The Secret Garden: Meeting Martha 🧹 | Fall Asleep Fast with Frances Hodgson Burnett

Welcome to Chapter & Pillow. In tonight's ad-free episode, unwind with a soothing, human voice reading Frances Hodgson Burnett's classic novel, The Secret Garden. This slow-spoken narration is crafted to help you quiet an overactive mind and ease into a deep, restful sleep.

In Part 3 of our reading, Mary Lennox arrives at Misselthwaite Manor, a vast, quiet house full of closed doors and strange winds howling across the Yorkshire moor. As she settles into her lonely new surroundings, she begins to uncover the first clues of a decades-old mystery hidden right beneath her feet.

• The Author’s Story: Frances Hodgson Burnett spent her early childhood in a wealthy home in England, but when her father died, her family lost everything and had to move to a tiny home next to a smoky factory. To escape the bleak reality around her, young Frances would slip away into an old, overgrown backyard garden to make up comforting stories. That childhood sanctuary is the exact memory she drew upon decades later to create Mary's journey to Misselthwaite Manor.

⏱️ Episode Timestamps:
• 00:15 – Intro Music & Relaxation
• 02:18 – Story Begins

Transcript

Intro and Relaxation

SPEAKER_00 0:09

Good evening. This is Kathleen with chapter and pillow where stories drift into sleep. I'm so glad you've joined me here this evening. Tonight we return to chapters three and four of the secret garden. But before we begin, tuck yourself in and prepare to leave your day behind. Adjust your pillows, pull up the blankets, and get cozy. Close your eyes and allow your shoulders to soften. Relax the tension you may feel in your eyes and in your jaw. Relax your shoulders. Take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out slowly through your mouth. Let's do that one more time. One deep breath in and a slow breath out through your nose. This story is well suited for relaxation, and you don't need to focus on every word. Just listen to the sound of my voice and let your world fade away. If you fall asleep, that's okay. The story will be waiting right here for you next time. And now, chapter three of the secret garden.

Story Begins

SPEAKER_00 2:18

Across the moor. She slept a long time, and when she awakened, Mrs. Medlock had brought a lunch basket at one of the stations, and they had some chicken and cold beef and bread and butter, and some hot tea. The rain seemed to be streaming down more heavily than ever, and everybody in the station wore wet and glistening waterproofs. The guard lighted the lamps in the carriage, and misses Medlock cheered up very much over her tea and chicken and beef. She ate a great deal, and afterward fell asleep herself. And Mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet slip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage. Lulled by the spulled by the splashing of the rain against the windows. It was quite dark when she awakened again. The train had stopped at a station, and Mrs. Medlock was shaking her. You have had a sleep, she said. It's time to open your eyes. We're at Thwaite Station, and we've got a long drive before us. Mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while Mrs. Medlock collected her parcels. The little girl did not offer to help her, because in India native servants always picked up or carried things, and it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one. That other people should wait on one. The station was a small one, and nobody but themselves seemed to be getting out of the train. The station master spoke to Mrs. Medlock in a rough, good natured way, pronouncing his words in a queer, broad fashion, which Mary found out afterward was Yorkshire. I see the's gittin' I see the's gettin' back, he said, and the s brout and thus brought thou youngin' with thee and thes brought the youngin' with ye that's her, answered Mrs. Medlock, speaking with a Yorkshire accent herself, and jerking her head over her shoulder toward Mary. How's thy missus? Aye that's her, answered Mrs. Medlock, speaking with a Yorkshire accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward Mary. How's thy missus? Well a now the carriage is waiting outside for thee. A broom stood in the road before the little outside platform. Mary saw that it was a smart carriage, and that it was a smart footman who helped her in. His long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of his hat were shining and dripping with rain, as everything was. The Burley stationmaster included. When he shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they drove off. The little girl found herself seated in a comfortably cushioned corner, but she was not inclined to go to sleep again. She sat and looked out of the window, curious to see something of the road over which she was being driven to the queer place Mrs. Medlock had spoken of had spoken of. She was not at all a timid child, and she was not exactly frightened, but she felt there was no knowing what might happen in a house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up, a house standing on the edge of a moor. What is a moor? she said suddenly to Mrs. Medlock. Look out of the window in about ten minutes and you'll see, the woman answered. We've got to drive five miles across Missile Moor before we get to the manor. You won't see much because it's a dark night, but you can see something. Mary asked no more questions, but waited in the darkness of her corner, keeping her eyes on the window. The carriage lamps cast rays of light a little distance ahead of them, and she caught glimpses of the things they passed. After they had left the station, they had driven through a tiny village, and she had seen whitewashed cottages and the lights of a public house. Then they had passed a church and a vicarage and a little shop window or so in a cottage, with toys and sweets and odd things set out for sale. Then they were on the high road, and she saw hedges and trees. After that, there seemed nothing different for a long time, or at least it seemed a long time to her. At last the horses began to go more slowly, as if they were climbing uphill, and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more trees. She could see nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either side. She leaned forward and pressed her face against the window just as the carriage gave a big jolt. Uh, we're on the mo Eh, we're on the moor now, sure enough, said Mrs. Medlock. The carriage lamp shed a yellow light on a rough looking road which seemed to be cut through bushes and low-growing things, which ended in the great expanse of a dark of dark apparently spread out before and around them. A wind was rising and making a singular wild, low rushing sound. It's it's not the sea, is it? said Mary, looking round at her companion. No, not it, answered Mrs. Medlock. Nor it isn't fields nor mountains. It's just miles and miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on, but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on but wild ponies and sheep. I feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it, said Mary. It sounds like the sea just now. That's the wind blowing through the bushes, Mrs. Medlock said. It's a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there's plenty that likes it, particularly when the heather's in bloom. On and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped, the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds. The road went up and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise. Mary felt as if the drive would never come to an end, and that the wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was passing on a strip of dry land. I don't like it, she said to herself. I don't like it, and she pinched her thin lips more tightly together. The horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught sight of a light. Mrs. Medlock saw it as soon as she did, and drew a long sigh of relief. Eh, I'm glad to see that bit of light twinkling, she exclaimed. We shall get a good cup of tea after a bit at all events. It was after a bit, as she said, for when the carriage passed through the park gates, there were still two miles of avenue to drive through, and the trees which nearly met overhead made it seem as if they were driving through a long dark vault. They drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an immensely long but low-built house which seemed to ramble round the stone court. At first, Mary thought that there were no lights at all in the windows, but as she got out of the carriage, she saw that one room in a corner upstairs showed she saw that one room in a corner upstairs showed a dull glow. The entrance door was a huge one, made of massive, curiously shaped panels of oak, studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars. It opened into an enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that the faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of armor made by Mary made Mary feel that she did not want to look at them. As she stood on the stone floor, she looked very small. As she stood on the stone floor, she looked a very small, odd little black figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked. A neat, thin old man stood near the man servant who opened the door for them. You are to take her to her room, he said in a husky voice. He doesn't want to see her. He's going to London in the morning. Very well, Mr. Pitcher, Mrs. Medlock answered. So long as I know what's expected of me, I can manage. What's expected of you, Mrs. Medlock? Mr. Pitcher said. Mr. Pitcher said, is that you make sure that he's not disturbed, and that he doesn't see what he doesn't want to see. And then Mary Lennox was led up a broad staircase, and down a long corridor, and up a short flight of steps, and through another corridor, and another, until a door opened in a wall, and she found herself in a room with a fire in it, and a supper on the table. Mrs. Medlock said unceremoniously, Well, here you are. This room and the next are where you'll live, and you must keep to them. Don't you forget that? It was in this way Mistress Mary arrived at Misslethwaite Manor, and she had perhaps never felt so contrary in all her life. Chapter four 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 hearthrug, 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 a 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. That 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 thou art not used to it, Martha said, going back to her hearth. The thinks it's too big and bare now, but the 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. I just love it. It's none bare. It's covered with growing things and smells sweet. It's fair lovely in spring, and summer when the gores and broom and the heathers in flower. It smells o' 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, hummin' and singin'. Eh, I wouldn't live away from the moor for anything. Mary listened to her with a graze. 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 their masters as if they were their equals. They made salaams 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 her pillows rather haughtily. Martha sat up on her heels with her blacking brush in her hand and laughed. Without seeming the least out of temper. Eh, I know that, she said. If there was a grand missus at Mistlethwaite, I should never have been even uh Eh, I know that, she said. If there was a grand misses at Mistlethwaite, I should never have been even one of the underhousemaids. I might have been let to be the schoolery maid, but I'd never been let upstairs. But I'd never have been let upstairs. I'm too common and I talk too much Yorkshire. But this is a funny house for all it's so grand. Seems like there's neither a master nor mistress, except Mr. Pitcher and Mrs. Medlock. Mr. Craven, he won't be troubled about anything when he's here, and he's nearly always away. Mrs. Medlock gave me the place out of kindness. She told me she could never have done it if Mistlethwaite had been like other big houses. Are you going to be my servant? Mary asked, still and in her Ah, come on. Are you going to be my servant? Mary asked, still in her imperious little Indian way. Martha began to rub her greet again. I'm Mrs. Medlock's servant, she said stoutly. And she's Mr. Cravin's. But I'm to do the housemaid's work up here and wait on you a bit. But you won't need much waiting on. Who is gonna dress me? demanded Mary. Martha sat up on her heels again and stared. She spoke in Broad Yorkshire in her amazement. Ken of that dress they send, she said. What do you mean? I don't understand your language, said Mary. Eh, I forgot, Martha said. Mrs. Medlock told me I'd have to be careful, or you wouldn't 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 the should learn. The cannot begin younger. It'll do thee good to wait on thys in a bit. My mother's 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 was puppies. It is different in India, said Mistress Mary disdainfully. She could scarcely stand this. But Martha was not at all crushed. Eh, I can see it's 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 furiously. What? she said. What? You thought I was a native? You? You daughter of a pig? Martha stared and looked hot. Who are you calling names? she said. You needn't be so vexed. That's not the way for a young lady to talk. I've nothing against the blacks. When you read about them in tracks, they're always very religious. You always read as a black's a man and a brother. I've never seen a black, and I was fair pleased to think I was gonna see one close. When I come 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 was, disappointedly. No more black than me. For all you're so yeller. 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 whom a 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 understood and which understood her that 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. Eh, you mustn't cry like that there, she begged. You mustn't for sure. I didn't know you'd be so vexed. I didn'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 thee to get up now, she said. Mrs. 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 thee. I'll help thee get on with thy clothes if thou get out of bed. If the buttons are at the back, thou cannot button them up thyself. When Mary at least decided to get up, the clothes Martha took from the wardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night before with Mrs. Medlock. Those are not mine, she said. Mine are black. She looked at the thick white wool coat and dressover and added with cool approval, Those are nicer than mine. Those are the ones that must put on, Martha answered. Mr. Craven ordered Mrs. Medlock to get him in London. He said, I won't have a child dressed in black wandering about like a lost soul, he said. It'll make the place sadder than it is. Put color on her. Mother said she knew what he meant. Mother always knows what a body means. She doesn't hold 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 the 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 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 her life at Missile Poite 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 up things and lay them away. She was, however, only an untrained Yorkshire rustic, who had been brought up in a moorland 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 just 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 wondered at her freedom of manner. At first she was not at all interested, but gradually, as the girl rattled on in her good-tempered, homely way, Mary began to notice what she was saying. Eh, you should see 'em all, she said. There's twelve of us, and my father only gets sixteen shillings a week. I can tell you my mother's put to it to get porridge for 'em all. They tumble about on the moor and play there, and and mother says the air of the moor fattens em. She says she believes they eat the grass same as the wild ponies do. Our Dicken, 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 about and it lets him get on its back. Dickens' a kind lad, and animals likes him. Mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own, and had always thought she should 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 a 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. The doesn't want thy porridge, Martha exclaimed incredulously. No. The doesn't know how good it is. Put a bit of tread 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've no patience for folk as sits and just stares at good bread and meat. My word, don't I wish Dickin' and Phil and Jane and the rest of them had what's here under their pinaphores. 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 wrap up warm and run out and play, you, said Martha. It'll do you good and give you some stomach for your meat. Mary went to the window. There were gardens and paths and big trees, but everything looked dull and wintry. Out. Why should I go out on a day like this? Well, if the dozen go out, thou'll have to stay in, and what is the got to do? Mary glanced about her. There was nothing to do. When Mrs. Medlock had prepared the nursery, she had not thought of amusement. Perhaps it would be better to go out 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 when they haven't got sisters and brothers. Our Dicken 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 knows him, and birds as come and eats out of his hand. However little there is to eat, he always saves a bit of his bread to coax his pets. It was really this mention of Dickin 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 the goes round that way, thou'll come to the gardens, she said, pointing to a gate and a wall of shrubbery. There's lots of flowers in summertime, but there's nothing bloomin' now. She seemed to hesitate a second before she added, One of the gardens is locked up. No one has been in it for 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. There's Mrs. Medlock's bell ringing. I must run. After she was gone, Mary turned down the walk which led to the door in the shrubbery. She could not help thinking about the garden which no one had been in 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 midst. 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 out 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 it, and that it was only one of several walled gardens which seemed to 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 was nothing pretty about it now, and we're going to be able to do that.