MARY. Who is going to dress me?

in amazement.]

MARTHA. [Both hands upraised in Canna' tha' dress thyself!

MARY. What do you mean? I don't understand your language.

MARTHA. Eh! I forgot. Mrs. Medlock told me I'd have to be careful or you would n't know what I was saying. I mean can't you put on your own clothes?

MARY. [Indignantly.] No, I never did in my life. My Ayah dressed me, of course.

MARTHA. Well, it's time tha' should learn. Tha' cannot begin younger. It'll do thee good to wait on thyself a bit. My mother always said she could n't see why grand people's children did n't turn out fair fools—what with nurses and being washed and dressed and taken out to walk as if they were puppies!

MARY.

[Disdainfully.] It is different in India.

MARTHA. [Sympathetically.] Eh! I can see it's different. I dare say it 's because there 's such a lot o' blacks there instead of respectable white people. When I heard you were coming from India I thought you were a black too.

MARY. [Furiously angry.] What! What! You thought I was a native. You-you daughter of a pig!

MARTHA. Who are you calling names? You need n't be so vexed. That 's not the way for a young lady to talk. I've nothing against the blacks. I've never seen a black and I was fair pleased to think I was going to see one close.

When I came in to light your fire this morning I crept up to your bed and pulled the cover back careful to look at you. And there you were, no more black than me-for all you 're so yellow.

MARY. [Passionately.] You thought I was a native! You dared! You don't know anything about natives! They are not people-they 're servants who must salaam to you. You know nothing about India. You know nothing about anything! [Sobs unrestrainedly.]

MARTHA. Eh! You must n't cry like that there! You must n't for sure. I didn't know you'd be vexed. I don't know anything about anything—just like you said. I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop crying. [Pats MARY on shoulder until gradually she stops crying.] It 's time for thee to get up now. Mrs. Medlock said I was to carry tha'

breakfast and tea and dinner into tha' room next to this. It's been made into a nursery for thee. I'll help thee on with thy clothes if tha 'll get out o' bed. If the buttons are at the back tha' cannot button them up tha' self. [Takes out white coat and dress.]

MARY. Those are not mine. They are nicer than mine. Mine are black.

MARTHA. Mr. Craven ordered Mrs. Medlock to buy these in London. He said, "I won't have a child dressed in black wandering about like a lost soul."

MARY. I hate black things. [Sits up in bed and passively waits for MARTHA to dress her.]

MARTHA. You should see all my little sisters and brothers dressing themselves and helping the others! Eh! you should see them all. There 's twelve of us and my

father only gets sixteen shilling a week. I can tell you my mother's put to it to get porridge for them all. They tumble about on the moor and play there all day and mother says that the air of the moor fattens them. She says she believes they eat the grass same as the wild ponies do. Our Dickon, he 's twelve years old and he's got a young pony he calls his own.

MARY. Where did he get it?

MARTHA. He found it on the moor with its mother when it was a little one, and he began to make friends with it and give it bits of bread and pluck young grass for it. And it got to like him so it follows him about and lets him get on its back. Dickon 's a kind lad and all animals like him. [Places dish of porridge before MARY as she talks.]

MARY. [Pushing dish away from her.] I don't want it. MARTHA. [Incredulously.] Tha' does n't want thy porridge!

MARY. NO.

MARTHA. Tha' does n't know how good it is. Put a bit of treacle on it or a bit of sugar.

MARY. I don't want it.

MARTHA. Eh! I can't abide to see good victuals go to waste. If our children were at this table they 'd clean it bare in five minutes.

MARY. Why?

MARTHA. Why! Because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives. They 're as hungry as young hawks and foxes.

MARY. [Indifferently.] I don't know what it is to be hungry.

MARTHA. [Indignantly.] Well, it would do thee good to try it. I see that plain enough. I've no patience with folks as sit and just stare at good bread and meat. My word! don't I wish Dickon and Phil and Jane and the rest of them had what 's here under their pinafores.

MARY. Why don't you take it to them?

MARTHA. It's not mine. And this is n't my day out. I get my day out once a month same as the rest. Then I go home and clean up for mother and give her a day's rest. [Places a cup of tea and some toast and marmalade before MARY, which she eats.] You wrap up warm and run out and play; it will do you good and give you some stomach for your meat.

MARY. [Looking out of the window.] Out? Why should I go out on a day like this?

MARTHA. Well, if tha' does n't go out tha 'lt have to stay in, an' what has tha' got to do?

MARY. [Looking about.] Nothing. Who will go with me?

MARTHA. You'll go by yourself. You'll have to learn to play like other children do when they have n't brothers and sisters. Our Dickon goes off on the moor by himself and plays for hours. That 's how he made friends with the pony. He's got sheep on the moor that know him, and birds as come and eat out of his hand. However little there is to eat, he always saves a bit o' his bread to coax his pets.

[Helps MARY to put on her coat and hat.]

If tha' goes round that way [leading her to the door] tha' will come to the gardens. There are a lot of flowers in summer-time, but there's nothing blooming now. [Hesitating.] One of the gardens is locked up. No one has been in it for ten years.

MARY. Why?

MARTHA. Mr. Craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden. He won't let any one go inside. It was her garden. He locked the door and dug a hole and buried the key. There's Mrs. Medlock's bell ringing-I must run. [Goes out.]

SECOND SCENE

[In the garden.]

MARY. [Peering around.] How different England is from India. In India, servants don't dare to say anything against your wishes. But in England, the servants talk to you as if they were your equals. Martha, for instance, dared to talk to me in a somewhat ordering manner, and yet I am not angry with her. I wonder when she speaks to me again like that, if I could slap her face like I did to my Ayah. I think not. I'm rather afraid she 'd slap back. I wonder how it is that I'm not sorry that the cholera broke out and everybody except me died and I had to come here to Misselthwaite, my uncle's home. -What a strange house it is—a hundred locked rooms and a garden that's locked too. I should like to see that garden. But who is that? [BEN WEATHERSTAFF enters with spade in hand.] What is this place?