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 youll live-and you must keep to them. Dont 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 IV
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.
Thats th moor, with a good-natured grin. Does tha like it?
No, answered Mary. I hate it.
Thats because thart not used to it, Martha said, going back to her hearth. Tha thinks its 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. Its none bare. Its covered wi growin things as smells sweet. Its fair lovely in spring an summer when th gorse an broom an heathers in flower. It smells o honey an theres such a lot o fresh air-an th sky looks so high an th bees an skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin an singin. Eh! I wouldnt 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 scullerymaid but Id never have been let upstairs. Im too common an I talk too much Yorkshire. But this is a funny house for all its so grand. Seems like theres neither Master nor Mistress except Mr. Pitcher an Mrs. Medlock. Mr. Craven, he wont be troubled about anythin when hes here, an hes 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.
Im Mrs. Medlocks servant, she said stoutly. An shes Mr. Cravens-but Im to do the housemaids work up here an wait on you a bit. But you wont 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 dont understand your language, said Mary.
Eh! I forgot, Martha said. Mrs. Medlock told me Id have to be careful or you wouldnt know what I was sayin. I mean cant 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, its time tha should learn. Tha cannot begin younger. Itll do thee good to wait on thysen a bit. My mother always said she couldnt see why grand peoples children didnt 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 its different, she answered almost sympathetically. I dare say its because theres 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 neednt be so vexed. Thats not th way for a young lady to talk. Ive nothin against th blacks. When you read about em in tracts theyre always very religious. You always read as a blacks a man an a brother. Ive 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 youre so yeller.
Mary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation.
You thought I was a native! You dared! You dont know anything about natives! They are not people-theyre servants who must salaam to you. You know nothing about India. You know nothing about anything!
She was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girls simple stare, and somehow she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away from everything she understood and which understood her, that she threw herself face downward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing. She sobbed so unrestrainedly that good-natured Yorkshire Martha was a little frightened and quite sorry for her. She went to the bed and bent over her.
Eh! you mustnt cry like that there! she begged. You mustnt for sure. I didnt know youd be vexed. I dont know anythin about anythin-just like you said. I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop cryin.
There was something comforting and really friendly in her queer Yorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effect on Mary. She gradually ceased crying and became quiet. Martha looked relieved.
Its time for thee to get up now, she said. Mrs. Medlock said I was to carry tha breakfast an tea an dinner into th room next to this. Its been made into a nursery for thee. Ill help thee on with thy clothes if thall get out o bed. If th buttons are at th back tha cannot button them up thaself.
When Mary at last decided to get up, the clothes Martha took from the wardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night before with Mrs. Medlock.
Those are not mine, she said. Mine are black.
She looked the thick white wool coat and dress over, and added with cool approval:
Those are nicer than mine.
These are th ones tha must put on, Martha answered. Mr. Craven ordered Mrs. Medlock to get em in London. He said I wont have a child dressed in black wanderin about like a lost soul, he said. Itd make the place sadder than it is. Put color on her. Mother she said she knew what he meant. Mother always knows what a body means. She doesnt hold with black hersel.
I hate black things, said Mary.
The dressing process was one which taught them both something. Martha had buttoned up her little sisters and brothers but she had never seen a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things for her as if she had neither hands nor feet of her own.
Why doesnt tha put on tha own shoes? she said when Mary quietly held out her foot.
My Ayah did it, answered Mary, staring. It was the custom.
She said that very often-It was the custom. The native servants were always saying it. If one told them to do a thing their ancestors had not done for a thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said, It is not the custom and one knew that was the end of the matter.
It had not been the custom that Mistress Mary should do anything but stand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll, but before she was ready for breakfast she began to suspect that her life at Misselthwaite Manor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to her-things such as putting on her own shoes and stockings, and picking up things she let fall. If Martha had been a well-trained fine young ladys maid she would have been more subservient and respectful and would have known that it was her business to brush hair, and button boots, and pick things up and lay them away. She was, however, only an untrained Yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland cottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never dreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger ones who were either babies in arms or just learning to totter about and tumble over things.
If Mary Lennox had been a child who was ready to be amused she would perhaps have laughed at Marthas readiness to talk, but Mary only listened to her coldly and wondered at her freedom of manner. At first she was not at all interested, but gradually, as the girl rattled on in her good-tempered, homely way, Mary began to notice what she was saying.
Eh! you should see em all, she said. Theres twelve of us an my father only gets sixteen shilling a week. I can tell you my mothers put to it to get porridge for em all. They tumble about on th moor an play there all day an mother says th air of th moor fattens em. She says she believes they eat th grass same as th wild ponies do. Our Dickon, hes twelve years old and hes got a young pony he calls his own.
Where did he get it? asked Mary.
He found it on th moor with its mother when it was a little one an he began to make friends with it an give it bits o bread an pluck young grass for it. And it got to like him so it follows him about an it lets him get on its back. Dickons a kind lad an animals likes him.
Mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always thought she should like one. So she began to feel a slight interest in Dickon, and as she had never before been interested in anyone but herself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment. When she went into the room which had been made into a nursery for her, she found that it was rather like the one she had slept in. It was not a childs room, but a grown-up persons room, with gloomy old pictures on the walls and heavy old oak chairs. A table in the center was set with a good substantial breakfast. But she had always had a very small appetite, and she looked with something more than indifference at the first plate Martha set before her.
I dont want it, she said.
Tha doesnt want thy porridge! Martha exclaimed incredulously.
No.
Tha doesnt know how good it is. Put a bit o treacle on it or a bit o sugar.
I dont want it, repeated Mary.
Eh! said Martha. I cant abide to see good victuals go to waste. If our children was at this table theyd clean it bare in five minutes.
Why? said Mary coldly.
Why! echoed Martha. Because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives. Theyre as hungry as young hawks an foxes.
I dont know what it is to be hungry, said Mary, with the indifference of ignorance.
Martha looked indignant.
Well, it would do thee good to try it. I can see that plain enough, she said outspokenly. Ive no patience with folk as sits an just stares at good bread an meat. My word! dont I wish Dickon and Phil an Jane an th rest of em had whats here under their pinafores.
Why dont you take it to them? suggested Mary.
Its not mine, answered Martha stoutly. An this isnt my day out. I get my day out once a month same as th rest. Then I go home an clean up for mother an give her a days rest.
Mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade.
You wrap up warm an run out an play you, said Martha. Itll do you good and give you some stomach for your meat.
Mary went to the window. There were gardens and paths and big trees, but everything looked dull and wintry.
Out? Why should I go out on a day like this?
Well, if tha doesnt go out thalt have to stay in, an what has tha got to do?
Mary glanced about her. There was nothing to do. When Mrs. Medlock had prepared the nursery she had not thought of amusement. Perhaps it would be better to go and see what the gardens were like.
Who will go with me? she inquired.
Martha stared.
Youll go by yourself, she answered. Youll have to learn to play like other children does when they havent got sisters and brothers. Our Dickon goes off on th moor by himself an plays for hours. Thats how he made friends with th pony. Hes got sheep on th moor that knows him, an birds as comes an eats out of his hand. However little there is to eat, he always saves a bit o his bread to coax his pets.
It was really this mention of Dickon which made Mary decide to go out, though she was not aware of it. There would be, birds outside though there would not be ponies or sheep. They would be different from the birds in India and it might amuse her to look at them.
Martha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stout little boots and she showed her her way downstairs.
If tha goes round that way thall come to th gardens, she said, pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery. Theres lots o flowers in summer-time, but theres nothin bloomin now. She seemed to hesitate a second before she added, One of th gardens is locked up. No one has been in it for ten years.
Why? asked Mary in spite of herself. Here was another locked door added to the hundred in the strange house.
Mr. Craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden. He wont let no one go inside. It was her garden. He locked th door an dug a hole and buried th key. Theres Mrs. Medlocks bell ringing-I must run.
After she was gone Mary turned down the walk which led to the door in the shrubbery. She could not help thinking about the garden which no one had been into for ten years. She wondered what it would look like and whether there were any flowers still alive in it. When she had passed through the shrubbery gate she found herself in great gardens, with wide lawns and winding walks with clipped borders. There were trees, and flower-beds, and evergreens clipped into strange shapes, 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. This was not the garden which was shut up. How could a garden be shut up? You could always walk into a garden.
She was just thinking this when she saw that, at the end of the path she was following, there seemed to be a long wall, with ivy growing over it. She was not familiar enough with England to know that she was coming upon the kitchen-gardens where the vegetables and fruit were growing. She went toward the wall and found that there was a green door in the ivy, and that it stood open. This was not the closed garden, evidently, and she could go into it.