13 A Mysterious Boy

CHAPTER 13 A Mysterious Boy That's a picture of a thrush nesting," Martha said when Mary showed her the note. Then Mary understood: the garden was a nest, and she was like a thrush. Dickon would keep their secret. She looked forward to seeing Dickon the next day, but during the night, she awoke to the sound of rain beating at her window and the wind roaring. She sat up in bed, feeling angry. "The

weather is as contrary as I am!" She tossed and turned for about an hour. Then she heard something fretful. She sat up again and listened. It wasn't the wind—it was crying. Mary made up her mind to find out who it was. She got out of bed and put on her robe and slippers. She lighted a candle and headed down the long and dark hallway. Mary was too excited to be afraid. She remembered the way to the door behind the tapestry where Mrs. Medlock had been so angry to find her.

The crying grew louder as she approached it, down some passages and up a few steps. She pushed the tapestry aside and opened the hidden door. The crying was clearer now. She saw a faint light under another door and went in. She found herself inside a big room with handsome furniture and a hearth fire. A candle flickered on a table beside a big four- poster bed. On it lay a boy crying pitifully. She crept forward. Her bright candle

attracted the boy's attention. "Are you a ghost?" he asked in a half- frightened voice. "No," Mary whispered. "Are you?" He stared at her with big gray eyes that looked too large for his thin face. "I'm Colin Craven," the boy said. "I'm Mary Lennox. Mr. Craven's my uncle." "He's my father," the boy said. Mary was stunned. "No one told me he had a boy!" she gasped. "Come closer," Colin said. He put out his hand and touched her. "You are real," he said softly. "I thought you were one of my dreams." Colin sat up. "Where did you come from?" he asked. "My room. Didn't anyone tell you that I live here?"

"They wouldn't dare," he said. "They know that I won't let people see me." "Why not?" Mary asked. "Because I'm ill. I was born too soon, and if I live, I'll probably be a hunchback. But I probably won't ... I don't like people to see me and talk about me. My father only comes when I'm asleep. He doesn't want to see me, either." "Why not?" Mary asked. It was all such a mystery. "My mother died when I was born. He doesn't think I know, but I hear people talking—he almost hates me and wishes I were dead." "Don't you ever go outside?" she inquired. "Never. I used to be taken to the seaside in my wheelchair, but people stared at me. I had to wear irons on my legs. A doctor from London said I needed fresh air, but I hate

fresh air. I can't stand people gawking at me." Mary asked if she should go away, but Colin motioned her to sit next to him on a big stool. He wanted to know more about her. "Everybody here has to do what I want," he said as if it were normal. "They can't make me angry because I probably won't grow up." Then he asked, "How old are you?" "Ten," she said, "just like you. When you were born, your father locked the garden and buried the key." This got Colin's attention. His eyes grew larger. "What garden? Why did he lock it?" he demanded. Mary felt nervous. She thought, "He hates the garden because his wife died." Out loud she said, "It's the garden your father hates. No one has been inside it for ten years. Nobody is even allowed to talk about it."