Mary had not had time to pay much attention to her changing face.She had only known that she looked “different” and seemed to have a great deal more hair and that it was growing very fast. But remembering her pleasure in looking at the Mem Sahib in the past she was glad to hear that she might some day look like her.
Susan Sowerby went round their garden with them and was told the whole story of it and shown every bush and tree which had come alive. Colin walked on one side of her and Mary on the other. Each of them kept looking up at her comfortable rosy face, secretly curious about the delightful feeling she gave them—a sort of warm, supported feeling. It seemed as if she understood them as Dickon understood his “creatures.” She stooped over the flowers and talked about them as if they were children. Soot followed her and once or twice cawed at her and flew upon her shoulder as if it were Dickon’s. When they told her about the robin and the first flight of the young ones she laughed a motherly little mellow laugh in her throat.
“I suppose learnin’ ’em to fly is like learnin’ children to walk,but I’m feared I should be all in a worrit if mine had wings instead o’ legs, ” she said.
It was because she seemed such a wonderful woman in her nice moorland cottage way that at last she was told about the Magic.
“Do you believe in Magic?” asked Colin after he had explained about Indian fakirs. “I do hope you do.”
“That I do, lad,” she answered.“I never knowed it by that name but what does th’ name matter?I warrant they call it a different name i’ France an’ a different one i’ Germany. Th’ same thing as set th’ seeds swellin’ an’ th’ sun shinin’ made thee a well lad an’ it’s th’ Good Thing. It isn’t like us poor fools as think it matters if us is called out of our names. Th’ Big Good Thing doesn’t stop to worrit, bless thee. It goes on makin’ worlds by th’ million—worlds like us. Never thee stop believin’ in th’ Big Good Thing an’ knowin’ th’ world’s full of it—an’ call it what tha’ likes. Tha’ wert singin’ to it when I come into th’ garden.”
“I felt so joyful,” said Colin,opening his beautiful strange eyes at her.“Suddenly I felt how different I was—how strong my arms and legs were,you know—and how I could dig and stand—and I jumped up and wanted to shout out something to anything that would listen.”
“Th’ Magic listened when tha’ sung th’ Doxology.It would ha’ listened to anything tha’d sung.It was th’ joy that mattered. Eh!lad, lad—what’s names to th’ Joy Maker,” and she gave his shoulders a quick soft pat again.
She had packed a basket which held a regular feast this morning,and when the hungry hour came and Dickon brought it out from its hiding place,she sat down with them under their tree and watched them devour their food,laughing and quite gloating over their appetites.She was full of fun and made them laugh at all sorts of odd things.She told them stories in broad Yorkshire and taught them new words.She laughed as if she could not help it when they told her of the increasing difficulty there was in pretending that Colin was still a fretful invalid.
“You see we can’t help laughing nearly all the time when we are together,” explained Colin. “And it doesn’t sound ill at all.We try to choke it back but it will burst out and that sounds worse than ever. ”
“There’s one thing that comes into my mind so often,” said Mary, “and I can scarcely ever hold in when I think of it suddenly.I keep thinking suppose Colin’s face should get to look like a full moon.It isn’t like one yet but he gets a tiny bit fatter every day—and suppose some morning it should look like one—what should we do!”
“Bless us all, I can see tha’ has a good bit o’ play actin’ to do,” said Susan Sowerby.“But tha’ won’t have to keep it up much longer.Mester Craven’ll come home.”
“Do you think he will?” asked Colin. “Why?”
Susan Sowerby chuckled softly.
“I suppose it ’ud nigh break thy heart if he found out before tha’ told him in tha’ own way,” she said. “Tha’s laid awake nights plannin’ it.”
“I couldn’t bear anyone else to tell him,” said Colin.“I think about different ways every day,I think now I just want to run into his room.”
“That’d be a fine start for him,” said Susan Sowerby.“I’d like to see his face, lad. I would that!He mun come back—that he mun.”
One of the things they talked of was the visit they were to make to her cottage.They planned it all.They were to drive over the moor and lunch out of doors among the heather.They would see all the twelve children and Dickon’s garden and would not come back until they were tired.
Susan Sowerby got up at last to return to the house and Mrs.Medlock. It was time for Colin to be wheeled back also.But before he got into his chair he stood quite close to Susan and fixed his eyes on her with a kind of bewildered adoration and he suddenly caught hold of the fold of her blue cloak and held it fast.
“You are just what I—what I wanted,” he said.“I wish you were my mother—as well as Dickon’s!”
All at once Susan Sowerby bent down and drew him with her warm arms close against the bosom under the blue cloak—as if he had been Dickon’s brother. The quick mist swept over her eyes.
“Eh!dear lad!” she said. “Thy own mother’s in this ’ere very garden,I do believe. She couldna’ keep out of it.Thy father mun come back to thee—he mun!”
CHAPTER XXVII. IN THE GARDEN
In each century since the beginning of the world wonderful things have been discovered. In the last century more amazing things were found out than in any century before. In this new century hundreds of things still more astounding will be brought to light. At first people refuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be done—then it is done and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago. One of the new things people began to find out in the last century was that thoughts—just mere thoughts—are as powerful as electric batteries—as good for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. To let a sad thought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get into your body. If you let it stay there after it has got in you may never get over it as long as you live.
So long as Mistress Mary’s mind was full of disagreeable thoughts about her dislikes and sour opinions of people and her determination not to be pleased by or interested in anything, she was a yellow-faced, sickly, bored and wretched child. Circumstances, however, were very kind to her, though she was not at all aware of it. They began to push her about for her own good. When her mind gradually filled itself with robins, and moorland cottages crowded with children, with queer crabbed old gardeners and common little Yorkshire housemaids, with springtime and with secret gardens coming alive day by day, and also with a moor boy and his “creatures,” there was no room left for the disagreeable thoughts which affected her liver and her digestion and made her yellow and tired.