Sleep Story: The Secret Garden Chapter 4

Enjoy this sleep story to help you drift off into a peaceful slumber. Tonight we read Chapter 4 of the timeless classic, The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Follow a lonely girl who finds friends in the most unexpected places and learns about herself. This audio is perfect for children or adults who want to relax or find adventure into a great night's sleep.

Transcript

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett Chapter 4 Martha When she opened her eyes in the morning,

It was because a young housemaid had come into her room to light the fire and was kneeling on the hearth-rug,

Raking out the cinders noisily.

Mary lay and watched her for a few moments and then began to look about the room.

She had never seen a room at all like it and thought it curious and gloomy.

The walls were covered with tapestry,

With the forest scene embroidered on it.

There were fantastically dressed people under the trees and in the distance there was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle.

There were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies.

Mary felt as if she were in the forest with them.

Out of a deep window she could see a great climbing stretch of land which seemed to have no trees on it and to look rather like an endless,

Dull,

Purplish sea.

What is that,

She said pointing out of the window?

Martha the young housemaid who had just risen to her feet looked and pointed also.

What there,

She said?

Yes,

That's the moor with a good-natured grin.

Does the like it?

No,

Answered Mary.

I hate it.

That's because they're not used to it,

Martha said going back to her hearth.

The thing's it's too big and bare now,

But thou will like it.

Do you,

Inquired Mary?

Aye,

That I do,

Answered Martha,

Cheerfully polishing away at the grate.

I just love it.

It's none bare.

It's covered with growing things as smells sweet.

It's fair lovely in spring and summer when the gorse and broom and heathers and flower.

It smells of honey and there's such a lot of fresh air.

And the sky looks so high and the bees and skylarks make such a nice noise humming and singing.

Hey,

I wouldn't live away from the moor for anything.

Mary listened to her with a grave puzzled expression.

The native servants she had been used to in India were not in the least like this.

They were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to the masters as if they were equals.

They made salams and called them protector of the poor and names of that sort.

Indian servants were commanded to do things,

Not asked.

It was not the custom to say please and thank you.

And Mary had always slapped her Aya in the face when she was angry.

She wondered a little what this girl would do if one slapped her in the face.

She was a round,

Rosy,

Good-natured looking creature.

But she had a sturdy way which made Mistress Mary wonder if she might not even slap back.

If the person who slapped her was only a little girl.

You are a strange servant,

She said from the pillows,

Rather hauntingly.

Martha sat up on her heels with her blacking brush in her hand and laughed without seeming the least at a temper.

Hey,

I know that,

She said.

If there was a grand missus at Missalwy,

I should never have even one of their underhouse maids.

I might have been left to the scullery maid.

But I'd never been led upstairs.

I'm too common and I talk too much Yorkshire.

But this is a funny house for all it's so grand.

Seem like there's neither master nor mistress except Mr.

Pitcher and Miss Medlock.

Mr.

Craven,

He won't be troubled about anything when he's here.

And he's nearly always away.

Miss Medlock gave me the place out of kindness.

She told me she could have never done it.

And Missalwy had been like other big houses.

Are you going to be my servant,

Mary asked,

Still in her imperious little Indian way.

Martha began to rub her grade again.

I'm Miss Medlock's servant,

She said stoutly.

And she's Mr.

Craven's.

But I'm to do the housemaids' work up here and wait on you a bit.

But you won't need.

You don't need much waiting on.

Who's going to dress me,

Demanded Mary.

Martha sat up on her heels again and stared.

She spoke in broad Yorkshire in her amazement.

Can't address thy sin,

She said.

What do you mean?

I don't understand your language,

Said Mary.

Eh,

I forgot,

Martha said.

Miss Medlock told me I'd have to be careful or wouldn't you know what I was saying?

I mean can't you put on your own clothes?

No,

Answered Mary quite indignantly.

I never did in my life.

My eye addressed me,

Of course.

Well said,

Martha,

Evidently not in the least aware that she was impudent.

It's time that she'd learn that cannot begin younger.

I'll do the good to wait on thyself a bit.

My mother always said she couldn't see why grand people's children didn't turn out fair fools.

What,

With nurses and being washed and dressed and took out to walk as if they were puppies?

It's different in India,

Said Mistress Mary disdainfully.

She could carelessly stand this.

But mother was not at all crushed.

Eh,

I can see it different,

She answered almost sympathetically.

I dare say it's because there's such a lot of blacks there instead of respectable white people.

When I heard you was coming from India,

I thought you was a black too.

Mary sat up in bed furious.

What,

She said,

What?

You thought I was a native.

You,

You're the daughter of a pig.

Martha stared and looked hot.

Who are you calling names,

She said.

You needn't be so vexed.

It's not the way for a young lady to talk.

I've got nothing against the blacks.

When you read about them in tracks,

They're always very religious.

You'll always read,

Is a black the man and a brother?

I've never seen a black and I was fair pleased to think I was going to see one close.

When I come in to light your fire this morning,

I crept up to your bed and pulled the cover back carefully and looked at you.

And there you was,

Disappointingly no black than me.

For all,

You're so yellow.

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 servants who must salam to you.

You know nothing about India.

You know nothing about anything.

She was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl's simple stare.

And somehow she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away from everything she'd understood and which understood her.

And 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.

Hey,

You mustn't cry like that,

She said.

You mustn'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.

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.

It's time for you to get up now,

She said.

Miss Medlock said I was to carry the breakfast and tea and dinner into the room next to this.

It's been made into a nursery for you.

I'll help you on with your clothes if that'll get you out of bed.

If the buttons are at the back,

Then the button them up themselves.

When Mary at last decided to get up,

The clothes Martha took from the wardrobe were not the one she had worn when she arrived the night before.

Those are not mine,

She said.

Mine are black.

She looked the thick white wool coat and dress over and added with cool approval.

Those are nicer than mine.

These are the ones they must put on,

Martha answered.

Mr.

Craven ordered Miss Medlock to get them in London.

He said I won't have a child dressed in black,

Wandering around like a lost soul,

He said.

It'd make the place sadder than it already is.

Put color on her.

Mother,

She said she knew what he meant.

Mother always knows what a body needs.

She doesn't hold back with black herself.

I hate black things,

Said Mary.

The dressing process was one which taught them both something.

Martha had buttoned up 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.

Why doesn't that put on the own shoes?

She said when Mary quietly held out her foot.

My Aya did it,

Answered Mary,

Staring.

It was the custom.

She said that very often.

It was the custom.

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,

It is not the custom.

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 all her life at Missalwaite Manor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to her,

Things 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 lady's 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 more lang 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 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 Martha's readiness to talk.

But Mary only listened to her coldly and wandered at her freedom of manner.

At first she was not at all interested.

But gradually as the girl rattled on in her good-natured,

Homely way,

Mary began to notice what she was saying.

Hey,

You should see them all,

She said.

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 the air on the moor fattened 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.

Where did he get it,

Asked Mary.

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 around and it lets him get on his back.

Dickon's a kind lad and animals like him.

Mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and always had thought she would like one.

So she began to feel a slight interest in Dickon and as she had never before been interested in anyone but herself,

It was the dawning of a healthy sentiment.

When she went into the room which had been made into a nursery for her,

She found that it was rather like the one she had slept in.

It was not a child's room but a grown up person's room with gloomy old pictures on the walls and heavy old oak chairs.

A table in the center was set with good substantial breakfast but she had always had a very small appetite and she looked with something more than indifference at the first plate Martha set before her.

I don't want it,

She said.

That doesn't want thy porridge,

Martha exclaimed incredulously.

No.

That doesn't know how good it is.

Put a bit of treacle on it or a bit of sugar.

I don't want it,

Repeated Mary.

Eh,

Said Martha,

I can't abide to see good victuals go to waste.

If our children was at this table they'd clean it bare in five minutes.

Why,

Said Mary coldly.

Why,

Echoed Martha,

Because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives.

They're as hungry as young hawks and foxes.

I don't know what it is to be hungry,

Said Mary,

With the indifference of ignorance.

Martha looked indignant.

Well,

It would do thee good to try it.

I can see that plain enough,

She said outspokenly.

I have no patience with folks as sits and just stares 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.

Why don't you take it to them,

Suggested Mary.

It's not mine,

Answered Martha stoutly.

And this isn'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.

Mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade.

You rep up.

Warm and run out and play you,

Said Martha.

It'll do you some good and give your stomach for your meat.

Mary went to the window.

There were gardens and paths and big trees,

But everything looked dull and wintry.

Ow.

What should I go out on a day like this?

Well,

If it doesn't go out,

They'll have to stay in.

And what has that got to do?

Mary glanced around her.

There was nothing to do.

When Miss Medlock had prepared the nursery,

She had not thought of amusement.

Perhaps it would be better to go and see what the gardens were like.

Who will go with me,

She inquired.

Martha stared.

You'll go by yourself,

She answered.

You'll have to learn to play like other children does.

And when they haven't got sisters and brothers,

Our Dickon goes off on the moor by himself and plays for hours.

That's how he made friends with the pony.

He got sheep on the moor and knows them,

And birds as comes and eats out of his hand.

However little there is to eat,

He always saves a bit of bread to coax his pets.

It was really this mention of Dickon which made Mary decide to go out,

Though she was not aware of it.

There would be birds outside,

Though there would not be ponies or sheep.

They would be different from the birds in India,

And it might amuse her to look at them.

Martha found her coat and hat for her,

And a pair of stout little boots,

And she showed her her way downstairs.

If that goes round that way,

They'll come to the garden,

She said,

Pointing to a gate in the wall of the shrubbery.

There's lots of flowers in summertime,

But there's nothing blooming now.

She seemed to hesitate a second before she added,

One of the gardens is locked up.

No one has been there in ten years.

Why?

Asked Mary in spite of herself.

Here was another locked door added to the hundred in the strange house.

Mr.

Craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden.

He won't let no one go inside.

It was her garden.

He locked the door and dug a hole and buried the key.

Well,

There's Miss Medlock's bell ringing.

I must run.

After she was gone,

Mary turned down the walk which led to the door and the shrubbery.

She could not help thinking about the garden,

Which no one had been into for ten years.

She wondered what it would look like,

And whether there were any flowers still alive in it.

When she had passed through the shrubbery gate,

She found herself in great gardens with wide lawns and winding walks with clipped borders.

There were trees and flower beds and evergreens clipped into strange shapes and a large pool with an old gray fountain in its mist.

But the flower beds were bare and wintry,

And the fountain was not playing.

This was not the garden which was shut up.

How could a garden be shut up?

You could always walk into a garden.

She was just thinking this when she saw that,

At the end of the path,

She was following.

There seemed to be a long wall with ivy growing over it.

She was not familiar enough with England to know that she was coming upon the kitchen gardens where the vegetables and fruit were growing.

She went toward the wall and found that there was a green door in the ivy and that it stood open.

This was not the closed garden,

Evidently,

And she could go into it.

She went through the door and found that it was a garden with walls all round,

And it was of several walled gardens which seemed to be open into one another.

She saw another open green door,

Revealing bushes and pathways between beds containing winter vegetables.

Fruit trees were trained flat against the wall,

And over some of the beds there were glass frames.

The place was bare and ugly enough,

Mary thought,

As she stood and stared about her.

It might be nicer in summer when things were green,

But there is nothing pretty about it now.

Presently,

An old man with a spade over his shoulder walked through the door leading into the second garden.

He looked startled when he saw Mary,

And then touched his cap.

He had a surly old face and did not seem at all displeased to see her,

But then she was displeased with his garden and wore her quite contrary expression and certainly did not seem at all pleased to see him.

What is this place?

She asked.

One of the kitchen gardens,

He answered.

What is that?

Said Mary,

Pointing through the green door.

Another of them shortly.

There's another on that side of the wall,

And there's the orchard on that side.

Can I go in them?

Asked Mary.

If the likes,

But there's nothing to see.

Mary made no response.

She went down the path and through the second green door.

There she found more walls and winter vegetables and glass frames.

But in the second wall,

There was another green door and it was not open.

Perhaps it led into the garden,

Which no one had seen for 10 years.

As she was not at all a timid child and always did what she wanted to do.

Mary went to the green door and turned the handle.

She hoped the door would not open because she wanted to be sure she had found the mysterious garden.

But it did open quite easily and she walked through and found herself in an orchard.

There were walls all around it and trees trained against them.

And there were bare fruit trees growing in the winter brown grass.

But there was no green door to be seen anywhere.

Mary looked for it and yet when she had entered the upper end of the garden,

She had noticed that her wall did not seem to end with the orchard,

But to extend beyond as if it was enclosed a place on the other side.

She could see the tops of trees above the wall.

And when she stood still,

She saw a bird with a bright red breast sitting on the top most branch of one of them.

And suddenly he burst into his winter song,

Almost as if he had caught sight of her and was calling to her.

She stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling.

Even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely.

And the big closed house in Big Bear Moor in Big Bear Gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself.

If she had been an affectionate child who had been used to being loved,

She would have broken her heart.

And even though she was Mistress Mary quite contrary,

She was desolate.

And the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face,

Which was almost a smile.

She listened to him until he flew away.

He was not like an Indian bird.

And she liked him and wondered if she would ever see him again.

Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it.

Perhaps it was because she has done nothing whatever to do that she thought so much of the deserted garden.

She was curious about it and wanted to see what it was like.

Why had Mr.

Archibald Craven buried the key?

If he had liked his wife so much,

Why did he hate her garden?

She wondered if she should ever see him,

But she knew that if she did not,

She should not like him.

And he would not like her.

And then she would only stand and stare at him and say nothing,

Though she should be wanting dreadfully to ask him about why he had done such a queer thing.

People never like me,

And I never like people,

She thought.

And I never can talk as the craft hard children could.

They were always talking and laughing and making noises.

She thought of the robin and the way he seemed to sing his heart at her.

And as she remembered the treetop he perched on,

She stopped rather suddenly on the path.

I believe that tree was in the secret garden.

I feel sure of it,

She said.

There was a wall around the place and there was no door.

She walked back into the first kitchen garden she had entered and found the old man digging there.

She went and stood beside him and watched him a few moments in her cold little way.

He made no notice of her,

And so at last she spoke to him.

I have been into the other garden,

She said.

There was nothing to prevent thee,

He answered crustily.

I went into the orchard.

There was no dog at the door to bite thee,

He answered.

There was no door there into the other garden,

Said Mary.

There was no door there into the other garden,

He said in a rough voice,

Stopping his digging for a moment.

The one on the other side of the wall.

There are trees there,

I saw the tops of them.

A bird with a red breast was sitting on them and he sang.

To her surprise,

This early old weather-beating face actually changed its expression.

A slow smile spread over it,

And the gardener looked quite different,

And made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled.

She had not thought of that before.

He turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to whistle,

A low,

Soft whistle.

She could not understand how much a surly man could make such a coaxing sound.

Almost the next moment,

A wonderful thing happened.

She heard a soft little rushing flight through the air,

And it was the bird with the red breast flying to them,

And he actually alighted on the big clod of earth quite near to the gardener's foot.

Here he is,

Chuckled the old man,

And then he spoke to the bird as if he were speaking to a child.

Where has the been,

The cheeky little beggar,

He said?

I've not seen thee before today.

Has the begun the court in this early in the season?

Thart too forward.

The bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his soft,

Bright eye,

Which was like a black dewdrop.

He seemed quite familiar,

And not the least afraid.

He hopped about and pecked the earth briskly,

Looking for seeds and insects.

He actually gave Mary a quill feeling in her heart,

Because he was so pretty and cheerful and seemed so like a person.

He had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak and slender,

Delicate legs.

Will he always come when you call him?

She asked almost in a whisper.

I thought he will.

I've known him ever since he was a fledgling.

He come out of the nest in the other garden,

And when first he flew over the wall he was too weak to fly back for a few days,

And we got friendly.

When he went over the wall again,

The rest of the brood was gone,

And he was lonely,

And he came back to me.

What kind of bird is he,

Mary asked?

Doesn't the know?

He's a robin,

Red-breast,

And they're the friendliest,

Curious,

Braves alive.

But almost as friendly as dogs,

If you know how to get on with them.

Watch him pecking about,

Looking around at us now and again.

He knows we're talking about him.

It was the queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow.

He looked at the plump little scarlet waist-coated bird as if he were both proud and fond of him.

He's a conceited one,

He chuckled.

He likes to hear folks talk about him,

And curious.

Bless me,

There never was like his curiosity in Mendenland.

He's always coming to see what I'm planting.

He knows all things Mr.

Craven never troubles himself to find out.

He's the head gardener,

He is.

The robin hobbed about busily,

Pecking the soil,

And now and then,

Stopped and looked at them a little.

Mary thought his black dew-drop eyes gazed at her with great curiosity.

It really seemed as if he were finding out all about her.

The queer feeling in her heart increased.

Where did the rest of the brood fly to,

She asked.

There's no knowing.

The old ones turn them out of their nest and make them fly,

Till they're scattered before you know it.

This one was knowing then,

And he was lonely.

Mistress Mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very hard.

I'm lonely,

She said.

She had not known before this was one of the things which made her feel sour and cross.

She seemed to find it out when the robin looked at her,

And she looked at the robin.

The old gardener pushed his cat back in his bald head and stared at her a minute.

Aren't the little wench from India,

He asked.

Mary nodded.

Then no wonder thou'lt lonely.

That'll be lonelier than this done,

He said.

He began to dig again,

Driving his spade deep in the rich black garden soil where the robin hopped about,

Very busily employed.

What is your name,

Mary inquired.

He stood up to answer her.

Ben Weatherstaff,

He answered,

And then he added with a surly chuckle,

I'm lonely myself,

Except when he's with me.

And he jerked his thumb toward the robin.

He's the only friend I got.

I've no friends at all,

Said Mary.

I never had.

My Iah didn't like me,

And I never played with anyone.

It is a Yorkshire habit to say what you think with blunt frankness,

And old Ben Weatherstaff was a Yorkshire moorman.

Then and me are a good bit alike,

He said.

We was wove out of the same cloth.

Were neither of us good-looking,

And were both as sour as we look.

We've got the same nasty tempers both of us all warrant.

That was plain speaking,

And Mary Lennox had never heard the truth about herself and her life.

The servants always salamed and submitted to you whatever you did.

She had never thought much about her looks,

But she wondered if she was as unattractive as Ben Weatherstaff,

And she also wondered if she looked as sour as he had looked before the robin came.

She actually began to wonder also if she was nasty tempered.

She felt uncomfortable.

Suddenly a clear,

Rippling little sound broke out near her,

And she turned round.

She was standing a few feet from a young apple tree,

And the robin had flown on to one of its branches,

And had burst out into a scrap of a song.

Ben Weatherstaff laughed outright.

What did he do that for,

Asked Mary.

He's made up his mind to make friends with thee,

Replied Ben.

Dang me if he hasn't took a fancy to thee.

To me,

Said Mary,

And she moved toward the little tree softly and looked up.

Would you make friends with me,

She said to the robin,

Just as if she was speaking to a person.

Would you?

And she did not say it either in her hard little voice or her imperious Indian voice,

But in a tone so soft and eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprised as she had been when she heard him whistle out.

Why,

He cried out,

That said that is nice a human.

That was a real child instead of a sharp old woman.

This said almost like Dickon talks to his wild things on the moor.

Do you know Dickon?

Mary asked,

Turning round rather in a hurry.

Everybody knows him.

Dickon's wandering about everywhere.

The very Blackberries and Heatherbells know him.

I warrant the foxes shows him where their cubs lie,

And the Skylark doesn't hide their nests from him.

Mary would have liked to ask some more questions.

She was almost as curious about Dickon as she was about the deserted garden.

But just that moment the robin,

Who had ended his song,

Gave a little shake of his own wings,

Spread them,

And flew away.

He had made his visit and had other things to do.

He has flown over the wall,

Mary cried watching him.

He has flown into the orchard.

He has flown across the other wall,

Into the garden where there's no door.

He lives there,

Said old Ben.

He came out of the egg there.

If he's courting,

He's making up some young madam of a robin that lives among the old rose trees.

Rose trees,

Said Mary.

Are there rose trees?

Ben Weatherstuff took up his spade again and began to dig.

There was ten years ago,

He mumbled.

I should like to see them,

Said Mary.

Where is the green door?

There must be a door somewhere.

Ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked when she first saw him.

That was ten years ago.

But there is it now,

He said.

No door,

Cried Mary.

There must be.

None is anyone confined,

And none is anyone's business.

Don't you be a meddlesome wench and poke your nose where there's no cause to go there.

Here,

I must go on with my work.

Get you gone and play you.

I have no more time.

And he actually stopped digging,

Threw his spade over his shoulder and walked off without even glancing at her or saying goodbye.

And that is the end of our sleep story for this evening.

Thank you so much for allowing me the precious gift of your time.

Until next time,

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

Catching up with your telling of this tale, it’s like remeeting old friends, the story, and you! Lovely to hear you again, Hilary. 🌻🌳💚🙏

Great. Loving the book reading. Thanks Joy 🙏🏼❤️

Enjoying this story, I listen to a number of your bedtime stories. One thing I’ve noticed is that compared with other teachers, I have to turn the volume all the way up on my phone to hear you. ☺️

Beautiful story choices and a super calming voice :)