Chapter 13 Chapter Thirteen "I Am Colin"

When Mary went to dinner, she took the picture back to the house and showed it to Martha. "Ah!" said Martha with great pride, "I never knew our Dickon was so clever. Here is a picture of a misser's thrush in its nest, the size and more natural than the real thing." double." At this moment, Mary understood that Dickon was using the painting to convey the message.He meant that she should rest assured that he would keep her secret.Her garden is her nest, and she is like a misser thrush.Oh, how she liked that strange and ordinary boy! She hoped he would be back right away the next day, she went to sleep looking forward to the morning.

But you never know what the weather in Yorkshire will be like, especially in spring.At night, she was awakened by the sound of rain hitting the window heavily.The rain was pouring down, and the wind was whistling in the chimney around the corner of the huge old house.Mary sat up in bed feeling unlucky and angry. "The rain is as hostile as ever," she said. "It knows I don't want it, so it comes." She fell back on the pillow, hiding her face.She didn't cry, but lay down hating the sound of the pounding rain, she hated the wind, and the sound of the wind's "whistling".She can no longer sleep.The dejected voice kept her awake because she herself felt despondent.If she was happy, the sound of the wind and rain might have lulled her to sleep.How loudly the wind "whistles" and the raindrops splash against the windowpanes!

"It sounds like someone lost in the wilderness, wandering and crying," she thought. She had been awake tossing and turning for about an hour when something made her sit up in bed and turn her head to the door to listen.She listens, listens. "Now it's not the wind," she whispered aloud, "that's not the wind. It's different. It's the cry I've heard before." The door to her room was ajar, and the sound came from down the corridor, a distant, fuzzy cry.She listened for several minutes, each moment becoming more certain.She felt compelled to find out what it was.This seems even stranger than The Secret Garden and The Buried Key.Maybe it was actually the mood of rebellion that made her bold.She took her feet off the bed and stood on the ground.

"I'm going to find out what it is," she said. "Everybody's asleep, and I don't care about Mrs. Medlock—I don't care!" There was a candle beside the bed, and she picked it up and walked softly out of the room.The corridor was long and dark, but she was too excited to ignore it.She thought she remembered which corner to turn into the short tapestry-covered corridor--the corridor through which Mrs. Medlock had appeared the day she got lost.The sound came from that corridor.So she walked on in the twilight, finding her way almost by feel, her heart beating so loudly that she imagined she could hear it.The distant, indistinct cry continued, guiding her.Sometimes it pauses and starts again.Should I turn this corner?She paused to think.Yes, it is this.Go to the end of this hallway, then turn left, then up two wide flights of steps, then turn right.Yes, the tapestry-covered door.

She gently opened the door and closed it behind her. Standing in the corridor, she could hear the crying clearly, although not loudly.The sound was on the left side of the wall, and there was a door a few yards further on.She could see a faint light coming from under the door.The man crying in that room was a rather young man. So she went to the door, pushed it open, and she stood in the room! The spacious rooms have old, stately furniture.The faint red light of the dark fire dyed the brick floor in front of the stove, and a lamp was lit beside a carved bed with pillars at the four corners and hung with brocade. On the bed lay a boy, crying anxiously.

Mary wondered whether she was in a real place, or whether she had fallen asleep again in a dream without knowing it. The boy's face was thin and delicate, the color of ivory, and his eyes were too large for the face.He also has a lot of hair, which falls on his forehead in large curls, making his thin face appear even smaller.The boy seemed to have been ill for a long time, but he seemed to be crying more because he was tired and awkward than because of pain. Mary stood by the door with a candle in her hand, holding her breath.Then she slipped across the room, and as she approached the light caught the boy's attention, and he stared at her over his shoulder from the pillow, his gray eyes so wide they seemed unfathomable.

"Who are you?" he whispered at last, half-horrified, "are you a ghost?" "No, I'm not," Mary replied, her own whispers sounding half-horrified, "are you?" He stared and stared and stared.Mary couldn't help noticing what strange eyes he had.Onyx gray, too big on his face, because of the black eyelashes all around them. "No," he replied after waiting for a while, "I'm Colin." "Who is Colin?" she faltered. "I'm Colin Craven. Who are you?" "I'm Mary Lennox. Mr. Craven is my uncle."

"He's my father," said the boy. "Your father!" gasped Mary. "No one ever told me he had a son! Why didn't they?" "Come here," he said, still looking at her with strange eyes and anxious expression. She approached the bed and he reached out to touch her. "You're real, aren't you?" he said. "I often have such real dreams. You might be one too." Mary put on a woolen gown as she left the room, and she put a piece of it between his fingers. "Knead it to see how thick and warm it is," she said. "I can pinch you if you want to show you how real I am. For a moment I thought you were a dream too."

"Where are you from?" he asked. "From my own room. The wind howled so hard I couldn't sleep. I heard someone crying and wanted to find out who it was. Why are you crying?" "Because I can't sleep either, I have a headache. Tell me your name again." "Mary Lennox. Didn't anyone tell you I came to live here?" He was still twisting her robes, but he seemed somewhat convinced that she was real. "No," he answered, "they dare not." "Why?" Mary asked. "Because I'm afraid you'll see me. I don't allow people to see me, talk to me."

"Why?" Mary asked again, feeling more and more bewildered every moment. "Because I was always like this, sick, and had to lie down. And my dad wouldn't let anyone talk to me. The servants weren't allowed to talk about me. If I survived, I might be hunchbacked, but I won't live. My dad hates going to To think that I might be like him." "Oh, what a queer house it is!" said Mary. "What a queer house! Everything is a secret. The rooms are locked up, the gardens are locked up—and you! Are you locked up?" "No. I'm staying in this room because I don't want to be moved out. That's exhausting me."

"Is your father coming to see you?" Mary ventured. "Sometimes. Usually when I'm asleep. He doesn't want to see me." "Why?" Mary couldn't help asking again. A shadow of anger flitted across the boy's face. "My mom died when I was born and it made him sick of seeing me. He thought I didn't know, but I heard people saying it. He almost hated me." "He hates the garden because she's dead," Mary said half to herself. "What garden?" asked the boy. "Oh! It's just—just a garden she used to like," stammered Mary. "Have you been here all this time?" "Almost all the time. Sometimes I'm taken to places by the sea, but I can't stay because everybody stares at me. I used to wear a hoop to straighten my back, but a big doctor from London Come to see me and say it's stupid. He told them to take it off and put me outside in the fresh air. I hate fresh air, I don't want to go out." "I didn't like it when I first came here," said Mary. "Why do you keep looking at me like that?" "Because those dreams are so real," he replied rather anxiously, "sometimes I open my eyes and can't believe I'm awake." "We were both awake," Mary said.She scanned the high ceilings, the shadowy corners, the faint firelight. "It looked like a dream, and in the middle of the night, everyone in the house was asleep - except us. We were wide awake." "I don't want this to be a dream," said the boy anxiously. Suddenly Mary remembered something. "If you don't like people seeing you," she began, "do you want me to go away?" Still holding the piece of her robe, he tugged a little. "No," he said, "if you're gone, I'm sure I'll think you're a dream. If you're real, sit down on that footstool and talk. I want to hear about you." Mary put down the candle on the table by the bed and sat down on the padded footstool.She didn't want to go at all.She wants to stay in this mysterious, far hidden room and talk to this mysterious boy. "What do you want me to tell you?" she said. He wanted to know how long she had been at Misselwest; he wanted to know which corridor her room was on; he wanted to know what she had been doing; Where.She answered all these questions, and many others, and he lay on his pillow and listened.He made her talk a lot about India and transoceanic travel.She finds out that because he has been disabled, he doesn't know what the other kids know.When he was very young, a nurse taught him to read, and he was always reading, looking at pictures in gorgeous books. Although when he was awake, Dad rarely looked at him, and gave him all kinds of wonderful things to entertain himself.However, it has never been able to please him.He can have what he wants and never has to do anything he doesn't like to do. "Everyone has to make me happy," he said nonchalantly. "I feel sick when I lose my temper. Nobody believes I'll live to grow up." He said it as if he had gotten so used to the idea that it didn't matter at all.He seemed to like Mary's voice.He listened faintly and amusedly as she went on.Once or twice she suspected that he was dozing off.But at last he asked a question and opened up a new thread. "How old are you?" he asked. "I'm ten," Mary replied, forgetting her troubles for a moment, "and so are you." "How do you know?" He asked in surprise. "Because when you were born, the garden gate was locked and the key buried. It has been locked for ten years." Colin half sat up, turned to her, and leaned forward on his elbows. "What garden gate is locked? Who did it? Where is the key buried?" he cried, seeming suddenly very interested. "It's—it's the garden that Mr. Craven hates," said Mary nervously. "He locked the door. Nobody—nobody knows where the key is buried." "What kind of garden?" Colin asked eagerly. "No one has been allowed in for ten years," was Mary's careful reply. But it's too late to be careful.He was very much like herself.He had nothing to think about either, and the idea of ​​this hidden garden attracted him as it had attracted her.He asked one question after another.where is it?Did she go to the door?Did she ask the gardener? "They won't tell," said Mary. "I think they've been told not to answer questions." "I can make them answer," Colin said. "Can you?" Mary faltered, growing terrified.If he could get people to answer questions, who knows what would happen? "Everyone has to make me happy. I told you," he said. "If I survive, this place will be mine one day. They all know. I can get them to tell me." Mary didn't know she was being spoiled, but she could clearly see that the mysterious boy was being spoiled.He thought the whole world was his.How eccentric he was, how coldly he talked about his short life. "You don't think you'll live long?" she asked, half curious, half hoping he'd forget about the garden. "I don't believe I can," he replied, as nonchalantly as he had just spoken. "For as long as I can remember, I've been hearing people say I can't. At first they thought I was too young to understand, now they think I can't hear. But I can. My doctor is my papa's cousin. He's poor, and if I die he'll have the whole Misselwest estate when my papa dies. I don't think he would have wished me alive." "Do you want to live?" Mary asked. "No," he replied, looking sullen and weary. "But I don't want to die. When I feel sick, I lie here thinking about it until I cry and cry." "Three times I heard you cry," said Mary, "but I don't know who. Are you crying about that?" She did so, trying to make him forget the garden. "I dare say it's probably," he answered. "Let's talk about something else. Talk about the garden. Don't you want to see it?" "Yes," Mary replied, her voice low. "I think," he continued stubbornly, "I don't think I've ever really wanted to see anything before, but I want to see that garden. I want to dig up the key. I want to open the door. I might have them turn me Put it in a chair and carry it. It's a breath of fresh air. I'm going to make them open the door." He had grown quite agitated, and his strange eyes began to glow like stars, growing even more unfathomable. "They have to make me happy," he said, "I'll let them carry me there, and I'll let you go too." Mary's hands clasped each other.Everything is ruined—everything!Dickon will never come back.She could never again feel like a misser's thrush with a safe, hidden nest. "Oh, don't-don't-don't-don't do that!" she cried. He stared at her as if he thought she was crazy! "Why?" he exclaimed, "You said you wanted to see it." "I mean," she replied, almost whimpering, "but if you let them open the door, and carry you in like that, it'll never be a secret again." He leaned forward even more. "A secret," he said. "What do you mean? Tell me." Mary's words almost stumbled. "You see—you see," she said brokenly, "suppose no one knew but us—suppose there was a door, hidden somewhere under the ivy—suppose there was a door—suppose we found it; Sneak through the door, shut it behind you, no one knows there's anyone in it, we call it our secret garden, pretend - pretend we're Misserland thrushes, it's our nest, assuming we can be there almost every day Play, dig the soil and plant seeds, make it all come alive—” "Is it dead?" he interrupted her. "It'll be dead soon, if no one cares about it," she went on. "The bulb's still alive, but the rose—" He stopped her again, as excited as she was. "What's a bulb?" he chimed in quickly. "It's daffodils and lilies and snowdrops. They're growing in the soil now--getting gray and green, because spring is coming." "Is spring coming?" he said. "What's it like? If you're sick, you can't see it from the house." "The sun shines into the rain, the rain falls into the sun, and things rise up and grow underground." Mary said, "If the garden is a secret garden, we can go in every day and watch things grow bigger and bigger every day to see how many roses are there. Live. Can't you see? Oh, can't you see how much better it would be if it was a secret?" He fell back on the pillow and lay there with a strange look on his face. "I've never had a secret," he said, "except the one who didn't live to grow up. They don't know I know, so it's a secret. But I prefer this one." "If you won't get them lifted into the garden," Mary begged, "perhaps—I feel almost certain I can find out how to get in. Then—if the doctor wants you to go out in a chair, if you always Can do what you want, maybe—maybe we can find a boy to push you, we can go alone, it will always be a secret garden." "I should - like - that," he said very slowly, eyes dreamy, "I should like that. I shouldn't mind the fresh air in a secret garden." Mary gasped and felt safer, for the idea of ​​keeping the garden secret seemed to please him.She was almost sure that if she went on to make him see the garden in his mind as she saw it, he would love it so much that he couldn't bear the idea that everyone could step in at any time. "I'll tell you what I think it would look like, assuming we could get in there," she said. "It's been locked up for so many years, things may have grown into knots." He lay still and listened to her continue talking about roses.The roses might have lumbered from tree to tree, hung down—and there might have been plenty of birds nesting nearby because it was safe there.Then she told him about the robin and Ji-won-ben, that there was a lot to be said about the robin, that it was easy and safe, and she was no longer worried.The robin made him so happy, and he smiled until he looked pretty good, at first Mary thought he was even duller than herself, with huge eyes and curly hair. "I didn't know birds could do that," he said, "but you never see things if you stay inside. You know so much. I feel as if you've been in the garden." She didn't know what to say, so she said nothing.Clearly he wasn't expecting an answer, and the next moment, he surprised her. "I'm going to show you something," he said, "do you see that rose-coloured silk curtain hanging on the wall, over the hearth?" Mary hadn't noticed it at first, but she looked up and saw it.It is a soft silk curtain that seems to be hung on some painting. "Yes," she replied. "There's a string hanging from it," said Colin. "Go and pull it." Mary got up, very bewildered, and found the string.She pulled it, and the silk curtain receded on the ring, and as soon as it receded, a painting was revealed.It's a girl with a smiling face.Her shining hair was bound with a blue ribbon, and her cheerful, lovely gray eyes were exactly like Colin's disgruntled eyes, which were agate gray and seemed twice as big because they were surrounded by black lashes. "She's my mother," Colin complained. "I don't understand why she has to die. Sometimes I hate her for it." "How strange!" said Mary. "If she survives, I'm sure I won't be sick all the time," he muttered. "I daresay I shall live, too. And my father wouldn't hate to see me. I daresay I'll have a strong one." Back. Close the curtain again." Mary obeyed and returned to the footstool. "She's much prettier than you," she said, "but her eyes are just like yours—at least the same shape and color. Why is the curtain drawn over her?" He moved uncomfortably. "I let them do it," he said. "Sometimes I don't like her looking at me. When I'm sick and unlucky, she laughs too much. Plus, she's mine and I don't want people seeing her." "What will Mrs. Medlock say if she finds out I've been here?" she asked. "She'll do as I say," he replied. "I'll tell her I want you to come and talk to me every day. I'm glad you're here." "Me too," said Mary, "I'll try to come as often as I can, but"—she hesitated—"I'm going to look for the garden gate every day." "Yes, you must go," said Colin, "and then you can tell me." He lay there thinking for a few minutes, as he had done before, and then he said again. "I think you must be a secret too," he said. "I won't tell them until they find out. I can always call the nurse out of the room and say I want to be left alone. Do you know Martha?" "Yes, I know her very well," said Mary. "She serves me." He nodded toward the outer corridor. "She's sleeping in the other room. The nurse left yesterday, and spent the night with her sister, and Martha is always with me when she wants to go out. Martha will come and tell you when to come here." At this moment Mary understood Martha's perplexed expression when she asked about the crying. "Martha has known you all this time?" she said. "Yes, she often takes care of me. The nurse likes to leave me and then Martha comes." "I've been here a long time," said Mary. "Shall I go? Your eyes look sleepy." "I wish I could fall asleep before you go," he said rather shyly. "Close your eyes," said Mary, drawing the footstool closer, "and I'll do as my nanny did in India. I'll pat your hand and sing something under my breath." "I might like that," he said sleepily. Somehow she pitied him and didn't want him lying there awake, so she leaned back on the bed and started patting his hands and singing a low Hindustan song. "That's nice," he said more drowsily, and she continued to chant and pat, but when she looked again, his black lashes were pressed against his cheek, because his eyes were closed and he was asleep. caught.So she rose softly, took her candle, and slipped away without a sound.