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
âIt is different in India,â said Mistress Mary disdainfully. She could scarcely stand this.
But Martha was not at all crushed.
âEh! I can see itâs different,â she answered almost sympathetically. âI dare say itâs because thereâs such a lot oâ blacks there instead oâ respectable white people. When I heard you was cominâ from India I thought you was a black too.â
Mary sat up in bed furious.
âWhat!â she said. âWhat! You thought I was a native. Youâ âyou daughter of a pig!â
Martha stared and looked hot.
âWho are you callinâ names?â she said. âYou neednât be so vexed. Thatâs not thâ way for a young lady to talk. Iâve nothinâ against thâ blacks. When you read about âem in tracts theyâre always very religious. You always read as a blackâs a man anâ a brother. Iâve never seen a black anâ I was fair pleased to think I was goinâ to see one close. When I come in to light your fire this morninâ I crepâ up to your bed anâ pulled thâ cover back careful to look at you. Anâ there you was,â disappointedly, âno more black than meâ âfor all youâre so yeller.â
Mary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation.
âYou thought I was a native! You dared! You donât know anything about natives! They are not peopleâ âtheyâre servants who must salaam to you. You know nothing about India. You know nothing about anything!â
She was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girlâs 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.
âEh! you mustnât cry like that there!â she begged. âYou mustnât for sure. I didnât know youâd be vexed. I donât know anythinâ about anythinââ âjust like you said. I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop cryinâ.â
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.
âItâs time for thee to get up now,â she said. âMrs. Medlock said I was to carry thaâ breakfast anâ tea anâ dinner into thâ room next to this. Itâs been made into a nursery for thee. Iâll help thee on with thy clothes if thaâll get out oâ bed. If thâ buttons are at thâ back thaâ cannot button them up thaâself.â
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.
âThose are not mine,â she said. âMine are black.â
She looked the thick white wool coat and dress over, and added with cool approval:
âThose are nicer than mine.â
âThese are thâ ones thaâ must put on,â Martha answered. âMr. Craven ordered Mrs. Medlock to get âem in London. He said, âI wonât have a child dressed in black wanderinâ about like a lost soul,â he said. âItâd make the place sadder than it is. Put color on her.â Mother she said she knew what he meant. Mother always knows what a body means. She doesnât hold with black herselâ.â
âI hate black things,â said Mary.
The dressing process was one which taught them both something. Martha had âbuttoned upâ 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.
âWhy doesnât thaâ put on thaâ own shoes?â she said when Mary quietly held out her foot.
âMy Ayah did it,â answered Mary, staring. âIt was the custom.â
She said that very oftenâ ââIt was the custom.â 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, âIt is not the customâ 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 herâ âthings 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 ladyâs 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 Marthaâs 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.
âEh! you should see âem all,â she said. âThereâs twelve of us anâ my father only gets sixteen shilling a week. I can tell you my motherâs put to it to get porridge for âem all. They tumble about
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