Chapter Chapter 4 · MARTHA

. 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' singin'. 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

up-stairs. 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 an' 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. "An' 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."

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 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 girl's 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 mustn't cry like that there!" she begged. "You mustn't for

sure. I didn't know you'd be vexed. I don't 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.

"It's 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.

It's been made into a nursery for thee. I'll help thee on with thy

clothes if tha'll get out o' bed. If th' buttons are at th' back tha'

cannot button them up tha'self."

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 won't have a child

dressed in black wanderin' about like a lost soul,' he said. 'It'd 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 doesn't 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 doesn't 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

lady's 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 Martha's 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. "There's twelve of us an' my

father only gets sixteen shilling a week. I can tell you my mother's 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, he's twelve years old and he's 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. Dickon's 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 any one 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 child's room, but a grown-up

person's 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 don't want it," she said.

"Tha' doesn't want thy porridge!" Martha exclaimed incredulously.

"No."

"Tha' doesn't know how good it is. Put a bit o' treacle on it or a bit

o' sugar."

"I don't want it," repeated Mary.

"Eh!" said Martha. "I can't abide to see good victuals go to waste. If

our children was at this table they'd clean it bare in five minutes."

"Why?" said Mary coldly.

"Why!" echoed Martha. "Because they scarce ever had their stomachs full

in their lives. They're as hungry as young hawks an' foxes."

"I don't 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. "I've no patience with folk as sits an' just

stares at good bread an' meat. My word! don't I wish Dickon and Phil an'

Jane an' th' rest of 'em had what's here under their pinafores."

"Why don't you take it to them?" suggested Mary.

"It's not mine," answered Martha stoutly. "An' this isn't 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 day's 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. "It'll 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' doesn't go out tha'lt 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.

"You'll go by yourself," she answered. "You'll have to learn to play

like other children does when they haven't got sisters and brothers. Our

Dickon goes off on th' moor by himself an' plays for hours. That's how

he made friends with th' pony. He's 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 down-stairs.

"If tha' goes round that way tha'll come to th' gardens," she said,

pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery. "There's lots o' flowers in

summer-time, but there's 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 won't let no

one go inside. It was her garden. He locked th' door an' dug a hole and

buried th' key. There's Mrs. Medlock's 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.

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 which seemed

to open into one another. She saw another open green door, revealing

bushes and pathways between beds containing winter vegetables.

Fruit-trees were trained flat against the wall, and over some of the

beds there were glass frames. The place was bare and ugly enough, Mary

thought, as she stood and stared about her. It might be nicer in summer

when things were green, but there was nothing pretty about it now.

Presently an old man with a spade over his shoulder walked through the

door leading from the second garden. He looked startled when he saw

Mary, and then touched his cap. He had a surly old face, and did not

seem at all pleased to see her--but then she was displeased with his

garden and wore her "quite contrary" expression, and certainly did not

seem at all pleased to see him.

"What is this place?" she asked.

"One o' th' kitchen-gardens," he answered.

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

"Another of 'em," shortly. "There's another on t'other side o' th' wall

an' there's th' orchard t'other side o' that."

"Can I go in them?" asked Mary.

"If tha' likes. But there's nowt to see."

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 garden which no one had seen for ten

years. As she was not at all a timid child and always did what she

wanted to do, Mary went to the green door and turned the handle. She

hoped the door would not open because she wanted to be sure she had

found the mysterious garden--but it did open quite easily and she walked

through it and found herself in an orchard. There were walls all round

it also and trees trained against them, and there were bare fruit-trees

growing in the winter-browned grass--but there was no green door to be

seen anywhere. Mary looked for it, and yet when she had entered the

upper end of the garden she had noticed that the wall did not seem to

end with the orchard but to extend beyond it as if it enclosed a place

at the other side. She could see the tops of trees above the wall, and

when she stood still she saw a bird with a bright red breast sitting on

the topmost branch of one of them, and suddenly he burst into his winter

song--almost as if he had caught sight of her and was calling to her.

She stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly

little whistle gave her a pleased feeling--even a disagreeable little

girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and big bare moor and big

bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the

world but herself. If she had been an affectionate child, who had been

used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though

she was "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary" she was desolate, and the

bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face

which was almost a smile. She listened to him until he flew away. He was

not like an Indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should

ever see him again. Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew

all about it.

Perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought

so much of the deserted garden. She was curious about it and wanted to

see what it was like. Why had Mr. Archibald Craven buried the key? If he

had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden? She wondered if

she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not

like him, and he would not like her, and that she should only stand and

stare at him and say nothing, though she should be wanting dreadfully to

ask him why he had done such a queer thing.

"People never like me and I never like people," she thought. "And I

never can talk as the Crawford children could. They were always talking

and laughing and making noises."

She thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at

her, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped rather

suddenly on the path.

"I believe that tree was in the secret garden--I feel sure it was," she

said. "There was a wall round the place and there was no door."

She walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found

the old man digging there. She went and stood beside him and watched

him a few moments in her cold little way. He took no notice of her and

so at last she spoke to him.

"I have been into the other gardens," she said.

"There was nothin' to prevent thee," he answered crustily.

"I went into the orchard."

"There was no dog at th' door to bite thee," he answered.

"There was no door there into the other garden," said Mary.

"What garden?" he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a

moment.

"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 he sang."

To her surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its

expression. A slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite

different. It made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person

looked when he smiled. She had not thought of it before.

He turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to

whistle--a low soft whistle. She could not understand how such a surly

man could make such a coaxing sound.

Almost the next moment a wonderful thing happened. She heard a soft

little rushing flight through the air--and it was the bird with the red

breast flying to them, and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth

quite near to the gardener's foot.

"Here he is," chuckled the old man, and then he spoke to the bird as if

he were speaking to a child.

"Where has tha' been, tha' cheeky little beggar?" he said. "I've not

seen thee before to-day. Has tha' begun tha' courtin' this early in th'

season? Tha'rt too forrad."

The bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his

soft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop. He seemed quite familiar

and not the least afraid. He hopped about and pecked the earth briskly,

looking for seeds and insects. It actually gave Mary a queer feeling in

her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerful and seemed so like a

person. He had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak, and slender

delicate legs.

"Will he always come when you call him?" she asked almost in a whisper.

"Aye, that he will. I've knowed him ever since he was a fledgling. He

come out of th' nest in th' other garden an' when first he flew over

th' wall he was too weak to fly back for a few days an' we got

friendly. When he went over th' wall again th' rest of th' brood was

gone an' he was lonely an' he come back to me."

"What kind of a bird is he?" Mary asked.

"Doesn't tha' know? He's a robin redbreast an' they're th' friendliest,

curiousest birds alive. They're almost as friendly as dogs--if you know

how to get on with 'em. Watch him peckin' about there an' lookin' round

at us now an' again. He knows we're talkin' about him."

It was the queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow. He looked

at the plump little scarlet-waistcoated bird as if he were both proud

and fond of him.

"He's a conceited one," he chuckled. "He likes to hear folk talk about

him. An' curious--bless me, there never was his like for curiosity an'

meddlin'. He's always comin' to see what I'm plantin'. He knows all th'

things Mester Craven never troubles hissel' to find out. He's th' head

gardener, he is."

The robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and now and then stopped

and looked at them a little. Mary thought his black dewdrop eyes gazed

at her with great curiosity. It really seemed as if he were finding out

all about her. The queer feeling in her heart increased.

"Where did the rest of the brood fly to?" she asked.

"There's no knowin'. The old ones turn 'em out o' their nest an' make

'em fly an' they're scattered before you know it. This one was a knowin'

one an' he knew he was lonely."

Mistress Mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very

hard.

"I'm lonely," she said.

She had not known before that this was one of the things which made her

feel sour and cross. She seemed to find it out when the robin looked at

her and she looked at the robin.

The old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald head and stared at her

a minute.

"Art tha' th' little wench from India?" he asked.

Mary nodded.

"Then no wonder tha'rt lonely. Tha'lt be lonelier before tha's done," he

said.

He began to dig again, driving his spade deep into the rich black garden

soil while the robin hopped about very busily employed.

"What is your name?" Mary inquired.

He stood up to answer her.

"Ben Weatherstaff," he answered, and then he added with a surly chuckle,

"I'm lonely mysel' except when he's with me," and he jerked his thumb

toward the robin. "He's th' 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 any one."

It is a Yorkshire habit to say what you think with blunt frankness, and

old Ben Weatherstaff was a Yorkshire moor man.

"Tha' an' me are a good bit alike," he said. "We was wove out of th'

same cloth. We're neither of us good lookin' an' we're both of us as

sour as we look. We've got the same nasty tempers, both of us, I'll

warrant."

This was plain speaking, and Mary Lennox had never heard the truth about

herself in her life. Native servants always salaamed and submitted to

you, whatever you did. She had never thought much about her looks, but

she wondered if she was as unattractive as Ben Weatherstaff and she also

wondered if she looked as sour as he had looked before the robin came.

She actually began to wonder also if she was "nasty tempered." She felt

uncomfortable.

Suddenly a clear rippling little sound broke out near her and she turned

round. She was standing a few feet from a young apple-tree and the robin

had flown on to one of its branches and had burst out into a scrap of a

song. Ben Weatherstaff laughed outright.

"What did he do that for?" asked Mary.

"He's made up his mind to make friends with thee," replied Ben. "Dang me

if he hasn't took a fancy to thee."

"To me?" said Mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and

looked up.

"Would you make friends with me?" she said to the robin just as if she

was speaking to a person. "Would you?" And she did not say it either in

her hard little voice or in her imperious Indian voice, but in a tone so

soft and eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprised as she

had been when she heard him whistle.

"Why," he cried out, "tha' said that as nice an' human as if tha' was a

real child instead of a sharp old woman. Tha' said it almost like Dickon

talks to his wild things on th' moor."

"Do you know Dickon?" Mary asked, turning round rather in a hurry.

"Everybody knows him. Dickon's wanderin' about everywhere. Th' very

blackberries an' heather-bells knows him. I warrant th' foxes shows him

where their cubs lies an' th' skylarks doesn't hide their nests from

him."

Mary would have liked to ask some more questions. She was almost as

curious about Dickon as she was about the deserted garden. But just that

moment the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake of his

wings, spread them and flew away. He had made his visit and had other

things to do.

"He has flown over the wall!" Mary cried out, watching him. "He has

flown into the orchard--he has flown across the other wall--into the

garden where there is no door!"

"He lives there," said old Ben. "He came out o' th' egg there. If he's

courtin', he's makin' up to some young madam of a robin that lives among

th' old rose-trees there."

"Rose-trees," said Mary. "Are there rose-trees?"

Ben Weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig.

"There was ten year' ago," he mumbled.

"I should like to see them," said Mary. "Where is the green door? There

must be a door somewhere."

Ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked

when she first saw him.

"There was ten year' ago, but there isn't now," he said.

"No door!" cried Mary. "There must be."

"None as any one can find, an' none as is any one's business. Don't you

be a meddlesome wench an' poke your nose where it's no cause to go.

Here, I must go on with my work. Get you gone an' play you. I've no more

time."

And he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and

walked off, without even glancing at her or saying good-by.