Chapter 3 A Maid Named Martha Mary awoke to the sounds of a young housemaid kneeling at the fireplace sweeping cold cinders into a pan.
Mary watched her for a few moments, then she glanced around the room.
Even in the daylight, it seemed oddly gloomy.
The walls were covered with a tapestry embroidered with pictures of a forest and people in strained clothing.
Mary turned to the window.
She saw a great stretch of flat, treeless land.
It resembled a dull, purple sea.
What's that? she asked, pointing toward the window.
The young mage said, That's the moor.
Do you like it?
No, Mary said.
I hate it.
The maid grinned and said, You'll get used to it.
It looks bare in winter, but in the summer it's covered with wild heather and smells sweet as honey.
The air's so fresh and the sky looks so high, full of bees and skylarks.
I wouldn't live away from the moor for anything.
Mary was puzzled.
In India, the servants never talked so freely.
Curious, Mary said, you're a strange servant.
What's your name?
The maid laughed.
I'm Martha, and I know I seem strange to you.
I'm a country girl from Yorkshire.
If Misselthwaite were like other big houses, I'd have to work in the kitchen, but this house has no mistress and Mr Craven's nearly always away, so I work upstairs.
Are you my servant?
Mary asked.
I'm Mrs. Medlock's servant, Martha replied, but I'll clean your room and wait on you a bit.
Mary had to listen as Martha, whose friendly voice had a soothing effect, told her all about her large family and their cottage on the moor.
Brother Dickon is twelve, and he's got a young pony.
He found it and its mother on the moor.
He'd give it bits of bread and grass, and it got to like him.
Now it follows him around and even lets him ride it.
Dickon's a kind lad, and animals like him.
Mary began to take a slight interest in Dickon.
This was strange because Mary had never been interested in anyone but herself.
Mary had some tea and a little toast.
Then Martha cleared the table.
"'You wrap up warm and go outside to play,' she said.
"'That will give you an appetite.'
Mary looked out the window.
Why should I go out on a day like this? she asked.
Everything looked gray and wintry.
Martha answered, If you don't go out, you'll have to stay in.
And what will you do here?
Martha was right.
There were no toys or books in the nursery or in the bedroom.
Who will go with me?
Mary asked.
You'll go by yourself, of course, Martha said.
Our Dickon plays on the moor alone for hours.
He plays with the pony and the sheep that know him.
The birds come to eat out of his hand.
Mary thought that at least there would be birds to amuse her.
Martha helped her into her coat, cap, and sturdy boots and led her downstairs.
At the door, Martha pointed to a gate in the bushes.
The gardens are through there.
You can play in all of them except one that's locked up.
Mr. Craven shot it when his wife died ten years ago and buried the key.
A bell rang and Martha hurried away.
Alone, Mary stepped outside, left to wonder about the locked garden.