《秘密花园》【连载至第七章】_派派后花园

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当华美的叶片落尽，生命的脉络才历历可见..

举报只看楼主使用道具楼主发表于: 2014-03-17 0

The Secret Garden

CHAPTER I

THERE IS NO ONE LEFT

When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression. Her hair was yellow, and her face was yellow because she had been born in India and had always been ill in one way or another. Her father had held a position under the English Government and had always been busy and ill himself, and her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and amuse herself with gay people. She had not wanted a little girl at all, and when Mary was born she handed her over to the care of an Ayah, who was made to understand that if she wished to please the Mem Sahib she must keep the child out of sight as much as possible. So when she was a sickly, fretful, ugly little baby she was kept out of the way, and when she became a sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was kept out of the way also. She never remembered seeing familiarly anything but the dark faces of her Ayah and the other native servants, and as they always obeyed her and gave her her own way in everything, because the Mem Sahib would be angry if she was disturbed by her crying, by the time she was six years old she was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as ever lived. The young English governess who came to teach her to read and write disliked her so much that she gave up her place in three months, and when other governesses came to try to fill it they always went away in a shorter time than the first one. So if Mary had not chosen to really want to know how to read books she would never have learned her letters at all.

One frightfully hot morning, when she was about nine years old, she awakened feeling very cross, and she became crosser still when she saw that the servant who stood by her bedside was not her Ayah.

"Why did you come?" she said to the strange woman. "I will not let you stay. Send my Ayah to me."

The woman looked frightened, but she only stammered that the Ayah could not come and when Mary threw herself into a passion and beat and kicked her, she looked only more frightened and repeated that it was not possible for the Ayah to come to Missie Sahib.

There was something mysterious in the air that morning. Nothing was done in its regular order and several of the native servants seemed missing, while those whom Mary saw slunk or hurried about with ashy and scared faces. But no one would tell her anything and her Ayah did not come. She was actually left alone as the morning went on, and at last she wandered out into the garden and began to play by herself under a tree near the veranda. She pretended that she was making a flower-bed, and she stuck big scarlet hibiscus blossoms into little heaps of earth, all the time growing more and more angry and muttering to herself the things she would say and the names she would call Saidie when she returned.

"Pig! Pig! Daughter of Pigs!" she said, because to call a native a pig is the worst insult of all.

She was grinding her teeth and saying this over and over again when she heard her mother come out on the veranda with some one. She was with a fair young man and they stood talking together in low strange voices. Mary knew the fair young man who looked like a boy. She had heard that he was a very young officer who had just come from England. The child stared at him, but she stared most at her mother. She always did this when she had a chance to see her, because the Mem Sahib--Mary used to call her that oftener than anything else--was such a tall, slim, pretty person and wore such lovely clothes. Her hair was like curly silk and she had a delicate little nose which seemed to be disdaining things, and she had large laughing eyes. All her clothes were thin and floating, and Mary said they were "full of lace." They looked fuller of lace than ever this morning, but her eyes were not laughing at all. They were large and scared and lifted imploringly to the fair boy officer's face.

"Is it so very bad? Oh, is it?" Mary heard her say.

"Awfully," the young man answered in a trembling voice. "Awfully, Mrs. Lennox. You ought to have gone to the hills two weeks ago."

The Mem Sahib wrung her hands.

"Oh, I know I ought!" she cried. "I only stayed to go to that silly dinner party. What a fool I was!"

At that very moment such a loud sound of wailing broke out from the servants' quarters that she clutched the young man's arm, and Mary stood shivering from head to foot. The wailing grew wilder and wilder. "What is it? What is it?" Mrs. Lennox gasped.

"Some one has died," answered the boy officer. "You did not say it had broken out among your servants."

"I did not know!" the Mem Sahib cried. "Come with me! Come with me!" and she turned and ran into the house.

After that, appalling things happened, and the mysteriousness of the morning was explained to Mary. The cholera had broken out in its most fatal form and people were dying like flies. The Ayah had been taken ill in the night, and it was because she had just died that the servants had wailed in the huts. Before the next day three other servants were dead and others had run away in terror. There was panic on every side, and dying people in all the bungalows.

During the confusion and bewilderment of the second day Mary hid herself in the nursery and was forgotten by everyone. Nobody thought of her, nobody wanted her, and strange things happened of which she knew nothing. Mary alternately cried and slept through the hours. She only knew that people were ill and that she heard mysterious and frightening sounds. Once she crept into the dining-room and found it empty, though a partly finished meal was on the table and chairs and plates looked as if they had been hastily pushed back when the diners rose suddenly for some reason. The child ate some fruit and biscuits, and being thirsty she drank a glass of wine which stood nearly filled. It was sweet, and she did not know how strong it was. Very soon it made her intensely drowsy, and she went back to her nursery and shut herself in again, frightened by cries she heard in the huts and by the hurrying sound of feet. The wine made her so sleepy that she could scarcely keep her eyes open and she lay down on her bed and knew nothing more for a long time.

Many things happened during the hours in which she slept so heavily, but she was not disturbed by the wails and the sound of things being carried in and out of the bungalow.

When she awakened she lay and stared at the wall. The house was perfectly still. She had never known it to be so silent before. She heard neither voices nor footsteps, and wondered if everybody had got well of the cholera and all the trouble was over. She wondered also who would take care of her now her Ayah was dead. There would be a new Ayah, and perhaps she would know some new stories. Mary had been rather tired of the old ones. She did not cry because her nurse had died. She was not an affectionate child and had never cared much for any one. The noise and hurrying about and wailing over the cholera had frightened her, and she had been angry because no one seemed to remember that she was alive. Everyone was too panic-stricken to think of a little girl no one was fond of. When people had the cholera it seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves. But if everyone had got well again, surely some one would remember and come to look for her.

But no one came, and as she lay waiting the house seemed to grow more and more silent. She heard something rustling on the matting and when she looked down she saw a little snake gliding along and watching her with eyes like jewels. She was not frightened, because he was a harmless little thing who would not hurt her and he seemed in a hurry to get out of the room. He slipped under the door as she watched him.

"How queer and quiet it is," she said. "It sounds as if there were no one in the bungalow but me and the snake."

Almost the next minute she heard footsteps in the compound, and then on the veranda. They were men's footsteps, and the men entered the bungalow and talked in low voices. No one went to meet or speak to them and they seemed to open doors and look into rooms. "What desolation!" she heard one voice say. "That pretty, pretty woman! I suppose the child, too. I heard there was a child, though no one ever saw her."

Mary was standing in the middle of the nursery when they opened the door a few minutes later. She looked an ugly, cross little thing and was frowning because she was beginning to be hungry and feel disgracefully neglected. The first man who came in was a large officer she had once seen talking to her father. He looked tired and troubled, but when he saw her he was so startled that he almost jumped back.

"Barney!" he cried out. "There is a child here! A child alone! In a place like this! Mercy on us, who is she!"

"I am Mary Lennox," the little girl said, drawing herself up stiffly. She thought the man was very rude to call her father's bungalow "A place like this!" "I fell asleep when everyone had the cholera and I have only just wakened up. Why does nobody come?"

"It is the child no one ever saw!" exclaimed the man, turning to his companions. "She has actually been forgotten!"

"Why was I forgotten?" Mary said, stamping her foot. "Why does nobody come?"

The young man whose name was Barney looked at her very sadly. Mary even thought she saw him wink his eyes as if to wink tears away.

"Poor little kid!" he said. "There is nobody left to come."

It was in that strange and sudden way that Mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left; that they had died and been carried away in the night, and that the few native servants who had not died also had left the house as quickly as they could get out of it, none of them even remembering that there was a Missie Sahib. That was why the place was so quiet. It was true that there was no one in the bungalow but herself and the little rustling snake.

第一章沧海遗孤

当玛丽.伦诺克斯被送往米特斯韦特山庄的姑父家时，几乎人人都认定她是长相最不受人待见的孩子。看她那瘦削的脸庞、单薄的身板儿、稀稀拉拉的头发和尖酸古怪的表情，没错，真是没有比她更难看的孩子了。因为在印度生长，而且自打一出生就一直受各种疾病困扰，玛丽不仅头发黄蔫蔫的，连脸色也是蜡黄蜡黄的，毫无孩子该有的生机和光泽。她的爸爸在英国驻印度的殖民地政府任职，百事缠身，整日病秧秧的，更谈不上照顾女儿了。她的母亲是个大美人儿，终日沉浸于各类上流人士的社交，加之她压根就不想生孩子，所以玛丽一出生，便被抱给女仆阿亚照管。阿亚秉承着聪明的照看原则: 尽量让玛丽远离夫人的视线。且看，当玛丽还是个丑陋病态，爱哭爱闹的女婴时，她被远远地撂在一旁；当这个体弱暴躁的女娃蹒跚学步，咿呀学语时，依旧被搁在一边。在玛丽的成长过程中，最令她熟悉的莫过于阿亚和身边几个印度仆人黝黑的面孔了。由于女主人听到玛丽的哭闹便会大发雷霆，所以仆人们对小主人言听计从，只求她乖乖听话就好。六岁时，玛丽就已经成为一个不折不扣的大小姐了，娇纵专横，自私自利。家庭教师接二连三地被这个“小恶魔”气走，一个比一个呆得时间短。要不是玛丽诚心学识字，怕是到现在都未必认得全字母。

九岁那年，一个异常闷热的早晨，玛丽从睡梦中刚刚醒来，感到一阵烦躁，看到身边站的佣人不是阿亚时，脾气就更坏了。

“你杵在这干嘛？滚开，叫阿亚过来！”玛丽没好气地冲着身边的仆人叫嚣。

对方非常恐慌，支支吾吾地说阿亚不能来侍候了，当玛丽情绪激动开始对其拳脚相加时，她惊恐无比，却也只是重复着“阿亚再也不能来伺候小姐了”。

整个早上，空气中弥漫的那股神秘诡异的氛围都没能散去。一切都失去了往日的有条不紊，几个仆人还莫名其妙地失踪了，其他的人或脸色阴沉，或行踪诡异，或慌忙逃窜，俨然一副世界末日的样子。没有一个人告诉玛丽到底发生了什么，阿亚也迟迟没有露面。整个上午都没人来搭理她，她漫无目的地溜达起来，逛到花园，便在树下的游廊上自顾自地玩起来。她玩起了办家家，把大朵猩红的木槿花插到一个个小土堆上，就像是在建造花坛。时间一分一秒地过去了，玛丽愈发焦躁起来，她喃喃自语着，全是些愤怒咒骂的话。

“猪！猪！真是头猪！”她用“猪”这个对于当地人意味着极大羞辱的词表达着自己的不满与怨怒。

玛丽咬牙切齿，恶狠狠地从牙缝里蹦出一句句脏话。这时，她忽然看见妈妈和一个皮肤白皙的年轻男人走到游廊下低声交谈起来。玛丽见过这个刚从英国过来的男人，与其说他是个年轻男人，不如说是个大男孩儿更确切些。她虽然上下打量着这个大男孩儿，却禁不住把更多的目光投向了自己的妈妈，玛丽一向如此，一有机会，便死死地盯着“萨伊布殿下”（她通常直呼母亲大名）。萨伊布不仅身材高挑，面容俏美，还十分精于打扮，衣着得体出众。她的头发放佛微风吹拂下的丝绸般柔软细腻，随风弯绕；她鼻子小巧精致，傲视万物般装饰着桃花面；她的大眼睛深邃含笑，巧笑倩兮，美目盼兮；她衣服轻薄飘逸，像玛丽说的那样“花边尽展”。今日的萨伊布殿下衣服的花边更胜往日，飘逸如仙子，只是美目中往昔的笑容已不在，眼睛空洞无神地盯着那位年轻官员，满是恐惧与哀求。

“天啊，真的有这么糟糕吗？”玛丽听到母亲遥遥无助的声音。

“是的，糟糕透顶。伦诺克斯夫人，您两周前就应该躲到山上去的。”年轻官员声音颤抖。

听罢，伦诺克斯夫人纠结地绞着双手，哭喊声中充满了绝望和悔恨：“要不是为了那该死的宴会，我早已躲到山上去了。天啊，我真是个彻头彻尾的傻瓜。”

突然间，仆人房间传来一声撕心裂肺的哭号，划破了表面上仅存的一丁点平静。吓得伦诺克斯夫人一把抓住了年轻人的胳膊。玛丽也禁不住浑身上下打了个冷颤。哀号声越来越肆无忌惮了，搅得人心神不宁。

“什么声音，究竟是什么声音？”伦诺克斯夫人受了惊吓，大口喘着粗气问道。

“有人死了，您怎么没告诉您家的仆人已经染上疫情了。”年轻官员回答。

伦诺克斯夫人此刻已经不知所措，大叫：“我不知道疫情已经到了家里，快，跟我来，快！”边说边转身冲向屋内。

可怕的事情接踵而至，早上一直困扰玛丽的迷雾也逐渐被驱散。灾难来袭，致命的霍乱使得人们如草芥般死去。阿亚正是昨晚不幸染上霍乱，刚才因不治死去，才引发了刚刚仆人们那撕心裂肺的哀号。到天亮的时候，又先后有三个仆人染病死去，死亡的阴霾笼罩着大家，挥之不去的恐怖驱赶着幸存的仆人收拾包袱，慌忙逃窜。恐惧和痛苦没有放过一个角落，每个房间中都有死讯传出。

第二天仍旧是慌乱的一天，玛丽躲在自己的幼儿室中没有出去，于是这个可怜的小家伙彻底被遗忘了。没人想起她，没人需要她，她对外面发生的一切也一无所知。她哭个没完，哭累了便睡上几个小时，待睁开眼睛又继续嚎哭。她只知道有人生病了，也听得到神秘而可怕的声音。因为太饿，她还爬进餐厅觅食，餐厅的景象也很神秘怪异，放佛正在吃大餐的人们由于某些原因，匆忙抽身离去，慌乱中将桌椅推放得乱七八糟。玛丽已经饥肠辘辘，她吃了些水果和饼干充饥，可怜的孩子口渴得要命，抓起那一满杯的红酒咕噜咕噜地喝了起来，喝起来甜甜的，她哪里知道红酒的后劲有多大呢。没一会儿，玛丽便尝到了苦头，她开始昏昏欲睡，眼皮越来越沉。外面狂野揪心的哭号声和忙乱的脚步声让玛丽害怕，于是她回到幼儿室，把自己反锁在里面。酒精发挥的作用越来越明显了，她已经睁不开眼睛，干脆一头栽在床上，昏睡过去，很久很久都没有知觉。

就在她熟睡的几个小时里，外面发生了天翻地覆的变化，哀号声，搬进搬出的声音持续不断，酣睡中的玛丽却丝毫没有受到打扰。

当她醒来时，正躺在床上，盯着墙壁发呆，屋内一片死寂，她从未想过这里会如此安静。昨日不绝于耳的嚎叫和脚步声都消失了，玛丽天真地想，也许这场慌乱结束了，灾难到头了，好日子又重新回来了。她还想到阿亚，阿亚死后会由谁来照料她呢？或许是位带着新故事的新仆人，那真是太棒了，因为玛丽早已厌倦了阿亚那些让她耳朵长茧的老故事。她不是那种重感情的孩子，她从不关心他人，所以阿亚的死不足以令她动容。外面的嘈杂声和痛彻心扉的哀号倒真的把她吓坏了，恐惧之余，她还感到一阵阵恼怒，毕竟到如今都没人惦记她这个幸存者。这也难怪，当霍乱到来的时候，遭受到灾难的人们似乎很难记得起自己以外的人和事，更何况是一个平日里就不讨人喜欢的小女孩呢。不过不用担心啦，当人们晃过神时，肯定有人记起她，也肯定有人过来找她的。

可惜这只是个空想，一直都没人来找她，她静静地躺在床上等待“救援”，这个举动让屋子显得更加空寂了。她听到垫子下面有悉悉索索的声音，低头望去，只见一条小蛇滑行而过，用宝石般闪亮的眼睛盯着她。对于玛丽而言，这条小蛇没什么可怕的，它没毒，也不会伤害到人，而且它正迫不及待地想要冲出屋子，就在这个当口，它遂愿地顺着门下面的缝隙溜走了。

“出奇的怪异，出奇的安静，整个屋子除了我和这条小蛇，好像就没别的生物了。”玛丽喃喃自语。

话音刚落，玛丽听到了院子里的脚步声，紧接着到了游廊，然后到了屋子里，脚步声沉重有力，听起来像是男人的脚步。他们进了屋子后低声交谈，屋内无人迎接，他们把屋里的门一扇扇地全打开，再一间间确认有没有人。

“太凄惨了！就连那个漂亮女人也死了，我猜那个孩子也难逃厄运。尽管没人见过，但我确实听说她有一个孩子。”玛丽听见外面声音说。

当他们打开幼儿室的门时，玛丽正站在屋子中间，她瘦小干瘪，丑陋乖戾，还紧皱眉头，像个让人厌恶的小怪物。这也不能全怪她，饿了那么久都没人来照看，被忽视到这个程度，真是太没面子了。第一个走进屋子的人是个高大的官员，玛丽记得这个人，因为他与她的父亲交谈过。这个官员看上去非常疲惫不安，当他意外看到玛丽时，惊恐万分，差点儿跳了起来。

“巴尼，快过来，这儿有个孩子，这种鬼地方居然还有一个孩子！上帝保佑！这孩子究竟是谁？”

“我叫玛丽.伦诺克斯，”听到这个男人无理地称爸爸的房子为“这种鬼地方”，玛丽显然有些不高兴了，于是她故意挺了挺腰板，僵在原地说道：“外面的人染上霍乱，我在这儿睡着了，刚刚才醒，为什么这么久了都没人来照顾我？”

对方恍然大悟，冲着同伴喊道：“她就是我刚刚提到的那个没人见过的孩子，她确确实实是被遗忘了。”

玛丽气急败坏地跺着脚：“为什么都把我给忘了？为什么这么久都没人来找我？”

巴尼痛苦地望着这个孩子，玛丽甚至看到了他眨着眼睛想要忍回眼眶中的泪水：“可怜的孩子，霍乱过后，外面的人都死光了，哪里还会有人来找你呢。”

尽管这种方式奇怪而又突然，可让玛丽瞬间明白了一切：她的父母昨晚也未能幸免于难，那些仆人，死的死，逃的逃，没有一个人记得她这位大小姐的存在，所以一切才会如此死寂。整个房子确实只剩下玛丽和那条游走的小蛇了。

[ 此帖被搁浅七夜在2014-03-18 16:34重新编辑 ]

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当华美的叶片落尽，生命的脉络才历历可见..

举报只看该作者沙发发表于: 2014-03-17 0

CHAPTER II

MISTRESS MARY QUITE CONTRARY

Mary had liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had thought her very pretty, but as she knew very little of her she could scarcely have been expected to love her or to miss her very much when she was gone. She did not miss her at all, in fact, and as she was a self-absorbed child she gave her entire thought to herself, as she had always done. If she had been older she would no doubt have been very anxious at being left alone in the world, but she was very young, and as she had always been taken care of, she supposed she always would be. What she thought was that she would like to know if she was going to nice people, who would be polite to her and give her her own way as her Ayah and the other native servants had done.

She knew that she was not going to stay at the English clergyman's house where she was taken at first. She did not want to stay. The English clergyman was poor and he had five children nearly all the same age and they wore shabby clothes and were always quarreling and snatching toys from each other. Mary hated their untidy bungalow and was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody would play with her. By the second day they had given her a nickname which made her furious.

It was Basil who thought of it first. Basil was a little boy with impudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose, and Mary hated him. She was playing by herself under a tree, just as she had been playing the day the cholera broke out. She was making heaps of earth and paths for a garden and Basil came and stood near to watch her. Presently he got rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion.

"Why don't you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery?" he said. "There in the middle," and he leaned over her to point.

"Go away!" cried Mary. "I don't want boys. Go away!"

For a moment Basil looked angry, and then he began to tease. He was always teasing his sisters. He danced round and round her and made faces and sang and laughed.

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary,

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells, and cockle shells,

And marigolds all in a row."

He sang it until the other children heard and laughed, too; and the crosser Mary got, the more they sang "Mistress Mary, quite contrary"; and after that as long as she stayed with them they called her "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary" when they spoke of her to each other, and often when they spoke to her.

"You are going to be sent home," Basil said to her, "at the end of the week. And we're glad of it."

"I am glad of it, too," answered Mary. "Where is home?"

"She doesn't know where home is!" said Basil, with seven-year-old scorn. "It's England, of course. Our grandmama lives there and our sister Mabel was sent to her last year. You are not going to your grandmama. You have none. You are going to your uncle. His name is Mr. Archibald Craven."

"I don't know anything about him," snapped Mary.

"I know you don't," Basil answered. "You don't know anything. Girls never do. I heard father and mother talking about him. He lives in a great, big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him. He's so cross he won't let them, and they wouldn't come if he would let them. He's a hunchback, and he's horrid." "I don't believe you," said Mary; and she turned her back and stuck her fingers in her ears, because she would not listen any more.

But she thought over it a great deal afterward; and when Mrs. Crawford told her that night that she was going to sail away to England in a few days and go to her uncle, Mr. Archibald Craven, who lived at Misselthwaite Manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested that they did not know what to think about her. They tried to be kind to her, but she only turned her face away when Mrs. Crawford attempted to kiss her, and held herself stiffly when Mr. Crawford patted her shoulder.

"She is such a plain child," Mrs. Crawford said pityingly, afterward. "And her mother was such a pretty creature. She had a very pretty manner, too, and Mary has the most unattractive ways I ever saw in a child. The children call her 'Mistress Mary Quite Contrary,' and though it's naughty of them, one can't help understanding it."

"Perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners oftener into the nursery Mary might have learned some pretty ways too. It is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all."

"I believe she scarcely ever looked at her," sighed Mrs. Crawford. "When her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing. Think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow. Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room."

Mary made the long voyage to England under the care of an officer's wife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school. She was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was rather glad to hand the child over to the woman Mr. Archibald Craven sent to meet her, in London. The woman was his housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor, and her name was Mrs. Medlock. She was a stout woman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. She wore a very purple dress, a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black bonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she moved her head. Mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom liked people there was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was very evident Mrs. Medlock did not think much of her.

"My word! she's a plain little piece of goods!" she said. "And we'd heard that her mother was a beauty. She hasn't handed much of it down, has she, ma'am?" "Perhaps she will improve as she grows older," the officer's wife said good-naturedly. "If she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression, her features are rather good. Children alter so much."

"She'll have to alter a good deal," answered Mrs. Medlock. "And, there's nothing likely to improve children at Misselthwaite--if you ask me!" They thought Mary was not listening because she was standing a little apart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to. She was watching the passing buses and cabs and people, but she heard quite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he lived in. What sort of a place was it, and what would he be like? What was a hunchback? She had never seen one. Perhaps there were none in India.
Since she had been living in other people's houses and had had no Ayah, she had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new to her. She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to anyone even when her father and mother had been alive. Other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be anyone's little girl. She had had servants, and food and clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her. She did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, she did not know she was disagreeable. She often thought that other people were, but she did not know that she was so herself.

She thought Mrs. Medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever seen, with her common, highly colored face and her common fine bonnet. When the next day they set out on their journey to Yorkshire, she walked through the station to the railway carriage with her head up and trying to keep as far away from her as she could, because she did not want to seem to belong to her. It would have made her angry to think people imagined she was her little girl.

But Mrs. Medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her thoughts. She was the kind of woman who would "stand no nonsense from young ones." At least, that is what she would have said if she had been asked. She had not wanted to go to London just when her sister Maria's daughter was going to be married, but she had a comfortable, well paid place as housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor and the only way in which she could keep it was to do at once what Mr. Archibald Craven told her to do. She never dared even to ask a question.

"Captain Lennox and his wife died of the cholera," Mr. Craven had said in his short, cold way. "Captain Lennox was my wife's brother and I am their daughter's guardian. The child is to be brought here. You must go to London and bring her yourself."

So she packed her small trunk and made the journey.

Mary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain and fretful. She had nothing to read or to look at, and she had folded her thin little black-gloved hands in her lap. Her black dress made her look yellower than ever, and her limp light hair straggled from under her black crepe hat.

"A more marred-looking young one I never saw in my life," Mrs. Medlock thought. (Marred is a Yorkshire word and means spoiled and pettish.) She had never seen a child who sat so still without doing anything; and at last she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk, hard voice.

"I suppose I may as well tell you something about where you are going to," she said. "Do you know anything about your uncle?"

"No," said Mary.

"Never heard your father and mother talk about him?"

"No," said Mary frowning. She frowned because she remembered that her father and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular. Certainly they had never told her things.

"Humph," muttered Mrs. Medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive little face. She did not say any more for a few moments and then she began again.

"I suppose you might as well be told something--to prepare you. You are going to a queer place."

Mary said nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on.

"Not but that it's a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven's proud of it in his way--and that's gloomy enough, too. The house is six hundred years old and it's on the edge of the moor, and there's near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them's shut up and locked. And there's pictures and fine old furniture and things that's been there for ages, and there's a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground--some of them." She paused and took another breath. "But there's nothing else," she ended suddenly.

Mary had begun to listen in spite of herself. It all sounded so unlike India, and anything new rather attracted her. But she did not intend to look as if she were interested. That was one of her unhappy, disagreeable ways. So she sat still.

"Well," said Mrs. Medlock. "What do you think of it?"

"Nothing," she answered. "I know nothing about such places."

That made Mrs. Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh.

"Eh!" she said, "but you are like an old woman. Don't you care?"

"It doesn't matter" said Mary, "whether I care or not."

"You are right enough there," said Mrs. Medlock. "It doesn't. What you're to be kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I don't know, unless because it's the easiest way. He's not going to trouble himself about you, that's sure and certain. He never troubles himself about no one."

She stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time.

"He's got a crooked back," she said. "That set him wrong. He was a sour young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was married."

Mary's eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to care. She had never thought of the hunchback's being married and she was a trifle surprised. Mrs. Medlock saw this, and as she was a talkative woman she continued with more interest. This was one way of passing some of the time, at any rate.

"She was a sweet, pretty thing and he'd have walked the world over to get her a blade o' grass she wanted. Nobody thought she'd marry him, but she did, and people said she married him for his money. But she didn't--she didn't," positively. "When she died--"

Mary gave a little involuntary jump.

"Oh! did she die!" she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. She had just remembered a French fairy story she had once read called "Riquet a la Houppe." It had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess and it had made her suddenly sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven.

"Yes, she died," Mrs. Medlock answered. "And it made him queerer than ever. He cares about nobody. He won't see people. Most of the time he goes away, and when he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself up in the West Wing and won't let any one but Pitcher see him. Pitcher's an old fellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows his ways."

It sounded like something in a book and it did not make Mary feel cheerful. A house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and with their doors locked--a house on the edge of a moor--whatsoever a moor was--sounded dreary. A man with a crooked back who shut himself up also! She stared out of the window with her lips pinched together, and it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down in gray slanting lines and splash and stream down the window-panes. If the pretty wife had been alive she might have made things cheerful by being something like her own mother and by running in and out and going to parties as she had done in frocks "full of lace." But she was not there any more.
"You needn't expect to see him, because ten to one you won't," said Mrs. Medlock. "And you mustn't expect that there will be people to talk to you. You'll have to play about and look after yourself. You'll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms you're to keep out of. There's gardens enough. But when you're in the house don't go wandering and poking about. Mr. Craven won't have it."

"I shall not want to go poking about," said sour little Mary and just as suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven she began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant enough to deserve all that had happened to him.

And she turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of the railway carriage and gazed out at the gray rain-storm which looked as if it would go on forever and ever. She watched it so long and steadily that the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep.

第二章  玛丽小姐真古怪，处处作对惹人厌

玛丽一向喜欢从远处观望妈妈，因为她觉得妈妈是个漂亮的女人。但这对母女相处和交流的时间太少，玛丽对妈妈毫不了解，更谈不上母女亲情，所以美丽的萨伊布殿下去世后，身为女儿的玛丽丝毫没有想念或痛苦。她就是这样一个自私的孩子，她的世界中只有自己的存在。倘若再年长几岁，她肯定会为今后无依无靠的生活而忧虑，可她毕竟太小了，又一直在仆人的照顾下生活，所以她理所当然地认为还将有其他人继续扮演仆人的角色。她所关心的是新仆人能否像死去的阿亚或其他仆人那般逆来顺受，言听计从。

玛丽先是被带到了一个英国牧师的家里寄居，她打一开始就不想呆在那儿。牧师家破烂简陋，家徒四壁，先不说那惹人厌烦的破房子，家里那五个跟玛丽同龄的孩子就够呛了，整日衣衫褴褛，为了争抢玩具能引发一场接一场的战争。玛丽自认为跟他们不是同道中人，合不来，才一两天的功夫，就没人愿意跟她玩了，自打第二天起，这群孩子便给她起了个绰号，可把她给气坏了。

绰号的创始人是巴兹尔，他长着一双蓝色的金鱼眼和一只朝天鼻，眼神古怪无礼，玛丽最讨厌的就是他了。当日玛丽在树下自顾自地玩耍，办家家似地建着一个花园，她堆着土丘，铺设着花园里的小路，就像霍乱爆发时那样。巴兹尔走了过来，饶有兴趣地观察了一会儿，兴冲冲地提了个建议：“你为什么不用石头垒个假山放在中间呢？瞧，就垒在这儿。”小男孩儿边说边指指地方。

“滚开，我不需要男孩儿对我指手画脚，快滚开！”玛丽粗鲁地冲着巴兹尔喊道。

巴兹尔气得眼睛冒火，很快便化悲愤为力量，用对付他姐姐妹妹的那套开始了对玛丽的嘲弄。他大笑着一圈一圈地绕着玛丽，跳着、唱着、还不停地做着鬼脸：

“玛丽小姐真古怪，
  花园怎能建起来？
  银钟啊，扇壳啊，
  金盏花儿一排排。”

巴兹尔好像打了兴奋剂，一直唱，直到其他孩子都听见并开始加入；玛丽越生气，他们唱得越起劲。从那以后，只要玛丽在旁边，他们便会不约而同地唱起：“玛丽小姐真古怪”。

不仅如此，巴兹尔还主动上前挑衅：“这个周末你就要被送回家了，我们好高兴呀！”

玛丽也不让步：“谢天谢地，能够离开你们这群讨厌鬼，我也高兴着呢。你刚刚说的‘家’在哪里？”

“大家看呐，她连家在哪里都不知道！”这个七岁的男孩以这个年龄固有的方式轻蔑地讥讽道。“你的家当然是在英国了，我们的奶奶就住在那里，去年我们的妹妹梅布尔也被送去了。不过你没有奶奶，所以只能去你姑父那儿咯，他叫阿奇博尔德.克雷文。”

“胡说，我才不认识什么阿奇博尔德.克雷文呢。”玛丽立刻用话把巴兹尔冲了回去。

“我知道你不知道，女孩儿能知道什么呢。我听爸爸妈妈谈起过你姑父，他住在乡下一所荒无人烟的宽敞老房子里。他是出了名的坏脾气，所以没有他的传唤，没人会去主动靠近他；他习惯独处，也不会主动去搭理别人。而且他还是个驼背，模样很奇怪很可怕哦。”巴兹尔依旧一派轻蔑的嘴脸。
“哼，我才不相信呢。”玛丽转过身去，干脆用手指把耳朵堵上。

事后玛丽把这事翻来覆去想了很多遍。当天晚上，当她从克罗福太太那里得知几天后将被送到米特斯韦特山庄的姑父克雷文那里时，玛丽满脸漠然，整个人僵硬得像块石头，纹丝不动；搞得克罗福夫妇不知如何是好。他们试图对玛丽友好，可当克罗福太太凑过去亲她时，她毅然转过头去；当克罗福先生拍其肩膀以示亲昵时，她却僵直地愣站着，不给对方任何回应。

克罗福太太不禁惋惜道：“真是个又难看又不知趣的孩子，从头到脚，言行举止没有一丁点儿讨人喜欢的地方。她的妈妈可是个人见人爱的大美人啊，待人接物也大方得体，母女俩的差距怎么这么大呀。难怪孩子们整天嚷嚷‘玛丽小姐真古怪’，称呼本身挺没规矩的，但放到她身上真是再合适不过了。”

“倘若美丽的伦诺克斯太太以前能多多照顾这个可怜的孩子，她八成能从母亲的美丽动人和优雅举止上耳濡目染些。伤心的是这个美丽的尤物不在了，很多人都不知道她还有玛丽这个孩子。”克罗福先生颇感惋惜。

克罗福夫人叹了口气：“恐怕她都没有仔细看过这孩子一眼吧，女仆阿亚死后，没人记得起这个可怜的小东西。仆人们都逃命去了，留下一个孩子孤苦伶仃地呆在荒凉的房子里。难怪麦克格里上校说他推门看到屋子里无助的孩子时吓得差点儿脱了壳。”

玛丽踏上了前往英格兰的旅程，漫长的海上旅程放佛遥遥无期。船上一位军官太太实送孩子去英国的寄宿学校，名义上是要照顾玛丽，事实上她对自己孩子们的照顾是无微不至，却根本无暇顾忌玛丽，所以迫不及待地把玛丽移交给了克雷文先生派来接应的管家米洛克太太。米洛克太太矮胖结实，脸颊红彤彤的，双目黑亮锐利。她穿着紫色连衣裙，外面罩着镶嵌黑色流苏的黑色丝绸外衫；头戴黑色棉布软帽，帽顶插了一支紫色天鹅绒大花，花朵随着米洛克太太的头部运动有节奏地起舞。玛丽对米洛克太太没有好感，这没什么稀奇的，因为她很少喜欢过谁。米洛克太太也没把玛丽当回事。

“天啊，这个小家伙怎么如此其貌不扬!听说她妈妈是个大美人呢，怎么没遗传到优良基因呢，是不是呀，夫人？”米洛克夫人冲着军官太太问道。
“女大十八变，她会越来越漂亮的。”军官太太好心地回答道，“而且，如果她气色能好一些，表情再友善一点儿，整体会比现在好看很多，毕竟孩子的五官长得还不错。小女孩儿嘛，变化大着呢。”

“那她可真是有的变了，况且米特斯韦特山庄本就不适合孩子成长，孩子想在那里得到改善，怕是比登天还难哦。”米洛克太太毫不客气地说。
大人们在小旅馆中无所顾虑地聊着，本以为玛丽听不见，其实这个小家伙听得一清二楚，她虽然站在家庭旅馆的窗边上，放佛凝神观察路上不息的车流和人群，实际上一直竖着耳朵偷听呢。此刻，玛丽对姑父和那个山庄充满了好奇，庄园究竟是个什么样的地方？姑父又是怎样的人呢？驼背是什么？玛丽从未在印度见过驼背。一连串的问号充斥着她的小脑袋。

可能因为近来一直寄人篱下，又没有仆人相伴，玛丽开始感到孤独，各种稀奇古怪的想法也萌生着。她从未有过归属感，即使她父母在世的时候也是如此，其他的孩子都是父母的心肝宝贝，可她从来都不是。尽管吃穿不愁，还有人伺候，可这种的养尊处优的日子并未让她产生被珍视的感觉。可惜小玛丽不知道是自己的乖戾所致，倒经常觉得是因为别人太讨厌。

现在看来，米洛克太太是玛丽见过的最讨厌的人了，无论是她脸上那俗不可耐的高原红，还是那顶庸俗招摇的大帽子。第二天，她们穿过火车站去乘坐发往约克郡的火车。玛丽一路昂着头走过，与米洛克太太始终保持距离。她怕被路人误认为是米洛克太太的孩子，这对她而言可是奇耻大辱。
玛丽的想法和行为都没有对米洛克太太产生任何影响，米洛克太太是那种“坚决无法容忍年轻人胡闹”的妇人。何况姐姐玛利亚的女儿要出嫁了，她压根就没想在这个当口来伦敦接玛丽。可谁叫山庄有这份清闲又高薪的女管家工作呢，为了保住这份工作，米洛克太太不得不对克雷文先生言听计从。

“伦诺克斯上尉是我亡妻的哥哥，他们夫妇俩在霍乱中都死了。”克雷文先生生硬简短地告之米洛克太太。“于是我成了他们遗孤的监护人，孩子正被送往英国，现在由你去伦敦把孩子接回山庄。”

米洛克太太接到命令后，迅速收拾完行李便启程了。

车厢里，玛丽蜷缩在一角，脸色苍白，神情烦躁。她没什么可消遣可打发时间的，于是石头般僵僵地坐着，把那双戴着黑手套的小手交叠着端放在膝前。那身黑色裙子显得她脸色更差了，蜡黄蜡黄的；稀疏松软的头发从黑色的绸布帽中无精打采地耷拉下来。

米洛克太太见状，禁不住在心里叨念：“活了大半辈子，还从未见过这样爱耍性子的孩子，真是被惯坏了。”难为米洛克太太了，哪个孩子能像玛丽这般没趣呢？过了一会儿，米洛克太太实在忍受不了了，她厌倦一直望着那张木无标熗的脸，于是用着装作轻快的生硬声音发起了对话，企图打破眼前的尴尬局面。

“看来我得跟你说说咱们的目的地了，你知道你的姑父吗？”

“不知道。”玛丽显然不太合作。

“都没听你的父母提起过他？”米洛克太太对玛丽的回答颇感意外和不解。

“没有。”玛丽皱起眉头，她的父母没有提起这件事，也没提起过其他事，更别说教给她什么了。古怪的小玛丽在父母面前宛然空气一般。

“哼”，米洛克太太盯着玛丽那张古板而怪异的小脸嘟哝道。一时间竟不知说什么好，过了好大一会儿，米洛克太太才重新恢复说话的兴致。

“我觉得还是提前告知你一些情况比较好，帮你做个心理准备。你要去的是一个非常怪异的地方。”

玛丽仍旧一言不发，这种公然的漠视让米洛克太太窘得无所适从。她深深地吸了一口气，还是耐着性子说了下去：

“那个地方叫米特斯韦特庄园，虽然宏伟壮观，但笼罩着阴郁之气；更古怪的是你姑父一直引以为荣，津津乐道。山庄建造在荒野边上，有六百多年的历史了，里面足足有上百个房间呢，只可惜大部分的房间都常年紧锁着。房间里挂着很多画儿，摆放着上乘的古董家具，当然还有其他物件，哪样东西都得有好些年的历史呢。房子外围绕着一个诺大的园林，还有很多的小花园，那里树木丛生，很多树枝都垂到了地上。”

米洛克太太深深地松了口气，接着说道：“除此之外，也就没什么了。”这个结尾颇显突兀。

玛丽已经被米洛克太太的描述深深吸引了，那么多新鲜事儿，都是印度所没有的，每一件都足以触动她的心弦。尽管如此，玛丽仍旧装作一脸漠然，僵直地坐在原处，一动不动。她总是那样不讨人喜欢。

“感觉如何，小姑娘？”米洛克太太问道。

“没感觉，不了解。”玛丽轻描淡写道。

米洛克太太没绷住，扑哧一声笑了出来。

“嗨，小姑娘，你怎么表现得像个老太太，难道你就一点都不在乎吗？”

“无所谓，我在不在乎都一样。”玛丽满不在乎。

“说的倒没错，而且这将是你在米特斯韦特庄园的生存法则。不知道他们为什么要把你放到那儿，也许这样更省事儿吧。可以确定的是，你姑父不会为了你而给自己找不痛快，他从不为任何人烦心。”

说到这儿，米洛克太太突然顿住了，好像瞬间想到了什么。

“他是个驼背，这让他吃了不少苦头。年轻时的他尖酸乖戾，虽然腰缠万贯，可无论钱还是庄园都没能让他得到什么好处，直到结婚才有了变化。”米洛克太太滔滔不绝。

听到这儿，任凭玛丽如何努力装作不感兴趣，她的眼睛还是不争气地瞟向米洛克太太。玛丽从未想过这个驼背男人还结过婚，听了这段描述不禁感觉有些惊异。米洛克太太是个话痨，当她看到自己的谈话让玛丽的态度发生逆转时，她加足马力，更加声情并茂起来。这也是打发无聊时间的一种手段嘛。

“她是个漂亮甜美的女人，克雷文为了博得红颜一笑，甘愿走遍世界去寻找她钟爱的一叶草。当她嫁给克雷文先生时，所有人都说她是为了钱，因为人们难以理解如此天仙般的女人怎会嫁给一个驼背。可她不是为了钱，真的不是。米洛克太太斩钉截铁地说。“当她死的时候……”

玛丽听得太入神，不由自主地跳了起来。

“她死了，她果然还是死了！玛丽大叫起来，她没有其他意思，只是触景生情，联想到曾经读过的一本法国童话，讲的也是关于一个穷苦驼背男人和美丽公主的故事。玛丽忽然开始同情克雷文先生，对他的不幸遭遇倍感惋惜。

“是的，她死了。她的死让克雷文先生变得更加古怪，他不关心任何人，也不见任何人，大部分的时间都在外出，即使回到山庄，也是把自己锁在西厢房，除了皮切尔谁都不见。对了，皮切尔是从克雷文很小的时候就开始照顾他的老伙计，所以熟知克雷文的怪习惯。

听起来那么戏剧化，就像书里面写的那样，不过玛丽一点儿也高兴不起来。上百间紧锁的房门；荒原边上的古老建筑——单是想想什么是荒原就让足以人毛骨悚然；一个驼着背还总把自己锁在房间里的男人；想到这些，玛丽不禁撅起小嘴望向窗外。窗外的一切非常应景，灰白的雨线斜斜地拍打着窗户，顺着窗户凝聚成河，又流淌而下。如果那个漂亮的姑姑还活着该多好，也许庄园的气氛会更加愉悦些，也许她会像妈妈生前那样，穿着蕾丝裙整天忙进忙出地周旋于各类社交场合。唉，可惜她已经不在了。

米洛克太太打断了玛丽的沉思：“你不用期待见到你姑父，十有八九你是见不到他的。你也甭想找人跟你聊天儿，到了那里之后，你要自娱自乐，自求多福。到时候会有人告诉你哪些房间是可以进的，哪些是必须远离的。山庄有很多花园可以溜达玩耍。但是切记，别在房子里瞎逛，更别去探究什么，克雷文先生可不喜欢那样。

“我才不会去瞎探究瞎琢磨呢，”古怪的玛丽顶了米洛克太太一句。刚刚还在为克雷文先生的遭遇感到惋惜的玛丽态度忽然180度大转弯，她觉得克雷文先生身上发生的一切都是活该。

玛丽转向车窗，玻璃上成串的雨帘隔开了窗外没玩没了的暴雨。玛丽死死地盯着大雨，渐渐地，灰白的暴雨变成了深灰色，越来越浓，越来越深，终于她睡着了。

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当华美的叶片落尽，生命的脉络才历历可见..

举报只看该作者板凳发表于: 2014-03-17 0

CHAPTER III ACROSS THE MOOR

She slept a long time, and when she awakened Mrs. Medlock had bought a lunchbasket at one of the stations and they had some chicken and cold beef and bread and butter and some hot tea. The rain seemed to be streaming down more heavily than ever and everybody in the station wore wet and glistening waterproofs. The guard lighted the lamps in the carriage, and Mrs. Medlock cheered up very much over her tea and chicken and beef. She ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep herself, and Mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet slip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage, lulled by the splashing of the rain against the windows. It was quite dark when she awakened again. The train had stopped at a station and Mrs. Medlock was shaking her.

"You have had a sleep!" she said. "It's time to open your eyes! We're at Thwaite Station and we've got a long drive before us."

Mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while Mrs. Medlock collected her parcels. The little girl did not offer to help her, because in India native servants always picked up or carried things and it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one.

The station was a small one and nobody but themselves seemed to be getting out of the train. The station-master spoke to Mrs. Medlock in a rough, good-natured way, pronouncing his words in a queer broad fashion which Mary found out afterward was Yorkshire.

"I see tha's got back," he said. "An' tha's browt th' young 'un with thee."

"Aye, that's her," answered Mrs. Medlock, speaking with a Yorkshire accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward Mary. "How's thy Missus?"

"Well enow. Th' carriage is waitin' outside for thee."

A brougham stood on the road before the little outside platform. Mary saw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who helped her in. His long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of his hat were shining and dripping with rain as everything was, the burly station-master included.

When he shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they drove off, the little girl found herself seated in a comfortably cushioned corner, but she was not inclined to go to sleep again. She sat and looked out of the window, curious to see something of the road over which she was being driven to the queer place Mrs. Medlock had spoken of. She was not at all a timid child and she was not exactly frightened, but she felt that there was no knowing what might happen in a house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up--a house standing on the edge of a moor.
"What is a moor?" she said suddenly to Mrs. Medlock.

"Look out of the window in about ten minutes and you'll see," the woman answered. "We've got to drive five miles across Missel Moor before we get to the Manor. You won't see much because it's a dark night, but you can see something."

Mary asked no more questions but waited in the darkness of her corner, keeping her eyes on the window. The carriage lamps cast rays of light a little distance ahead of them and she caught glimpses of the things they passed. After they had left the station they had driven through a tiny village and she had seen whitewashed cottages and the lights of a public house. Then they had passed a church and a vicarage and a little shop-window or so in a cottage with toys and sweets and odd things set out for sale. Then they were on the highroad and she saw hedges and trees. After that there seemed nothing different for a long time--or at least it seemed a long time to her.

At last the horses began to go more slowly, as if they were climbing up-hill, and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more trees. She could see nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either side. She leaned forward and pressed her face against the window just as the carriage gave a big jolt.

"Eh! We're on the moor now sure enough," said Mrs. Medlock.

The carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which seemed to be cut through bushes and low-growing things which ended in the great expanse of dark apparently spread out before and around them. A wind was rising and making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound.
"It's--it's not the sea, is it?" said Mary, looking round at her companion.

"No, not it," answered Mrs. Medlock. "Nor it isn't fields nor mountains, it's just miles and miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on but wild ponies and sheep."

"I feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it," said Mary. "It sounds like the sea just now."

"That's the wind blowing through the bushes," Mrs. Medlock said. "It's a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there's plenty that likes it--particularly when the heather's in bloom."

On and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped, the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds. The road went up and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise. Mary felt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was passing on a strip of dry land.

"I don't like it," she said to herself. "I don't like it," and she pinched her thin lips more tightly together.

The horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught sight of a light. Mrs. Medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a long sigh of relief.

"Eh, I am glad to see that bit o' light twinkling," she exclaimed. "It's the light in the lodge window. We shall get a good cup of tea after a bit, at all events."

It was "after a bit," as she said, for when the carriage passed through the park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through and the trees (which nearly met overhead) made it seem as if they were driving through a long dark vault.

They drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an immensely long but low-built house which seemed to ramble round a stone court. At first Mary thought that there were no lights at all in the windows, but as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a corner upstairs showed a dull glow.

The entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiously shaped panels of oak studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars. It opened into an enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that the faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of armor made Mary feel that she did not want to look at them. As she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked.

A neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for them.

"You are to take her to her room," he said in a husky voice. "He doesn't want to see her. He's going to London in the morning."

"Very well, Mr. Pitcher," Mrs. Medlock answered. "So long as I know what's expected of me, I can manage."

"What's expected of you, Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Pitcher said, "is that you make sure that he's not disturbed and that he doesn't see what he doesn't want to see."

And then Mary Lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long corridor and up a short flight of steps and through another corridor and another, until a door opened in a wall and she found herself in a room with a fire in it and a supper on a table.

Mrs. Medlock said unceremoniously:

"Well, here you are! This room and the next are where you'll live--and you must keep to them. Don't you forget that!"

It was in this way Mistress Mary arrived at Misselthwaite Manor and she had perhaps never felt quite so contrary in all her life.

第三章穿过荒原

玛丽睡了很久，当她睁开眼时，米洛克太太已经在经停的某个站台买了一餐篮午餐，她们吃了些鸡肉、冷牛肉、面包和黄油，还喝了杯暖暖的热茶。雨势愈加猛烈了，车站里的人都披着雨衣，被暴雨淋湿后亮亮地泛着光，还湿漉漉地滴答不停。乘务员打开车厢灯，米洛克太太享用着午餐，美味的鸡肉、牛肉、还有热腾腾的茶，她吃得不亦乐乎。酒足饭饱后便一头倒下，酣睡过去。玛丽坐在一旁观察米洛克太太的睡姿，还有她那顶顺势歪在一边的女帽，直到再次窝在那个小角落里睡着了。窗外的雨点好像一把把利剑，恶狠狠地敲打着车窗玻璃，车厢里却一片安宁。当玛丽被米洛克太太摇醒时，火车已经靠站，窗外一片漆黑。

“你睡得还真沉，该醒醒了。我们已经到了瑟威特车站，待会还有一段很长的车程要赶呢。”

玛丽费力地睁开惺忪的睡眼，米洛克太太忙着收拾行李包裹，她却习惯性地站在一旁干等着。在印度，仆人干活天经地义，主人只需要优雅地在一旁等待就可以了。

瑟威力特站是个小站，除了她们俩，没有其他人下车。站长用粗犷而友善的方式与米洛克太太交谈，方言浓重，后来玛丽才知道那就是所谓的“约克郡腔”。

“您回来啦，还带来一个小孩儿。”他问道。

“是的，就是她。”米洛克太太一边把脖子向玛丽的方向甩了甩示意，一边操着浓重的约克郡音说道。“您太太近来可好？”

“好得很呢，劳您挂心。太太，马车已备好，在外面候着呢。”站长言辞毕恭毕敬。

外面的站台上停着一辆四轮带篷马车，玛丽不禁在心中赞叹马车的精致，就连扶她进马车的随从都显得十分灵光。跟这里的其他人一样，他长长的雨衣和帽子上的防水雨布都滴滴答答地淌着雨水，还泛着亮光。

随从关上马车门，爬上车与车夫并排坐好就启程了。玛丽挨着车厢内的角落坐下，厚厚软软的垫子别提多舒服啦，不过她毫无睡意，百般好奇地望着窗外，她想一睹通往米洛克太太口中那个奇怪山庄的沿途都有哪些风光。玛丽不是那种胆儿小的孩子，她丝毫没有感到恐惧，只是非常好奇，在那个即将到达的地方究竟会上演怎样的剧情？——上百间紧锁的房间，荒原的边缘。

“什么是荒原？”玛丽毫无征兆地问米洛克太太。

“大概再过十分钟，你看看窗外就知道了。我们还穿行五英里跨过米索荒原后才能到山庄。天色已黑，不要奢求看全景了，不过大部分还是可以看见的。”

玛丽没有再问其他问题，静静地窝在那个黑暗的小角落里观望着车窗外。车灯照亮了前方，玛丽借着投撒的灯光领略着沿途风景。离开车站后，她们的马车曾路过一个小村庄，村里星星点点地座落着刷着白石灰粉的农舍，还有旅馆透出的灯火。她们还路过了一个教堂，看见了牧师的住宅和一个陈列着玩具、糖果和其他稀奇玩意儿的商店窗口。然后马车驶上宽阔的大路，玛丽看到了大路两旁的树篱。之后很长时间，外面好像都是同样的景色，又好像是单调乏味的景色让玛丽觉得过了很长时间。

最后马儿放慢了速度，像是在爬坡，此时此刻，玛丽发现她看了半晌的树篱不见了，不仅是树篱，除了浓浓的黑暗，她几乎看不到任何其他东西。她俯身向前，把脸蛋儿贴在车窗上，马儿却突如其来地颠儿了一下。

“看呐，我们已经到荒原了，这里就是荒原。”米洛克太太说。

马车昏黄的灯光投向凹凸不平的路面，光晕投照下的崎岖小路似乎幽生在丛生的灌木和其他植物当中，刚刚伸出一截，又“慌慌张张”地消失在密不透风的黑暗中。大风起兮，声音奇特、狂野、低沉而猛烈。

“这——这不是大海吗？”玛丽转头向同行的米洛克太太发问。

“不是，当然不是大海。也不是田野或高山，只是绵延数里的野地，除了石楠、金雀花和荆豆，这里什么也不长；除了野马和绵羊，也没什么动物能在这里活下去。”

“如果有水的话，真的很像大海，连声音都很像海浪翻滚呢。”玛丽忽然感慨起来。

“那是野风吹过灌木丛的声音，”米洛克太太说道，“在我看来这个地方就是一个蛮荒之地，无法逢生的绝境。不过喜欢它的也大有人在，尤其是石楠遍野的时节。

马车一直在前行，却似乎永远穿越不了这无尽的黑暗。暴雨停了，但大风还不依不饶，肆虐，呼号，声音既古怪又恐怖。道路忽高忽低，好几次马车途径的小桥都被桥底湍流而过的河水震得发颤，河水相互拍打还制造出种种骇人的噪声。玛丽觉得这段旅程恐怕是没有尽头了，那座宽阔苍凉的荒野就像一汪无边无际的黑色海洋，而她们正乘着一叶扁舟漂向陆地。

“我不喜欢这儿，”玛丽自言自语，“一点儿都不喜欢”。说完，她把两片薄薄的嘴唇抿得更紧了。

就在马儿爬上一段高高的坡路时，玛丽望见了灯光，几乎同时，米洛克太太也看见那点儿灯光，并长长地舒了口气。

“啊，看到这点闪烁的灯火，我实在太高兴了，”米洛克太太欢呼起来，“那是园林守卫的窗户透出的光亮，不管怎样，过一会儿我们就可以好好地喝杯喝茶了。”

的确如米洛克太太说的那样——“再过一会儿”，因为马车进入园林大门后并没有停下来，而是继续驰骋穿过一条两英里长的林荫大道，道路两旁的大树枝繁叶茂，顶部的枝叶已经亲密地抱拢在一块儿，筑造了一条天然的廊顶，马车穿游其中，就像行走于漫长黑暗的隧道。

马车驶出隧道，进入一片清朗开阔之地，然后停在一栋宽阔矮矮的房子前，房子像是平展地铺在石路上一样。刚开始玛丽以为整栋房子都是黑灯瞎火的，可当她步出马车，却意外地瞥见楼上拐角处的一个房间透出模糊昏暗的灯光。

房子入口处的大门非常有气势，由大块大块形状各异的橡木板制成，门上镶饰着巨大的铁钉，还裹着厚实的铁衣。橡木门通向一个宽敞的大厅，厅里朦胧的灯光映得墙上肖像画中的人脸和身着盔甲的雕像都影影绰绰的，阴森恐怖，玛丽甚至都不想多看他们一眼。她站在石阶上，就像一个黑瘦古怪的小东西，同时一种复杂的感觉也袭上心头，是弱小、是迷茫、是怪异，就像她看起来那样。

给他们开门的是一个男仆，身边还站着一位穿戴整洁的清瘦老人。

“带她去房间，”老人声音有些沙哑，“主人不想见她。明早他就要启程去伦敦了。”

“好的，皮切尔先生，”米洛克太太回答道，“您吩咐清楚即可，我会把事情办好的。”

“米洛克太太，主人的吩咐就是……”皮切尔接着说道，“确保他不受到打扰，确保他不会见到不想见到的东西。”

玛丽先是被带上了一段宽缓平展的楼梯，过了一条走廊，接着爬了一小段楼梯，然后走过另外两条走廊，直到面前的一扇门被打开，她走了进去，里面有暖暖的炉火，还有桌上热气腾腾的饭餐。

米洛克太太语气随意：“好了，这就是你的房间了！这间和旁边的那间都是你的——你要牢牢记住,好好呆在你的地盘就可以了！”

玛丽小姐就是这样来到米特斯韦特山庄的，她的心里像打翻了五味瓶，说不出滋味儿，也许她一辈子都没有过这种不舒服的感觉。

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当华美的叶片落尽，生命的脉络才历历可见..

举报只看该作者地板发表于: 2014-03-18 0

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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当华美的叶片落尽，生命的脉络才历历可见..

举报只看该作者 4楼发表于: 2014-03-18 0

CHAPTER V THE CRY IN THE CORRIDOR

At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the others. Every morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found Martha kneeling upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her breakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after each breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky, and after she had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go out she would have to stay in and do nothing—and so she went out. She did not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she did not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor. She ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at her face and roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could not see. But the big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filled her lungs with something which was good for her whole thin body and whipped some red color into her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when she did not know anything about it.

But after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one morning knowing what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it away, but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it until her bowl was empty.

"Tha' got on well enough with that this mornin', didn't tha'?" said Martha.

"It tastes nice today," said Mary, feeling a little surprised her self.

"It's th' air of th' moor that's givin' thee stomach for tha' victuals," answered Martha. "It's lucky for thee that tha's got victuals as well as appetite. There's been twelve in our cottage as had th' stomach an' nothin' to put in it. You go on playin' you out o' doors every day an' you'll get some flesh on your bones an' you won't be so yeller."

"I don't play," said Mary. "I have nothing to play with."

"Nothin' to play with!" exclaimed Martha. "Our children plays with sticks and stones. They just runs about an' shouts an' looks at things." Mary did not shout, but she looked at things. There was nothing else to do. She walked round and round the gardens and wandered about the paths in the park. Sometimes she looked for Ben Weatherstaff, but though several times she saw him at work he was too busy to look at her or was too surly. Once when she was walking toward him he picked up his spade and turned away as if he did it on purpose.

One place she went to oftener than to any other. It was the long walk outside the gardens with the walls round them. There were bare flower-beds on either side of it and against the walls ivy grew thickly. There was one part of the wall where the creeping dark green leaves were more bushy than elsewhere. It seemed as if for a long time that part had been neglected. The rest of it had been clipped and made to look neat, but at this lower end of the walk it had not been trimmed at all.

A few days after she had talked to Ben Weatherstaff, Mary stopped to notice this and wondered why it was so. She had just paused and was looking up at a long spray of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a brilliant chirp, and there, on the top of the wall, forward perched Ben Weatherstaff's robin redbreast, tilting forward to look at her with his small head on one side.

"Oh!" she cried out, "is it you—is it you?" And it did not seem at all queer to her that she spoke to him as if she were sure that he would understand and answer her.

He did answer. He twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if he were telling her all sorts of things. It seemed to Mistress Mary as if she understood him, too, though he was not speaking in words. It was as if he said:

"Good morning! Isn't the wind nice? Isn't the sun nice? Isn't everything nice? Let us both chirp and hop and twitter. Come on! Come on!"

Mary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after him. Poor little thin, sallow, ugly Mary—she actually looked almost pretty for a moment.

"I like you! I like you!" she cried out, pattering down the walk; and she chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do in the least. But the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her. At last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a tree, where he perched and sang loudly. That reminded Mary of the first time she had seen him. He had been swinging on a tree-top then and she had been standing in the orchard. Now she was on the other side of the orchard and standing in the path outside a wall—much lower down—and there was the same tree inside.

"It's in the garden no one can go into," she said to herself. "It's the garden without a door. He lives in there. How I wish I could see what it is like!"

She ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning. Then she ran down the path through the other door and then into the orchard, and when she stood and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall, and there was the robin just finishing his song and, beginning to preen his feathers with his beak.

"It is the garden," she said. "I am sure it is."

She walked round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall, but she only found what she had found before—that there was no door in it. Then she ran through the kitchen-gardens again and out into the walk outside the long ivy-covered wall, and she walked to the end of it and looked at it, but there was no door; and then she walked to the other end, looking again, but there was no door.

"It's very queer," she said. "Ben Weatherstaff said there was no door and there is no door. But there must have been one ten years ago, because Mr. Craven buried the key."

This gave her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested and feel that she was not sorry that she had come to Misselthwaite Manor. In India she had always felt hot and too languid to care much about anything. The fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a little.

She stayed out of doors nearly all day, and when she sat down to her supper at night she felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable. She did not feel cross when Martha chattered away. She felt as if she rather liked to hear her, and at last she thought she would ask her a question. She asked it after she had finished her supper and had sat down on the hearth-rug before the fire.

"Why did Mr. Craven hate the garden?" she said.

She had made Martha stay with her and Martha had not objected at all. She was very young, and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and sisters, and she found it dull in the great servants' hall downstairs where the footman and upper-housemaids made fun of her Yorkshire speech and looked upon her as a common little thing, and sat and whispered among themselves. Martha liked to talk, and the strange child who had lived in India, and been waited upon by "blacks," was novelty enough to attract her.

She sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked.

"Art tha' thinkin' about that garden yet?" she said. "I knew tha' would. That was just the way with me when I first heard about it."

"Why did he hate it?" Mary persisted.

Martha tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable.

"Listen to th' wind wutherin' round the house," she said. "You could bare stand up on the moor if you was out on it tonight."

Mary did not know what "wutherin'" meant until she listened, and then she understood. It must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which rushed round and round the house as if the giant no one could see were buffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in. But one knew he could not get in, and somehow it made one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a red coal fire.

"But why did he hate it so?" she asked, after she had listened. She intended to know if Martha did.

Then Martha gave up her store of knowledge.

"Mind," she said, "Mrs. Medlock said it's not to be talked about. There's lots o' things in this place that's not to be talked over. That's Mr. Craven's orders. His troubles are none servants' business, he says. But for th' garden he wouldn't be like he is. It was Mrs. Craven's garden that she had made when first they were married an' she just loved it, an' they used to 'tend the flowers themselves. An' none o' th' gardeners was ever let to go in. Him an' her used to go in an' shut th' door an' stay there hours an' hours, readin' and talkin'. An' she was just a bit of a girl an' there was an old tree with a branch bent like a seat on it. An' she made roses grow over it an' she used to sit there. But one day when she was sittin' there th' branch broke an' she fell on th' ground an' was hurt so bad that next day she died. Th' doctors thought he'd go out o' his mind an' die, too. That's why he hates it. No one's never gone in since, an' he won't let any one talk about it."

Mary did not ask any more questions. She looked at the red fire and listened to the wind "wutherin'." It seemed to be "wutherin'" louder than ever. At that moment a very good thing was happening to her. Four good things had happened to her, in fact, since she came to Misselthwaite Manor. She had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had understood her; she had run in the wind until her blood had grown warm; she had been healthily hungry for the first time in her life; and she had found out what it was to be sorry for some one.

But as she was listening to the wind she began to listen to something else. She did not know what it was, because at first she could scarcely distinguish it from the wind itself. It was a curious sound—it seemed almost as if a child were crying somewhere. Sometimes the wind sounded rather like a child crying, but presently Mistress Mary felt quite sure this sound was inside the house, not outside it. It was far away, but it was inside. She turned round and looked at Martha.

"Do you hear any one crying?" she said.

Martha suddenly looked confused.

"No," she answered. "It's th' wind. Sometimes it sounds like as if some one was lost on th' moor an' wailin'. It's got all sorts o' sounds."

"But listen," said Mary. "It's in the house—down one of those long corridors."

And at that very moment a door must have been opened somewhere downstairs; for a great rushing draft blew along the passage and the door of the room they sat in was blown open with a crash, and as they both jumped to their feet the light was blown out and the crying sound was swept down the far corridor so that it was to be heard more plainly than ever.

"There!" said Mary. "I told you so! It is some one crying—and it isn't a grown-up person."

Martha ran and shut the door and turned the key, but before she did it they both heard the sound of a door in some far passage shutting with a bang, and then everything was quiet, for even the wind ceased "wutherin'" for a few moments.

"It was th' wind," said Martha stubbornly. "An' if it wasn't, it was little Betty Butterworth, th' scullery-maid. She's had th' toothache all day."

But something troubled and awkward in her manner made Mistress Mary stare very hard at her. She did not believe she was speaking the truth.

第五章楼道里的哭声

开始的那些日子，玛丽过得跟第一天没什么区别。每天早上在满墙绣帏的房间醒来，看着玛莎跪在壁炉前拨弄炉火；然后再去那间没有任何娱乐项目的儿童活动室吃早饭；吃完早饭她总会凭窗远眺，望着那片四面无垠远接天际的荒原；看了一会儿，她意识到倘若不出去，只能呆在房间里无所事事——所以最终决定出去走走。她不知道这是她最睿智的决定；不知道当她沿着小径或大道快步走甚至疯跑的时候浑身漫流的血液正在搅动；也不知道当她跑着与迎面吹来的大风抗衡时身体已经日益强健，那毕竟是从荒原刮来的大风呀。她只知道跑跑会暖和些，她讨厌风，讨厌它扫过脸庞时不舒服的感觉，讨厌它怒吼咆哮时的粗鲁，也讨厌它像个隐形的巨人一样不停地顶着自己的背。但大口大口地吸着那些拂过石楠的新鲜的空气并存储在肺部，对玛丽单薄的小身板确实大有裨益。瞧，她蜡黄瘦削的脸颊漾起了健康的红晕，空乏无神的眼睛也映出了光亮，不过玛丽对此全然没有察觉。

就这样又过了些日子，每天的户外活动让玛丽在一日清晨醒来时第一次尝到了饥饿的感觉，当她起身转向早餐时，也不再像从前那样轻蔑地看一眼粥，不当一回事地把它推开，而是抓起勺子，狼吞虎咽地扒了个碗底朝天。

“你今早表现很好嘛，是不是呀？”玛莎说。

“今天的粥味道好极了，”玛丽说，连她都惊讶于自己的表现。

“是荒原的空气给了你食欲，”玛莎说。“你真幸运，在你食欲好的时候有食物能填饱肚子。我家茅草屋里面的十二个孩子想吃却没得吃，只能饿肚子呢。你每天继续到外面去玩，等到长些肉，就不像现在这样皮包骨头似的，脸色也不会这么蜡黄蜡黄的了。”

“我不玩，”玛丽说。“我没什么东西可玩。”

“没什么东西玩！”玛莎叫了起来。“我们家的那群弟弟妹妹都拿石头和棍棒去玩。他们也就是跑来跑去，叫叫嚷嚷，东看看西看看的。”

玛丽没有喊叫也没有嚷嚷，不过她的确四处看风景，除此之外也就没什么可做的了。她绕着花园一圈一圈地转悠，还在公园的小路上来回溜达。有时候她会四处寻找本.威瑟斯塔夫，有几次真的找到了，但老本不是忙得无暇顾及就是脸色怪得让人不敢靠近。有一次玛丽正走向他，他就扛着铁锹走开了，看样子是故意的。

比起其他地方，有一个地方玛丽去的比较频繁，就是四面都是围墙的花园外面长长的走道。道路两边都是光秃秃的花坛，依附在围墙上的常青藤长得倒是格外旺盛，其中有一块墙面上蔓延的常青藤叶子尤其茂密，深绿的、蓬蓬的、像是许久都没人关注过它一样。墙面的其他地方修剪得还算利落，奇怪的是道路尽头围墙上的藤蔓却连一丁点儿被修整过的痕迹都没有。

离上次与本.威瑟斯塔夫聊天只有几天，玛丽就发现了新情况，她特别想知道这究竟是怎么回事。她停在那里，抬头望着长长的一绺常青藤蔓在高空中随风摇曳，就在这时，伴随着一声轻快的鸣叫，一道鲜红的光亮闪过。就在墙头上，本.威瑟斯塔夫那只红胸知更鸟停落在那里，歪着小脑袋，向前略倾身子看着玛丽。

“啊！”她叫了起来，“是你吗？——是你吗？”玛丽俨然一副对方能听懂还能回答她的样子，也丝毫不觉得这种问话方式有何不妥。

知更鸟回话了。它叽叽喳喳，又唱又叫，还在墙头上没玩没了地蹦着，放佛在告诉玛丽所有有趣的事情。玛丽似乎能听懂，尽管对方说的是鸟语。它好像在说：

“早上好!今天的风舒服吧？太阳明媚吧？一切都顺利吧？让我们一起唱一起叫一起跳吧！来吧！来吧！”

玛丽开怀大笑起来。当知更鸟在墙头上蹦来蹦去，还沿着墙短短地飞了几段时，玛丽紧紧地追着。这个可怜的小东西，又黄又瘦，还丑巴巴的，此刻浑身上下散发着活力，好像突然变漂亮了。

“我喜欢你！我喜欢你！”玛丽一边急匆匆地在道路上跑着，一边大喊。她嘴里发出吱吱喳喳的鸣叫声，还试图吹口哨，可她压根就不会。但知更鸟对玛丽的反应好像很满意，还回赠了叫声和口哨声。最后他伸展翅膀，像离弦之箭一般扎到树顶，高声唱了起来。

这让玛丽想起来第一次见知更鸟的场景。那时它在树顶飞旋，玛丽站在果园里。而如今她在果园的另一边，站在围墙外的小径上——向南望去——里面有一棵同样的树。

“它在那个没人能进的园子里，”玛丽自言自语。“这是那个没有门的园子。它就住在里面。我多想去看看园子里是什么样子呀！”

她沿着小道跑到了第一天早晨进去的那扇绿门。然后顺着小径穿过了另一扇门来到了果园。她站在那里抬头望着围墙里的那棵树，上面知更鸟刚刚唱完歌，正满足地用嘴巴梳理着羽毛呢。

“就是那个花园，”她说。“我敢肯定。”

她绕了一圈，认真地排查着果园这边的围墙，但仍旧没有新发现——没有门。接着她跑进果园，又跑出来，回到那堵覆满常青藤的围墙外面的小道上，一直走到路尽头，没有门；她还不死心，又返回去走到路的另一头，结果还是没有门。

“真是太奇怪了，”她说。“本.威瑟斯塔夫说没有门，结果就真的没有门。但是十年前这里肯定是有门的，否则克雷文先生藏什么钥匙呢。”

这让她有了更多东西去思考，也使她开始对一切产生兴趣，不再为来到米特斯韦特庄园而感到不幸了。在印度她总觉得燥热、厌倦、对什么都提不起精神，也懒得去管其他事情。如今荒原上清新舒爽的风吹去了她满脑袋的“浆糊”，也吹醒了这个一直活在自我世界里的小丫头。

她在外面几乎呆了整整一天，晚上回到房间坐在桌边吃饭的时候，她感觉到好饿、好困、又好舒服。当玛莎开始絮絮叨叨，她没有生气发火，反而觉得自己喜欢听玛莎这样唠家常。最后她决定问玛莎一个问题。晚饭结束后，玛丽坐在炉火前的小毯子上开始问道：

“克雷文先生为什么要憎恨那座花园呢？”

玛丽让玛莎留下来陪她，玛丽没有任何抵触情绪，欣然答应了。她那么年轻，也习惯了家里满屋子的弟弟妹妹，再加上在楼下仆人厅里候着实在是乏味得很，男仆和楼上的女仆们经常拿她的约克郡口音说笑；他们看不起她，说她是放在人群里就认不出的小东西；他们坐成一堆窃窃私语，对玛莎指指点点，说三道四。玛莎原本就很健谈，面对眼前这个曾经居住在印度，一直由“黑人”仆人侍候的怪小孩，感觉新鲜极了。

玛莎坐到炉火前，还没等玛丽问话就先开口了。

“你是不是还在想那个花园？”她说。“我就知道你会这样。因为我第一次听说那座花园时也和你一样。”

“他为什么憎恨那个园子？”玛丽又问。

玛莎把脚蜷缩在身子下面，因为这个姿势很舒服。

“听屋外狂风咆哮的声音，”她说。“今晚你要是出去的话，恐怕还没等站起来就又被风给撂倒了。”

玛丽开始并不知道“咆哮”是什么意思，直到她竖起耳朵听了听才明白。“咆哮”一定就是风空洞颤抖的呼呼声，它一圈圈地绕着房子嚎叫，就像一个隐形的巨人在与房子搏斗，拼命拍打着窗和墙，企图闯进来一样。不过人们知道它进不来，所以在生着红腾腾炉火的房间里守着，感觉又安全又惬意。

“他为什么要恨那个花园呢？”玛丽听完“咆哮”又重新拾回之前的话题。她想知道玛莎是否知晓答案。

在玛丽的再三追问下，玛莎的心理防线被攻破了，她开始倒出那一箩筐的秘密。

“听着，”她说，“米洛克太太交代过这些是不能说的。这个地方有很多事情都是不能随便谈论的。这是克雷文先生下的命令。他说他的所有烦恼都跟我们这些仆人没有关系。不过在那个花园的问题上，他做得的确有些过火。花园是克雷文太太和克雷文先生在刚结婚时建造的，克雷文太太喜欢得不得了，那时他们总是亲自去照看园子里的花儿，连园丁都不许进去。他们以前经常把自己锁在花园里，一呆就是好几个小时，在里面读书，聊天。园子里有一棵老树，其中一条树枝弯了出来，就像是在树上吊了个座椅。克雷文太太有点小女孩的心性，就在上面种了很多玫瑰花，让它看起来像个花椅，自己还经常坐在上面。但是有一天，树枝突然断了，把坐在上面的克雷文太太重重地摔到了地上，她伤势太重，第二天就去世了。医生以为克雷文先生也会万念俱灰而死去。这就是他恨那座花园的原因。从那以后，再没人进去过那个花园，他也不许任何人再提及。

玛丽没有再问其他问题。她望着眼前那堆红红的炭火，听着外面狂风的咆哮。咆哮的声音似乎比任何时候都凶猛了。

就在那一刻，一件非常美妙的事情降临到玛丽身上，确切地说，自从她来到米特斯韦特庄园，四件美好的事情已经在她身上发生了。她觉得自己好像读懂了知更鸟，同时知更鸟也明白她；她可以在风中奔跑，直到浑身上下的血液变暖；她此生首次尝到了“健康”的饥饿感；她体味到了为他人感到惋惜是什么滋味。

但就在玛丽全神贯注地聆听大风的呼啸时，她放佛听到了其他声音。她不知道那究竟是什么声，因为开始连她自己都分不清是风声还是其他什么。那个声音很奇怪——就像一个孩子在什么地方哭泣。有时候，风声听起来的确像孩子的哭声，不过现在大小姐玛丽可以十分确定声音传自屋内，而不是外面。虽然听起来有些遥远，但的的确确是在屋内。玛丽转过头看着玛莎。

“你听见有人在哭吗？”她问。

玛莎突然慌了起来。

“没有，”她说。“是风声。有时候听起来是很像什么人在荒原上迷路恸哭。风声就是这样，听起来会像各种各样的声音。”

“不对，你听，”玛丽说。“声音就在某个房间里——就在其中一条长楼道的尽头。

但恰巧在那时，楼下有个房间的门被打开了，从楼道里冲上来一股很强的气流，把玛丽房间的门给顶开了。她们俩条件反射似地跳起来，急促中带的气流又把蜡烛给吹灭了。哭声再起，横扫了远处的楼道，不停地回荡着，声音也越发清晰可辨了。

“你听，你听！”玛丽说。“我怎么说的来着，是有人在哭，而且是个小孩儿。”

玛莎跑过去关上门，还在门锁里转了转钥匙把门锁死。但就在这之前，两个姑娘都听到了远处楼道里传来的“砰”的一声门响，接着一切恢复了平静。甚至好大一会儿连风的“咆哮”都听不见了。

“就是风声，”玛莎固执地说。“如果不是风声，肯定是小贝蒂.巴特沃斯，那个洗碗工，她有牙疼的毛病，今天已经疼了一整天了。”

玛莎说这些的时候，表情既别扭又尴尬，这让玛丽看她的眼神充满了质疑，她不相信玛莎说的是实话。

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当华美的叶片落尽，生命的脉络才历历可见..

举报只看该作者 5楼发表于: 2014-03-18 0

CHAPTER VI
"THERE WAS SOME ONE CRYING—THERE WAS!"

The next day the rain poured down in torrents again, and when Mary looked out of her window the moor was almost hidden by gray mist and cloud. There could be no going out today.

"What do you do in your cottage when it rains like this?" she asked Martha.

"Try to keep from under each other's feet mostly," Martha answered. "Eh! there does seem a lot of us then. Mother's a good-tempered woman but she gets fair moithered. The biggest ones goes out in th' cow-shed and plays there. Dickon he doesn't mind th' wet. He goes out just th' same as if th' sun was shinin'. He says he sees things on rainy days as doesn't show when it's fair weather. He once found a little fox cub half drowned in its hole and he brought it home in th' bosom of his shirt to keep it warm. Its mother had been killed nearby an' th' hole was swum out an' th' rest o' th' litter was dead. He's got it at home now. He found a half-drowned young crow another time an' he brought it home, too, an' tamed it. It's named Soot because it's so black, an' it hops an' flies about with him everywhere."

The time had come when Mary had forgotten to resent Martha's familiar talk. She had even begun to find it interesting and to be sorry when she stopped or went away. The stories she had been told by her Ayah when she lived in India had been quite unlike those Martha had to tell about the moorland cottage which held fourteen people who lived in four little rooms and never had quite enough to eat. The children seemed to tumble about and amuse themselves like a litter of rough, good-natured collie puppies. Mary was most attracted by the mother and Dickon. When Martha told stories of what "mother" said or did they always sounded comfortable.

"If I had a raven or a fox cub I could play with it," said Mary. "But I have nothing."

Martha looked perplexed.

"Can tha' knit?" she asked.

"No," answered Mary.

"Can tha' sew?"

"No."

"Can tha' read?"

"Yes."

"Then why doesn't tha, read somethin', or learn a bit o' spellin'? Tha'st old enough to be learnin' thy book a good bit now."

"I haven't any books," said Mary. "Those I had were left in India."

"That's a pity," said Martha. "If Mrs. Medlock'd let thee go into th' library, there's thousands o' books there."

Mary did not ask where the library was, because she was suddenly inspired by a new idea. She made up her mind to go and find it herself. She was not troubled about Mrs. Medlock. Mrs. Medlock seemed always to be in her comfortable housekeeper's sitting-room downstairs. In this queer place one scarcely ever saw any one at all. In fact, there was no one to see but the servants, and when their master was away they lived a luxurious life below stairs, where there was a huge kitchen hung about with shining brass and pewter, and a large servants' hall where there were four or five abundant meals eaten every day, and where a great deal of lively romping went on when Mrs. Medlock was out of the way.

Mary's meals were served regularly, and Martha waited on her, but no one troubled themselves about her in the least. Mrs. Medlock came and looked at her every day or two, but no one inquired what she did or told her what to do. She supposed that perhaps this was the English way of treating children. In India she had always been attended by her Ayah, who had followed her about and waited on her, hand and foot. She had often been tired of her company. Now she was followed by nobody and was learning to dress herself because Martha looked as though she thought she was silly and stupid when she wanted to have things handed to her and put on.

"Hasn't tha' got good sense?" she said once, when Mary had stood waiting for her to put on her gloves for her. "Our Susan Ann is twice as sharp as thee an' she's only four year' old. Sometimes tha' looks fair soft in th' head."

Mary had worn her contrary scowl for an hour after that, but it made her think several entirely new things.

She stood at the window for about ten minutes this morning after Martha had swept up the hearth for the last time and gone downstairs. She was thinking over the new idea which had come to her when she heard of the library. She did not care very much about the library itself, because she had read very few books; but to hear of it brought back to her mind the hundred rooms with closed doors. She wondered if they were all really locked and what she would find if she could get into any of them. Were there a hundred really? Why shouldn't she go and see how many doors she could count? It would be something to do on this morning when she could not go out. She had never been taught to ask permission to do things, and she knew nothing at all about authority, so she would not have thought it necessary to ask Mrs. Medlock if she might walk about the house, even if she had seen her.

She opened the door of the room and went into the corridor, and then she began her wanderings. It was a long corridor and it branched into other corridors and it led her up short flights of steps which mounted to others again. There were doors and doors, and there were pictures on the walls. Sometimes they were pictures of dark, curious landscapes, but oftenest they were portraits of men and women in queer, grand costumes made of satin and velvet. She found herself in one long gallery whose walls were covered with these portraits. She had never thought there could be so many in any house. She walked slowly down this place and stared at the faces which also seemed to stare at her. She felt as if they were wondering what a little girl from India was doing in their house. Some were pictures of children—little girls in thick satin frocks which reached to their feet and stood out about them, and boys with puffed sleeves and lace collars and long hair, or with big ruffs around their necks. She always stopped to look at the children, and wonder what their names were, and where they had gone, and why they wore such odd clothes. There was a stiff, plain little girl rather like herself. She wore a green brocade dress and held a green parrot on her finger. Her eyes had a sharp, curious look.

"Where do you live now?" said Mary aloud to her. "I wish you were here."

Surely no other little girl ever spent such a queer morning. It seemed as if there was no one in all the huge rambling house but her own small self, wandering about upstairs and down, through narrow passages and wide ones, where it seemed to her that no one but herself had ever walked. Since so many rooms had been built, people must have lived in them, but it all seemed so empty that she could not quite believe it true.

It was not until she climbed to the second floor that she thought of turning the handle of a door. All the doors were shut, as Mrs. Medlock had said they were, but at last she put her hand on the handle of one of them and turned it. She was almost frightened for a moment when she felt that it turned without difficulty and that when she pushed upon the door itself it slowly and heavily opened. It was a massive door and opened into a big bedroom. There were embroidered hangings on the wall, and inlaid furniture such as she had seen in India stood about the room. A broad window with leaded panes looked out upon the moor; and over the mantel was another portrait of the stiff, plain little girl who seemed to stare at her more curiously than ever.

"Perhaps she slept here once," said Mary. "She stares at me so that she makes me feel queer."

After that she opened more doors and more. She saw so many rooms that she became quite tired and began to think that there must be a hundred, though she had not counted them. In all of them there were old pictures or old tapestries with strange scenes worked on them. There were curious pieces of furniture and curious ornaments in nearly all of them.

In one room, which looked like a lady's sitting-room, the hangings were all embroidered velvet, and in a cabinet were about a hundred little elephants made of ivory. They were of different sizes, and some had their mahouts or palanquins on their backs. Some were much bigger than the others and some were so tiny that they seemed only babies. Mary had seen carved ivory in India and she knew all about elephants. She opened the door of the cabinet and stood on a footstool and played with these for quite a long time. When she got tired she set the elephants in order and shut the door of the cabinet.

In all her wanderings through the long corridors and the empty rooms, she had seen nothing alive; but in this room she saw something. Just after she had closed the cabinet door she heard a tiny rustling sound. It made her jump and look around at the sofa by the fireplace, from which it seemed to come. In the corner of the sofa there was a cushion, and in the velvet which covered it there was a hole, and out of the hole peeped a tiny head with a pair of frightened eyes in it.

Mary crept softly across the room to look. The bright eyes belonged to a little gray mouse, and the mouse had eaten a hole into the cushion and made a comfortable nest there. Six baby mice were cuddled up asleep near her. If there was no one else alive in the hundred rooms there were seven mice who did not look lonely at all.

"If they wouldn't be so frightened I would take them back with me," said Mary.

She had wandered about long enough to feel too tired to wander any farther, and she turned back. Two or three times she lost her way by turning down the wrong corridor and was obliged to ramble up and down until she found the right one; but at last she reached her own floor again, though she was some distance from her own room and did not know exactly where she was.

"I believe I have taken a wrong turning again," she said, standing still at what seemed the end of a short passage with tapestry on the wall. "I don't know which way to go. How still everything is!"

It was while she was standing here and just after she had said this that the stillness was broken by a sound. It was another cry, but not quite like the one she had heard last night; it was only a short one, a fretful childish whine muffled by passing through walls.

"It's nearer than it was," said Mary, her heart beating rather faster. "And it is crying."

She put her hand accidentally upon the tapestry near her, and then sprang back, feeling quite startled. The tapestry was the covering of a door which fell open and showed her that there was another part of the corridor behind it, and Mrs. Medlock was coming up it with her bunch of keys in her hand and a very cross look on her face.

"What are you doing here?" she said, and she took Mary by the arm and pulled her away. "What did I tell you?"

"I turned round the wrong corner," explained Mary. "I didn't know which way to go and I heard some one crying." She quite hated Mrs. Medlock at the moment, but she hated her more the next.

"You didn't hear anything of the sort," said the housekeeper. "You come along back to your own nursery or I'll box your ears."

And she took her by the arm and half pushed, half pulled her up one passage and down another until she pushed her in at the door of her own room.

"Now," she said, "you stay where you're told to stay or you'll find yourself locked up. The master had better get you a governess, same as he said he would. You're one that needs some one to look sharp after you. I've got enough to do."

She went out of the room and slammed the door after her, and Mary went and sat on the hearth-rug, pale with rage. She did not cry, but ground her teeth.

"There was some one crying—there was—there was!" she said to herself.

She had heard it twice now, and sometime she would find out. She had found out a great deal this morning. She felt as if she had been on a long journey, and at any rate she had had something to amuse her all the time, and she had played with the ivory elephants and had seen the gray mouse and its babies in their nest in the velvet cushion.

第六章  “就是有人在哭——就是”

第二天又是倾盆大雨，玛丽向窗外望去，荒原被灰蒙蒙的薄雾和乌云裹得严严实实的。今天又没法出去了。

“遇到这样的大雨，你们都呆在自己家的村舍里做什么？”她问玛莎。

“大部分的时间都是在尽力不让自己被其他人踩到，”玛莎回答。“嗯，我们家人实在是太多了。我妈妈是个温和的女人，但也会被我们搞得焦头烂额。所以大点的孩子会去牛棚玩耍。迪肯不怕外面湿答答的，他还是像晴天时一样跑出去玩，他还说阴雨天能看到艳阳天看不到的东西。他曾经发现过一只在洞穴里溺水快要半死的小狐狸，便把它揣在怀里取暖，还给带回了家。小狐狸的妈妈在窝附近被杀死了，窝穴里又注满了雨水，小狐狸的兄弟姐妹也都被淹死了。那只幸存的小狐狸现在就住在我们家。还有一次，他发现了一只溺水快半死的乌鸦，就把它也带了回来，驯练它，还给它起了个名字叫‘煤灰’，因为它实在太黑了。现在不管迪肯到哪儿，‘煤灰’要么蹦蹦跳跳，要么飞飞停停地跟随左右。”

当玛莎又开始喋喋不休时，玛丽忘记了曾经对这些再熟悉不过的“碎碎念”的厌恶，反倒觉得它们很有趣，玛莎有事止住话或走开时，玛丽甚至觉得有些遗憾。这与她在印度时听女仆阿亚讲的那些故事很不一样。十四个人挤在荒原上的小村舍里，满满当当的分住在四个小房间，还总是食不果腹。孩子们在屋里摔爬滚打，自己找乐子玩，就像一窝温厚又略带小野蛮的牧羊犬幼崽。玛丽被玛莎话中的“妈妈”和“迪肯”深深吸引了。只要玛莎说起“妈妈”说了什么或做了什么的时候，玛丽总觉得心里暖融融的，特别舒服。

“如果我也有一只乌鸦或狐狸幼崽该多好呀，这样我就能跟它们一起玩了，”玛丽说。“可我什么都没有。”

玛莎看起来有点茫然。

“你会编织吗？”她问。

“不会，”玛丽回答。

“会缝补吗？”

“不会。”

“会读书吗？”

“会。”

“那干嘛不读些东西呢，或者学学拼写？你都这么大了，也是时候学点东西了。”

“我没有书，”玛丽说。“我以前的那些书都留在印度了。”

“真可惜，”玛莎说。“要是米洛克太太让你进图书馆就好了，那里有成千上万本书呢。”

玛丽没有再问图书馆在哪儿，因为她的小脑袋里突然萌生了一个新主意。她决定自己去找图书馆。她才不怕米洛克太太呢，因为米洛克太太似乎一直都呆在楼下那个舒适的管家起居室里。在这个怪异的地方，平时连个人影都看不到。事实上除了仆人，真的看不到其他人。而且山中无老虎，猴子称大王，只要主人外出，这些仆人们便在楼下过起了奢侈的生活。楼下有一个挂满了闪闪发光的铜器和锡器的大厨房；还有一间宽敞的大厅供仆人使用，他们一天要在那里吃上四五顿丰盛的大餐，当米洛克太太外出时，那里更是闹翻了天。

玛丽一日三餐供应得非常规律，还一直有玛莎在一旁伺候，但是其他人根本就懒得管她。米洛克太太一天会过来看她一两次，但从未有人问起她做过什么或告诉她去做什么。玛丽猜想这可能是英国人对待小孩子的方式吧。在印度，她被贴身女仆阿亚服侍得妥妥帖帖，阿亚与她寸步不离，而且是从头伺候到脚。那时玛丽经常厌恶阿亚那样形影不离。现在再没人跟着她了，而且她得学着自己穿衣服，因为当她想把衣服递给玛莎，让玛莎伺候穿衣时都会遭其鄙视的眼神，好像在说“你真傻，你真蠢，连自己的衣服都不会穿！”

“你是傻子吗？”玛莎曾经这么说过一次。那次玛丽站着不动，等玛莎给自己戴手套。“我们家的苏珊.安才四岁，但是比你聪明两倍。有时候你看起来就像个弱智。”

之后足足有一个小时，玛丽都愁眉不展的，可这也使她开始考虑一些从未想过的事情。

今天早上，玛莎最后一次打扫完壁炉后就下楼去了，玛丽走到窗前站了约十来分钟。她在揣摩玛莎早上提及图书馆时闯入她脑中的新想法。其实她并不关心图书馆本身，因为她自己压根就没读过什么书。不过这使她重新想起那上百个门锁紧闭的房间。她在想这些房间是不是真的都上了锁呢？如果能进去，房间里都有些什么呢？真的有一百个房间吗？为什么不去亲自数数到底有多少个门呢？既然今天上午没法出去，得找找其他事情做才行。没人教过玛丽做事前要事先征得同意，她也完全不晓得所谓的“权威”，所以根本不认为有什么必要去请示米洛克太太以获得在房子里瞎逛的应允，即使看见了米洛克太太，玛丽也不会上前去问。

她打开门，走进楼道，开始闲逛起来。楼道很长，还有很多分支，她爬了一小段楼梯，进入了其他楼道。这里门挨着门，楼道的墙壁上还挂着画，有些是昏暗奇怪的风景画，更多的是衣着怪异而华丽的男人和女人的肖像画，他们的衣服都是缎子或天鹅绒质地的。玛丽发现眼前的走廊挂满了这些肖像画。她以前从未想过一个房间里能挂上这么多这种画。她沿着走道缓缓地溜达，注视着画中一张张面孔，画中的人好像也在盯着她看。玛丽感觉他们似乎在琢磨这个印度来的小女孩儿究竟在他们的房子里干什么呢。有些肖像画上的人物是孩子——穿着厚厚的齐地的绸缎袍的小姑娘，被袍子衬得格外突出。男孩们不是穿着喇叭袖，就是穿着花边领，要么蓄着长发，要么围个轮状的大波皱领。她时不时地停下来看看这些画中的孩子，还想着他们叫什么，去了哪儿，为什么要穿如此奇怪的衣服。其中一幅画上是一个表情呆板，长相平庸的女孩儿，玛丽觉得她很像自己，她穿着一件绿色的锦缎连衣裙，手上停了只绿鹦鹉，她的眼神异常尖锐，充满了好奇。

“你现在住在哪儿？”玛丽大声问着画中的女孩儿。“希望你也住在这儿。”

其他小女孩肯定没有经历过这样怪异的早晨。好像整个房子里没有其他人，只有这个瘦小的女孩，她楼上楼下地逛游，宽楼道窄楼道地穿梭，放佛除了她没人这么走过这些楼道。这里建了那么多房间，肯定住过很多人，可如今房间空空的，玛丽一度怀疑这是不是真的。

一直到了二楼，她才想起来要去拧一拧门把手。正像米洛克太太说的那样，所有的门都锁上了，最后她把手放到其中一个门把手上，下意识地转了转。当感到门锁毫无障碍地被转动时，她害怕了好一阵子，她推了推门，门居然沉重而缓缓地被打开了。这是一扇很大很厚重的门，里面是间宽敞的卧室。卧室墙上挂着绣锦，还有镶嵌在墙里的家具，跟她在印度时房间里闲置的那些很像。房间里还有一扇开阔的窗户，透过铅质的窗格可以看到一望无际的荒原。壁炉架的上方悬挂着那个身材僵直长相平庸的小女孩的另一幅肖像画，瞪着一双眼睛望着玛丽，眼神更加好奇了。

“也许她在这间卧室住过，”玛丽说。“她盯得我心里发毛。”

之后她又相继打开了很多房间的门。看了那么多房间，她已经觉得有些厌倦了，想着八成已经够一百间了，尽管并没有仔细数过。所有的房间都千篇一律，不是挂着陈旧的画就是挂着绣着奇怪景色的织锦,还有些奇怪的家具和古怪的装饰。

其中一个房间，看起来像是某位女士的起居室，墙上挂的尽是绣花的天鹅绒，屋里还摆了一个装了一百多只象牙雕小象的柜子。这些小象大小各异，有的还驮着象夫或轿子。有些象明显比其他象大得多，有些则小得像只象宝宝。玛丽在印度见过象牙雕刻，而且她也十分了解象。她踩着脚凳打开柜门，和小象们玩了好大一会儿。等到玩累了，又把小象们按秩序放回去，关上柜门。

玛丽兜了很大的一圈，无论是长长的楼道，还是空荡荡的房间，连一个活物都没有看到；不过在这间屋里，她看到了。就在她关上柜门时，忽然听到了轻微的沙沙声。玛丽惊得跳了起来，她仔细地观察了壁炉旁的沙发，声音好像是从那里传来的。她发现沙发角落的垫子上盖着一张破了个洞的天鹅绒，洞外正钻出一个小脑袋，睁着一双惊恐的眼睛窥探着外面。

玛丽蹑手蹑脚地走到屋子那头，仔细看了看。原来瞪着眼睛的是一只小灰鼠，它穿过天鹅绒在垫子上咬出了一个大洞，舒舒服服地在里面安起家来。灰鼠的身旁挤搡着六只鼠宝宝。如果这上百个房间中没有其他生命迹象的话，那么这七只老鼠便是例外，而且它们看起来一点儿也不孤独。
“如果它们不那么害怕的话，我就把它们带走了，”玛丽说。

她走了太多路，最后实在累得走不动了便折回去。有两三次她拐到其他楼道迷了路，只得像没头苍蝇一般楼上楼下地跑，直到找到回去的路。最后她到了自己住的那层楼，但由于离她自己的房间还有些距离，所以她并不知道自己身处何处。

“我想我又转错弯了，”玛丽说，她正站在一条短小走道的尽头，对面的墙上还挂着绣帏。“我实在不知道该怎么走了。这里好静啊！”

就在这时——她站在这儿刚说完这些话时，眼前的一注平静突然被打破了。是哭声，跟那天晚上听到的不太一样；声音有些短促，像是孩子烦躁的呜咽声，因为受到墙壁的阻隔，这哭声听起来有些闷，有些堵。

“哭声比上次离我更近了，”玛丽说，她的心跳开始加速。“他正在哭。”

  她不小心摸到旁边墙上的绣帏，马上吃惊地跳躲到一边。那张绣帏下遮盖的不是墙壁，而是一扇门，门被推打开了，里面可以看到走道的另一截，走道上，米洛克太太手里挂着一大串钥匙，看到玛丽在这里时，她脸上的表情很不愉快。

“你在这里干什么？”她说，一把抓住玛丽的胳膊把她拉开。“我之前怎么跟你说的来着？”

“我拐错弯，迷路了，”玛丽解释着。“我不知道该怎么走，还听到有人在哭。”

玛丽此刻恨极了米洛克太太，不过更招恨的还在后面。

“你什么也没听到，”管家米洛克太太说。“你赶紧回到自己的幼儿活动室去，否则我要扇你耳刮子了。”

米洛克太太紧紧抓着玛丽的胳膊，半推半拽地带着她走了两条走道，到了玛丽的房门口，她一把将这个小丫头推了进去。

“听着，”她说，“你最好老实呆着，否则我非得把你关起来不可。看来真得让主人给你找个家庭教师了，他说过要给你找一个的。确实需要有个人好好治治你才行。我是管不了你了。”

米洛克太太走出房间，“砰”的一声把门关上，玛丽走到壁炉前的毛毯上坐下，气得小脸煞白。她没有哭，却忍不住恶狠狠地磨着牙。

“就是有人在哭——就是——就是！”她自言自语。

她已经听到两次哭声了，总有一天她会查明真相的。今天上午她收获颇丰。她感觉自己经历了一段漫长的旅程，从某种意义上说，她已经会给自己找乐子了，她与象牙雕小象玩耍，她还发现了在天鹅绒垫子里做窝的小灰鼠的一家。

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当华美的叶片落尽，生命的脉络才历历可见..

举报只看该作者 6楼发表于: 2014-03-18 0

Re:《秘密花园》【连载至第七章】

CHAPTER VII

THE KEY TO THE GARDEN

Two days after this, when Mary opened her eyes she sat upright in bed immediately, and called to Martha.

"Look at the moor! Look at the moor!"

The rainstorm had ended and the gray mist and clouds had been swept away in the night by the wind. The wind itself had ceased and a brilliant, deep blue sky arched high over the moorland. Never, never had Mary dreamed of a sky so blue. In India skies were hot and blazing; this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the waters of some lovely bottomless lake, and here and there, high, high in the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow-white fleece. The far-reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of gloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray.

"Aye," said Martha with a cheerful grin. "Th' storm's over for a bit. It does like this at this time o' th' year. It goes off in a night like it was pretendin' it had never been here an' never meant to come again. That's because th' springtime's on its way. It's a long way off yet, but it's comin'."

"I thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in England," Mary said.

"Eh! no!" said Martha, sitting up on her heels among her black lead brushes. "Nowt o' th' soart!"

"What does that mean?" asked Mary seriously. In India the natives spoke different dialects which only a few people understood, so she was not surprised when Martha used words she did not know.

Martha laughed as she had done the first morning.

"There now," she said. "I've talked broad Yorkshire again like Mrs. Medlock said I mustn't. 'Nowt o' th' soart' means 'nothin'-of-the-sort,'" slowly and carefully, "but it takes so long to say it. Yorkshire's th' sunniest place on earth when it is sunny. I told thee tha'd like th' moor after a bit. Just you wait till you see th' gold-colored gorse blossoms an' th' blossoms o' th' broom, an' th' heather flowerin', all purple bells, an' hundreds o' butterflies flutterin' an' bees hummin' an' skylarks soarin' up an' singin'. You'll want to get out on it as sunrise an' live out on it all day like Dickon does." "Could I ever get there?" asked Mary wistfully, looking through her window at the far-off blue. It was so new and big and wonderful and such a heavenly color.

"I don't know," answered Martha. "Tha's never used tha' legs since tha' was born, it seems to me. Tha' couldn't walk five mile. It's five mile to our cottage."

"I should like to see your cottage."

Martha stared at her a moment curiously before she took up her polishing brush and began to rub the grate again. She was thinking that the small plain face did not look quite as sour at this moment as it had done the first morning she saw it. It looked just a trifle like little Susan Ann's when she wanted something very much.

"I'll ask my mother about it," she said. "She's one o' them that nearly always sees a way to do things. It's my day out today an' I'm goin' home. Eh! I am glad. Mrs. Medlock thinks a lot o' mother. Perhaps she could talk to her."

"I like your mother," said Mary.

"I should think tha' did," agreed Martha, polishing away.

"I've never seen her," said Mary.

"No, tha' hasn't," replied Martha.

She sat up on her heels again and rubbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand as if puzzled for a moment, but she ended quite positively.

"Well, she's that sensible an' hard workin' an' goodnatured an' clean that no one could help likin' her whether they'd seen her or not. When I'm goin' home to her on my day out I just jump for joy when I'm crossin' the moor."

"I like Dickon," added Mary. "And I've never seen him."

"Well," said Martha stoutly, "I've told thee that th' very birds likes him an' th' rabbits an' wild sheep an' ponies, an' th' foxes themselves. I wonder," staring at her reflectively, "what Dickon would think of thee?"

"He wouldn't like me," said Mary in her stiff, cold little way. "No one does."

Martha looked reflective again.

"How does tha' like thysel'?" she inquired, really quite as if she were curious to know.

Mary hesitated a moment and thought it over.

"Not at all—really," she answered. "But I never thought of that before."

Martha grinned a little as if at some homely recollection.

"Mother said that to me once," she said. "She was at her wash-tub an' I was in a bad temper an' talkin' ill of folk, an' she turns round on me an' says: 'Tha' young vixen, tha'! There tha' stands sayin' tha' doesn't like this one an' tha' doesn't like that one. How does tha' like thysel'?' It made me laugh an' it brought me to my senses in a minute."

She went away in high spirits as soon as she had given Mary her breakfast. She was going to walk five miles across the moor to the cottage, and she was going to help her mother with the washing and do the week's baking and enjoy herself thoroughly.

Mary felt lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longer in the house. She went out into the garden as quickly as possible, and the first thing she did was to run round and round the fountain flower garden ten times. She counted the times carefully and when she had finished she felt in better spirits. The sunshine made the whole place look different. The high, deep, blue sky arched over Misselthwaite as well as over the moor, and she kept lifting her face and looking up into it, trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one of the little snow-white clouds and float about. She went into the first kitchen-garden and found Ben Weatherstaff working there with two other gardeners. The change in the weather seemed to have done him good. He spoke to her of his own accord. "Springtime's comin,'" he said. "Cannot tha' smell it?"

Mary sniffed and thought she could.

"I smell something nice and fresh and damp," she said.

"That's th' good rich earth," he answered, digging away. "It's in a good humor makin' ready to grow things. It's glad when plantin' time comes. It's dull in th' winter when it's got nowt to do. In th' flower gardens out there things will be stirrin' down below in th' dark. Th' sun's warmin' 'em. You'll see bits o' green spikes stickin' out o' th' black earth after a bit."

"What will they be?" asked Mary.

"Crocuses an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys. Has tha' never seen them?"

"No. Everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in India," said Mary. "And I think things grow up in a night."

"These won't grow up in a night," said Weatherstaff. "Tha'll have to wait for 'em. They'll poke up a bit higher here, an' push out a spike more there, an' uncurl a leaf this day an' another that. You watch 'em."

"I am going to," answered Mary.

Very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again. He was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked Ben Weatherstaff a question.

"Do you think he remembers me?" she said.

"Remembers thee!" said Weatherstaff indignantly. "He knows every cabbage stump in th' gardens, let alone th' people. He's never seen a little wench here before, an' he's bent on findin' out all about thee. Tha's no need to try to hide anything from him."

"Are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives?" Mary inquired.

"What garden?" grunted Weatherstaff, becoming surly again.

"The one where the old rose-trees are." She could not help asking, because she wanted so much to know. "Are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come again in the summer? Are there ever any roses?"

"Ask him," said Ben Weatherstaff, hunching his shoulders toward the robin. "He's the only one as knows. No one else has seen inside it for ten year'."

Ten years was a long time, Mary thought. She had been born ten years ago.

She walked away, slowly thinking. She had begun to like the garden just as she had begun to like the robin and Dickon and Martha's mother. She was beginning to like Martha, too. That seemed a good many people to like—when you were not used to liking. She thought of the robin as one of the people. She went to her walk outside the long, ivy-covered wall over which she could see the tree-tops; and the second time she walked up and down the most interesting and exciting thing happened to her, and it was all through Ben Weatherstaff's robin.

She heard a chirp and a twitter, and when she looked at the bare flower-bed at her left side there he was hopping about and pretending to peck things out of the earth to persuade her that he had not followed her. But she knew he had followed her and the surprise so filled her with delight that she almost trembled a little.

"You do remember me!" she cried out. "You do! You are prettier than anything else in the world!"

She chirped, and talked, and coaxed and he hopped, and flirted his tail and twittered. It was as if he were talking. His red waistcoat was like satin and he puffed his tiny breast out and was so fine and so grand and so pretty that it was really as if he were showing her how important and like a human person a robin could be. Mistress Mary forgot that she had ever been contrary in her life when he allowed her to draw closer and closer to him, and bend down and talk and try to make something like robin sounds.

Oh! to think that he should actually let her come as near to him as that! He knew nothing in the world would make her put out her hand toward him or startle him in the least tiniest way. He knew it because he was a real person—only nicer than any other person in the world. She was so happy that she scarcely dared to breathe.

The flower-bed was not quite bare. It was bare of flowers because the perennial plants had been cut down for their winter rest, but there were tall shrubs and low ones which grew together at the back of the bed, and as the robin hopped about under them she saw him hop over a small pile of freshly turned up earth. He stopped on it to look for a worm. The earth had been turned up because a dog had been trying to dig up a mole and he had scratched quite a deep hole.

Mary looked at it, not really knowing why the hole was there, and as she looked she saw something almost buried in the newly-turned soil. It was something like a ring of rusty iron or brass and when the robin flew up into a tree nearby she put out her hand and picked the ring up. It was more than a ring, however; it was an old key which looked as if it had been buried a long time.

Mistress Mary stood up and looked at it with an almost frightened face as it hung from her finger.

"Perhaps it has been buried for ten years," she said in a whisper. "Perhaps it is the key to the garden!"

第七章花园的钥匙

又过了两天，有一天玛丽睁开眼，突然在床上坐了起来，她大声喊着玛莎。

“快看荒原！快看荒原！”

暴风雨已经结束了，一夜间，灰白的雨雾和乌云已经被大风吹散。风儿自己也停了下来。天空在荒原上高高地架起一袭明亮碧蓝的拱桥。玛丽从未奢望能见到如此如此鲜亮碧蓝的天空。在印度，天空炽热得像能喷出火来，逼得人睁不开眼睛；而眼前荒原上的的天空，蓝得深澈，蓝得凉爽，就像一汪深邃无底的美湖泛着粼粼波光，这儿也有，那儿也有。在那弯蓝空拱门的高处还漂浮着小小的雪白的如羊绒般柔绵的云朵。远处的荒原在蓝空的笼罩下映射出柔柔的蓝色，再也不是灰暗阴沉的黑紫色或糟糕得可怕的灰色了。

“好呀，”玛莎开心得笑着说。“暴风雨停了有一会儿了。每年的这个时候都是如此。它的脚步快得一夜之间便没了踪迹，好像从没有来过，也不打算再来了似的。这一切都是因为春天的脚步近了。虽然还得再等些日子，但的确是近了。”

“我之前以为英国就是这样呢，不是阴雨不断，就是昏暗阴霾，”玛丽说。

“噢!当然不是!”玛莎一边说，一边在那堆黑铅刷子中间跪坐起来，还直了直身子。“没有的事儿！”

“什么意思？”玛丽一本正经地问。在印度，那些土著仆人说各种各样的方言，能听懂的人也没几个，所以玛丽并不奇怪于玛莎嘴里迸出什么难懂的话。

玛莎扑哧一声笑了起来，就像第一天早晨那样。

“瞧我，”她说。“我刚刚又说了米洛克太太叮嘱过不许说的约克郡方言了。‘没有的事儿’意思是‘没有那样的事情发生’”，玛莎说得又慢又仔细，生怕玛丽会听不懂，“这样说太费事了。阳光普照的时候，约克郡是地球上最温暖明媚的地方。我以前就跟你说过，你不久就会爱上荒原的。你且等着看漫山遍野金灿灿的金雀花吧，还有盛开的石楠、紫色的铃铛花、漫天飞舞的蝴蝶、嗡嗡劳作的蜜蜂和直冲云霄的云雀。到时候天一亮，你可能就迫不及待地冲到绝美的荒原上去，玩上整整一天也不想回来，就像迪肯那样。”

“我能走到荒原去吗？”玛丽话中充满了渴望，她透过窗户遥望着远方的湖蓝。它蓝的那样鲜亮如新，那样气势磅礴，那样美轮美奂，真的应了那句“此色只应天上有。”

“这个我不知道，”玛莎说。“在我看来，你好像自打一出生就没用过你那两条腿。你怕是连五英里都走不到，这儿离我家就得五英里。”

“我想去你家的村舍看看。”

玛莎盯着玛丽看了一会儿，表情既古怪又好奇，然后又拿起刷子刷起壁炉架来。她在想这张平凡的小脸现在看起来也没有第一天早晨那么刻板乖戾嘛。倒跟苏珊.安非常想得到某件东西时的模样有点像。

“这事我得问问妈妈，”她说。“妈妈是那种有想法有主意的人。恰好今天是我休假回家的日子。啊！好高兴呀。米洛克太太和我妈妈的交情不错。或许可以让妈妈跟她谈谈。”

“我喜欢你妈妈，”玛丽说。

“我猜你也会喜欢的，”玛莎表示赞同，又开始擦起壁炉来。

“我还没见过她呢，”玛丽说。

“是啊，你还没见过呢，”玛莎回答。

玛莎直了直身子，重新跪坐在脚跟上，她用手背蹭了蹭鼻尖，一时间显得有点迷惑，但接下来又很乐观地说了起来。

“是的，她善解人意、勤劳善良、又爱干净，知道她的人都忍不住喜欢她，无论见没见过面。每一次我休假回家穿过荒原时，只要一想快要见到妈妈了，就能高兴得跳起来。”

“我还喜欢迪肯，”玛丽接着说。“我也没见过他。”

“嗯，是呀，”玛莎笃定地说，“我告诉过你，鸟儿喜欢他，兔子喜欢他，小野羊和野马驹喜欢他，连狐狸都喜欢他。我倒想知道，”玛莎一边说着，一边条件反射似地看了看玛丽，“想知道迪肯怎么看你？”

“他不会喜欢我的，”玛丽说这话时，又恢复到了一贯冰冷僵硬的样子。“没人会喜欢我。”

玛莎又不由自主地看了看她。

“那你喜欢你自己吗？”玛莎询问着，一副很想知道的样子。

玛丽犹豫了一会儿，想了想。

“一点也不喜欢——真的，”她说。“但是以前我没想过这个问题。”

玛莎淡淡地笑了笑，好像回忆起往昔的某件事情。

“妈妈也曾经那样问过我，”她说。“那次妈妈在洗衣服，我情绪很糟，在一旁不停地发牢骚，她转过身来对我说：‘你这个小泼妇！你站在那儿抱怨，一会儿说你不喜欢这个，一会儿说你不喜欢那个。那你喜不喜欢你自己呢？’我当时就大笑了起来，妈妈的一席话让如醍醐灌顶。”

她给玛丽准备好早餐后就兴高采烈地回家了。她要步行五公里穿过荒原回到家中那个温暖的小村舍，回到家后，她打算帮妈妈洗洗衣物，烤出全家一个星期要吃的面包，然后彻彻底底地放松一下。

当玛丽意识到玛莎已经不在这栋房子里时，她感觉更加孤独了。于是她以最快的速度冲了出去，到了花园后，她做的第一件事就是绕着喷泉花园跑了十圈。她边跑边仔细地数着，足足十圈，跑完后，她立刻感觉自己精神抖擞，情绪高昂。今天的阳光充足明媚，使得周围的一切看起来跟平时很不一样。那高远深邃的蓝天像拱门一样架在荒原上，如今也跨到了米特斯韦特庄园，玛丽一直仰着小脸望着晴空，想象着躺在那雪白的小云朵上在天空中飘来飘去会是什么感觉。接着，她跑进了第一个菜园，发现本.威瑟斯塔夫和另外两个园丁在里面干着活。天气的转晴似乎让老本的情绪顺畅了很多。他主动找玛丽说起话来。

“春天快来啦，”他说。“闻到它的气息没？”

玛丽撮了撮鼻子，感觉自己嗅到了春天的味道。“我闻到了，是一种美好的、香甜的、新鲜的、湿润的味道，”她说。

“那是新翻的泥土的气息，”他边说边翻着土。“它现在状态很好，已经准备好要长些东西出来了。种植时节来临了，它感到特别高兴。冬天没事可做，它就一副死气沉沉的模样。那边花园黑乎乎的泥土下已经有生命在蠢蠢欲动了。太阳照耀着它们，温暖着它们，给予它们能量。你很快就能看到尖尖的绿芽儿破土而出了。”

“它们长什么样？”玛丽问。

“番红花、雪花莲、还有水仙花。这些你都见过吗？”

“没有。下完雨后，在印度所有的植物都是热热的、湿湿的、绿绿的，”玛丽说。“我想这些东西一夜之间就会长出来吧。”

“不，它们一夜之间长不出来，”老本说。“你得耐心等着。这边的绿苗长高一些，那边的嫩芽多挤出些，今天这儿伸出一片叶子，明天那儿又伸出一片。你就擦亮眼睛等着看吧。”

“我一定会的，”玛丽说。

没多久，她又听到了鸟儿飞翔时翅膀柔和的沙沙声，她知道那只知更鸟来了。鸟儿活泼大胆地在她脚边蹦来跳去，还俏皮地歪着脑袋望着她。玛丽禁不住问了老本一个问题。

“你觉得它记得我吗？”她说。

“当然记得你！”老本对玛丽的疑问有些愤怒。“它连园子里每颗卷心菜坑坑都知道，何况是人呢。它以前没见过小姑娘，所以正好奇地想要了解你呢。你也不必对它隐藏什么。”

“它住的那个园子泥土下有动静吗？”玛丽询问。

“什么园子？”老本咕哝着，那张老脸一下子又板了起来。

“就是有古老玫瑰树的那个园子啊。”她绷不住要问及那个花园，因为她实在太想知道了。“园子里的花都死了吗？夏天还会再开一些吗？那里还有玫瑰吗？”

“那你要问它了，”老本说，朝着知更鸟耸耸肩。“它是唯一的知情者。除了它，这十年来再没其他人进过那个花园了。”

十年是段很长的时间，玛丽想。十年前她还没出生呢。

玛丽悻悻地走开了，慢慢踱着步子，心里不停地想着。她已经喜欢上那个神秘的园子了，就像喜欢知更鸟，迪肯和玛莎的妈妈一样。她也开始喜欢玛莎了。一时间她发现自己要喜欢的人好像太多了——而以前的她不习惯于喜欢任何人。她甚至把知更鸟当做一个人来看。她又走到了那道覆盖着常青藤的长墙外，她看得到跃出墙头的园子里的树梢；她顺着围墙走来走去，走到第二个来回时，有趣奇妙的事情发生了，这多亏了老本的知更鸟。

她听到了一声鸟鸣，接着发现知更鸟在她左边光秃秃的花坛上蹦来蹦去，还故意装作在地上东啄啄西啄啄，摆出一副若无其事的样子。只可惜它欲盖弥彰，玛丽一眼便看出知更鸟在跟踪自己。她又惊又喜，禁不住哆嗦了一下。

“你果真记得我！”玛丽大声叫了起来。“你记得！你真是世上最漂亮可爱的小东西了！”

她欢呼着，雀跃着，和知更鸟说话，还不停地逗诱它；鸟儿不停地蹦跶，还高调地伸展出美丽的尾巴，招摇地叽叽喳喳不停。就像在说话。它那红色的小马夹像绸缎一般柔软顺滑，它还把鲜亮的小胸脯挺了出来，美得炽热，美得华丽，像是在展示它的重要，和它多么像一个真正的人。玛丽一点点靠近知更鸟，弯下身子和它交谈，还试着学习它的鸣叫，她俨然已经忘掉了自己曾经的乖戾。

天啊！它竟然允许她和自己如此近距离的接触，真是难以置信！它知道玛丽绝不可能有一丝惊扰或伤害它的举动。它知道这些，因为它是个真真正正的人——只是比其他人更善良。玛丽如此高兴，她激动得连气都不敢喘一口。

花坛并不是真的寸草不生。之所以光秃秃是因为上面常年生长的植物被砍掉过冬了，但花坛后面还凑集着参差不齐的灌木，知更鸟在灌木丛下蹦蹦跳跳，玛丽看到它跳过了一小堆新翻的泥土，还停在上面找虫子吃。土被翻过了，是一只小狗为了挖出地下的鼹鼠，在这刨出了一个很深的洞。

玛丽看了看土堆，她并不清楚那个洞是怎么出现的，她瞥了一眼，发现这堆新翻的泥土里似乎埋了件什么东西。像是一个生了锈的铁环或铜环，待知更鸟忽地一声飞到了旁边的树上，玛丽伸手把那个金属环子捡了起来。发现它不是一个普通的金属环，还是把旧钥匙，上面锈迹斑斑，好像已经被埋了很长时间。

玛丽大小姐站起身来，看着挂在手指头上晃荡的钥匙，脸色有些不安和恐惧。

“也许它被埋了十年，”她窃窃私语。“也许它就是那个秘密花园的钥匙。”

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