It was done quickly enough indeed.Ben Weatherstaff went his way forgetting rheumatics.Dickon took his spade and dug the hole deeper and wider than a new digger with thin white hands could make it. Mary slipped out to run and bring back a watering-can. When Dickon had deepened the hole Colin went on turning the soft earth over and over. He looked up at the sky, flushed and glowing with the strangely new exercise, slight as it was.
“I want to do it before the sun goes quite—quite down, ” he said.
Mary thought that perhaps the sun held back a few minutes just on purpose.Ben Weatherstaff brought the rose in its pot from the greenhouse.He hobbled over the grass as fast as he could.He had begun to be excited, too.He knelt down by the hole and broke the pot from the mould.
“Here, lad,” he said, handing the plant to Colin.“Set it in the earth thysel’ same as th’ king does when he goes to a new place. ”
The thin white hands shook a little and Colin’s flush grew deeper as he set the rose in the mould and held it while old Ben made firm the earth. It was filled in and pressed down and made steady. Mary was leaning forward on her hands and knees. Soot had flown down and marched forward to see what was being done. Nut and Shell chattered about it from a cherry-tree.
“It’s planted!” said Colin at last.“And the sun is only slipping over the edge.Help me up, Dickon. I want to be standing when it goes.That’s part of the Magic.”
And Dickon helped him,and the Magic—or whatever it was—so gave him strength that when the sun did slip over the edge and end the strange lovely afternoon for them there he actually stood on his two feet—laughing.
CHAPTER XXIII. MAGIC
Dr. Craven had been waiting some time at the house when they returned to it.He had indeed begun to wonder if it might not be wise to send someone out to explore the garden paths. When Colin was brought back to his room the poor man looked him over seriously.
“You should not have stayed so long,” he said.“You must not overexert yourself.”
“I am not tired at all,” said Colin.“It has made me well.Tomorrow I am going out in the morning as well as in the afternoon. ”
“I am not sure that I can allow it,” answered Dr.Craven. “I am afraid it would not be wise.”
“It would not be wise to try to stop me,” said Colin quite seriously. “I am going.”
Even Mary had found out that one of Colin’s chief peculiarities was that he did not know in the least what a rude little brute he was with his way of ordering people about. He had lived on a sort of desert island all his life and as he had been the king of it he had made his own manners and had had no one to compare himself with. Mary had indeed been rather like him herself and since she had been at Misselthwaite had gradually discovered that her own manners had not been of the kind which is usual or popular. Having made this discovery she naturally thought it of enough interest to communicate to Colin. So she sat and looked at him curiously for a few minutes after Dr. Craven had gone. She wanted to make him ask her why she was doing it and of course she did.
“What are you looking at me for?” he said.
“I’m thinking that I am rather sorry for Dr. Craven.”
“So am I,” said Colin calmly,but not without an air of some satisfaction.“He won’t get Misselthwaite at all now I’m not going to die. ”
“I’m sorry for him because of that, of course,” said Mary, “but I was thinking just then that it must have been very horrid to have had to be polite for ten years to a boy who was always rude. I would never have done it.”
“Am I rude?” Colin inquired undisturbedly.
“If you had been his own boy and he had been a slapping sort of man,” said Mary, “he would have slapped you.”
“But he daren’t,” said Colin.
“No, he daren’t,” answered Mistress Mary,thinking the thing out quite without prejudice.“Nobody ever dared to do anything you didn’t like—because you were going to die and things like that. You were such a poor thing.”
“But,” announced Colin stubbornly,“I am not going to be a poor thing.I won’t let people think I’m one.I stood on my feet this afternoon.”
“It is always having your own way that has made you so queer,” Mary went on, thinking aloud.
Colin turned his head, frowning.
“Am I queer?” he demanded.
“Yes,” answered Mary, “very. But you needn’t be cross,” she added impartially,“because so am I queer—and so is Ben Weatherstaff.But I am not as queer as I was before I began to like people and before I found the garden.”
“I don’t want to be queer,” said Colin.“I am not going to be,” and he frowned again with determination.
He was a very proud boy.He lay thinking for a while and then Mary saw his beautiful smile begin and gradually change his whole face.
“I shall stop being queer,” he said,“if I go every day to the garden.There is Magic in there—good Magic, you know, Mary.I am sure there is.”
“So am I,” said Mary.
“Even if it isn’t real Magic,” Colin said,“we can pretend it is. _Something_ is there—_something!_”
“It’s Magic,” said Mary, “but not black.It’s as white as snow.”
They always called it Magic and indeed it seemed like it in the months that followed—the wonderful months—the radiant months—the amazing ones. Oh!the things which happened in that garden!If you have never had a garden you cannot understand,and if you have had a garden you will know that it would take a whole book to describe all that came to pass there. At first it seemed that green things would never cease pushing their way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds, even in the crevices of the walls. Then the green things began to show buds and the buds began to unfurl and show color, every shade of blue, every shade of purple, every tint and hue of crimson. In its happy days flowers had been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner. Ben Weatherstaff had seen it done and had himself scraped out mortar from between the bricks of the wall and made pockets of earth for lovely clinging things to grow on. Iris and white lilies rose out of the grass in sheaves, and the green alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and white flower lances of tall delphiniums or columbines or campanulas.
“She was main fond o’ them—she was,” Ben Weatherstaff said.“She liked them things as was allus pointin’ up to th’ blue sky,she used to tell. Not as she was one o’ them as looked down on th’ earth—not her. She just loved it but she said as th’ blue sky allus looked so joyful.”
The seeds Dickon and Mary had planted grew as if fairies had tended them.Satiny poppies of all tints danced in the breeze by the score,gaily defying flowers which had lived in the garden for years and which it might be confessed seemed rather to wonder how such new people had got there. And the roses—the roses!Rising out of the grass, tangled round the sun-dial,wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches,climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades—they came alive day by day, hour by hour. Fair fresh leaves, and buds—and buds—tiny at first but swelling and working Magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air.