The Paper Menagerie
When she opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young housemaid had come into her room to light the fire and was kneeling on the hearth-rug raking out the cinders noisily. Mary lay and watched her for a few moments and then began to look about the room. She had never seen a room at all like it and thought it curious and gloomy. The walls were covered with tapestry with a forest scene embroidered on it. There were fantastically dressed people under the trees and in the distance there was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle. There were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies. Mary felt as if she were in the forest with them. Out of a deep window she could see a great climbing stretch of land which seemed to have no trees on it, and to look rather like an endless, dull, purplish sea.
"What is that?" she said, pointing out of the window.
Martha, the young housemaid, who had just risen to her feet, looked and pointed also. "That there?" she said.
"Yes."
"That's th' moor," with a good-natured grin. "Does tha' like it?"
"No," answered Mary. "I hate it."
"That's because tha'rt not used to it," Martha said, going back to her hearth. "Tha' thinks it's too big an' bare now. But tha' will like it."
"Do you?" inquired Mary.
"Aye, that I do," answered Martha, cheerfully polishing away at the grate. "I just love it. It's none bare. It's covered wi' growin' things as smells sweet. It's fair lovely in spring an' summer when th' gorse an' broom an' heather's in flower. It smells o' honey an' there's such a lot o' fresh air—an' th' sky looks so high an' th' bees an' skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin' an' singin'. Eh! I wouldn't live away from th' moor for anythin'."
Mary listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression. The native servants she had been used to in India were not in the least like this. They were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to their masters as if they were their equals. They made salaams and called them "protector of the poor" and names of that sort. Indian servants were commanded to do things, not asked. It was not the custom to say "please" and "thank you" and Mary had always slapped her Ayah in the face when she was angry. She wondered a little what this girl would do if one slapped her in the face. She was a round, rosy, good-natured-looking creature, but she had a sturdy way which made Mistress Mary wonder if she might not even slap back—if the person who slapped her was only a little girl.
"You are a strange servant," she said from her pillows, rather haughtily.
Martha sat up on her heels, with her blacking-brush in her hand, and laughed, without seeming the least out of temper.
"Eh! I know that," she said. "If there was a grand Missus at Misselthwaite I should never have been even one of th' under house-maids. I might have been let to be scullerymaid but I'd never have been let upstairs. I'm too common an' I talk too much Yorkshire. But this is a funny house for all it's so grand. Seems like there's neither Master nor Mistress except Mr. Pitcher an' Mrs. Medlock. Mr. Craven, he won't be troubled about anythin' when he's here, an' he's nearly always away. Mrs. Medlock gave me th' place out o' kindness. She told me she could never have done it if Misselthwaite had been like other big houses." "Are you going to be my servant?" Mary asked, still in her imperious little Indian way.
Martha began to rub her grate again.
"I'm Mrs. Medlock's servant," she said stoutly. "An' she's Mr. Craven's—but I'm to do the housemaid's work up here an' wait on you a bit. But you won't need much waitin' on."
"Who is going to dress me?" demanded Mary.
Martha sat up on her heels again and stared. She spoke in broad Yorkshire in her amazement.
"Canna' tha' dress thysen!" she said.
"What do you mean? I don't understand your language," said Mary.
"Eh! I forgot," Martha said. "Mrs. Medlock told me I'd have to be careful or you wouldn't know what I was sayin'. I mean can't you put on your own clothes?"
"No," answered Mary, quite indignantly. "I never did in my life. My Ayah dressed me, of course."
"Well," said Martha, evidently not in the least aware that she was impudent, "it's time tha' should learn. Tha' cannot begin younger. It'll do thee good to wait on thysen a bit. My mother always said she couldn't see why grand people's children didn't turn out fair fools—what with nurses an' bein' washed an' dressed an' took out to walk as if they was puppies!"
"It is different in India," said Mistress Mary disdainfully. She could scarcely stand this.
But Martha was not at all crushed.
"Eh! I can see it's different," she answered almost sympathetically. "I dare say it's because there's such a lot o' blacks there instead o' respectable white people. When I heard you was comin' from India I thought you was a black too."
Mary sat up in bed furious.
"What!" she said. "What! You thought I was a native. You—you daughter of a pig!"
Martha stared and looked hot.
"Who are you callin' names?" she said. "You needn't be so vexed. That's not th' way for a young lady to talk. I've nothin' against th' blacks. When you read about 'em in tracts they're always very religious. You always read as a black's a man an' a brother. I've never seen a black an' I was fair pleased to think I was goin' to see one close. When I come in to light your fire this mornin' I crep' up to your bed an' pulled th' cover back careful to look at you. An' there you was," disappointedly, "no more black than me—for all you're so yeller."
Mary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation. "You thought I was a native! You dared! You don't know anything about natives! They are not people—they're servants who must salaam to you. You know nothing about India. You know nothing about anything!"
She was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl's simple stare, and somehow she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away from everything she understood and which understood her, that she threw herself face downward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing. She sobbed so unrestrainedly that good-natured Yorkshire Martha was a little frightened and quite sorry for her. She went to the bed and bent over her.
"Eh! you mustn't cry like that there!" she begged. "You mustn't for sure. I didn't know you'd be vexed. I don't know anythin' about anythin'—just like you said. I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop cryin'."
There was something comforting and really friendly in her queer Yorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effect on Mary. She gradually ceased crying and became quiet. Martha looked relieved.
"It's time for thee to get up now," she said. "Mrs. Medlock said I was to carry tha' breakfast an' tea an' dinner into th' room next to this. It's been made into a nursery for thee. I'll help thee on with thy clothes if tha'll get out o' bed. If th' buttons are at th' back tha' cannot button them up tha'self."
When Mary at last decided to get up, the clothes Martha took from the wardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night before with Mrs. Medlock.
"Those are not mine," she said. "Mine are black."
She looked the thick white wool coat and dress over, and added with cool approval:
"Those are nicer than mine."
"These are th' ones tha' must put on," Martha answered. "Mr. Craven ordered Mrs. Medlock to get 'em in London. He said 'I won't have a child dressed in black wanderin' about like a lost soul,' he said. 'It'd make the place sadder than it is. Put color on her.' Mother she said she knew what he meant. Mother always knows what a body means. She doesn't hold with black hersel'."
"I hate black things," said Mary.
The dressing process was one which taught them both something. Martha had "buttoned up" her little sisters and brothers but she had never seen a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things for her as if she had neither hands nor feet of her own.
"Why doesn't tha' put on tha' own shoes?" she said when Mary quietly held out her foot.
"My Ayah did it," answered Mary, staring. "It was the custom."
She said that very often—"It was the custom." The native servants were always saying it. If one told them to do a thing their ancestors had not done for a thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said, "It is not the custom" and one knew that was the end of the matter.
It had not been the custom that Mistress Mary should do anything but stand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll, but before she was ready for breakfast she began to suspect that her life at Misselthwaite Manor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to her—things such as putting on her own shoes and stockings, and picking up things she let fall. If Martha had been a well-trained fine young lady's maid she would have been more subservient and respectful and would have known that it was her business to brush hair, and button boots, and pick things up and lay them away. She was, however, only an untrained Yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland cottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never dreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger ones who were either babies in arms or just learning to totter about and tumble over things.
If Mary Lennox had been a child who was ready to be amused she would perhaps have laughed at Martha's readiness to talk, but Mary only listened to her coldly and wondered at her freedom of manner. At first she was not at all interested, but gradually, as the girl rattled on in her good-tempered, homely way, Mary began to notice what she was saying.
"Eh! you should see 'em all," she said. "There's twelve of us an' my father only gets sixteen shilling a week. I can tell you my mother's put to it to get porridge for 'em all. They tumble about on th' moor an' play there all day an' mother says th' air of th' moor fattens 'em. She says she believes they eat th' grass same as th' wild ponies do. Our Dickon, he's twelve years old and he's got a young pony he calls his own."
"Where did he get it?" asked Mary.
"He found it on th' moor with its mother when it was a little one an' he began to make friends with it an' give it bits o' bread an' pluck young grass for it. And it got to like him so it follows him about an' it lets him get on its back. Dickon's a kind lad an' animals likes him."
Mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always thought she should like one. So she began to feel a slight interest in Dickon, and as she had never before been interested in any one but herself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment. When she went into the room which had been made into a nursery for her, she found that it was rather like the one she had slept in. It was not a child's room, but a grown-up person's room, with gloomy old pictures on the walls and heavy old oak chairs. A table in the center was set with a good substantial breakfast. But she had always had a very small appetite, and she looked with something more than indifference at the first plate Martha set before her.
"I don't want it," she said.
"Tha' doesn't want thy porridge!" Martha exclaimed incredulously.
"No."
"Tha' doesn't know how good it is. Put a bit o' treacle on it or a bit o' sugar."
"I don't want it," repeated Mary.
"Eh!" said Martha. "I can't abide to see good victuals go to waste. If our children was at this table they'd clean it bare in five minutes."
"Why?" said Mary coldly. "Why!" echoed Martha. "Because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives. They're as hungry as young hawks an' foxes."
"I don't know what it is to be hungry," said Mary, with the indifference of ignorance.
Martha looked indignant.
"Well, it would do thee good to try it. I can see that plain enough," she said outspokenly. "I've no patience with folk as sits an' just stares at good bread an' meat. My word! don't I wish Dickon and Phil an' Jane an' th' rest of 'em had what's here under their pinafores."
"Why don't you take it to them?" suggested Mary.
"It's not mine," answered Martha stoutly. "An' this isn't my day out. I get my day out once a month same as th' rest. Then I go home an' clean up for mother an' give her a day's rest."
Mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade.
"You wrap up warm an' run out an' play you," said Martha. "It'll do you good and give you some stomach for your meat."
Mary went to the window. There were gardens and paths and big trees, but everything looked dull and wintry.
"Out? Why should I go out on a day like this?" "Well, if tha' doesn't go out tha'lt have to stay in, an' what has tha' got to do?"
Mary glanced about her. There was nothing to do. When Mrs. Medlock had prepared the nursery she had not thought of amusement. Perhaps it would be better to go and see what the gardens were like.
"Who will go with me?" she inquired.
Martha stared.
"You'll go by yourself," she answered. "You'll have to learn to play like other children does when they haven't got sisters and brothers. Our Dickon goes off on th' moor by himself an' plays for hours. That's how he made friends with th' pony. He's got sheep on th' moor that knows him, an' birds as comes an' eats out of his hand. However little there is to eat, he always saves a bit o' his bread to coax his pets."
It was really this mention of Dickon which made Mary decide to go out, though she was not aware of it. There would be, birds outside though there would not be ponies or sheep. They would be different from the birds in India and it might amuse her to look at them.
Martha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stout little boots and she showed her her way downstairs.
"If tha' goes round that way tha'll come to th' gardens," she said, pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery. "There's lots o' flowers in summer-time, but there's nothin' bloomin' now." She seemed to hesitate a second before she added, "One of th' gardens is locked up. No one has been in it for ten years."
"Why?" asked Mary in spite of herself. Here was another locked door added to the hundred in the strange house.
"Mr. Craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden. He won't let no one go inside. It was her garden. He locked th' door an' dug a hole and buried th' key. There's Mrs. Medlock's bell ringing—I must run."
After she was gone Mary turned down the walk which led to the door in the shrubbery. She could not help thinking about the garden which no one had been into for ten years. She wondered what it would look like and whether there were any flowers still alive in it. When she had passed through the shrubbery gate she found herself in great gardens, with wide lawns and winding walks with clipped borders. There were trees, and flower-beds, and evergreens clipped into strange shapes, and a large pool with an old gray fountain in its midst. But the flower-beds were bare and wintry and the fountain was not playing. This was not the garden which was shut up. How could a garden be shut up? You could always walk into a garden.
She was just thinking this when she saw that, at the end of the path she was following, there seemed to be a long wall, with ivy growing over it. She was not familiar enough with England to know that she was coming upon the kitchen-gardens where the vegetables and fruit were growing. She went toward the wall and found that there was a green door in the ivy, and that it stood open. This was not the closed garden, evidently, and she could go into it.
She went through the door and found that it was a garden with walls all round it and that it was only one of several walled gardens which seemed to open into one another. She saw another open green door, revealing bushes and pathways between beds containing winter vegetables. Fruit-trees were trained flat against the wall, and over some of the beds there were glass frames. The place was bare and ugly enough, Mary thought, as she stood and stared about her. It might be nicer in summer when things were green, but there was nothing pretty about it now.
Presently an old man with a spade over his shoulder walked through the door leading from the second garden. He looked startled when he saw Mary, and then touched his cap. He had a surly old face, and did not seem at all pleased to see her—but then she was displeased with his garden and wore her "quite contrary" expression, and certainly did not seem at all pleased to see him.
"What is this place?" she asked.
"One o' th' kitchen-gardens," he answered.
"What is that?" said Mary, pointing through the other green door.
"Another of 'em," shortly. "There's another on t'other side o' th' wall an' there's th' orchard t'other side o' that."
"Can I go in them?" asked Mary.
"If tha' likes. But there's nowt to see."
Mary made no response. She went down the path and through the second green door. There, she found more walls and winter vegetables and glass frames, but in the second wall there was another green door and it was not open. Perhaps it led into the garden which no one had seen for ten years. As she was not at all a timid child and always did what she wanted to do, Mary went to the green door and turned the handle. She hoped the door would not open because she wanted to be sure she had found the mysterious garden—but it did open quite easily and she walked through it and found herself in an orchard. There were walls all round it also and trees trained against them, and there were bare fruit-trees growing in the winter-browned grass—but there was no green door to be seen anywhere. Mary looked for it, and yet when she had entered the upper end of the garden she had noticed that the wall did not seem to end with the orchard but to extend beyond it as if it enclosed a place at the other side. She could see the tops of trees above the wall, and when she stood still she saw a bird with a bright red breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them, and suddenly he burst into his winter song—almost as if he had caught sight of her and was calling to her.
She stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling—even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and big bare moor and big bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself. If she had been an affectionate child, who had been used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though she was "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary" she was desolate, and the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile. She listened to him until he flew away. He was not like an Indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should ever see him again. Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it.
Perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought so much of the deserted garden. She was curious about it and wanted to see what it was like. Why had Mr. Archibald Craven buried the key? If he had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden? She wondered if she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not like him, and he would not like her, and that she should only stand and stare at him and say nothing, though she should be wanting dreadfully to ask him why he had done such a queer thing.
"People never like me and I never like people," she thought. "And I never can talk as the Crawford children could. They were always talking and laughing and making noises."
She thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at her, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped rather suddenly on the path.
"I believe that tree was in the secret garden—I feel sure it was," she said. "There was a wall round the place and there was no door."
She walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found the old man digging there. She went and stood beside him and watched him a few moments in her cold little way. He took no notice of her and so at last she spoke to him.
"I have been into the other gardens," she said.
"There was nothin' to prevent thee," he answered crustily.
"I went into the orchard."
"There was no dog at th' door to bite thee," he answered.
"There was no door there into the other garden," said Mary.
"What garden?" he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a moment.
"The one on the other side of the wall," answered Mistress Mary. "There are trees there—I saw the tops of them. A bird with a red breast was sitting on one of them and he sang."
To her surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its expression. A slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite different. It made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled. She had not thought of it before.
He turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to whistle—a low soft whistle. She could not understand how such a surly man could make such a coaxing sound. Almost the next moment a wonderful thing happened. She heard a soft little rushing flight through the air—and it was the bird with the red breast flying to them, and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth quite near to the gardener's foot.
"Here he is," chuckled the old man, and then he spoke to the bird as if he were speaking to a child.
"Where has tha' been, tha' cheeky little beggar?" he said. "I've not seen thee before today. Has tha, begun tha' courtin' this early in th' season? Tha'rt too forrad."
The bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his soft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop. He seemed quite familiar and not the least afraid. He hopped about and pecked the earth briskly, looking for seeds and insects. It actually gave Mary a queer feeling in her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerful and seemed so like a person. He had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak, and slender delicate legs.
"Will he always come when you call him?" she asked almost in a whisper.
"Aye, that he will. I've knowed him ever since he was a fledgling. He come out of th' nest in th' other garden an' when first he flew over th' wall he was too weak to fly back for a few days an' we got friendly. When he went over th' wall again th' rest of th' brood was gone an' he was lonely an' he come back to me."
"What kind of a bird is he?" Mary asked.
"Doesn't tha' know? He's a robin redbreast an' they're th' friendliest, curiousest birds alive. They're almost as friendly as dogs—if you know how to get on with 'em. Watch him peckin' about there an' lookin' round at us now an' again. He knows we're talkin' about him."
It was the queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow. He looked at the plump little scarlet-waistcoated bird as if he were both proud and fond of him.
"He's a conceited one," he chuckled. "He likes to hear folk talk about him. An' curious—bless me, there never was his like for curiosity an' meddlin'. He's always comin' to see what I'm plantin'. He knows all th' things Mester Craven never troubles hissel' to find out. He's th' head gardener, he is."
The robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and now and then stopped and looked at them a little. Mary thought his black dewdrop eyes gazed at her with great curiosity. It really seemed as if he were finding out all about her. The queer feeling in her heart increased. "Where did the rest of the brood fly to?" she asked.
"There's no knowin'. The old ones turn 'em out o' their nest an' make 'em fly an' they're scattered before you know it. This one was a knowin' one an' he knew he was lonely."
Mistress Mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very hard.
"I'm lonely," she said.
She had not known before that this was one of the things which made her feel sour and cross. She seemed to find it out when the robin looked at her and she looked at the robin.
The old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald head and stared at her a minute.
"Art tha' th' little wench from India?" he asked.
Mary nodded.
"Then no wonder tha'rt lonely. Tha'lt be lonlier before tha's done," he said.
He began to dig again, driving his spade deep into the rich black garden soil while the robin hopped about very busily employed.
"What is your name?" Mary inquired.
He stood up to answer her.
"Ben Weatherstaff," he answered, and then he added with a surly chuckle, "I'm lonely mysel' except when he's with me," and he jerked his thumb toward the robin. "He's th' only friend I've got."
"I have no friends at all," said Mary. "I never had. My Ayah didn't like me and I never played with any one."
It is a Yorkshire habit to say what you think with blunt frankness, and old Ben Weatherstaff was a Yorkshire moor man.
"Tha' an' me are a good bit alike," he said. "We was wove out of th' same cloth. We're neither of us good lookin' an' we're both of us as sour as we look. We've got the same nasty tempers, both of us, I'll warrant."
This was plain speaking, and Mary Lennox had never heard the truth about herself in her life. Native servants always salaamed and submitted to you, whatever you did. She had never thought much about her looks, but she wondered if she was as unattractive as Ben Weatherstaff and she also wondered if she looked as sour as he had looked before the robin came. She actually began to wonder also if she was "nasty tempered." She felt uncomfortable.
Suddenly a clear rippling little sound broke out near her and she turned round. She was standing a few feet from a young apple-tree and the robin had flown on to one of its branches and had burst out into a scrap of a song. Ben Weatherstaff laughed outright.
"What did he do that for?" asked Mary.
"He's made up his mind to make friends with thee," replied Ben. "Dang me if he hasn't took a fancy to thee."
"To me?" said Mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and looked up.
"Would you make friends with me?" she said to the robin just as if she was speaking to a person. "Would you?" And she did not say it either in her hard little voice or in her imperious Indian voice, but in a tone so soft and eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprised as she had been when she heard him whistle.
"Why," he cried out, "tha' said that as nice an' human as if tha' was a real child instead of a sharp old woman. Tha' said it almost like Dickon talks to his wild things on th' moor."
"Do you know Dickon?" Mary asked, turning round rather in a hurry.
"Everybody knows him. Dickon's wanderin' about everywhere. Th' very blackberries an' heather-bells knows him. I warrant th' foxes shows him where their cubs lies an' th' skylarks doesn't hide their nests from him."
Mary would have liked to ask some more questions. She was almost as curious about Dickon as she was about the deserted garden. But just that moment the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake of his wings, spread them and flew away. He had made his visit and had other things to do.
"He has flown over the wall!" Mary cried out, watching him. "He has flown into the orchard—he has flown across the other wall—into the garden where there is no door!"
"He lives there," said old Ben. "He came out o' th' egg there. If he's courtin', he's makin' up to some young madam of a robin that lives among th' old rose-trees there."
"Rose-trees," said Mary. "Are there rose-trees?"
Ben Weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig.
"There was ten year' ago," he mumbled.
"I should like to see them," said Mary. "Where is the green door? There must be a door somewhere."
Ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked when she first saw him.
"There was ten year' ago, but there isn't now," he said.
"No door!" cried Mary. "There must be." "None as any one can find, an' none as is any one's business. Don't you be a meddlesome wench an' poke your nose where it's no cause to go. Here, I must go on with my work. Get you gone an' play you. I've no more time."
And he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and walked off, without even glancing at her or saying good-by.
第四章 玛莎
第二天早晨，玛丽被一阵噪声吵醒，她睁开眼睛一看，原来是一个年轻女仆进屋来生火，跪在壁炉前向外拨弄着炉灰呢。玛丽躺在床上盯着她看了一会儿，便打量起房间来，她觉得自己从未见过这样古怪阴郁的房间了。墙上挂着绣满森林风景图案的墙毯,图案上一些衣着奇特华美的人站在树下，远处还可以眺望到城堡上耸立的角楼，这里有猎人、马儿、狗，还有妇人们。玛丽突然有一种身临其境的感觉，自己放佛也成了森林中的一员。她透过深凹的窗户向外望去，一片无尽伸展的陆地映入眼帘，上面光秃秃的，更像一汪无边无际，乏味无趣的紫色大海。
“那是什么？”玛丽指向窗外问道。
年轻的女仆玛莎站起来，顺着玛丽指的方向看了看，“那儿吗？”她一边问一边指向同样的方向。
“是的。”
“那是荒原，”玛莎温厚地一笑，“你喜欢那儿吗？”
“不喜欢，我讨厌它。”
“那是因为你还不习惯它，”玛莎边说边回到壁炉前的地毯旁。“现在你可能觉得它太空旷太荒凉，但是慢慢的你就会喜欢上它的。”
“那你喜欢它吗？”玛丽问。
“喜欢呀，”玛莎兴高采烈地擦着壁炉。“我已经爱上它啦。在我眼中它一点儿都不荒凉，而是覆满了香甜植物的美丽田野。尤其是金雀花和石楠盛开的春夏时节，田野里弥漫着甜蜜的气味儿，可以肆无忌惮地呼吸新鲜空气，天空看起来那么高远，俨然成了蜜蜂和云雀演奏的天堂，嗡嗡嗡，喳喳喳……啊！简直就是人间仙境嘛，恐怕这辈子也没有什么能把我和这片荒原分开了。
玛丽表情严肃且困惑地听完玛莎的描述。她发现玛莎和她长久以来习惯的印度仆人一点儿也不一样，不像她们对主人那样卑躬屈膝，百依百顺；反而会平等地与主人交谈。在印度，当地仆人得向主人行大礼，主人们通常被冠有“穷人庇佑者”之类的称呼。仆人们则被呼来喝去，被命令着做事而非被请求，所以根本别妄想能听到“请”或者“谢谢”之类的回答。玛丽生气的时候就经常扇女仆阿亚的耳光，她也好奇这个姑娘被打了耳光之后会有什么反应。她是个体型圆润、皮肤娇红、长相温顺的女孩儿，但也算强壮，所以才惹得玛丽心里痒痒，想知道如果一个小女孩对她动手，她会不会还手呢。
“你还真是个奇怪的仆人，”玛丽躺在枕头上说，表情傲慢极了。
玛莎直起身来坐到自己的鞋跟上，手里拿着涂黑蜡的刷子，她大笑起来，好像丝毫没有生气的意思。
“是的，我知道你的意思，”玛莎说，“如果山庄有位尊贵女主人的话，我可能都得不到在房间当仆人的机会呢。我可能会被派做洗碗之类的粗活，永远没机会到楼上来，因为我太平庸，而且还说着浓重的约克郡方言。这所房子既气派又有趣，除了皮切特先生和米洛克太太管事以外，这里好像没有男女主人。克雷文先生大部分的时间都在外面，即使回到山庄也懒得管事。所以多亏了米洛克太太的恩慈，我才能得到在这个地方做这份工作的机会，就连她本人都说倘若山庄换作其他的大户人家，这一切都会成为泡影。
“那你将伺候我咯？”玛丽依旧傲慢无礼，又开始了她在印度的那一套。
玛莎又开始擦起壁炉。
“我是米洛克太太的仆人，”玛莎坚定地说，“米洛克太太是克雷文先生的仆人——不过我会在你这儿做一些女仆的活儿，有些地方我可以伺候你，但是不会多，不过你也不需要那么多。
“那谁给我穿衣服？”玛丽命令似的发问。
玛莎重新跪坐在脚跟上端详起这位印度来的大小姐，一脸诧异地操起了浓重的约克郡方言。
“你干嘛不自己穿？”她说。
“你什么意思，我听不懂你说什么，”玛丽有些不解。
“噢！我忘记了，”玛莎说。“米洛克太太嘱咐过我，跟你说话时要小心，千万别说太多方言让你听不懂。我刚才的意思是你自己不会穿衣服吗？”
“当然不了，”玛丽气急败坏，“这辈子我还没自己穿过衣服呢，都是阿亚给我穿的。”
“好吧，”玛莎显然一点儿都没有意识到自己的鲁莽，“既然如此，那现在也是时候学着自己穿衣服了。你也老大不小了，该学着自理了，这对你有好处。我妈妈就经常说她不明白为什么有钱人家的小孩还没变成傻瓜——他们处处得依靠保姆，由保姆照顾他们洗漱，穿衣，再带出去遛弯儿，像照看小狗一样。”
“在印度才不是这样呢，”大小姐玛丽一副桀骜不驯的模样。玛莎说者无心，玛丽听者有意，她才无法忍受这些言辱之词呢。
玛莎却一点儿也没打算关掉刚刚打开的话匣子。
“嗯，我知道不一样啦，”玛莎甚至有些同情。“我敢说那是因为在印度很多都是黑人，而不是尊贵的白人。不瞒你说，刚开始听说你从印度来，我还以为你也是个黑人呢。”
玛丽听闻顿时火冒三丈，蹭地一下从床上窜了起来。
“什么！”她歇斯底里地叫了起来。“你居然以为我是个黑人，你她妈的真是头母猪！”
玛莎愤怒地瞪着玛丽，神情非常激动，小脸涨的通红。
“你骂谁呢？”她大叫。“你用得着这么泼辣吗？那是一位年轻女士该说的话吗？我又不是故意对黑人出言冒犯。我从圣经小册子里读到的黑人都是有着虔诚信仰的，他们也被描述成我们的兄弟。可我从来没有见过真正的黑人，当得知有机会近距离接触一个黑人时，我还着实高兴了一番。今天早上我来到你房间生火时，你还熟睡着，我悄悄走到你床边，拉开被子仔细地观察了你这个所谓的黑人，可惜呀，你看起来不过如此，不比我黑多少，倒是黄得厉害呢。”玛莎失望地说。
玛丽再也抑制不住羞怒了。
“你，你胆敢以为我是个印度土著！你根本就对印度土著一无所知！他们根本不是人——只是无条件服从于主人的奴隶。你根本不了解印度。你根本什么都不懂！”
在一个女孩儿单纯的瞪视下，玛丽的情绪失控了，她愤怒，她无助，她忽然觉得自己在远离那些彼此熟知的人和事物之后是如此孤独，寂寞得可怕。她一时间竟不知道怎样发泄这种情感，干脆一头扎进枕头，发疯似地大哭起来。她哭得那样没完没了，哭得玛莎这个善良纯朴的约克郡姑娘又害怕又感到抱歉，于是她走到床边，俯身向玛丽。
“啊！你别再哭了！”玛莎央求道。“你千万别再哭了。我不知道你会生气。我什么都不懂，什么都不知道，就像你刚刚说的那样，你就别跟我一般见识了。求求你了，小姐，别哭了好吗？”
玛丽放佛从玛莎独特的约克郡方言和坚定的道歉语气中读到了一种安慰和友好，这对她非常奏效，她逐渐停止哭泣，平静了下来。这也让玛莎松了口气。
“是时候起床了，”玛莎说。“米洛克太太让我把早餐、茶和午餐送到你隔壁的房间去，那里就是你的活动室了。你要是现在起床的话，遇到扣不上衣服背后扣子之类的情况时，我会帮你穿。”
最终玛丽终于决定起床了，玛莎从衣柜里递过衣服，玛丽发现已经不是昨晚她到米特斯韦特山庄时穿的那套了。
“这不是我的衣服，”玛丽说，“我的是黑色的。”
她瞅了瞅这件厚实的白色羊毛大衣和毛裙，冷冷地称赞了一句：
“比我那套黑色的好看。”
“你必须得穿上这套新衣服，”玛莎说。“这是克雷文先生特意吩咐米洛克太太在伦敦买的。他说他不愿看到一个孩子穿着黑漆玛乌的丧服像个游魂一样在山庄里晃荡。他说这让山庄看起来更凄惨，所以要给你的衣服换点鲜亮的颜色。我妈妈说她知道克雷文先生的话中之意，她一向善于觉察人意，连她自己也不赞同穿黑色衣服。”
“我讨厌黑色的东西，”玛丽说。
穿衣服的过程让两个女孩儿都大长见识。尽管玛莎在家经常帮弟弟妹妹穿衣服，但要做的也无非就是帮他们扣扣子。眼前这位大小姐却直愣愣地站着，一动也不动地等着对方给自己穿衣服，自己的手脚好像全成了摆设。
“你为什么不自己穿鞋呀？”看到玛丽淡定地伸出脚等待“服侍”，玛莎禁不住问道。
“都是阿亚帮我穿的，”玛丽瞪着对方说，“这是规矩。”
玛丽常说“这是规矩”。那些印度仆人们也经常这样说。如果他们被要求去做近千年来都没有先例的事情时，他们则温和地盯着对方说：“没有这个规矩。”对方见状便会打消念头了。
要是放在从前，大小姐玛丽穿衣服时无需做任何事，只要像玩偶娃娃一样站着等仆人服侍，这也是规矩。但是今天早饭前的这番折腾让她不由猜想今后在山庄的生活会与之前的生活截然不同，她要学习很多新东西，像穿鞋袜，捡起掉在地上的东西等等。倘若玛莎是个训练有素的大小姐身边的女仆，她或许能对眼前的玛丽更加温顺和尊敬些，或许能知道帮小姐梳头发、系靴子、捡东西并把东西放好是分内之职。可她毕竟只是一个生活在约克郡荒地村舍里的乡下丫头，家里有一大群弟弟妹妹，他们整天要做的就是自己照顾好自己，再帮母亲照看好襁褓里或是蹒跚学步的弟弟妹妹们，除此以外，其他的生活方式几乎都与他们绝缘，他们也不曾梦想着去做什么。
如果玛丽.伦诺克斯是那种性格开朗，善于逗笑的女孩儿，她可能会嘲笑玛莎的喋喋不休。但她只是冷冷地听着，还惊异于玛莎天马行空似的言行举止。开始的时候，玛丽对她的讲话无半点儿兴趣，可渐渐地她被玛莎简单随意的谈话给吸引了，并开始关注玛莎说话的内容。
“嗨！你还真该去见见他们，”玛莎说。“我爸爸一周只挣六先令，可我们家有十二个孩子。我妈妈几乎把所有的家用都拿来供他们喝粥了，哪里还有什么积蓄呢。他们整日在荒野上摔爬滚打，妈妈总说是荒原的气息滋养了他们，使他们能健康茁壮地成长。还说他们和小野马一样，是吃着原上的青草长大的。我们家的迪肯，今年才十二岁，自己就有一匹野马驹呢。”
“他从哪儿找来的？”玛丽好奇地问。
“在荒原上，当小野马很小很小，还和马妈妈呆在一起的时候，迪肯就在荒原上发现它了。他们从那时起开始成为朋友，迪肯还经常带些面包或是割些嫩草给它吃。久而久之，小野马开始把迪肯当做自己人，常常跟随他，还允许他骑到自己的背上。迪肯是个友善的家伙，连小动物都喜欢他。”
虽然玛丽从未养过什么宠物，但她一直觉得自己要是能有一只的话肯定会喜欢得不得了，于是她开始对迪肯萌生了一丝兴趣。古怪的玛丽以前除了自己，看谁都不顺眼，她对迪肯的好感无疑是这位大小姐乖戾性情转变的开始。她走进旁边那间所谓的“儿童活动室”，发现这间与她睡觉的那间差不多。这哪里是儿童活动室，分明就是大人住过的房间嘛，瞧瞧墙上那些阴森森的老画儿，还有那些笨重陈旧的橡木椅。房间中央的桌子上摆着丰盛的早餐，玛丽向来没什么好胃口，她漠然地看了看玛莎端上来的第一盘食物。
“不想吃，”她说。
“你居然连粥都不想吃！”玛莎惊讶地叫起来。
“是的，不想吃。”
“你肯定不知道这有多美味。加点儿蜂蜜或者白糖试试。”
“我都说了不想吃。”玛丽依旧没有改变注意。
“哎！”玛莎说，“我真的没法儿看着你这般暴殄天物。要是我们家的那群孩子在这儿，用不了五分钟就把这桌早餐吃得底朝天了。”
“为什么？”玛丽冷冷地问。
“为什么！？”玛莎觉得玛丽的问题简直不可思议，于是重复道。“因为他们压根就没吃过饱饭，就像是饥肠辘辘的老鹰和狐狸。”
“我从不知道什么是饥饿，”玛丽因为无知而显得有些漠然。
玛莎看起来有些愤怒了。
“喔，那好吧，让你挨挨饿也许不是件坏事，我算看明白了”，玛莎直言不讳。“我没工夫陪你冲着香软的白面包和美味的肉排干瞪眼了。上帝啊！我多么希望迪肯、菲尔、简和其他所有的人能在这儿呀，我保证把他们的小围兜兜都塞得满满的。”
“你干嘛不打包带给他们？”玛丽建议。
“因为这些东西不是我的，”玛莎笃定地回答，“而且今天也轮不到我出去，我和其他仆人一样，每个月只能放一天假，放假时我就跑回家帮妈妈干活，她就可以轻松一天啦。”
玛丽喝了几口茶，吃了点吐司，蘸了点儿橘子酱。
“好了，穿得严实些出去玩吧，”玛莎说。“活动活动有助于增强食欲，这对你有好处。”
玛丽走到窗前向外望去，花园、小径、大树映入眼帘，可惜一切都无精打采的，像是打了冬天的烙印。
“出去？今天这种鬼天气我干嘛要出去？”
“好吧，如果不想出去玩，那就呆在房间里吧，你准备做些什么呢？”
玛丽环顾四周，感觉实在无事可做。当初米洛克太太准备儿童活动室时就没将娱乐考虑在内。或许出去溜达溜达是个明智之举，正好可以看看那些花园都是什么模样。
“谁陪我去？”玛丽问。
玛莎惊奇地瞪着她。
“当然是你自己去咯，”玛莎答道。“你得像那些没有兄弟姐妹的孩子学习怎样自娱自乐。迪肯就是这样，他一个人跑到荒原上，一玩就是好几个小时，他就是这样结识小马儿的。不仅如此，他和荒原上的野羊混得也很熟，小鸟儿还会主动飞去吃他手里的东西。不管多少，迪肯每次吃东西都会留些下来取悦他的宠物们。”
正是这句有关迪肯的话让玛丽改变了主意，但她自己并未觉察到，只是决定出去看看。米特斯韦特山庄里可能没有小马儿和小羊，但应该有小鸟，也许这里的鸟儿和印度的不同，也许会很有意思呢。玛丽心中漾起了无限遐想。
玛莎给玛丽拿来了大衣和帽子，还有一双厚实的小靴子，然后领着她下了楼。
“你沿着这条路走就可以到花园了，”玛莎指着灌木墙上的大门说。“夏天那里开满了花儿，争奇斗艳的，不过现在是冬天，花儿都谢了。”说完，玛莎有意识地犹豫了一下，放佛在思考什么，然后加了一句，“其中一个花园被锁起来了，已经有十年没人进去过了。”
“为什么？”玛丽情不自禁地问道。除了那上百间上了锁的怪房间，现在又多了一个上了锁的花园。
“是克雷文先生锁的，那曾是他亡妻的花园，她突然去世后，克雷文先生便锁了花园，不许任何人进去，还挖了个洞把钥匙埋了起来。噢！米洛克太太摇铃叫我了，我得赶紧走了。”
玛莎走后，玛丽便一个人顺着那条通往灌木墙上大门的小径走着。一路上，她都在不停地想着那个十年无人问津的花园，那个花园里面究竟都有些什么？那里的花都还活着吗？穿过灌木墙上的大门，玛丽发现自己置身于诺大的一个园子中，宽敞舒服的草坪令人心旷神怡，蜿蜒的小径边缘被修得整齐划一。这里有大树、花坛、形状被修剪得奇特的冬青、还有中心耸立着灰色喷泉的大水池。可惜花坛光秃秃的毫无生气，喷泉也面目萧条，一副很久没有喷水的样子。这个园子不是那个被上了锁的花园，花园怎么能被上锁呢？花园不应该是随时敞开大门欢迎来客吗。
玛丽正想着，抬头发现这条路的尽头好像有堵长长的围墙，上面爬满了常青藤。她刚到英国，不知道自己已经走到了种满蔬果的菜园子。她走过去，发现墙上有扇绿色的门，还是开着的。显然，这也不是那个长年紧锁的花园，因为她能走进去。
玛丽走进那扇门，看到一个四面环绕着围墙的花园，周边有几个同样被围墙围住的园子，都是互通的。玛丽还看到一扇绿门，透过门她瞥见成片成片的菜圃，里面种着各种冬令蔬菜，菜圃与菜圃之间还夹着灌木丛和小路。园子里的果树被修剪得工整齐墙，有些菜圃上还罩着温室玻璃。这个地方真是没劲透了，玛丽站在那里没精打采地盯着周围的景物想。等到了夏天，到处绿茵茵的时候，这儿兴许会好看些，但是现在真的没一处能入眼的。
正在这时，一个肩扛铁锹的老人从第二个园子的绿门走出来。他非常惊讶在园子里看到一个孩子，吓了一跳，还下意识地触了触帽子。老人板着老脸，阴沉沉的，显然不太高兴见到玛丽这个不速之客。玛丽一直酝酿着对园子的各种不满情绪，脸上一副“乖戾别扭”的表情，看到这位陌生老人时显然也没什么好脸色。
“这是什么地方？”她问。
“其中一个菜园，”老人说。
“那里又是什么？”玛丽指着另一扇门问道。
“另一个菜园，”老人简短地回答。“围墙的另一边还有一个，它的对面是个果园。”
“我能进去吗？”玛丽问。
“当然。不过里面没什么好玩的。”
玛丽没有再做声，她沿着小路走下去，穿过第二道绿门，她看到更多围墙，冬令蔬菜和温室玻璃罩。第二道围墙上还有一扇门，绿色的，没有打开。玛丽心中打起了鼓，或许这就是通向那个十年没人进入的秘密花园的大门吧。她不是那种胆小怕事的孩子，向来是我行我素，当她来到绿门前，轻轻转动门把手时，她是多么希望门是紧紧锁上的打不开的，因为这洋就说明她找到那个神秘花园了——事与愿违，门很容易就开了，玛丽发现自己进到一个果园。那里也有围墙，有齐着墙面修剪的树木，还有衰败黄蔫的灰草丛中光秃秃的果树，只是——到处都看不到绿门了。玛丽开始四处找寻绿门，当走到果园的最北端时，她发现围墙已经突破了果园的樊篱，向远方延伸，好像在另外一边又围住了一个园子。玛丽原地站着，看着围墙那边伸出的树梢。这时，一只红胸鸟儿飞了上去，停落到最高的枝头，突然间，鸟儿开始引吭高歌——就好像它刚发现了玛丽，开始向她打招呼一样。
玛丽驻足听着红胸鸟儿的冬歌，那细细的歌鸣既欢快又友好，玛丽顿时心花怒放——再不讨人喜欢的小女孩儿也会有孤独寂寞的时候，紧锁房门的怪房子，高旷赤秃的荒野，还有荒凉沉闷的园子，都让眼前的这个小女孩觉得全世界只剩下她一个人孤零零的了。倘若她是个情感丰富，一直被大家关爱呵护的孩子，她早就崩溃了。即使她是“古怪的玛丽大小姐，处处作对讨人厌”，即使她孤僻乖戾，红胸鸟儿也见证了那张尖酸瘦削的蜡黄小脸绽放花朵般的笑容。玛丽专注地听着，直到鸟儿表演结束展翅飞走。她觉得这只鸟儿很有灵气，跟印度的那些截然不同，也想知道能否再与它不期而遇。也许它就住在神秘花园呢，也许它知晓里面发生的一切呢。
也许她是太无聊，闲得发慌，才会一直惦记着那个荒废的神秘园子。她如此好奇，迫不及待地想要找到它并进去一探究竟。为什么克雷文先生要把钥匙埋起来？如果他真的那么爱死去的妻子，又为什么要憎恶她曾经拥有的花园呢？玛丽在想或许什么时候可以见到这位古怪的克雷文先生，不过她知道，即使见了面，彼此也都不会喜欢对方的，到时候她只能呆呆地站着，干巴巴地瞪着克雷文先生，没什么好说的，尽管她如此渴望从克雷文先生口中得知这些怪举的原因。
“没人喜欢我，我也不喜欢他们，”她想。“我也从没能像克罗福家的孩子那样能说。他们经常说呀说，笑呀笑，吵死人了。”
她又想起了那只红胸的知更鸟和它为自己唱歌的样子，想起了那枝鸟儿停落的树梢，忽然间，她好像想到了什么，于是停在了路上。
“我知道了，那棵树就在秘密花园里——我确定，”玛丽自言自语。“旁边有围墙围住，而且没有门，一定是那里了，没错。”
她走回进来时的第一个菜园，发现之前那个老人正在锄地松土。她走过去，冷冰冰地站在老人身边看了他一会儿，就像她一贯那样。老人根本没有注意到她，最后她只得先开了尊口。
“我去过其他的花园了，”她说。
“没人拦着不让你去，”老人话语有些粗暴。
“我还去了果园。”
“又没有看门狗咬你不让你进，”老人依旧没什么好气。
“但是有一个花园没有门，”玛丽接着说。
“哪个花园？”老人声音粗野，手上的活也停了下来。
“墙那边的那个，”玛丽大小姐回答。“那里有树，我能看到它们越过墙头的树梢，上面停了一只红胸小鸟，它还唱歌呢。”
让玛丽惊奇的是，老人听完这些描述后忽然情绪大变，那张饱经沧桑的阴沉沉的老脸上慢慢爬上了微笑，让这位老园丁瞬间判若两人。玛丽也觉得奇怪呢，奈何笑容能让一个人变得如此可亲可爱呢。她以前可从未想过这个问题。
老园丁转过身去，朝向果园吹起了口哨——声音低缓绵和。玛丽简直不敢相信自己的耳朵，眼前这个其貌不扬的老头儿居然能吹出如此动听悦耳的口哨。
说时迟那时快，神奇的事情发生了。玛丽听到了与空气摩擦的沙沙声，那是在空中急速穿行的声音——是那只红胸的知更鸟，正展翅飞向他们，最后落在老园丁的脚边上。
“它来啦，”老园丁咯咯地笑着，然后就开始跟小鸟说话，就像对待一个小孩子那样。
“去哪儿了，你这个厚脸皮的小乞丐？”他问。“今天一直没个踪影，是不是遇到心仪的姑娘了，这季节还早着呢。”
知更鸟朝一边歪着脑袋，用它黑露珠般明亮柔和的眼睛仰望着老园丁，一看就知道他们很熟悉彼此，所以鸟儿毫不畏惧对方。它欢腾雀跃着，还用尖尖的小嘴麻利地挖啄着地面，寻找种子和昆虫之类的吃食。玛丽望着眼前的一幕，心中顿时涌起了一股异样的感觉，因为这只鸟儿是如此漂亮欢快，就像实实在在的人一样,圆滚滚的小身子，精致讨喜的嘴巴，还有细细优雅的长腿。
“你叫它，它就会过来吗？”玛丽窃声问老园丁，声音又低又细，差点儿连她自己都听不见了。
“是的，一叫就会来。当他还是雏鸟的时候，我们就认识了。那时它从另一个花园的鸟巢里出来试飞，因为太弱小了，好几天也没能飞回去，于是我们结识并成了朋友。当它最终飞回巢的时候，发现巢中的兄弟姐妹全飞走了。寂寞孤独使它又飞越围墙，回到我身边。”
“它是什么鸟儿？”玛丽问。
“你不知道吗？它是红胸知更鸟，是世界现存鸟类中最友好最有求知欲的鸟了。它们会像小狗那样与人友好和富有灵性——当然你要知道怎样与它们和谐相处。你看，它虽然在那边啄食，却时不时地盯着我们看呀看的，因为他知道我们正在谈论它。”
此刻世上最奇特的就是老园丁的表情，他看着那只身材圆鼓鼓像穿了件猩红马夹的小鸟，自豪，喜爱溢于言表。
“它是个自负的家伙，”老人又忍不住咯咯笑起来。“它表现欲强，喜欢听人们谈论它。求知欲也很旺盛——天啊，没有比它好奇心更重，更爱多管闲事的家伙了。它经常凑过来看我在种些什么，克雷文先生懒得管的事情，这个小家伙都摸得一清二楚，它才是名副其实的园丁头头呢。”
知更鸟在地上敏捷地蹦来蹦去，东敲敲，西敲敲，渴望能从土壤里多翻出点什么，还不时地停下来看看玛丽和老园丁。玛丽感觉知更鸟看她的眼神有点特别，黑晶晶的眼睛里透露着无尽的好奇，好像正在一点点发掘这个新来客身上的所有未知。玛丽心中那股异样的感觉浓烈了起来。
“窝里的其他鸟儿去哪里了？”她问。
“不知道。老鸟把窝里的小鸟都带出去试飞，等到小鸟们飞得远了，可能就天各一方咯。我只知道这一只的下落，它也知道自己非常孤独。”
大小姐玛丽向前走了一步，在靠近知更鸟的地方停了下来，牢牢地盯着它。
“我也很孤独，”她说。
她以前从未意识到是孤独是令她尖酸烦躁，乖戾孤僻的祸首之一。似乎就在她和知更鸟对视的瞬间，她突然发觉了。
老园丁整了整帽子，若有所思地看了玛丽一会儿。
“你就是那个印度来的小姑娘？”他问。
玛丽点点头。
“难怪你说自己孤独，不过以后你会更孤独的。”
说完，老人又开始刨地，铁锹在花园肥沃的黑土中忙进忙出，知更鸟则煞有其事地在一旁跳来跳去，一刻也不闲着。
“你叫什么名字？”玛丽冲着老园丁问。
老人放下手中的活回答道，
“本.威瑟斯塔夫，”他说，接着板起脸窃笑了一下，“它不在的时候我也很孤独，”老人翘起拇指指着知更鸟说。“它是我唯一的朋友。”
“我一个朋友都没有，”玛丽说。“从来没有过，阿亚不喜欢我，我也不跟其他人玩儿。”
不加掩饰地坦白内心想法是约克郡的风俗，而本.威瑟斯塔夫又是地地道道的约克郡荒原人。
“咱们俩还真的有点像，”他说。“你看，咱俩穿的衣服差不多；长得都不好看；都顶着一副哭丧脸；还一样的臭脾气。”
本.维特斯塔夫只是不加修饰地道出了心中想法，玛丽却是平生第一次听到关于自己的真实描述，如晴天霹雳。印度的仆人都是毕恭毕敬地俯首行大礼，对主人都是言听计从。玛丽以前从没有关注过自己的相貌，现在她却非常想知道自己是否真如本.威瑟斯塔夫所说的那样不讨喜，是不是真的像老本在知更鸟飞来前那般刻板乖戾。她还想知道自己是不是真的有着老本口中说的“臭脾气”。总之，老本无心的一席话搞得玛丽心里很不是滋味。
突然，一声清脆悠扬的歌声打破了短暂的沉默，眼前的平静泛起了涟漪。玛丽转过身去，发现那只知更鸟已经飞落到身旁小苹果树的枝桠上，并扯着嗓子唱了起来。
老本见状爽朗地笑了起来。
“它这在干嘛？”玛丽问。
“它是决定要和你做朋友了，”老本说。“我敢打赌，它喜欢你。”
“喜欢我？！”玛丽又欢喜又疑惑，她轻轻走到苹果树边，抬头看着枝头的鸟儿。
“你愿意和我做朋友吗？”她对着知更鸟问道，好像对待人那样。“愿意吗？”她的声音既温柔又真诚，充溢着诱惑力，跟她平时生硬的声音或蛮横的印度腔截然不同。连老本都觉得吃惊，程度不亚于玛丽听到他吹口哨唤鸟时的惊异。
“天呐，怎么会这样，”老本禁不住叫了起来，“你刚刚的声音悦耳动听，就像一个真正的孩子那样，再也不像尖刻的老太太了。刚刚你的说话的样子就好像迪肯在和他荒原上的那些朋友们聊天。”
“你认识迪肯？”一听到“迪肯”，玛丽一秒钟都没耽误，就转向老本问道。
“这里没人不认识他。他的足迹遍布每个角落。连黑莓和石楠都认识他。我敢打赌，狐狸都带他去看幼崽，云雀也不会向他隐瞒巢穴。
玛丽本想问更多关于迪肯的问题，她对迪肯的好奇不亚于对那座荒废花园的关注。但那时知更鸟唱完歌，站在枝头抖了抖翅膀，扑哧扑哧地扇着翅膀飞走了。它到此一游结束，又去忙其他事情了。
“它飞到墙那边去了！”玛丽看着远飞的鸟儿大喊，“它飞进果园了——飞越了果园的围墙——飞进那个没有门的花园了！”
“那是它的家，”老本说。“它就是在那里孵出来的。如果它恋爱交配的话，也是从住在那里古老玫瑰树丛中的知更鸟中选一位年轻的女士。”
“玫瑰树丛，”玛丽控制不住激动的情绪了。“那里有玫瑰树丛？”
老本重新拿起铁锹刨起地来。
“都是十年前的事了，”他嘟哝着。
“我想进去看一看，”玛丽说。“那扇绿门在哪里？一定是在某个地方。”
老本只顾着刨地，铁锹挖得越来越深，重新板起了那张让人敬而远之的老脸，就像玛丽初次见到他那样。
“十年前有，现在已经没有了。”他说。
“没有门！”玛丽差点儿没哭出来。“不可能，肯定有的。”
“没人找得到，也没人会多管闲事。你这个多事的小姑娘能不能别在这儿瞎晃悠，乱打听你不该去的地方。我得干活了。你赶紧到别处玩去吧，我可没时间陪你耗。”
最后，老本一把收起铁锹，往肩上一扛，没多看玛丽一眼，连句“再见！”也没有，就这么头也不回地走了。
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