One morning, Mary was more cross than usual when she awoke. Her room was stiflingly hot, and her nanny had not come. In her place was a servant she had never seen before and who Mary immediately sent away, hurling threats and insults at her back.
She remained alone for a long time, waiting for someone to come and get her, until she finally decided to find out what was happening.
There was a mysterious air in the hallways and rooms she inspected. Many of the regular servants had disappeared and the ones she encountered looked frightened.
Mary grew crosser and more confused than ever. Where had her nursemaid gone?
As she stamped around the house, she promised herself that the woman would be punished severely when she found her.
She was wandering the house, sullenly, looking for someone on whom to vent her rage, when she spotted her mother coming out on the veranda to speak with a young British officer.
The child stood and stared at her for some time, bewildered. “She is so pretty!” she thought, as she often did when she saw her. There was something unusual about her mother’s face, though, that day, an expression of inscrutable apprehension that made Mary worry, too.
It was only later that she discovered the cause of all the turmoil and confusion.
A cholera epidemic had broken out among the Indian people and fear of catching it reigned in the town. One of the first people to lose their life had been the nanny who had raised Mary.
Unaccustomed to affection and having spent most of her childhood on her own, Mary shut herself away in her room. She alternated crying profusely and sleeping, then managed to secure herself some food from a meal left uneaten in the dining room. Deep inside, she felt a mixture of anger, frustration and bewilderment.
Where had everyone gone? Why were they neglecting her?
Upon her arrival in England, Mary was met by Mrs. Medlock, the housekeeper Mr. Craven had instructed to bring the child home. She was a stout woman, cheeks grown red in the cold as she waited, unimpressed, for the child to arrive. She was wrapped in a large mantle and wore a peculiar black bonnet, decorated with flowers, on her head.
Mary and Mrs. Medlock disliked each other at first sight. The housekeeper would rather have been doing anything else besides looking after a child, and on the day her sister’s daughter was to be married no less, and Mary, sensing the hostility towards her, echoed the housekeeper’s animosity. Neither of them spoke on the first leg of their train journey. Mary sat quite still, staring sullenly into space, adding to Mrs. Medlock’s suspicions that the child was even queerer than she had imagined.
When the housekeeper tired of the gloomy silence that had fallen in the compartment, she decided to tell Mary something about the place she was going to live.
“The house you are going to live in is called Misselthwaite,” she began. “It is very old and has many rooms, although they are all locked up. It’s a grand place on the edge of the moor, with a big, well-kept park around it.”
She stopped, hoping that Mary, curiosity whetted, would ask her something but on seeing that the child continued to sulk, she picked up her tale where she had left off, “Mr. Craven, the master, is a hunchback and was forever alone, until the day he married.”
The mention of romance piqued Mary’s interest and she turned to Mrs. Medlock, finally engaging with the tale. The housekeeper continued, “Mr. Craven’s wife was such a sweet, pretty woman but she died, unfortunately…”
Mary interrupted her, “No, did she really die?”
“Yes, it’s hard to believe, but she did, and from that day on, the master was never the same. He goes away most of the time, and when he is at the house, he doesn’t want to see anyone.
So, you needn’t think he will keep you company and don’t go poking your nose everywhere because Mr. Craven does not like people meddling in his things.”
The whole thing sounded like a story in a book, and certainly not a happy one!
A house with a hundred rooms, nearly all with their doors locked, awaiting her in the middle of nowhere, on the edge of a moor – whatever a moor was – and in it lived a gloomy man with a crooked back. Even though Mary had never feared the things which normally terrify sweeter children than she, the prospect that lay ahead of her seemed truly frightful. She agreed to do as Mr. Craven wished but she also began to think the uncle she had never heard of must be such a dreadful man and she had no intention of having anything to do with him.
With these thoughts in mind, she settled back into her hostile silence and, after a while, fell asleep.
She awakened at the sound of the train stopping.
“We are here,” Mrs. Medlock informed her. “Our carriage is ready outside.”
It was true. A smart coachman stood on the road outside, ready to help them into the horse-drawn carriage with a roof.
As soon as she was seated, Mary squashed herself up against the window to gain a better view of the countryside. She had heard about the moor and was curious to see what it looked like.
Imagine her disappointment when the housekeeper announced, very soon after, that they were crossing it and all Mary could see in the dim light of the lamps was a bleak road that disappeared into the darkness. The only tangible presence was the wind blowing in gusts, making a wild, rushing sound, like waves in a stormy sea. “No, it’s not the sea,” the housekeeper answered brusquely, when Mary ventured that it might be. “It’s the wind, and it blows for miles and miles and miles across wild, barren land on which nothing grows but heather and broom.”
“I don’t like it,” Mary thought to herself as they travelled across the wild expanse, shrouded in darkness.
As she walked through the garden, Mary could not help thinking about what Martha had said before she had pushed her outside and scurried back to Mrs. Medlock, who had been calling her. The maid had talked of a garden that had been tended lovingly by her uncle’s wife only to be locked up after she had died.
“How could a garden be shut up?” she wondered as she walked past a high wall covered in ivy. “And where might the key be buried?”
Martha had said that Mr. Craven had dug a hole and hidden the key to the garden door in it, so that no one would find it.
She was wondering how one might find this garden, considering the size of the park, and how the key could be recovered, when she went through a door and found herself in a kitchen garden. It was all terribly bleak. The plants were bare, with not a trace of a flower or leaves.
The days passed uneventfully. Mary would awaken each morning, nibble on something from the rich breakfast brought to her room, chat with Martha as she was being dressed, then go out into the park.
She was not aware, however, that much was changing in her appearance.
Her cheeks, once without color, were now rosy red and the fresh air and exercise Mary was forced to take on her explorations of the garden had given her sallow complexion a much healthier hue. Moreover, her growing appetite was helping to fill out her frame and she now looked slightly less cadaverous.
Martha noticed one morning that the child had finished the whole plate of porridge she had once disdained.
“You’re hungry!” she exclaimed as she gathered the plates to take them to the kitchen. “I thought this might happen. The air on the moors gives you an appetite. Dickon and my other brothers and sisters know only too well. If you go on playing outdoors, you’ll feel better and better, you’ll see.”
“But it’s boring!” Mary huffed. “I have nothing to play with.”
“You don’t need anything,” Martha reassured her. “You have the park to play in, and it’s full of sticks and stones. The children around here run and jump and go hunting for animals and plants. You’ll never be bored if you do the same.”
Mary tried to follow Martha’s advice and ventured deeper into the park.
She looked carefully at everything around her and often played with the things she found. From time to time, she would bump into the gardener, Ben, but never dared to address him as he always seemed to be in a bad mood. She spent most of her time with the robin and would chatter to him about all sorts of things, as if they were old friends.
She always encountered him by the wall with no door. He must live in the garden that no can get into, the one Mary thought might be the mysterious garden she had heard speak of.
One evening her curiosity got the better of her and she asked Martha about the garden.
“Why did my uncle lock up the garden?” the child questioned the maid, who was tidying away the child’s clothes.
“What?” Martha asked, having understood the child’s question but choosing not to answer it.
“The garden. Why is it locked?” Mary insisted, determined to find out.
Martha sighed, torn between wanting to tell the story and fear of saying too much. In the end, she sat beside Mary on the rug in front of the fire.
“You can’t stop thinking about it, can you? Why does it interest you so?”
“I want to know why Mr. Craven hates it so much he prohibited everyone from entering it.”
“Oh well,” Martha acquiesced, “I might as well tell you. But you must promise not to tell anyone because Mrs. Medlock does not want it talked about. Do you understand?”
Mary nodded, and Martha continued. “So, the garden was made specially for Mrs. Craven when they were first married. She and your uncle spent a lot of time there and no one was allowed to go in, not even the gardeners. Madam used to tend to it herself, she loved caring for the roses and other flowers. But one day the branch she was sitting on broke and her injuries were so bad she died. Mr. Craven was so shaken by the accident that he decided no one must ever go there again.”
Mary was deeply moved by Martha’s words. She had never for a moment imagined that the secret garden might have concealed such a painful story. She was not prone to affection or compassion, but at that moment, she realized she felt a great deal of both, and quite sincerely, for her uncle’s loss.
Mary explored every corner of the secret garden. She felt sad, to begin with, believing the plants to be dead, before she spotted some tiny shoots pushing through which made her feel better. There was hope, perhaps, that the roses and crocuses might bloom once again. With this thought in mind, she returned to the big house for lunch.
After tucking into the meal with gusto, Mary sat by the hearth to warm herself.
“I would so like a spade,” she exclaimed on the spur of the moment, voicing her thoughts.
Martha turned to her in surprise. “And what do you need a spade for?”
“I would like to make a little garden somewhere in the park, to keep me busy. I get so very bored outside by myself!”
“Hmm, let me think,” Martha said. “We could write a letter to Dickon to ask him to pick up some garden tools and seeds from the shop in the village.”
Mary was delighted at the idea and they set to work directly on the letter – Dear Dickon, I hope this finds you all well. I am writing because Mistress Mary…
When they were finished, Martha put the sheet of paper and shillings Mary had given her into an envelope and promised she would give it to the baker’s boy and that Dickon would return soon with the items Mary had requested. And he did. After a fretful few days waiting for something to happen, Mary was walking along a path into the woods when she spied a boy sitting in a tree. He was playing a wooden pipe and some animals had gathered around him to listen. Mary had never seen anything of the kind. When the boy became aware of her presence, he gestured at her not to move, then finished his melody and climbed down from the tree.
“Pleased to meet you, I’m Dickon,” he introduced himself. “And these are the tools your wanted. Oh, I’ve got the seeds as well,” he added, showing her some packets with pictures of flowers on them.
“I can help you plant them, if you want.”
Mary was taken aback by this and did not know what to say. How could she tell him about the secret garden? Yet, although she had just met the boy, she felt she could trust him.
“Could you keep a secret?” she asked.
“Of course,” the boy answered confidently.
“Well, come with me!” Mary said. She took his hand and led him along the path to the garden then opened the door and urged him to step inside. “Look!” she exclaimed, delighted to have someone to share her discovery with. “It’s a garden that was locked up and forgotten about, but I found it and now it’s mine!”
“Hey” Dickon exclaimed. “I can help you bring it back to life.”
“Oh, that would be marvelous!” Mary accepted and went to fetch the tools they needed to get started.
She fell asleep that night hoping she might see Dickon the very next day but when she was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of thunder, she quickly realized there would be no gardening the following day.
As she lay in bed thinking about it, she heard the same wailing as she had heard before.
“Martha can say what she likes,” she mumbled to herself, “but the wind has nothing to do with it.”
She opened the bedroom door to allow the sound to reach her. Yes, she was not mistaken, it was the crying she had heard before.
Without stopping to think, she lifted a burning candle and ventured into the darkness in the corridor, determined to find out who was crying. Mary had a good memory and she remembered exactly which passage Mrs. Medlock had come through that day. She made her way to it, found the door covered by tapestry, pushed it open and found herself in another corridor. She could hear the crying quite plainly now. She followed the sound into a handsomely decorated bedroom, in the middle of which stood a large four-poster bed. A boy lay on the bed, crying pitifully. Mary crept across the room and the light of the candle attracted the boy’s attention. He turned his head to stare at her and stopped crying. “Are you a ghost?” he asked in a frightened voice.
“No!” Mary answered. “Are you one?”
“Of course not! I am Colin Craven.”
“And I am Mary. Mr. Craven is my uncle.”
“My father?”
“What? I did not know he had a son!”
“Very few people know. He does not want anyone to see me.”
“Why?” Mary asked, curious.
“Because he hates me. I remind him of Mother, who died a long time ago.”
“The way he hates the garden,” Mary said to herself.
“What garden?” Colin asked.
“The one your mother loved. Your father locked it up and buried the key, so no one could go in.”
Colin fired question after question at Mary about the garden and about everything outside of the house. Mary answered, trying not to say too much lest she reveal she had found the key to the secret garden and had been inside. They chattered for a while then Mary realised she had been there a long time and made to leave.
“No, please don’t go,” Colin pleaded. “Stay until I have fallen asleep.” Mary moved her chair closer and sang him a lullaby until he fell fast asleep then then returned to her room.
It rained the next day. Mary’s spirits dropped. What was she going to do all day if she couldn’t go out? When Martha saw how sad Mary was, she promised to come and sit with her in the afternoon and bring the stocking she was knitting.
The pair found themselves chattering by the hearth about the moor, as they had done on many an occasion.
Out of the blue, Mary revealed, almost without realizing, that she had found out that the crying had come from Colin.
“Oh no!” Martha said, worried. “If Mrs. Medlock finds out, I shall lose my position.”
“Why?” Mary asked.
“Because I didn’t watch over you and because Colin will go and complain to her.”
“I don’t think he will do that,” Mary reassured her. “We talked for a while and I managed to get him to go to sleep with a lullaby.”
Martha was about to respond when a bell rang loudly. “That will be Colin’s nurse,” Martha said. “I must see what she wants.” When the maid returned, not long after, she was beaming.
“I think you have bewitched him. Colin is usually a fractious boy but today he seems almost happy … and he wants to see you!”
Mary would rather have spent her time with Dickon but, given that she couldn’t go out, spending it with her cousin seemed like an excellent alternative.
This was what brought her to Colin’s room again. Her immediate impression of the boy was much better than the night before.
There was a bright, comforting fire in the hearth and her cousin, sitting up in bed with his head resting against the pillow, smiled at Mary as soon as he saw her. “Hello!” he cried. “I’m happy you came.”
“I am, too,” Mary concurred, gazing at his big, serious eyes.
“Why do you look at me like that?” Colin asked her.
“Take no notice, I was thinking how different you are from Dickon.”
“Who is Dickon?” he said.
It was in answering this question that Mary began to tell of her walks in the park, her request for some gardening tools to tend to her piece of earth, her meeting Martha’s brother, who could speak with plants and animals. The only thing she omitted from her tales was the key to the secret garden. Colin hung on her every word! He listened attentively, never tiring of Mary’s descriptions of young Dickon, of all the paths he hadn’t walked for many years, the insolent little robin redbreast, whom his cousin spoke about as if he were a child or a dear friend.
When the sun shone, Colin would spend his time out of doors, watching spring transform the garden around him, whereas on dull, rainy days, he would read gardening books and chat with Mary about the garden and its many marvels.
“It is magic,” he sighed, basking in the last rays of the sun. In the days that followed, his thoughts often returned to what he had said during that joyous time.
“The magic is everywhere,” he declared, addressing his cousin. “But sometimes it is invisible. Perhaps the beginning is just to say nice things then wait for them to happen.”
It was the first time Mary had heard this and she was initially surprised by what Colin said although she knew her cousin had read about a great many things and she soon became convinced he could be right. There were all together in the garden, one day, when Colin decided to involve his friends and Ben in an experiment. “Would you like to know more about magic? I am convinced it is magic Dickon uses with animals and that there is magic in everything. This garden is a testament. It looked quite dead when Mary discovered it but since she began to care for it with Dickon, it has come to life. I am also
a testament.
I was ill, but since I started to believe I am well, I feel much better. I believe that if I repeat, over and over, ‘I want to live, I am going to be a normal, healthy boy,’ something extraordinary will happen. What do you think?” Dickon, who had been listening in awe, replied enthusiastically, “Of course! I’m sure it will work!”
“Alright,” Mary said. “What must we do?”
Colin asked them all to sit down, then said, “Chant with me — the sun is shining, that is the magic. The flowers are growing — and that is the magic. Being alive is most definitely the magic. Magic! Come and help!” They repeated the chant a great many times and, very slowly, the magic seemed to be among them.
