The Secret Garden

Mary's lips pinched themselves together. She was no more used to considering other people than Colin was and she saw no reason why an ill-tempered boy should interfere with the thing she liked best. She knew nothing about the pitifulness of people who had been ill and nervous and who did not know that they could control their tempers and need not make other people ill and nervous, too. When she had had a headache in India she had done her best to see that everybody else also had a headache or something quite as bad. And she felt she was quite right; but of course now she felt that Colin was quite wrong.

“I won't let that boy come here if you go and stay with him instead of coming to talk to me,” he said.

“I won't let that boy come here if you go and stay with him instead of coming to talk to me,” he said. Mary flew into a fine passion. She just grew sour and obstinate and did not care what happened. “If you send Dickon away, I’ll never come into this room again!” she retorted. “You’ll have to if I want you,” said Colin. “I won’t!” said Mary. “I’ll make you,” said Colin. “They shall drag you in.” “Shall they, Mr. Rajah!” said Mary fiercely. “They may drag me in, but they can’t make me talk when they get me here. I’ll sit and clench my teeth and never tell you one thing. I won’t even look at you. I’ll stare at the floor!” They were a nice agreeable pair as they glared at each other. “You are a selfish thing!” cried Colin. “What are you?” said Mary. “Selfish people always say that. You’re more selfish than I am. You’re the most selfish boy I ever saw.” “I’m not!” snapped Colin. “I’m not as selfish as your fine Dickon is! He keeps you playing in the dirt when he knows I am all by myself. He’s selfish, if you like!” Mary’s eyes flashed fire. “He’s nicer than any other boy that ever lived!” she said. “He’s like an angel!” It might sound rather silly to say that, but she did not care. “A nice angle!” Colin sneered ferociously. “He’s a common cottage boy off the moor!” “He’s better than a common Rajah!” retorted Mary. “He’s a thousand times better!” Because she was the stronger of the two she was beginning to get the better of him. He turned his head on his pillow and shut his eyes and a big tear was squeezed out and ran down his cheek. He was beginning to feel sorry for himself – not for any one else. “I’m not as selfish as you, because I’m always ill, and I’m sure there is a lump coming on my back,” he said. “And I am going to die besides.” “You’re not!” contradicted Mary unsympathetically. He opened his eyes quite wide with indignation. He had never heard such a thing said before. He was at once furious and slightly pleased, if a person could be both at one time. “I’m not?” he cried. “I am! You know I am! Everybody says so.” “I don’t believe it!” said Mary sourly. “You just say that to make people sorry. I believe you’re proud of it. I don’t believe it! If you were a nice boy it might be true – but you’re too nasty!” In spite of his invalid back, Colin sat up in bed in quite a health rage. “Get out of the room!” he shouted, and he caught hold of his pillow and threw it at her. He was not strong enough to throw it far, and it only fell at her feet, but Mary’s face looked as pinched as a nut-cracker. “I’m going,” she said, “And I won’t come back!” She walked to the door, and when she reached it she turned round and spoke again. “I was going to tell you all sorts of nice things. Dickon brought his fox and his rook and I was going to tell you all about them. Now I won’t tell you a single thing!”