The Secret Garden

‘She is such a plain child,’ Mrs Crawford said pityingly afterward. ‘And her mother was such a pretty creature. She had a very pretty manner, too, and Mary has the most unattractive ways I ever saw in a child. The children call her “Mistress Mary Quite Contrary”, and though it’s naughty of them, one can’t help understanding it.’

‘Perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners oftener into the nursery, Mary might have learned some pretty ways, too. It is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all.’

‘I believe she scarcely ever looked at her,’ sighed Mrs Crawford. ‘When her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing. Think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow. Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room.’

Mary made the long voyage to England under the care of an officer’s wife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school. She was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was rather glad to hand the child over to the woman Mr Archibald Craven sent to meet her in London. The woman was his housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor, and her name was Mrs Medlock. She was a stout woman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. She wore a very purple dress, a black silk mantle with jet fringes on it, and a black bonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she moved her head. Mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom liked people, there was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was very evident Mrs Medlock did not think much of her.

‘My word! she’s a plain little piece of goods!’ she said. ‘And we’d heard that her mother was a beauty. She hasn’t handed much of it down, has she, ma’am?’

‘Perhaps she will improve as she grows older,’ the officer’s wife said good-naturedly. ‘If she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression, her features are rather good. Children alter so much.’

‘She’ll have to alter a good deal,’ answered Mrs Medlock. ‘And there’s nothing likely to improve children at Misselthwaite – if you ask me!’

They thought Mary was not listening because she was standing a little apart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to. She was watching the passing buses and cabs and people, but she heard quite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he lived in. What sort of a place was it, and what would he be like? What was a hunchback? She had never seen one. Perhaps there were none in India.

Since she had been living in other people’s houses and had had no Ayah, she had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new to her. She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to anyone even when her father and mother had been alive. Other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be anyone’s little girl. She had had servants, and food and clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her. She did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, she did not know she was disagreeable. She often thought that other people were, but she did not know that she was so herself.

She thought Mrs Medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever seen, with her common, highly coloured face and her common fine bonnet. When the next day they set out on their journey to Yorkshire, she walked through the station to the railway carriage with her head up and trying to keep as far away from her as she could, because she did not want to seem to belong to her. It would have made her very angry to think people imagined she was her little girl.

But Mrs Medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her thoughts. She was the kind of woman who would ‘stand no nonsense from young ones’. At least, that is what she would have said if she had been asked. She had not wanted to go to London just when her sister Maria’s daughter was going to be married, but she had a comfortable, well-paid place as housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor, and the only way in which she could keep it was to do at once what Mr Archibald Craven told her to do. She never dared even to ask a question.

‘Captain Lennox and his wife died of the cholera,’ Mr Craven had said in his short, cold way. ‘Captain Lennox was my wife’s brother and I am their daughter’s guardian. The child is to be brought here. You must go to London and bring her yourself.’

So she packed her small trunk and made the journey.

Mary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain and fretful. She had nothing to read or to look at, and she had folded her thin little black-gloved hands in her lap. Her black dress made her look yellower than ever, and her limp light hair straggled from under her black crêpe hat.

‘A more marred-looking young one I never saw in my life,’ Mrs Medlock thought. (Marred is a Yorkshire word and means spoiled and pettish.) She had never seen a child who sat so still without doing anything; and at last she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk, hard voice.

‘I suppose I may as well tell you something about where you are going to,’ she said. ‘Do you know anything about your uncle?’

‘No,’ said Mary.

‘Never heard your father and mother talk about him?’

‘No,’ said Mary, frowning. She frowned because she remembered that her father and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular. Certainly they had never told her things.

‘Humph,’ muttered Mrs Medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive little face. She did not say any more for a few moments, and then she began again.

‘I suppose you might as well be told something – to prepare you. You are going to a queer place.’

Mary said nothing at all, and Mrs Medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent indifference, but after taking a breath, she went on.

‘Not but that it’s a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr Craven’s proud of it in his way – and that’s gloomy enough, too. The house is six hundred years old, and it’s on the edge of the moor, and there’s near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them’s shut up and locked. And there’s pictures and fine old furniture and things that’s been there for ages, and there’s a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground – some of them.’ She paused and took another breath. ‘But there’s nothing else,’ she ended suddenly.

Mary had begun to listen in spite of herself. It all sounded so unlike India, and anything new rather attracted her. But she did not intend to look as if she were interested. That was one of her unhappy, disagreeable ways. So she sat still.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Medlock. ‘What do you think of it?’

‘Nothing,’ she answered. ‘I know nothing about such places.’

That made Mrs Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh.

‘Eh!’ she said. ‘But you are like an old woman. Don’t you care?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Mary, ‘whether I care nor not.’

‘You are right enough there,’ said Mrs Medlock. ‘It doesn’t. What you’re to be kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I don’t know, unless because it’s the easiest way. He’s not going to trouble himself about you, that’s sure and certain. He never troubles himself about no one.’

She stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time.

‘He’s got a crooked back,’ she said. ‘That set him wrong. He was a sour young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was married.’

Mary’s eyes turned towards her, in spite of her intention not to seem to care. She had never thought of the hunchback’s being married, and she was a trifle surprised. Mrs Medlock saw this, and as she was a talkative woman, she continued with more interest. This was one way of passing some of the time, at any rate.

‘She was a sweet, pretty thing, and he’d have walked the world over to get her a blade o’ grass she wanted. Nobody thought she’d marry him, but she did, and people said she married him for his money. But she didn’t – she didn’t,’ positively. ‘When she died –’

Mary gave a little involuntary jump.

‘Oh! did she die?’ she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. She had just remembered a French fairy story she had once read called Riquet à la Houppe. It had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess, and it had made her suddenly sorry for Mr Archibald Craven.

‘Yes, she died,’ Mrs Medlock answered. ‘And it made him queerer than ever. He cares about nobody. He won’t see people. Most of the time he goes away, and when he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself up in the West Wing and won’t let anyone but Pitcher see him. Pitcher’s an old fellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows his ways.’

It sounded like something in a book, and it did not make Mary feel cheerful. A house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and with their doors locked – a house on the edge of a moor – whatsoever a moor was – sounded dreary. A man with a crooked back who shut himself up also! She stared out of the window with her lips pinched together, and it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down in grey slanting lines and splash and stream down the window-panes. If the pretty wife had been alive, she might have made things cheerful by being something like her own mother and by running in and out and going to parties as she had done in frocks ‘full of lace’. But she was not there any more.

‘You needn’t expect to see him, because ten to one you won’t,’ said Mrs Medlock. ‘And you mustn’t expect that there will be people to talk to you. You’ll have to play about and look after yourself. You’ll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms you’re to keep out of. There’s gardens enough. But when you’re in the house don’t go wandering and poking about. Mr Craven won’t have it.’

‘I shall not want to go poking about,’ said sour little Mary; and just as suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for Mr Archibald Craven, she began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant enough to deserve all that had happened to him.

And she turned her face towards the streaming panes of the window of the railway carriage and gazed out at the grey rain-storm which looked as if it would go on for ever and ever. She watched it so long and steadily that the greyness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep.

CHAPTER 3 Across the Moor

She slept a long time, and when she awakened Mrs Medlock had bought a lunch-basket at one of the stations, and they had some chicken and cold beef and bread-and-butter and some hot tea. The rain seemed to be streaming down more heavily than ever, 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. She ate a great deal, and afterwards fell asleep herself, and Mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet slip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage, lulled by the splashing of the rain against the windows. It was quite dark when she awakened again. The train had stopped at a station and Mrs Medlock was shaking her.

‘You have had a sleep!’ she said. ‘It’s time to open your eyes! We’re at Thwaite Station, and we’ve got a long drive before us.’

Mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open 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, and it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one.

The station was a small one, and nobody but themselves seemed to be getting out of the train. The station-master spoke to Mrs Medlock in a rough, good-natured way, pronouncing his words in a queer broad fashion which Mary found out afterwards was Yorkshire.

‘I see tha’s got back,’ he said. ‘An’ tha’s browt th’ young ’un with thee.’

‘Aye, that’s her,’ answered Mrs Medlock, speaking with a Yorkshire accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder towards Mary. ‘How’s thy missus?’

‘Well enow. Th’ carriage is waitin’ outside for thee.’

A brougham stood on the road before the little outside platform. Mary saw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who helped her in. His long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of his hat were shining and dripping with rain as everything was, the burly station-master included.

When he shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they drove off, the little girl found herself seated in a comfortably cushioned corner, but she was not inclined to go to sleep again. She sat and looked out of the window, curious to see something of the road over which she was being driven to the queer place Mrs Medlock had spoken of. She was not at all a timid child, and she was not exactly frightened, but she felt that there was no knowing what might happen in a house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up – a house standing on the edge of a moor.

‘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’ve got to 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, but waited in the darkness of her corner, keeping her eyes on the window. The carriage lamps cast rays of light a little distance ahead of them, and she caught glimpses of the things they passed. After they had left the station they had driven through a tiny village and she had seen whitewashed cottages and the lights of a public house. Then they had passed a church and a vicarage and a little shop window or so in a cottage with toys and sweets and odd things set out for sale. Then they were on the high road, and she saw hedges and trees. After that there seemed nothing different for a long time – or at least it seemed a long time to her.

At last the horses began to go more slowly, as if they were climbing up-hill, and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more trees. She could see nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either side. She leaned forward and pressed her face against the window just as the carriage gave a big jolt.

‘Eh! We’re on the moor now sure enough,’ said Mrs Medlock.

The carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which seemed to be cut through bushes and low-growing things which ended in the great expanse of dark apparently spread out before and around them. A wind was rising and making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound.

‘It’s – it’s not the sea, is it?’ said Mary, looking round at her companion.

‘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.’

‘I feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it,’ said Mary. ‘It sounds like the sea just now.’

‘That’s the wind blowing through the bushes,’ Mrs Medlock said. ‘It’s a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there’s plenty that likes it – particularly when the heather’s in bloom.’

On and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped, the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds. The road went up and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise. Mary felt as if the drive would never come to an end, and that the wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was passing on a strip of dry land.

‘I don’t like it,’ she said to herself. ‘I don’t like it,’ and she pinched her thin lips more tightly together.

The horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught sight of a light. Mrs Medlock saw it as soon as she did, and drew a long sigh of relief.

‘Eh, I am glad to see that bit o’ light twinkling,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s the light in the lodge window. We shall get a good cup of tea after a bit, at all events.’

It was ‘after a bit’, as she said, for when the carriage passed through the park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through, and the trees (which nearly met overhead) made it seem as if they were driving through a long dark vault.

They drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an immensely long but low-built house, which seemed to ramble round a stone court. At first Mary thought that there were no lights at all in the windows, but as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a corner upstairs showed a dull glow.

The entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiously shaped panels of oak studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars. It opened into an enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that the faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of armour made Mary feel that she did not want to look at them. As she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked.

A neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for them.

‘You are to 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. ‘So long as I know what’s expected of me, I can manage.’

‘What’s expected of you, Mrs Medlock,’ Mr Pitcher said, ‘is that you make sure that he’s not disturbed and that he doesn’t see what he doesn’t want to see.’

And then Mary Lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long corridor and up a short flight of steps 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 you must keep to them. Don’t you forget that!’

It was in this way Mistress Mary arrived at Misselthwaite Manor, and she had perhaps never felt quite so contrary in all her life.

CHAPTER 4 Martha

When she opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young housemaid had come into her room to light the fire and was kneeling on the hearth-rug raking out the cinders noisily. Mary lay and watched her for a few moments and then began to look about the room. She had never seen a room at all like it, and thought it 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 glimpse of the turrets of a castle. There were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies. Mary felt as if she were in the forest with them. Out of a deep window she could see a great climbing stretch of land which seemed to have no trees on it, and to look rather like an endless, dull, purplish sea.

‘What is that?’ she said, pointing out of the window.

Martha, the young housemaid, who had just risen to her feet, looked, and pointed also.

‘That there?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s th’ moor,’ with a good-natured grin. ‘Does tha’ like it?’

‘No,’ answered Mary. ‘I hate it.’

‘That’s because tha’rt not used to it,’ Martha said, going back to her hearth. ‘Tha’ thinks it’s too big an’ bare now. But tha’ will like it.’

‘Do you?’ inquired Mary.

‘Aye, that I do,’ answered Martha, cheerfully polishing away at the grate. ‘I just love it. It’s none bare. It’s covered wi’ growin’ things as smells sweet. It’s fair lovely in spring an’ summer when th’ gorse an’ broom an’ heather’s in flower. It smells o’ honey an’ there’s such a lot o’ fresh air – an’ th’ sky looks so high an’ th’ bees an’ skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin’ an’ singing’. Eh! I wouldn’t live away from th’ moor for anythin’.’

Mary listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression. The native servants she had been used to in India were not in the least like this. They were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to their masters as if they were their equals. They made salaams and called them ‘protector of the poor’ and names of that sort. Indian servants were commanded to do things, not asked. It was not the custom to say ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you’, and Mary had always slapped her Ayah in the face when she was angry. She wondered a little what this girl would do if one slapped her in the face. She was a round, rosy, good-natured looking creature, but she had a sturdy way which made Mistress Mary wonder if she might not even slap back – if the person who slapped her was only a little girl.

‘You are a strange servant,’ she said from her pillows, rather haughtily.

Martha sat up on her heels, with her blacking-brush in her hand, and laughed, without seeming the least out of temper.

‘Eh! I know that,’ she said. ‘If there was a grand missus at Misselthwaite I should never have been even one of th’ under-housemaids. I might have been let to be scullery-maid, but I’d never have been let upstairs. I’m too common an’ I talk too much Yorkshire. But this is a funny house for all it’s so grand. Seems like there’s neither master nor mistress except Mr Pitcher and Mrs Medlock. Mr Craven, he won’t be troubled about anythin’ when he’s here, an’ he’s nearly always away. Mrs Medlock gave me th’ place out o’ kindness. She told me she could never have done it if Misselthwaite had been like other big houses.’

‘Are you going to be my servant?’ Mary asked, still in her imperious little Indian way.

Martha began to rub her grate again.

‘I’m Mrs Medlock’s servant,’ she said stoutly. ‘And she’s Mr Craven’s – but I’m to do the housemaid’s work up here an’ wait on you a bit. But you won’t need much waitin’ on.’

‘Who is going to dress me?’ demanded Mary.

Martha sat up on her heels again and stared. She spoke in broad Yorkshire in her amazement.

‘Canna’ tha’ dress thysen?’ she said.

‘What do you mean? I don’t understand your language,’ said Mary.

‘Eh! I forgot,’ Martha said. ‘Mrs Medlock told me I’d have to be careful or you wouldn’t know what I was sayin’. 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, evidently not in the least aware that she was impudent, ‘it’s time tha’ should learn. Tha’ cannot begin younger. It’ll do thee good to wait on thysen a bit. My mother always said she couldn’t see why grand people’s children didn’t turn out fair fools – what with nurses an’ bein’ washed an’ dressed an’ took out to walk as if they was puppies!’

‘It is different in India,’ said Mistress Mary disdainfully. She could scarcely stand this.

But Martha was not at all crushed.

‘Eh! I can see it’s different,’ she answered almost sympathetically. ‘I dare say it’s because there’s such a lot o’ blacks there instead o’ respectable white people. When I heard you was comin’ from India I thought you was a black too.’

Mary sat up in bed, furious.

‘What!’ she said. ‘What! You thought I was a native. You – you daughter of a pig!’

Martha stared and looked hot.

‘Who are you callin’ names?’ she said. ‘You needn’t be so vexed. That’s not th’ way for a young lady to talk. I’ve nothin’ against th’ blacks. When you read about ’em in tracts they’re always very religious. You always read as a black’s a man an’ a brother. I’ve never seen a black, an’ I was fair pleased to think I was goin’ to see one close. When I come in to light your fire this mornin’ I crep’ up to your bed an’ pulled th’ cover back careful to look at you. An’ there you was,’ disappointedly, ‘no more black than me – for all you’re so yeller.’