Kitabı oku: «Таинственный сад / The secret garden», sayfa 5

Mrs. Medlock said unceremoniously:

“Well, here you are! This room and the next are where you’ll live-and stay here. Don’t forget that!”

Chapter IV
Martha

When Mary opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young housemaid came into her room to light the fire. Shewas raking out the cinders¹⁰ noisily. Mary lay and watched her for a few moments and then began to look about the room. The room was 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 castle. There were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies.

Out of a deep window Mary saw a great stretch of land which had no trees on it, and looked rather like an endless, dull, purplish sea.

“What is that?” she said, pointing out of the window.

Martha, the young housemaid, looked and said,

“That’s the moor. Do you like it?”

“No,” answered Mary. “I hate it.”

“That’s because it’s too big and bare now. But you will like it.”

“Do you?” inquired Mary.

“Yes, I do,” answered Martha. “I just love it. It’s lovely in spring and summer.”

Mary listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression. The native servants in India were not like Martha. They were obsequious and servile. They called their masters “protector of the poor”. It was not the custom to say “please” and “thank you” and Mary alwaysslapped herAyah in the face¹¹ when she was angry.

This girl was round, rosy and good-natured.

“You are a strange servant,” she said from her pillows.

Martha sat up on her heels.

“Eh! I know that,” she said. “Mrs. Medlock gave me the placeout of kindness¹².”

“Are you going to be my servant?” Mary asked.

“I’m Mrs. Medlock’s servant,” she said stoutly. “And she’s Mr. Craven’s. I’ll do some housemaid’s work up here and help you a bit. But you won’t need much.”

“Who is going to dress me?” demanded Mary.

Martha sat up on her heels again and stared. She was amazed.

“Can’t you dress yourself?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” said Mary.

“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, “it’s time you must learn.”

“It is different in India,” said Mistress Mary disdainfully.

“Eh! I can see it’s different,” Martha answered almost sympathetically. “When I heard you were coming from India I thought you were black.”

Mary was furious.

“What!” she said. “What! You thought… You-you daughter of a pig!”

“Who are you talking about?” asked Martha. “You needn’t be so vexed.”

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 just servants. You know nothing about India. You know nothing about anything!”

She was in such a rage and felt so helpless, that she threw herself face downward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing. Martha went to the bed and bent over her.

“Eh! You mustn’t cry like that!” she begged. “Yes, I don’t know anything about anything-just like you said. I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop crying.”

There was something comforting and really friendly in her queer Yorkshire speech. Mary gradually ceased crying and became quiet. Martha looked relieved.

“It’s time for you to get up now,” she said. “Mrs. Medlock said to carry your breakfast and tea and dinner into the room next to this. I’ll help you with your clothes.”

When Mary at last decided to get up, the clothes Martha took from the wardrobe were not hers.

“Those are not mine,” she said. “Mine are black.”

She looked at the thick white wool coat and dress, and added with cool approval:

“Those are nicer than mine.”

“Mr. Craven ordered Mrs. Medlock to get in London for you,” Martha answered. “He said he did not like black clothes.”

“I hate black things, too,” said Mary.

Martha helped to dress her little sisters and brothers but she never saw a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things for her.

“Why don’t you put on your own shoes?” she said when Mary quietly held out her foot.

“My Ayah did it,” answered Mary, staring. “It was the custom.”

“Eh! You did not see my family,” Martha said. “We are twelve, and my father only gets sixteen shilling a week. My mother cooks porridge for them all. They tumble about on the moor and play there all day. Our Dickon is twelve years old and he’s got a young pony.”

“Where did he get it?” asked Mary.

“He found it on the moor and he began to make friends with it and give it bits of bread and some grass. And it follows him everywhere. Dickon is a kind lad, animals like him.”