She slept a long time, and when she awakened Mrs. Medlock bought a lunchbasket at one of the stations. They had some chicken and cold beef and bread and butter and some hot tea. The rain was streaming down heavily and everybody in the station wore wet and glistening waterproofs. The guard lighted the lamps in the carriage, and Mrs. Medlock cheered up very much over her tea and chicken and beef. Mary sat and stared at her until she fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage.
It was quite dark when she awakened again. The train stopped at a station and Mrs. Medlock was shaking her.
“It’s time to open your eyes!” she said. “We’re at Thwaite Station and we’ve got a long drive before us.”
Mary stood up while Mrs. Medlock collected her parcels. The little girl did not offer to help her, because in India native servants always picked up or carried things.
The station was small. The station-master spoke to Mrs. Medlock, pronouncing his words in a queer fashion which Mary found out afterward was Yorkshire,
“The carriage is waiting outside for you.”
A brougham stood on the road before the little platform. Mary saw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman.
When he shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they drove off, the little girl sat and looked out of the window. She was not at all a timid child and she was not frightened.
“What is a moor?” she said suddenly to Mrs. Medlock.
“Look out of the window in about ten minutes and you’ll see,” the woman answered. “We’ll drive five miles across Missel Moor before we get to the Manor. You won’t see much because it’s a dark night, but you can see something.”
Mary asked no more questions. They passed a church and a vicarage and a little shop. Then they were on the highroad and she saw hedges and trees. At last the horses began to go more slowly. She could see nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either side.
“It’s not the sea, is it?” said Mary, looking round.
“No, not it,” answered Mrs. Medlock. “Nor it isn’t fields nor mountains, it’s just miles and miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on but wild ponies and sheep.”
On and on they drove through the darkness. The road went up and down.
“I don’t like it,” Mary said to herself. “I don’t like it at all.”
They drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an immensely long house. The entrance door was a huge one made of massive panels of oak. It opened into an enormous hall with the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of armor.
A neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for them.
“You will take her to her room,” he said in a husky voice. “He doesn’t want to see her. He’s going to London in the morning.”
“Very well, Mr. Pitcher,” Mrs. Medlock answered.
Then Mary Lennox went up a broad staircase and down a long corridor and through another corridor and another, until a door opened in a wall and she found herself in a room with a fire in it and a supper on a table.
Mrs. Medlock said unceremoniously:
“Well, here you are! This room and the next are where you’ll live-and stay here. Don’t forget that!”
When Mary opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young housemaid came into her room to light the fire. She was raking out the cinders[10] noisily. Mary lay and watched her for a few moments and then began to look about the room. The room was curious and gloomy. The walls were covered with tapestry with a forest scene embroidered on it. There were fantastically dressed people under the trees and in the distance there was a castle. There were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies.
Out of a deep window Mary saw a great stretch of land which had no trees on it, and looked rather like an endless, dull, purplish sea.
“What is that?” she said, pointing out of the window.
Martha, the young housemaid, looked and said,
“That’s the moor. Do you like it?”
“No,” answered Mary. “I hate it.”
“That’s because it’s too big and bare now. But you will like it.”
“Do you?” inquired Mary.
“Yes, I do,” answered Martha. “I just love it. It’s lovely in spring and summer.”
Mary listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression. The native servants in India were not like Martha. They were obsequious and servile. They called their masters “protector of the poor”. It was not the custom to say “please” and “thank you” and Mary always slapped her Ayah in the face[11] when she was angry.
This girl was round, rosy and good-natured.
“You are a strange servant,” she said from her pillows.
Martha sat up on her heels.
“Eh! I know that,” she said. “Mrs. Medlock gave me the place out of kindness[12].”
“Are you going to be my servant?” Mary asked.
“I’m Mrs. Medlock’s servant,” she said stoutly. “And she’s Mr. Craven’s. I’ll do some housemaid’s work up here and help you a bit. But you won’t need much.”
“Who is going to dress me?” demanded Mary.
Martha sat up on her heels again and stared. She was amazed.
“Can’t you dress yourself?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” said Mary.
“I mean can’t you put on your own clothes?”
“No,” answered Mary, quite indignantly. “I never did in my life. My Ayah dressed me, of course.”
“Well,” said Martha, “it’s time you must learn.”
“It is different in India,” said Mistress Mary disdainfully.
“Eh! I can see it’s different,” Martha answered almost sympathetically. “When I heard you were coming from India I thought you were black.”
Mary was furious.
“What!” she said. “What! You thought… You-you daughter of a pig!”
“Who are you talking about?” asked Martha. “You needn’t be so vexed.”
Mary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation.
“You thought I was a native! You dared! You don’t know anything about natives! They are not people-they’re just servants. You know nothing about India. You know nothing about anything!”
She was in such a rage and felt so helpless, that she threw herself face downward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing. Martha went to the bed and bent over her.
“Eh! You mustn’t cry like that!” she begged. “Yes, I don’t know anything about anything-just like you said. I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop crying.”
There was something comforting and really friendly in her queer Yorkshire speech. Mary gradually ceased crying and became quiet. Martha looked relieved.
“It’s time for you to get up now,” she said. “Mrs. Medlock said to carry your breakfast and tea and dinner into the room next to this. I’ll help you with your clothes.”
When Mary at last decided to get up, the clothes Martha took from the wardrobe were not hers.
“Those are not mine,” she said. “Mine are black.”
She looked at the thick white wool coat and dress, and added with cool approval:
“Those are nicer than mine.”
“Mr. Craven ordered Mrs. Medlock to get in London for you,” Martha answered. “He said he did not like black clothes.”
“I hate black things, too,” said Mary.
Martha helped to dress her little sisters and brothers but she never saw a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things for her.
“Why don’t you put on your own shoes?” she said when Mary quietly held out her foot.
“My Ayah did it,” answered Mary, staring. “It was the custom.”
“Eh! You did not see my family,” Martha said. “We are twelve, and my father only gets sixteen shilling a week. My mother cooks porridge for them all. They tumble about on the moor and play there all day. Our Dickon is twelve years old and he’s got a young pony.”
“Where did he get it?” asked Mary.
“He found it on the moor and he began to make friends with it and give it bits of bread and some grass. And it follows him everywhere. Dickon is a kind lad, animals like him.”
Mary did not have an animal pet of her own. So she began to feel a slight interest in Dickon. When she went into the next room, she found that it was a grown-up person’s room, with gloomy old pictures on the walls and heavy old oak chairs. There was a good substantial breakfast on the table in the center. But she always had a very small appetite.
“I don’t want it,” Mary said.
“You don’t want your porridge!” Martha exclaimed incredulously.
“No.”
“You don’t know how good it is.”
“I don’t want it,” repeated Mary.
“Eh!” said Martha. “If our children were at this table!”
“Why?” said Mary coldly.
“Why!” echoed Martha. “Because they are hungry as young hawks and foxes.”
“I don’t know what it is to be hungry,” said Mary.
Martha looked indignant.
“Well, try it.”
“Why don’t you take that to your brothers?” suggested Mary.
“It’s not mine,” answered Martha stoutly.
Mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade.
“Put on warm clothes and play outside,” said Martha. “It’ll do you good.”
Mary went to the window. There were gardens and paths and big trees, but everything looked dull and wintry.
“Who will go with me?” she inquired.
Martha stared.
“You’ll go alone,” she answered. “You’ll learn to play like other children do when they haven’t got sisters and brothers. Our Dickon goes off on the moor by himself and plays for hours. That’s how he made friends with the pony. He’s got sheep on the moor that knows him, and birds.”
Mary decided to go out.
“If you go round that way you’ll come to the gardens,” Martha said, pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery. “There are a lot of flowers in summer-time in that place. But one of the gardens is locked up. No one goes there.”
“Why?” asked Mary.
“Mr. Craven shut it when his wife died so suddenly. He didn’t let anyone go inside. It was her garden. He locked the door and dug a hole and buried the key. Oh! There’s Mrs. Medlock’s bell ringing-I must run.”
After she was gone Mary turned down the walk[13] which led to the door in the shrubbery. She was thinking about the secret garden. She wondered what it looked like and whether there were any flowers still alive in it. When she passed through the shrubbery gate she found herself in great gardens, with wide lawns and winding walks with borders. There were trees, and flower-beds, and evergreens, and a large pool with an old gray fountain in its midst. But the flower-beds were bare and wintry and the fountain was not playing.
She went toward the wall and found that there was a green door in the ivy. 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.
“There was no door there into the other garden,” said Mary.
“What garden?” he said in a rough voice.
“The one on the other side of the wall,” answered Mistress Mary. “There are trees there-I saw the tops of them. A bird with a red breast was sitting on one of them and singing.”
To her surprise the surly face actually changed its expression. A slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite different. It was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled.
He began to whistle. Almost the next moment a wonderful thing happened. The bird with the red breast flew to them, and alighted near to the gardener’s foot.
Mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at it.
“I’m lonely,” she said.
The old gardener stared at her.
“Are you that little wench from India?” he asked.
Mary nodded.
He began to dig again.
“What is your name?” Mary inquired.
“Ben Weatherstaff,” he answered, and then he added with a surly chuckle, “I’m lonely myself except when he’s with me,” and he jerked his thumb toward the robin. “He’s the only friend I’ve got.”
“I have no friends at all,” said Mary. “I never had. My Ayah didn’t like me and I never played with anyone.”
Suddenly a little sound broke out near her and she turned round. The bird was singing.
“Will you make friends with me?” Mary said to the robin. “Will you?”
“Why,” Ben Weatherstaff cried out, “you are a real child instead of a sharp old woman. You talk like Dickon talks to his animals on the moor.”
“Do you know Dickon?” Mary asked.
“Everybody knows him. Dickon is wandering about everywhere. Blackberries and heather-bells know him. Foxes shows him where their cubs lie, skylarks don’t hide their nests from him.”
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