Таємничий сад

           Nooneeverknewwhenhewouldgooutorcomeinorwherehewouldchoosetosleeporifhewouldroamaboutthegardenorlieintheboatonthelakeallnight.ThemanheldasalverwithsomelettersonitandhewaitedquietlyuntilMr.Craventookthem.WhenhehadgoneawayMr.Cravensatafewmomentsholdingtheminhishandandlookingatthelake.Hisstrangecalmwasstilluponhimandsomethingmore—alightnessasifthecruelthingwhichhadbeendonehadnothappenedashethought—asifsomethinghadchanged.Hewasrememberingthedream—thereal—realdream.

           “Inthegarden!”hesaid,wonderingathimself.“Inthegarden!Butthedoorislockedandthekeyisburieddeep.”

           WhenheglancedatthelettersafewminuteslaterhesawthattheonelyingatthetopoftherestwasanEnglishletterandcamefromYorkshire.Itwasdirectedinaplainwoman’shandbutitwasnotahandheknew.Heopenedit,scarcelythinkingofthewriter,butthefirstwordsattractedhisattentionatonce.

           “DearSir:

           IamSusanSowerbythatmadeboldtospeaktoyouonceonthemoor.ItwasaboutMissMaryIspoke.Iwillmakeboldtospeakagain.Please,sir,IwouldcomehomeifIwasyou.Ithinkyouwouldbegladtocomeand—ifyouwillexcuseme,sir—Ithinkyourladywouldaskyoutocomeifshewashere.

           Yourobedientservant,

           SusanSowerby.”

           Mr.Cravenreadthelettertwicebeforeheputitbackinitsenvelope.Hekeptthinkingaboutthedream.

           “IwillgobacktoMisselthwaite,”hesaid.“Yes,I’llgoatonce.