The Hidden Garden
a retelling of The Secret Garden
edited by Jane Mouttet
Chapter 5 – A Mysterious Cry
Every day for Mary Lennox was much the same at first. She woke up each morning in her tapestry-covered room to find Martha, the young housemaid, building a fire in the hearth. She had her breakfast in the nursery, which was nothing fun or cheerful. Then, after staring out the window at the endless, gray moor stretching out to the sky, Mary realized she had only two choices: stay inside and do nothing, or go outside. So, she chose to go out.
Mary didn’t realize this was the best thing she could have done. Though she didn’t like the cold wind that rushed at her face or how it seemed to push her back as she walked, the fresh air from the moor was doing her good. Each day, as she walked or ran along the garden paths, the air filled her lungs, made her body stronger, and brought a little color to her cheeks.
One morning, after spending several days in the fresh air, Mary woke up feeling strange—she was hungry. When Martha brought her porridge, she didn’t push it away but picked up her spoon and ate it all.
“You did well with that today,” Martha said, pleased.
“It tastes good,” Mary admitted, surprised by her words.
“That’s because of the fresh moor air,” Martha explained. “It’s given you an appetite. It’s lucky for you to have food to fill your belly. There are twelve of us at home, and sometimes we have an appetite, but we have nothing to eat!”
Mary listened quietly. She didn’t play like other children; she had never known how. She didn’t shout or run around. Instead, she wandered through the gardens and walked along the paths, thinking and looking at things.
One of her favorite places to go was the long path outside the walled gardens. There were bare flowerbeds along the way, and the ivy-covered walls were thick and tangled in places. One part of the wall seemed especially overgrown, as though it hadn’t been trimmed in years. Mary noticed this on her walks and wondered why it was different.
She suddenly saw a flash of red as she stood there, looking at the ivy swaying in the wind. There, perched on the wall, was the robin she had seen before! He tilted his head and chirped at her as if he were talking.
“Oh! It’s you!” Mary cried out, and talking to him didn’t feel strange.
The robin chirped and hopped along the wall, encouraging her to follow. Mary began to laugh, and for the first time, she looked almost happy. She ran after him, trying to whistle like he did, though she couldn’t quite manage it. The robin didn’t seem to mind and kept hopping along, singing to her.
“I like you! I like you!” Mary called out, feeling a warmth she hadn’t felt before. The robin spread his wings and flew to the top of a tree, singing even louder.
That’s when Mary remembered—the first time she had seen the robin, he had been sitting on a tree inside the mysterious, walled garden. Now, she was on the other side of that garden.
“He lives in there,” she whispered to herself. “How I wish I could see what it’s like!”
Mary ran to the door she had entered through that first morning. She passed through the orchard, looking up at the wall, but no door led into the secret garden. She walked back to the long ivy-covered wall, looking for any sign of a door, but there wasn’t one. She remembered what Ben Weatherstaff had said: there was no door.
“But there must have been one,” Mary thought. “Mr. Craven locked it and buried the key. So there *was* a door.”
This thought filled her mind as she wandered through the gardens. She felt truly curious about something for the first time since arriving at Misselthwaite Manor. The fresh air from the moor was waking her mind, and she wasn’t sorry that she had come to this strange place. That night, she felt tired but in a good way, and after supper, she sat by the fire, enjoying the warmth.
Sitting there, she decided to ask Martha something that had been on her mind for days.
“Why did Mr. Craven hate the garden?” she asked.
Martha had stayed with her in the nursery, happy to chat rather than spend time with the other servants, who often made fun of her Yorkshire accent. She settled down next to the fire and looked at Mary with interest.
“You’re still thinking about that garden, aren’t you?” Martha said with a smile. “I knew you would! I was the same when I first heard about it.”
“Why did he hate it?” Mary asked again.
Martha glanced around, as if making sure no one else could hear. “Mind you, Mrs. Medlock says it’s not to be talked about,” she said quietly. “But I’ll tell you, because I reckon you should know.”
Mary leaned closer, listening carefully.
“The garden was Mrs. Craven’s favorite place,” Martha began. “She loved it, and she and Mr. Craven spent hours there. They’d shut the door so no one else could come in, and they’d sit together by an old tree. Mrs. Craven made the roses grow all around it. But one day, the tree branch broke while she was sitting on it, and she fell. She was so badly hurt that she died the next day.”
Mary stared into the fire, feeling a strange heaviness in her heart. “No wonder he hated it,” she whispered.
Martha nodded. “He was so heartbroken, people thought he might lose his mind. That’s why he locked the garden and buried the key. No one’s been allowed in there since.”
Mary sat quietly, listening to the wind howl outside the manor. She felt a strange mix of emotions. She had never really felt sorry for anyone before, but now, thinking of Mr. Craven and his lost wife, she did. She also felt something else—an intense curiosity about the secret garden.
Just as she was about to speak again, Mary suddenly heard a faint sound. It was hard to tell where it was coming from, but it didn’t sound like the wind. It was a soft, sad sound, like someone crying.
“Do you hear that?” Mary asked Martha.
Martha looked uncomfortable. “It’s just the wind,” she said quickly. “Sometimes it sounds like someone wailing, especially when it’s blowing over the moor.”
But Mary shook her head. “No, it’s inside the house. I’m sure of it.”
At that moment, a sudden draft blew through the corridor, and the door to their room slammed open. The wind blew out the light, and the crying sound grew louder momentarily before fading again.
“There! I told you!” Mary cried. “Someone is crying, and it’s not the wind.”
Martha quickly ran to shut the door, but Mary wasn’t convinced. She stared at Martha, knowing she wasn’t being told the truth.
“It’s probably just one of the maids,” Martha said nervously. But Mary didn’t believe her. Something strange was happening in the manor, and Mary was determined to find out what it was.
Chapter 6 – Mary Knows What She Heard
Heavy rain poured down from the sky the next day, making it impossible for Mary to go outside. When she looked out her window, the moor was hidden behind thick clouds of mist and rain.
“What do you do in your cottage when it rains like this?” Mary asked Martha.
“We try to stay out of each other’s way,” Martha laughed. “There are so many of us that it feels cramped indoors. Mother tries to keep her patience, but it’s hard with all of us running about. The bigger kids go to the cow shed to play. Dickon doesn’t mind the rain, though. He goes out just like it’s a sunny day. He says he sees things on rainy days that he wouldn’t notice when it’s clear. Once, he found a fox cub nearly drowned in a hole. Its mother had been killed, and the rest of the cubs were dead, but Dickon saved that one. He kept it warm in his shirt and took it home. Now it’s grown up and follows him everywhere.”
Mary listened with interest, no longer bothered by Martha’s casual way of talking. In fact, she found it quite entertaining. The stories of life in Martha’s crowded cottage, filled with fourteen people, were very different from the tales her Ayah had told her in India. Mary was especially curious about Martha’s mother and her brother Dickon. They seemed like such different people from anyone she had ever met.
“If I had a fox cub or a raven, I could play with them,” Mary said, feeling sorry for herself. “But I have nothing.”
Martha looked thoughtful. “Can you knit?” she asked.
“No,” Mary replied.
“Can you sew?”
“No.”
“Can you read?”
“Yes.”
“Well, why don’t you read something or learn some spelling? You’re old enough to be learning now.”
“I don’t have any books,” Mary said sadly. “All my books were left in India.”
“That’s a shame,” Martha said. “There are thousands of books in the library here if Mrs. Medlock lets you go in.”
The idea of the library intrigued Mary. She didn’t care much about reading, but it reminded her of the hundred rooms she had heard about. Were they really all locked? She was suddenly filled with curiosity.
She decided she would find the library herself. She wasn’t worried about asking for permission, since no one seemed to care what she did. Mrs. Medlock was often in her sitting room, and the servants stayed busy in the kitchen or servants’ hall. No one ever asked Mary what she was doing.
After Martha tidied up the room and left, Mary stood by the window, thinking about the library and the many doors she had yet to explore. She decided it would be an adventure to wander through the house and count how many doors there were.
Without a second thought, Mary left her room and began her exploration. She wandered down long corridors, which branched into other hallways, and climbed short flights of stairs that led to more passageways. The house seemed endless, with door after door lining the walls. Some corridors were decorated with old portraits of men and women in grand, old-fashioned clothes made of velvet and satin. Mary was especially drawn to the portraits of children—girls in satin dresses and boys with lace collars and long hair.
She walked through a long gallery filled with portraits, imagining the people’s lives in the pictures. One portrait, in particular, caught her eye. It was of a stiff, plain-looking girl in a green dress, holding a parrot on her finger. The girl’s sharp eyes seemed to follow Mary.
“Where do you live now?” Mary asked aloud. “I wish you were here.”
As she continued wandering, Mary felt the house was deserted. The empty rooms and silent corridors made her feel like the only person in the whole place. It wasn’t until she reached the second floor that she decided to try opening one of the doors.
To her surprise, the first door she tried opened easily. Inside was a large bedroom, decorated with embroidered hangings and inlaid furniture like the kind she had seen in India. A portrait of the same plain-looking girl stared at her from above the mantel, making Mary uneasy.
“Maybe she used to sleep here,” Mary whispered to herself.
She opened more doors as she continued her exploration, discovering old pictures, tapestries, and furniture. In one room, she found a cabinet filled with tiny ivory elephants. Some were large, some small, and some were so tiny that they seemed to be baby elephants. Mary recognized the carved ivory from her time in India and was fascinated. She opened the cabinet door, stood on a footstool, and carefully played with the elephants for quite a while. She arranged them in different ways, making up little stories in her head about their adventures. It was the most fun she had had in a long time.
When she finally grew tired, she put the elephants back in order and closed the cabinet. It was the first time since arriving at Misselthwaite Manor that she had truly enjoyed herself. However, just as she was about to leave the room, she heard a faint rustling sound that made her jump.
Mary turned toward the sofa by the fireplace, where the noise had come from. She walked closer and saw that the corner of the velvet cushion was torn. Poking out from the hole was a tiny, gray head with bright, frightened eyes. It was a little mouse!
“Oh!” Mary exclaimed softly. She crept closer and saw that the mouse had nested in the cushion. Six baby mice were curled up beside it, fast asleep. The sight made her smile. Even in this vast, empty house, tiny creatures made their homes.
“They don’t look lonely at all,” Mary thought. “If they weren’t so scared, I’d take them back.”
Feeling more content than she had in days, Mary decided she had explored enough for one morning. She turned back to retrace her steps but soon realized she had lost her way. She wandered through several wrong corridors, getting more and more confused.
At last, she found herself in a part of the house that she didn’t recognize. The corridor was lined with tapestries, and it led nowhere. She stood still, unsure of which way to go.
“I’ve taken a wrong turn again,” she muttered. “How quiet everything is.”
As she stood there, a sound broke the silence. It wasn’t the wind, but a faint, muffled cry—a whimpering, fretful sound, like a child crying. Mary’s heart began to beat faster.
“That’s closer than before,” she whispered, listening intently. “It is crying.”
She reached out and touched the tapestry on the wall beside her, and to her surprise, it moved. Behind it, she discovered a hidden door. Just as she uncovered the door, it swung open, and there stood Mrs. Medlock, holding a large bunch of keys and looking extremely cross.
“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Medlock demanded, grabbing Mary by the arm. “Didn’t I tell you to stay out of trouble?”
“I turned the wrong way,” Mary explained, trying to pull her arm free. “I didn’t know where I was and heard someone crying.”
Mrs. Medlock’s face darkened, and she tightened her grip on Mary’s arm. “You did no such thing,” she snapped. “You didn’t hear anything at all.”
“I did!” Mary insisted. “Someone was crying!”
“You’ll stop that nonsense this minute,” Mrs. Medlock said sternly. “Now come with me.”
She dragged Mary down the corridor and through several winding passages until they reached the nursery. Mrs. Medlock pushed her inside and glared at her.
“You stay here where you belong, or you’ll be locked up,” she warned. “The master should have gotten you a governess, just like he said. You need someone to watch over you. I don’t have time for this.”
Mrs. Medlock stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Mary sat down on the hearth rug, her face pale with anger. She clenched her fists, grinding her teeth in frustration.
“There was someone crying,” she muttered to herself. “There was—there was!” She knew what she had heard and was determined to find the truth. She had already learned a great deal that morning. She had explored the house, played with the ivory elephants, and seen the little mouse and her babies. But the most important thing was the mystery of the crying sound. Mary was certain that someday, she would discover who was making that noise.
Miss previous chapters of The Hidden Garden? You can read them here.
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