THE SECRET GARDEN

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

CHAPTER I: THERE IS NO ONE LEFT

When Mary Lennox was sent to live with her uncle at Misselthwaite Manor, everyone said she was the most unpleasant-looking child they had ever seen. It was true. She had a thin little face, a thin little body, thin yellowish hair, and a sour look on her face. Her skin was yellow too, because she had been born in India and had been sick often.

Mary's father worked for the English government there. He was always busy and often sick himself. Her mother was very beautiful, but she only cared about going to parties and having fun with her friends. She had never wanted a daughter. When Mary was born, her mother handed her over to an Ayah (an Indian nanny) and made it clear that the Ayah should keep the baby out of sight as much as possible. That's exactly what happened. Mary grew from a sickly, fussy baby into a sickly, fussy toddler—always kept out of the way.

Mary never really knew anyone except her Ayah and the other Indian servants. They always obeyed her and let her have her own way, because if Mary cried, her mother would get angry. By the time Mary was six years old, she had become a selfish little tyrant. A young English teacher came to teach her to read and write, but she disliked Mary so much that she quit after three months. Other teachers came after her, but none stayed long. If Mary hadn't actually wanted to learn to read, she might never have learned her letters at all.

One terribly hot morning, when Mary was about nine, she woke up feeling cranky. She got even crankier when she saw that the servant standing by her bed was not her Ayah.

"Why did you come?" she snapped at the strange woman. "I won't let you stay. Send my Ayah to me."

The woman looked frightened. She stammered that the Ayah could not come. Mary threw a tantrum, hitting and kicking her, but the woman only looked more scared and repeated that the Ayah could not come.

Something strange was happening that morning. Nothing was done the way it usually was, and several servants seemed to be missing. The ones Mary did see rushed around with pale, frightened faces. But no one would tell her anything, and her Ayah never came. Mary was left alone all morning. Finally, she wandered into the garden and played by herself under a tree. She pretended to plant a flower bed, sticking big red hibiscus flowers into little piles of dirt. The whole time, she grew angrier, muttering the names she would call her Ayah when she returned.

"Pig! Pig! Daughter of Pigs!" she said—because calling someone a pig was the worst insult she knew.

She was grinding her teeth and repeating this when she heard her mother come out onto the porch with someone. Her mother was talking quietly with a fair-haired young man who looked almost like a boy. Mary knew he was a young officer who had just arrived from England. She stared at him, but she stared even more at her mother.

Mary loved watching her mother whenever she got the chance. Her mother—Mary usually called her "Mem Sahib"—was tall, slim, and pretty, and always wore beautiful clothes. Her hair looked like curly silk, and she had large, laughing eyes. Her clothes were thin and flowing, full of lace, Mary always said. But this morning, her eyes weren't laughing at all. They looked wide and scared as she looked up at the young officer.

"Is it really so bad? Oh, is it?" Mary heard her mother ask.

"Terribly bad," the young man answered, his voice shaking. "Terribly, Mrs. Lennox. You should have left for the hills two weeks ago."

Mary's mother wrung her hands. "Oh, I know I should have!" she cried. "I only stayed for that silly dinner party. What a fool I was!"

Right then, a loud wailing sound broke out from where the servants lived. Mary's mother grabbed the young man's arm, and Mary shivered from head to toe. The wailing grew louder and wilder.

"What is it? What's happening?" her mother gasped.

"Someone has died," the young officer answered. "You didn't tell me it had already spread to your servants."

"I didn't know!" her mother cried. "Come with me! Come with me!" She turned and ran into the house.

After that, terrible things happened, and Mary finally understood what the strange morning meant. Cholera—a deadly disease—had broken out, and people were dying quickly. The Ayah had gotten sick during the night and had just died, which was why the servants were wailing. By the next day, three more servants had died, and others ran away in terror. Panic spread everywhere, and people were dying in houses all around.

During the chaos of the second day, Mary hid in the nursery and everyone forgot about her. Nobody thought of her; nobody wanted her. Strange things happened that she knew nothing about. She cried and slept through the hours, only hearing frightening and mysterious sounds. Once, she crept into the dining room and found it empty, though a half-eaten meal still sat on the table. The chairs looked pushed back in a hurry, as if everyone had suddenly gotten up and left. Mary ate some fruit and crackers, and because she was thirsty, she drank a nearly full glass of wine sitting on the table. It tasted sweet, and she didn't realize how strong it was. Soon it made her very sleepy, and she went back to the nursery, locked herself in, and lay down. She fell into a deep sleep for a long time, undisturbed by the crying and hurrying feet outside.

Many things happened while she slept so heavily, but none of it woke her.

When she finally woke up, she stared at the wall. The house was completely silent—more silent than she had ever heard it. She wondered if everyone had gotten better and all the trouble was over. She also wondered who would take care of her now that her Ayah was dead. Maybe a new Ayah would come, one who knew new stories. Mary didn't cry about her nurse dying—she wasn't an affectionate child and had never cared deeply for anyone. The noise and panic over the cholera had scared her, and she felt angry that nobody remembered she existed. Everyone had been too frightened to think about a little girl nobody loved. But surely, now that the sickness was over, someone would come looking for her.

But no one came. As she lay there waiting, the house grew even quieter. She noticed something moving on the floor mat—a small snake gliding along, watching her with eyes like jewels. She wasn't scared, since it was harmless and seemed to be hurrying to get away. It slipped under the door.

"How strange and quiet it is," she said. "It's like there's no one in this house except me and the snake."

Almost immediately, she heard footsteps outside, then on the porch. Men's voices spoke quietly as they entered the house. No one greeted them, and they seemed to be opening doors and looking into every room.

"What a disaster," one voice said. "That poor, pretty woman! I suppose the child died too. I heard there was a child, though no one ever saw her."

Mary stood in the middle of the nursery when the men opened her door. She looked cross and unhappy, frowning because she was getting hungry and felt she'd been shamefully ignored. The first man to enter was a large officer she had once seen talking to her father. He looked tired and worried, but seeing Mary startled him so much he nearly jumped back.

"Barney!" he shouted. "There's a child here! Alone! In a place like this! Heavens, who is she?"

"I am Mary Lennox," the little girl said stiffly, drawing herself up tall. She thought it was very rude of him to call her father's house "a place like this!" "I fell asleep while everyone had the cholera, and I just woke up. Why has nobody come?"

"It's the child no one ever saw!" the man exclaimed to his companions. "She's been completely forgotten!"

"Why was I forgotten?" Mary demanded, stamping her foot. "Why does nobody come?"

The young man named Barney looked at her very sadly. Mary even thought she saw him blink back tears.

"Poor little thing," he said. "There's no one left to come."

That was the strange and sudden way Mary learned she had no father or mother anymore. They had died and been carried away in the night. The few servants who hadn't died had fled the house as fast as they could, and none of them had remembered there was a little girl still inside. That was why everything was so quiet. There truly was no one in the house except Mary and the small, rustling snake.

CHAPTER II: MISTRESS MARY QUITE CONTRARY

Mary had liked watching her mother from far away and thought she was very pretty, but she barely knew her, so she couldn't really love her or miss her much now that she was gone. In fact, Mary didn't miss her at all. Mary only thought about herself, as she always had. If she had been older, she might have worried about being left alone in the world. But she was young, and since she had always been taken care of, she assumed someone always would take care of her. All she wondered was whether she'd be sent to nice people who would be polite to her and let her have her own way, just like her Ayah and the other servants had done.

She knew she wouldn't be staying at the English minister's house, where she was first taken. She didn't want to stay there either. The English clergyman...