
ThatremindedMaryofthefirsttimeshehadseenhim.
Hehadbeenswingingonatree-topthenandshehadbeenstandingintheorchard.
Nowshewasontheothersideoftheorchardandstandinginthepathoutsideawall—muchlowerdown—andtherewasthesametreeinside.
“It’sinthegardennoonecangointo,”shesaidtoherself.“It’sthegardenwithoutadoor.Helivesinthere.HowIwishIcouldseewhatitislike!”
Sheranupthewalktothegreendoorshehadenteredthefirstmorning.
Thensherandownthepaththroughtheotherdoorandthenintotheorchard,andwhenshestoodandlookeduptherewasthetreeontheothersideofthewall,andtherewastherobinjustfinishinghissongand,beginningtopreenhisfeatherswithhisbeak.
“Itisthegarden,”shesaid.“Iamsureitis.”
Shewalkedroundandlookedcloselyatthatsideoftheorchardwall,butsheonlyfoundwhatshehadfoundbefore—thattherewasnodoorinit.
Thensheranthroughthekitchen-gardensagainandoutintothewalkoutsidethelongivy-coveredwall,andshewalkedtotheendofitandlookedatit,buttherewasnodoor;andthenshewalkedtotheotherend,lookingagain,buttherewasnodoor.
“It’sveryqueer,”shesaid.“BenWeatherstaffsaidtherewasnodoorandthereisnodoor.Buttheremusthavebeenonetenyearsago,becauseMr.Cravenburiedthekey.”
ThisgavehersomuchtothinkofthatshebegantobequiteinterestedandfeelthatshewasnotsorrythatshehadcometoMisselthwaiteManor.
InIndiashehadalwaysfelthotandtoolanguidtocaremuchaboutanything.
Thefactwasthatthefreshwindfromthemoorhadbeguntoblowthecobwebsoutofheryoungbrainandtowakenherupalittle.
Shestayedoutofdoorsnearlyallday,andwhenshesatdowntohersupperatnightshefelthungryanddrowsyandcomfortable.
ShedidnotfeelcrosswhenMarthachatteredaway.
Shefeltasifsheratherlikedtohearher,andatlastshethoughtshewouldaskheraquestion.
Sheaskeditaftershehadfinishedhersupperandhadsatdownonthehearth-rugbeforethefire.
“WhydidMr.Cravenhatethegarden?”shesaid.
ShehadmadeMarthastaywithherandMarthahadnotobjectedatall.
Shewasveryyoung,andusedtoacrowdedcottagefullofbrothersandsisters,andshefounditdullinthegreatservants’halldownstairswherethefootmanandupper-housemaidsmadefunofherYorkshirespeechandlookeduponherasacommonlittlething,andsatandwhisperedamongthemselves.
Marthalikedtotalk,andthestrangechildwhohadlivedinIndia,andbeenwaiteduponby“blacks,”wasnoveltyenoughtoattracther.
Shesatdownonthehearthherselfwithoutwaitingtobeasked.
“Arttha’thinkin’aboutthatgardenyet?”shesaid.“Iknewtha’would.ThatwasjustthewaywithmewhenIfirstheardaboutit.”
“Whydidhehateit?”Marypersisted.
Marthatuckedherfeetunderherandmadeherselfquitecomfortable.
“Listentoth’windwutherin’roundthehouse,”shesaid.“Youcouldbarestanduponthemoorifyouwasoutonittonight.”
Marydidnotknowwhat“wutherin’”meantuntilshelistened,andthensheunderstood.
Itmustmeanthathollowshudderingsortofroarwhichrushedroundandroundthehouseasifthegiantnoonecouldseewerebuffetingitandbeatingatthewallsandwindowstotrytobreakin.
Butoneknewhecouldnotgetin,andsomehowitmadeonefeelverysafeandwarminsidearoomwitharedcoalfire.
“Butwhydidhehateitso?”sheasked,aftershehadlistened.SheintendedtoknowifMarthadid.
ThenMarthagaveupherstoreofknowledge.
“Mind,”shesaid,“Mrs.Medlocksaidit’snottobetalkedabout.
There’slotso’thingsinthisplacethat’snottobetalkedover.That’sMr.Craven’sorders.
Histroublesarenoneservants’business,hesays.
Butforth’gardenhewouldn’tbelikeheis.
ItwasMrs.Craven’sgardenthatshehadmadewhenfirsttheyweremarriedan’shejustlovedit,an’theyusedto‘tendtheflowersthemselves.
An’noneo’th’gardenerswaseverlettogoin.
Himan’herusedtogoinan’shutth’dooran’staytherehoursan’hours,readin’andtalkin’.
An,shewasjustabitofagirlan’therewasanoldtreewithabranchbentlikeaseatonit.
An’shemaderosesgrowoveritan’sheusedtositthere.
Butonedaywhenshewassittin’thereth’branchbrokean’shefellonth’groundan’washurtsobadthatnextdayshedied.
Th’doctorsthoughthe’dgoouto’hismindan’die,too.That’swhyhehatesit.
Noone’snevergoneinsince,an’hewon’tletanyonetalkaboutit.”
Marydidnotaskanymorequestions.Shelookedattheredfireandlistenedtothewind“wutherin’.”
Itseemedtobe“wutherin’”louderthanever.
Atthatmomentaverygoodthingwashappeningtoher.
Fourgoodthingshadhappenedtoher,infact,sinceshecametoMisselthwaiteManor.
Shehadfeltasifshehadunderstoodarobinandthathehadunderstoodher;shehadruninthewinduntilherbloodhadgrownwarm;shehadbeenhealthilyhungryforthefirsttimeinherlife;andshehadfoundoutwhatitwastobesorryforsomeone.
Butasshewaslisteningtothewindshebegantolistentosomethingelse.
Shedidnotknowwhatitwas,becauseatfirstshecouldscarcelydistinguishitfromthewinditself.
Itwasacurioussound—itseemedalmostasifachildwerecryingsomewhere.
Sometimesthewindsoundedratherlikeachildcrying,butpresentlyMistressMaryfeltquitesurethissoundwasinsidethehouse,notoutsideit.Itwasfaraway,butitwasinside.SheturnedroundandlookedatMartha.
“Doyouhearanyonecrying?”shesaid.
Marthasuddenlylookedconfused.
“No,”sheanswered.“It’sth’wind.Sometimesitsoundslikeasifsomeonewaslostonth’mooran’wailin’.It’sgotallsortso’sounds.”
“Butlisten,”saidMary.“It’sinthehouse—downoneofthoselongcorridors.”
Andatthatverymomentadoormusthavebeenopenedsomewheredownstairs;foragreatrushingdraftblewalongthepassageandthedooroftheroomtheysatinwasblownopenwithacrash,andastheybothjumpedtotheirfeetthelightwasblownoutandthecryingsoundwassweptdownthefarcorridorsothatitwastobeheardmoreplainlythanever.
“There!”saidMary.“Itoldyouso!Itissomeonecrying—anditisn’tagrown-upperson.”
Martharanandshutthedoorandturnedthekey,butbeforeshedidittheybothheardthesoundofadoorinsomefarpassageshuttingwithabang,andtheneverythingwasquiet,foreventhewindceased“wutherin’”forafewmoments.
“Itwasth’wind,”saidMarthastubbornly.“An’ifitwasn’t,itwaslittleBettyButterworth,th’scullery-maid.She’shadth’toothacheallday.”
ButsomethingtroubledandawkwardinhermannermadeMistressMarystareveryhardather.Shedidnotbelieveshewasspeakingthetruth.
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