(A/N: I may have been a little bit dark in the previous chapter, I was hoping to incorporate the dark aspect of growing up later on, mainly because I didn't want to be like Susan Moody and rip the magic entirely out of the story, so I'm going to try to start off a little bit more softer and child-like—but just for a little while. So in essence I apologize for the shift between the dark mood and the light mood between these two chapters. Not a lot of talking in this chapter, more of a reflection.)
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
"The Children's hour"- Longfellow
Chapter 2
Mary awoke to the silent song of the moors, fluttering her lashes momentarily as her eyes caught the whiff of hazy sunlight drifting across the room and stealing away upon her satin bedcovers. She stretched her arms out with pure bliss, delighting in the warm bask of the rare sunlight that had erupted throughout the clouds. A halo of sun caught upon her porcelain palm, bouncing to and fro as though her very hand had encaged two shimmering fairies. Mary lay upon the majestic bed for a moment, vaguely wondering how she could have possibly thought Misselthwaite a dreadful place. In the distance the timber voice of the cook in the kitchen singing 'Greensleeves' wafted joyously into her room, reflecting merrily against the walls. She laughed silently, softly singing along to each verse. Mary turned her head and gazed lovingly towards the window, her eyes lingering upon its scratched pane surface, staring beyond into the endless sky that consumed more space then land itself. She knew it would be appropriate to get out of bed and face the day, but she preferred for the moment to relish the still silence of an awakening world. Mary knew her Uncle Archie would be in his study, sitting in his armchair and reading about various business prospects, whereas Martha would be casually searching through the pantry doors, hiding away leftovers for her younger siblings. Ben Weatherstaff would be struggling out of bed, sadly consumed with rheumatism, while Medlock (this thought did not seem to deter Mary from her good mood) would be creating unnecessary havoc amongst the servants. Unfortunately Colin was away at a boarding school in London, waking up to strict lessons and endless schoolwork. As told through the infinite letters Mary received due to her cousin's subtle cries for escape. Luckily he would arrive in no less a week for a short visit, much to Mary's delight. Meanwhile, her little friend the Robin would be out in search of earthly worms, while her dear blue-eyed Dickon would be tending to the garden…
"The garden!" Mary cried out and flung the heavy bedcovers off of her slim form.
She leapt up from her bed, her rich chestnut hair mussed from sleep and her nightgown practically hanging off. She picked up one dainty end of her dressing gown ignoring the shock of cold of the wooden floor against her slender feet as they hit the ground. She rushed across the room in exaggerated desperation and flung open the window, oblivious to the rush of fresh air that intoxicated her senses. Mary hurriedly gazed over the seas caped moors until her eyes settled upon the thick foliage that huddled joyously in the corner of this mind-numbing landscape. A flashing grin escaped her frenzied exterior as her eyes rested upon the hidden pillars of wall peeking through the thick foliage. Mary leaned out, letting the sky scrape their wispy wind-billowed fingers through her hair and momentarily believing she could fly. Without a second's hesitation she swiftly turned and rushed to her dressing cabinet, flinging the doors open and wildly searching through the hung clothes, when suddenly dread filled her entire being. There, in its starched proud entirety, rested the corset. Mary's body seemed to slowly freeze as she stared in dawning sense as she looked at the contraption, her jaw clenching unnoticeably. Her body stood rigid for a moment before she pushed it aside and said to herself in a firm voice,
"If she thinks that I will willingly wear that, that, cage, then she is sorely mistaken."
As Mary's resolve hardened into clear thought, she pushed the darkened thought into the recesses of her mind as she smiled at the lacy, pale blue muslin dress that shone merrily in the corner. As she slipped into the clingy yet soft dress, Mary reflected upon past memories at that same spot while laughing silently at the memory of the dozens of all-black dresses that she had owned when she first came from India, her cheeks reddening at the embarrassment of making Martha dress her. She gracefully sat onto the pillow-laden chair that rested beside her vanity, identical to the one her mother had owned in India. Mary brushed back her full hair, a rich yet spicy chestnut, lacing a blue ribbon through its strands. She knew she was taking special attention to her appearance lately, blushing at the very thought of him. She sat back, admiring the way her dress clung to her slender form, the lace patterned against her skin like henna. Her hair softened her maturing face as it streamed down her willowy back. She hoped he would notice, but she knew it was all in vain. Dickon, her heart thumped oddly at the mere thought of his name, was too blind by the mere wonders of the world around him that he couldn't notice the craving attentions from the young girl who obviously admired him from every aspect. Mary leaned back, discontented. She closed her satin eyes and pictured him, his memory etched in every corner of her mind. Truth be told, she loved everything about him. Some may call this infatuation, but Mary believed she loved him the moment he carved the bark off the tree and explained to her what 'wick' meant. She was a bitter, angry child, dead to the world. But without realizing it Dickon carved away her layers and revealed the wick inside of her own body, consequently gaining the love of a child who had never before experienced such a wondrous thing.
Mary positively adored his eyes, for they in fact were the mere reflections of the world around him. On a clear, spring day when the blue sky curtained over the moors, his eyes were the same glimmer of periwinkle that shone over the world. However when the grey, impregnated clouds drifted hauntingly over the rolling hills, his eyes seemed to reflect a silvery grey, mirroring the beautiful nature that his own soul seemed to be entwined in. Mary was sure that he was not of this world, a fairy child perhaps. He belonged to the earthly caresses of the fluttering leaves that swayed in the harvest breeze.
She loved his hands, the dirt stained fingers that lovingly caressed every bit of earth he touched. They were strong and capable, accustomed to years of hard labour, yet they would graze every so gently upon the musical notes from his instrument that had entranced the hearts of so many wild animals. His hands were like butterflies, fluttering bravely in a world gone mad. They embraced the earth gently blissfully with clear, firm command. They were capable hands, loving hands, absolutely magical hands.
The entire picture of Dickon enraptured Mary. Over the years he had grown tall and strong, his shoulders wide yet his body still lean. His baby fat had disappeared with age and muscle, yet had somehow remained in the boyish youthfulness of his face. Mary was sure that her stomach would flip over whenever he would flash her one of his crooked grins and his eerie eyes would crinkle with ever-apparent amusement, as though sharing a silent laugh with Mother Nature herself. Mary was bemused by the carefully trimmed brown, coarse hair that Dickon sported, an odd contrast to the wild nature he was enveloped in. The cut was still the same from when he was twelve years old, obviously by the ministrations of Mrs. Sowerby.
Mary groaned and rested her head against her arms, leaning over the laced-painted vanity. His voice, goodness gracious what she would give to wake up to that Yorkshire accent every morning? The old accents of the locals were even more predominant in the Sowerby family, music to Mary's ears. She would much prefer Dickon's voice rather then listening to Beethoven or even the rippling creek that roamed near the Secret Garden.
Mary suddenly laughed out loud, how ridiculous she looked. Here she was, pining over a boy who will probably never notice her and be forever entwined in the magic of his own reality. But by God, she even loved his bloody clothes! The earth-stained work shirt rolled up at the sleeves underneath his brown, open-buttoned vest. The dark grey pants coupled with his long work boots, topped off with his grey cap. Mary widened her eyes in horror, what a fool she was for dreaming about Dickon's clothes. He probably would never notice her, not even if she was dressed up like the Queen of England. She giggled again at her own stupidity, raising a hand to her falling hair. However her giggle was cut short as she thought about all those times in the garden, when the worked side by side while Colin would be nearby swinging off branches and such. Mary would look up from her carefully planted work, dirt painted along her cheek and a splatter of freckles sprinkled over her nose from the sun, only to see the intense, burning gaze of Dickon. The thing about him was that he would never look away, connecting his vision to whomever the gaze held. Mary would look away eventually, smiling uncomfortably although her cheeks burned with a surprised blush. They would work again in silence, aware only of each other's movements.
Dickon no longer lived with the Sowerby family, as there were too many children occupying the house and now that he was a lad of 18 he was entitled to move on. Lord Craven gave him the job of a full-time gardener, and the boy was currently living in an extra bedroom of Ben Weatherstaff's small cottage, though unbeknownst to everyone except for Archibald Craven, Dickon was building a small house. It was a little bit away along the moors, a piece of land given to him by Colin's father. If Mary knew about it, she would no doubt head over there, but this time it was a secret Dickon needed to keep quiet.
Mary opened her eyes in surprise as the door to her room suddenly swung open. It was Martha, and it seemed that she had arrived just in time to awaken Mary from her senses. The sun streamed gloriously upon her figure. In Martha's hands was the breakfast tray of tea and oatmeal. She flashed a heart-warming smile over to Mary and headed over to the table.
"G' mornin Miss Mary, 'ow tha' feeling today? Tha' still mad with Miss Medlock? What a prude, yeh? Anyway, I…"
However Martha was not given a chance to finish as Mary leapt up from the vanity in slight embarrassment and rushed over to her. She rested a quick peck on the cheek of the young servant and talked to her hurriedly.
"Good morning Martha! I'm so sorry you had to come all the way up here with that tray, but I am not even remotely famished. I must go to the garden, but thank you for the thought."
With that Mary rushed out of the door and slipped away, her dainty slippered feet disappearing silently down the hallway. Martha stood in her youthful amusement, smiling, though surprised, at Miss Mary's excitement. She placed the tray over to the table and wiped her hands on the apron. She knew the cause of the girl's excitement, yet her heart was both lifted and weighted down at the same time. Martha could not pick a better match for her wandering brother, yet she knew such a relationship would be impossible. She quirked her lips in disappointed reverie, and she moved closer to the window to close it. When she looked out, however, she could not resist a tug of a grin that erupted along her bemused face. She saw the young Miss Mary, running along the pathways of fields, her skirt lifted up by one hand and the other holding down a straw hat from the rushing wind. At the corner of Martha's mind she vaguely wondered how long the girl's freedom would last.
Well, I can honestly say that I was quite unprepared for all the reviews I received for just the first chapter. I see that The Secret Garden is much more popular then I originally thought. But they lifted my heart so much, so thank you all. I have one request to anyone and everyone that loves Secret Garden. I BEG you to write a short or long or medium fan fiction! There are so few of the Secret Garden stories that I must of read all of them a hundred times. Even if it's only a paragraph, I'm sure some fan out there will appreciate it and be glad that they are not the only people out there that love this story to the extent of continuing on about it through the form of fan fiction. Anyway, that's my daily ramble.