Таинственный сад / The secret garden

This was not the closed garden, evidently. 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. She saw another open green door, revealing bushes and pathways. The place was bare and ugly enough, Mary thought.

Presently an old man with a spade over his shoulder walked through the door leading from the second garden. He saw Mary, and then touched his cap. He had a surly old face. She was displeased with his garden.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“One of the kitchen-gardens,” he answered.

“What is that?” said Mary, pointing through the other green door.

“Another of them. There’s another on the other side of the wall and there is the orchard the other side of that.”

“Can I go in them?” asked Mary.

“If you like. But there is nothing to see there.”

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 secret garden. Mary went to the green door and turned the handle. The door opened quite easily and she walked through it and found herself in an orchard. She saw a bird with a bright red breast sitting on the branch. Suddenly the bird sang its winter song.

She stopped and listened to the bird and somehow its cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling. Even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely.

She was desolate, and the bright-breasted little bird looked into her sour little face which was almost a smile. She listened to it until it flew away. It was not like an Indian bird and she liked it. Perhaps it lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it.

Mary was curious about it and wanted to see what it was like. Why did Mr. Archibald Craven bury the key? If he liked his wife so much why does he hate her garden?

“People never like me and I never like people,” she thought.

“And I can never talk as the Crawford children can. They are always talking and laughing and making noises.”

She walked back into the first kitchen-garden and found the old man digging there. She went and stood beside him and watched him.

“I visited the other gardens,” she said.

“So what?” he asked crustily.

“I went into the orchard.”

“There was no dog at the door to bite you,” he answered.