MISTRESS MARY QUITE CONTRARY

Mary had liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had thoughtrnher very pretty, but as she knew very little of her she could scarcelyrnhave been expected to love her or to miss her very much when she wasrngone. She did not miss her at all, in fact, and as she was arnself-absorbed child she gave her entire thought to herself, as she hadrnalways done. If she had been older she would no doubt have been veryrnanxious at being left alone in the world, but she was very young, and asrnshe had always been taken care of, she supposed she always would be.rnWhat she thought was that she would like to know if she was going tornnice people, who would be polite to her and give her her own way as herrnAyah and the other native servants had done.rnrnShe knew that she was not going to stay at the English clergyman's housernwhere she was taken at first. She did not want to stay. The Englishrnclergyman was poor and he had five children nearly all the same age andrnthey wore shabby clothes and were always quarreling and snatching toysrnfrom each other. Mary hated their untidy bungalow and was sorndisagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody would playrnwith her. By the second day they had given her a nickname which made herrnfurious.rnrnIt was Basil who thought of it first. Basil was a little boy withrnimpudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose and Mary hated him. She wasrnplaying by herself under a tree, just as she had been playing the dayrnthe cholera broke out. She was making heaps of earth and paths for arngarden and Basil came and stood near to watch her. Presently he gotrnrather interested and suddenly made a suggestion.rnrn"Why don't you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery?"rnhe said. "There in the middle," and he leaned over her to point.rnrn"Go away!" cried Mary. "I don't want boys. Go away!"rnrnFor a moment Basil looked angry, and then he began to tease. He wasrnalways teasing his sisters. He danced round and round her and made facesrnand sang and laughed.rnrn "Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle shells, And marigolds all in a row."rnrnHe sang it until the other children heard and laughed, too; and therncrosser Mary got, the more they sang "Mistress Mary, quite contrary";rnand after that as long as she stayed with them they called her "MistressrnMary Quite Contrary" when they spoke of her to each other, and oftenrnwhen they spoke to her.rnrn"You are going to be sent home," Basil said to her, "at the end of thernweek. And we're glad of it."rnrn"I am glad of it, too," answered Mary. "Where is home?"rnrn"She doesn't know where home is!" said Basil, with seven-year-old scorn."It's England, of course. Our grandmama lives there and our sister Mabelrnwas sent to her last year. You are not going to your grandmama. You havernnone. You are going to your uncle. His name is Mr. Archibald Craven."rnrn"I don't know anything about him," snapped Mary.rnrn"I know you don't," Basil answered. "You don't know anything. Girlsrnnever do. I heard father and mother talking about him. He lives in arngreat, big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him.rnHe's so cross he won't let them, and they wouldn't come if he would letrnthem. He's a hunchback, and he's horrid."rnrn"I don't believe you," said Mary; and she turned her back and stuck herrnfingers in her ears, because she would not listen any more.rnrnBut she thought over it a great deal afterward; and when Mrs. Crawfordrntold her that night that she was going to sail away to England in a fewrndays and go to her uncle, Mr. Archibald Craven, who lived atrnMisselthwaite Manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterestedrnthat they did not know what to think about her. They tried to be kind tornher, but she only turned her face away when Mrs. Crawford attempted tornkiss her, and held herself stiffly when Mr. Crawford patted herrnshoulder.rnrn"She is such a plain child," Mrs. Crawford said pityingly, afterward."And her mother was such a pretty creature. She had a very prettyrnmanner, too, and Mary has the most unattractive ways I ever saw in arnchild. The children call her 'Mistress Mary Quite Contrary,' and thoughrnit's naughty of them, one can't help understanding it."rnrn"Perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her prettyrnmanners oftener into the nursery Mary might have learned some prettyrnways too. It is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, tornremember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all."rnrn"I believe she scarcely ever looked at her," sighed Mrs. Crawford."When her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the littlernthing. Think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone inrnthat deserted bungalow. Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped out of hisrnskin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in thernmiddle of the room."rnrnMary made the long voyage to England under the care of an officer'srnwife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school.rnShe was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and wasrnrather glad to hand the child over to the woman Mr. Archibald Cravenrnsent to meet her, in London. The woman was his housekeeper atrnMisselthwaite Manor, and her name was Mrs. Medlock. She was a stoutrnwoman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. She wore a very purplerndress, a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black bonnet withrnpurple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she moved herrnhead. Mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom liked peoplernthere was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was very evidentrnMrs. Medlock did not think much of her.rnrn"My word! she's a plain little piece of goods!" she said. "And we'drnheard that her mother was a beauty. She hasn't handed much of it down,rnhas she, ma'am?"rnrn"Perhaps she will improve as she grows older," the officer's wife saidrngood-naturedly. "If she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression,rnher features are rather good. Children alter so much."rnrn"She'll have to alter a good deal," answered Mrs. Medlock. "And there'srnnothing likely to improve children at Misselthwaite--if you ask me!"rnrnThey thought Mary was not listening because she was standing a littlernapart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to. Shernwas watching the passing buses and cabs, and people, but she heard quiternwell and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he livedrnin. What sort of a place was it, and what would he be like? What was arnhunchback? She had never seen one. Perhaps there were none in India.rnrnSince she had been living in other people's houses and had had no Ayah,rnshe had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were newrnto her. She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong tornany one even when her father and mother had been alive. Other childrenrnseemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemedrnto really be any one's little girl. She had had servants, and food andrnclothes, but no one had taken any notice of her. She did not know thatrnthis was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, sherndid not know she was disagreeable. She often thought that other peoplernwere, but she did not know that she was so herself.rnrnShe thought Mrs. Medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever seen,rnwith her common, highly colored face and her common fine bonnet. Whenrnthe next day they set out on their journey to Yorkshire, she walkedrnthrough the station to the railway carriage with her head up and tryingrnto keep as far away from her as she could, because she did not want tornseem to belong to her. It would have made her very angry to think peoplernimagined she was her little girl.rnrnBut Mrs. Medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her thoughts.rnShe was the kind of woman who would "stand no nonsense from young ones."rnAt least, that is what she would have said if she had been asked. Shernhad not wanted to go to London just when her sister Maria's daughter wasrngoing to be married, but she had a comfortable, well paid place asrnhousekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor and the only way in which she couldrnkeep it was to do at once what Mr. Archibald Craven told her to do. Shernnever dared even to ask a question.rnrn"Captain Lennox and his wife died of the cholera," Mr. Craven had saidrnin his short, cold way. "Captain Lennox was my wife's brother and I amrntheir daughter's guardian. The child is to be brought here. You must gornto London and bring her yourself."rnrnSo she packed her small trunk and made the journey.rnrnMary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain andrnfretful. She had nothing to read or to look at, and she had folded herrnthin little black-gloved hands in her lap. Her black dress made her lookrnyellower than ever, and her limp light hair straggled from under herrnblack crêpe hat.rnrn"A more marred-looking young one I never saw in my life," Mrs. Medlockrnthought. (Marred is a Yorkshire word and means spoiled and pettish.) Shernhad never seen a child who sat so still without doing anything; and atrnlast she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk, hardrnvoice.rnrn"I suppose I may as well tell you something about where you are goingrnto," she said. "Do you know anything about your uncle?"rnrn"No," said Mary.rnrn"Never heard your father and mother talk about him?"rnrn"No," said Mary frowning. She frowned because she remembered that herrnfather and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular.rnCertainly they had never told her things.rnrn"Humph," muttered Mrs. Medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsivernlittle face. She did not say any more for a few moments and then shernbegan again.rnrn"I suppose you might as well be told something--to prepare you. You arerngoing to a queer place."rnrnMary said nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked rather discomfited byrnher apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on.rnrn"Not but that it's a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven'srnproud of it in his way--and that's gloomy enough, too. The house is sixrnhundred years old and it's on the edge of the moor, and there's near arnhundred rooms in it, though most of them's shut up and locked. Andrnthere's pictures and fine old furniture and things that's been there forrnages, and there's a big park round it and gardens and trees withrnbranches trailing to the ground--some of them." She paused and tookrnanother breath. "But there's nothing else," she ended suddenly.rnrnMary had begun to listen in spite of herself. It all sounded so unlikernIndia, and anything new rather attracted her. But she did not intend tornlook as if she were interested. That was one of her unhappy,rndisagreeable ways. So she sat still.rnrn"Well," said Mrs. Medlock. "What do you think of it?"rnrn"Nothing," she answered. "I know nothing about such places."rnrnThat made Mrs. Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh.rnrn"Eh!" she said, "but you are like an old woman. Don't you care?"rnrn"It doesn't matter," said Mary, "whether I care or not."rnrn"You are right enough there," said Mrs. Medlock. "It doesn't. Whatrnyou're to be kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I don't know, unlessrnbecause it's the easiest way. _He's_ not going to trouble himself aboutrnyou, that's sure and certain. He never troubles himself about no one."rnrnShe stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time.rnrn"He's got a crooked back," she said. "That set him wrong. He was a sourrnyoung man and got no good of all his money and big place till he wasrnmarried."rnrnMary's eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem torncare. She had never thought of the hunchback's being married and she wasrna trifle surprised. Mrs. Medlock saw this, and as she was a talkativernwoman she continued with more interest. This was one way of passing somernof the time, at any rate.rnrn"She was a sweet, pretty thing and he'd have walked the world over tornget her a blade o' grass she wanted. Nobody thought she'd marry him, butrnshe did, and people said she married him for his money. But sherndidn't--she didn't," positively. "When she died--"rnrnMary gave a little involuntary jump.rnrn"Oh! did she die!" she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. She had justrnremembered a French fairy story she had once read called "Riquet à larnHouppe." It had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess andrnit had made her suddenly sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven.rnrn"Yes, she died," Mrs. Medlock answered. "And it made him queerer thanrnever. He cares about nobody. He won't see people. Most of the time herngoes away, and when he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself up in thernWest Wing and won't let any one but Pitcher see him. Pitcher's an oldrnfellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows hisrnways."rnrnIt sounded like something in a book and it did not make Mary feelrncheerful. A house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and withrntheir doors locked--a house on the edge of a moor--whatsoever a moorrnwas--sounded dreary. A man with a crooked back who shut himself up also!rnShe stared out of the window with her lips pinched together, and itrnseemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down inrngray slanting lines and splash and stream down the window-panes. If thernpretty wife had been alive she might have made things cheerful by beingrnsomething like her own mother and by running in and out and going tornparties as she had done in frocks "full of lace." But she was not therernany more.rnrn"You needn't expect to see him, because ten to one you won't," said Mrs.rnMedlock. "And you mustn't expect that there will be people to talk tornyou. You'll have to play about and look after yourself. You'll be toldrnwhat rooms you can go into and what rooms you're to keep out of. There'srngardens enough. But when you're in the house don't go wandering andrnpoking about. Mr. Craven won't have it."rnrn"I shall not want to go poking about," said sour little Mary; and justrnas suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for Mr. Archibald Cravenrnshe began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant enough torndeserve all that had happened to him.rnrnAnd she turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of thernrailway carriage and gazed out at the gray rain-storm which looked as ifrnit would go on forever and ever. She watched it so long and steadilyrnthat the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fellrnasleep.