Таємничий сад
XXVII. In The Garden
“Itwasthegardenthatdidit—andMaryandDickonandthecreatures—andtheMagic.Nooneknows.Wekeptittotellyouwhenyoucame.I’mwell,IcanbeatMaryinarace.I’mgoingtobeanathlete.”
Hesaiditallsolikeahealthyboy—hisfaceflushed,hiswordstumblingovereachotherinhiseagerness—thatMr.Craven’ssoulshookwithunbelievingjoy.
Colinputouthishandandlaiditonhisfather’sarm.
“Aren’tyouglad,Father?”heended.“Aren’tyouglad?I’mgoingtoliveforeverandeverandever!”
Mr.Cravenputhishandsonboththeboy’sshouldersandheldhimstill.Heknewhedarednoteventrytospeakforamoment.
“Takemeintothegarden,myboy,”hesaidatlast.“Andtellmeallaboutit.”
Andsotheyledhimin.
Theplacewasawildernessofautumngoldandpurpleandvioletblueandflamingscarletandoneverysideweresheavesoflateliliesstandingtogether—lilieswhichwerewhiteorwhiteandruby.Herememberedwellwhenthefirstofthemhadbeenplantedthatjustatthisseasonoftheyeartheirlategloriesshouldrevealthemselves.Laterosesclimbedandhungandclusteredandthesunshinedeepeningthehueoftheyellowingtreesmadeonefeelthatone,stoodinanemboweredtempleofgold.Thenewcomerstoodsilentjustasthechildrenhaddonewhentheycameintoitsgrayness.Helookedroundandround.
“Ithoughtitwouldbedead,”hesaid.
“Marythoughtsoatfirst,”saidColin.“Butitcamealive.”
Thentheysatdownundertheirtree—allbutColin,whowantedtostandwhilehetoldthestory.
