English
InafewdayshewasinYorkshireagain,andonhislongrailroadjourneyhefoundhimselfthinkingofhisboyashehadneverthoughtinallthetenyearspast.
Duringthoseyearshehadonlywishedtoforgethim.
Now,thoughhedidnotintendtothinkabouthim,memoriesofhimconstantlydriftedintohismind.
Herememberedtheblackdayswhenhehadravedlikeamadmanbecausethechildwasaliveandthemotherwasdead.
Hehadrefusedtoseeit,andwhenhehadgonetolookatitatlastithadbeen,suchaweakwretchedthingthateveryonehadbeensureitwoulddieinafewdays.
Buttothesurpriseofthosewhotookcareofitthedayspassedanditlivedandtheneveryonebelieveditwouldbeadeformedandcrippledcreature.
Hehadnotmeanttobeabadfather,buthehadnotfeltlikeafatheratall.
Hehadsupplieddoctorsandnursesandluxuries,buthehadshrunkfromthemerethoughtoftheboyandhadburiedhimselfinhisownmisery.
Thefirsttimeafterayear’sabsencehereturnedtoMisselthwaiteandthesmallmiserablelookingthinglanguidlyandindifferentlyliftedtohisfacethegreatgrayeyeswithblacklashesroundthem,solikeandyetsohorriblyunlikethehappyeyeshehadadored,hecouldnotbearthesightofthemandturnedawaypaleasdeath.
Afterthathescarcelyeversawhimexceptwhenhewasasleep,andallheknewofhimwasthathewasaconfirmedinvalid,withavicious,hysterical,half-insanetemper.
Hecouldonlybekeptfromfuriesdangeroustohimselfbybeinggivenhisownwayineverydetail.
Allthiswasnotanupliftingthingtorecall,butasthetrainwhirledhimthroughmountainpassesandgoldenplainsthemanwhowas“comingalive”begantothinkinanewwayandhethoughtlongandsteadilyanddeeply.
“PerhapsIhavebeenallwrongfortenyears,”hesaidtohimself.“Tenyearsisalongtime.Itmaybetoolatetodoanything—quitetoolate.WhathaveIbeenthinkingof!”
OfcoursethiswasthewrongMagic—tobeginbysaying“toolate.”EvenColincouldhavetoldhimthat.
ButheknewnothingofMagic—eitherblackorwhite.Thishehadyettolearn.
HewonderedifSusanSowerbyhadtakencourageandwrittentohimonlybecausethemotherlycreaturehadrealizedthattheboywasmuchworse—wasfatallyill.
Ifhehadnotbeenunderthespellofthecuriouscalmnesswhichhadtakenpossessionofhimhewouldhavebeenmorewretchedthanever.
Butthecalmhadbroughtasortofcourageandhopewithit.
Insteadofgivingwaytothoughtsoftheworstheactuallyfoundhewastryingtobelieveinbetterthings.
“CoulditbepossiblethatsheseesthatImaybeabletodohimgoodandcontrolhim?”hethought.“IwillgoandseeheronmywaytoMisselthwaite.”
Butwhenonhiswayacrossthemoorhestoppedthecarriageatthecottage,sevenoreightchildrenwhowereplayingaboutgatheredinagroupandbobbingsevenoreightfriendlyandpolitecurtsiestoldhimthattheirmotherhadgonetotheothersideofthemoorearlyinthemorningtohelpawomanwhohadanewbaby.
“OurDickon,”theyvolunteered,wasoverattheManorworkinginoneofthegardenswherehewentseveraldayseachweek.
Mr.Cravenlookedoverthecollectionofsturdylittlebodiesandroundred-cheekedfaces,eachonegrinninginitsownparticularway,andheawoketothefactthattheywereahealthylikablelot.
Hesmiledattheirfriendlygrinsandtookagoldensovereignfromhispocketandgaveitto“our‘LizabethEllen”whowastheoldest.
“Ifyoudividethatintoeightpartstherewillbehalfacrownforeachof,you,”hesaid.
Thenamidgrinsandchucklesandbobbingofcurtsieshedroveaway,leavingecstasyandnudgingelbowsandlittlejumpsofjoybehind.
Thedriveacrossthewonderfulnessofthemoorwasasoothingthing.
Whydiditseemtogivehimasenseofhomecomingwhichhehadbeensurehecouldneverfeelagain—thatsenseofthebeautyoflandandskyandpurplebloomofdistanceandawarmingoftheheartatdrawing,nearertothegreatoldhousewhichhadheldthoseofhisbloodforsixhundredyears?
Howhehaddrivenawayfromitthelasttime,shudderingtothinkofitsclosedroomsandtheboylyinginthefour-postedbedwiththebrocadedhangings.
Wasitpossiblethatperhapshemightfindhimchangedalittleforthebetterandthathemightovercomehisshrinkingfromhim?
Howrealthatdreamhadbeen—howwonderfulandclearthevoicewhichcalledbacktohim,“Inthegarden—Inthegarden!”
“Iwilltrytofindthekey,”hesaid.“Iwilltrytoopenthedoor.Imust—thoughIdon’tknowwhy.”
WhenhearrivedattheManortheservantswhoreceivedhimwiththeusualceremonynoticedthathelookedbetterandthathedidnotgototheremoteroomswhereheusuallylivedattendedbyPitcher.
HewentintothelibraryandsentforMrs.Medlock.
Shecametohimsomewhatexcitedandcuriousandflustered.
“HowisMasterColin,Medlock?”heinquired.
“Well,sir,”Mrs.Medlockanswered,“he’s—he’sdifferent,inamannerofspeaking.”
“Worse?”hesuggested.
Mrs.Medlockreallywasflushed.
“Well,yousee,sir,”shetriedtoexplain,“neitherDr.Craven,northenurse,normecanexactlymakehimout.”
“Whyisthat?”
“Totellthetruth,sir,MasterColinmightbebetterandhemightbechangingfortheworse.Hisappetite,sir,ispastunderstanding—andhisways—”
“Hashebecomemore—morepeculiar?”hermaster,asked,knittinghisbrowsanxiously.
“That’sit,sir.He’sgrowingverypeculiar—whenyoucomparehimwithwhatheusedtobe.
Heusedtoeatnothingandthensuddenlyhebegantoeatsomethingenormous—andthenhestoppedagainallatonceandthemealsweresentbackjustastheyusedtobe.
Youneverknew,sir,perhaps,thatoutofdoorsheneverwouldlethimselfbetaken.
Thethingswe’vegonethroughtogethimtogooutinhischairwouldleaveabodytremblinglikealeaf.
He’dthrowhimselfintosuchastatethatDr.Cravensaidhecouldn’tberesponsibleforforcinghim.
Well,sir,justwithoutwarning—notlongafteroneofhisworsttantrumshesuddenlyinsistedonbeingtakenouteverydaybyMissMaryandSusanSowerby’sboyDickonthatcouldpushhischair.
HetookafancytobothMissMaryandDickon,andDickonbroughthistameanimals,and,ifyou’llcreditit,sir,outofdoorshewillstayfrommorninguntilnight.”
“Howdoeshelook?”wasthenextquestion.
“Ifhetookhisfoodnatural,sir,you’dthinkhewasputtingonflesh—butwe’reafraiditmaybeasortofbloat.
Helaughssometimesinaqueerwaywhenhe’salonewithMissMary.Heneverusedtolaughatall.
Dr.Craveniscomingtoseeyouatonce,ifyou’llallowhim.Heneverwasaspuzzledinhislife.”
“WhereisMasterColinnow?”Mr.Cravenasked.
“Inthegarden,sir.He’salwaysinthegarden—thoughnotahumancreatureisallowedtogonearforfearthey’lllookathim.”
Mr.Cravenscarcelyheardherlastwords.
“Inthegarden,”hesaid,andafterhehadsentMrs.Medlockawayhestoodandrepeateditagainandagain.“Inthegarden!”
Hehadtomakeanefforttobringhimselfbacktotheplacehewasstandinginandwhenhefelthewasonearthagainheturnedandwentoutoftheroom.
Hetookhisway,asMaryhaddone,throughthedoorintheshrubberyandamongthelaurelsandthefountainbeds.
Thefountainwasplayingnowandwasencircledbybedsofbrilliantautumnflowers.
HecrossedthelawnandturnedintotheLongWalkbytheiviedwalls.
Hedidnotwalkquickly,butslowly,andhiseyeswereonthepath.
Hefeltasifhewerebeingdrawnbacktotheplacehehadsolongforsaken,andhedidnotknowwhy.
Ashedrewneartoithisstepbecamestillmoreslow.
Heknewwherethedoorwaseventhoughtheivyhungthickoverit—buthedidnotknowexactlywhereitlay—thatburiedkey.
Sohestoppedandstoodstill,lookingabouthim,andalmostthemomentafterhehadpausedhestartedandlistened—askinghimselfifhewerewalkinginadream.
Theivyhungthickoverthedoor,thekeywasburiedundertheshrubs,nohumanbeinghadpassedthatportalfortenlonelyyears—andyetinsidethegardenthereweresounds.
Theywerethesoundsofrunningscufflingfeetseemingtochaseroundandroundunderthetrees,theywerestrangesoundsofloweredsuppressedvoices—exclamationsandsmotheredjoyouscries.
Itseemedactuallylikethelaughterofyoungthings,theuncontrollablelaughterofchildrenwhoweretryingnottobeheardbutwhoinamomentorso—astheirexcitementmounted—wouldburstforth.
Whatinheaven’snamewashedreamingof—whatinheaven’snamedidhehear?
Washelosinghisreasonandthinkingheheardthingswhichwerenotforhumanears?
Wasitthatthefarclearvoicehadmeant?
Andthenthemomentcame,theuncontrollablemomentwhenthesoundsforgottohushthemselves.
Thefeetranfasterandfaster—theywerenearingthegardendoor—therewasquickstrongyoungbreathingandawildoutbreakoflaughingshowswhichcouldnotbecontained—andthedoorinthewallwasflungwideopen,thesheetofivyswingingback,andaboyburstthroughitatfullspeedand,withoutseeingtheoutsider,dashedalmostintohisarms.
Mr.Cravenhadextendedthemjustintimetosavehimfromfallingasaresultofhisunseeingdashagainsthim,andwhenheheldhimawaytolookathiminamazementathisbeingtherehetrulygaspedforbreath.
Hewasatallboyandahandsomeone.Hewasglowingwithlifeandhisrunninghadsentsplendidcolorleapingtohisface.
Hethrewthethickhairbackfromhisforeheadandliftedapairofstrangegrayeyes—eyesfullofboyishlaughterandrimmedwithblacklasheslikeafringe.
ItwastheeyeswhichmadeMr.Cravengaspforbreath.“Who—What?Who!”hestammered.
ThiswasnotwhatColinhadexpected—thiswasnotwhathehadplanned.Hehadneverthoughtofsuchameeting.
Andyettocomedashingout—winningarace—perhapsitwasevenbetter.Hedrewhimselfuptohisverytallest.
Mary,whohadbeenrunningwithhimandhaddashedthroughthedoortoo,believedthathemanagedtomakehimselflooktallerthanhehadeverlookedbefore—inchestaller.
“Father,”hesaid,“I’mColin.Youcan’tbelieveit.Iscarcelycanmyself.I’mColin.”
LikeMrs.Medlock,hedidnotunderstandwhathisfathermeantwhenhesaidhurriedly:
“Inthegarden!Inthegarden!”
“Yes,”hurriedonColin.“Itwasthegardenthatdidit—andMaryandDickonandthecreatures—andtheMagic.Nooneknows.Wekeptittotellyouwhenyoucame.I’mwell,IcanbeatMaryinarace.I’mgoingtobeanathlete.”
Hesaiditallsolikeahealthyboy—hisfaceflushed,hiswordstumblingovereachotherinhiseagerness—thatMr.Craven’ssoulshookwithunbelievingjoy.
Colinputouthishandandlaiditonhisfather’sarm.
“Aren’tyouglad,Father?”heended.“Aren’tyouglad?I’mgoingtoliveforeverandeverandever!”
Mr.Cravenputhishandsonboththeboy’sshouldersandheldhimstill.Heknewhedarednoteventrytospeakforamoment.
“Takemeintothegarden,myboy,”hesaidatlast.“Andtellmeallaboutit.”
Andsotheyledhimin.
Theplacewasawildernessofautumngoldandpurpleandvioletblueandflamingscarletandoneverysideweresheavesoflateliliesstandingtogether—lilieswhichwerewhiteorwhiteandruby.
Herememberedwellwhenthefirstofthemhadbeenplantedthatjustatthisseasonoftheyeartheirlategloriesshouldrevealthemselves.
Laterosesclimbedandhungandclusteredandthesunshinedeepeningthehueoftheyellowingtreesmadeonefeelthatone,stoodinanemboweredtempleofgold.
Thenewcomerstoodsilentjustasthechildrenhaddonewhentheycameintoitsgrayness.Helookedroundandround.
“Ithoughtitwouldbedead,”hesaid.
“Marythoughtsoatfirst,”saidColin.“Butitcamealive.”
Thentheysatdownundertheirtree—allbutColin,whowantedtostandwhilehetoldthestory.
Itwasthestrangestthinghehadeverheard,ArchibaldCraventhought,asitwaspouredforthinheadlongboyfashion.
MysteryandMagicandwildcreatures,theweirdmidnightmeeting—thecomingofthespring—thepassionofinsultedpridewhichhaddraggedtheyoungRajahtohisfeettodefyoldBenWeatherstafftohisface.
Theoddcompanionship,theplayacting,thegreatsecretsocarefullykept.
Thelistenerlaugheduntiltearscameintohiseyesandsometimestearscameintohiseyeswhenhewasnotlaughing.
TheAthlete,theLecturer,theScientificDiscovererwasalaughable,lovable,healthyyounghumanthing.
“Now,”hesaidattheendofthestory,“itneednotbeasecretanymore.
Idaresayitwillfrightenthemnearlyintofitswhentheyseeme—butIamnevergoingtogetintothechairagain.
Ishallwalkbackwithyou,Father—tothehouse.”
BenWeatherstaff’sdutiesrarelytookhimawayfromthegardens,butonthisoccasionhemadeanexcusetocarrysomevegetablestothekitchenandbeinginvitedintotheservants’hallbyMrs.Medlocktodrinkaglassofbeerhewasonthespot—ashehadhopedtobe—whenthemostdramaticeventMisselthwaiteManorhadseenduringthepresentgenerationactuallytookplace.
Oneofthewindowslookinguponthecourtyardgavealsoaglimpseofthelawn.
Mrs.Medlock,knowingBenhadcomefromthegardens,hopedthathemighthavecaughtsightofhismasterandevenbychanceofhismeetingwithMasterColin.
“Didyouseeeitherofthem,Weatherstaff?”sheasked.
Bentookhisbeer-mugfromhismouthandwipedhislipswiththebackofhishand.
“Aye,thatIdid,”heansweredwithashrewdlysignificantair.
“Bothofthem?”suggestedMrs.Medlock.
“Bothof‘em,”returnedBenWeatherstaff.“Thankyekindly,ma’am,Icouldsupupanothermugofit.”
“Together?”saidMrs.Medlock,hastilyoverfillinghisbeer-muginherexcitement.
“Together,ma’am,”andBengulpeddownhalfofhisnewmugatonegulp.
“WherewasMasterColin?Howdidhelook?Whatdidtheysaytoeachother?”
“Ididna’hearthat,”saidBen,“alongo’onlybein’onth’stepladderlookin,overth’wall.ButI’lltelltheethis.
There’sbeenthingsgoin’onoutsideasyouhousepeopleknowsnowtabout.
An’whattha’llfindouttha’llfindoutsoon.”
Anditwasnottwominutesbeforeheswallowedthelastofhisbeerandwavedhismugsolemnlytowardthewindowwhichtookinthroughtheshrubberyapieceofthelawn.
“Lookthere,”hesaid,“iftha’scurious.Lookwhat’scomin’acrossth’grass.”
WhenMrs.Medlocklookedshethrewupherhandsandgavealittleshriekandeverymanandwomanservantwithinhearingboltedacrosstheservants’hallandstoodlookingthroughthewindowwiththeireyesalmoststartingoutoftheirheads.
AcrossthelawncametheMasterofMisselthwaiteandhelookedasmanyofthemhadneverseenhim.
Andbyhisside,withhisheadupintheairandhiseyesfulloflaughter,walkedasstronglyandsteadilyasanyboyinYorkshire—MasterColin.
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