The Secret Garden Frances Hodgson Burnett (recommended reading .TXT) đ
- Author: Frances Hodgson Burnett
Book online «The Secret Garden Frances Hodgson Burnett (recommended reading .TXT) đ». Author Frances Hodgson Burnett
Mary said nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on.
âNot but that itâs a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Cravenâs proud of it in his wayâ âand thatâs gloomy enough, too. The house is six hundred years old and itâs on the edge of the moor, and thereâs near a hundred rooms in it, though most of themâs shut up and locked. And thereâs pictures and fine old furniture and things thatâs been there for ages, and thereâs a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the groundâ âsome of them.â She paused and took another breath. âBut thereâs nothing else,â 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.
âWell,â said Mrs. Medlock. âWhat do you think of it?â
âNothing,â she answered. âI know nothing about such places.â
That made Mrs. Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh.
âEh!â she said, âbut you are like an old woman. Donât you care?â
âIt doesnât matter,â said Mary, âwhether I care or not.â
âYou are right enough there,â said Mrs. Medlock. âIt doesnât. What youâre to be kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I donât know, unless because itâs the easiest way. Heâs not going to trouble himself about you, thatâs sure and certain. He never troubles himself about no one.â
She stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time.
âHeâs got a crooked back,â she said. âThat set him wrong. He was a sour young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was married.â
Maryâs eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to care. She had never thought of the hunchbackâs 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.
âShe was a sweet, pretty thing and heâd have walked the world over to get her a blade oâ grass she wanted. Nobody thought sheâd marry him, but she did, and people said she married him for his money. But she didnâtâ âshe didnât,â positively. âWhen she diedâ ââ
Mary gave a little involuntary jump.
âOh! did she die!â she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. She had just remembered a French fairy story she had once read called âRiquet Ă la Houppe.â It had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess and it had made her suddenly sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven.
âYes, she died,â Mrs. Medlock answered. âAnd it made him queerer than ever. He cares about nobody. He wonât see people. Most of the time he goes away, and when he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself up in the West Wing and wonât let anyone but Pitcher see him. Pitcherâs an old fellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows his ways.â
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 lockedâ âa house on the edge of a moorâ âwhatsoever a moor wasâ âsounded 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 gray slanting lines and splash and stream down the windowpanes. 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 âfull of lace.â But she was not there any more.
âYou neednât expect to see him, because ten to one you wonât,â said Mrs. Medlock. âAnd you mustnât expect that there will be people to talk to you. Youâll have to play about and look after yourself. Youâll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms youâre to keep out of. Thereâs gardens enough. But when youâre in the house donât go wandering and poking about. Mr. Craven wonât have it.â
âI shall not want to go poking about,â 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 toward the streaming panes of the window of the railway carriage and gazed out at the gray rainstorm which looked as if it would go on forever and ever. She watched it so long and steadily that the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep.
III Across the MoorShe slept a long time, and when she awakened Mrs. Medlock had bought a lunchbasket 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 afterward 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.
âYou have had a sleep!â she said. âItâs time to open your eyes! Weâre at Thwaite
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