2 On the Moors

CHAPTER 2 On the Moors The soldiers took Mary to the home of the Reverend Crawford, a poor English minister. He told her that she would soon be sailing to London and would live with her guardian, Mr. Archibald Craven, at Misselthwaite Manor in Yorkshire. So Mary left India and sailed on the long ocean voyage to England. In London, she was handed over to Mr. Craven's housekeeper, Mrs. Medlock, a stout woman with sharp

black eyes and a black cape. Mary didn't like her, but then again, she hardly liked anyone. The next day, they began their railway journey to Misselthwaite Manor. Mary sat with her hands folded in her lap and stared out the window. She pretended not to care as Mrs. Medlock told her about her new home. "It's a grand place, in a gloomy way," the housekeeper said. "Six hundred years old, with nearly a hundred rooms full of fine paintings and furniture. But most of them are locked up. The manor's on the edge of the moor. It has a big park with gardens and trees. Do you know anything about your uncle?" "No," Mary said, acting bored. "But don't you care? Didn't your parents ever tell you?" Mrs. Medlock asked. "Why should it matter?" Mary replied. "Well, I suppose it doesn't," Mrs. Medlock

said. "He's not going to bother about you. He never troubles himself about anyone..." She trailed off. A few moments later, she continued. "Mr. Craven's got a crooked back. He was never happy till he married. His wife, your aunt, was a sweet, pretty thing, and he'd have walked the world over to get her a blade of grass if she'd asked. Some people said she married him for his money, but she didn't. When she died, he became stranger than ever— won't see people. Most times, he's away. When he's at home, he shuts himself up in the west wing. Don't expect to see him," Mrs. Medlock warned. "And don't expect people to talk to you. You'll look after yourself. You'll be told which rooms you can gointo. You can play in the garden, but don't go poking about the house—Mr. Craven won't have it." "I won't," Mary said tartly. She turned again to look out the window.

Her eyelids grew heavy looking at the gray, rainy drizzle, and she fell asleep. A few hours later, Mrs. Medlock shook Mary. "Wake up!" she said. "We're at Thwaite Station. Now we have a long drive across Missel Moor." Mary stood and tried to keep her eyes open. She followed Mrs. Medlock from the train onto the railway platform. A large carriage awaited them. A footman in a long raincoat helped Mary and Mrs. Medlock inside. Then he climbed up to his seat beside the carriage driver, and they were off. In the light of the carriage's lamps, Mary caught glimpses of the tiny village of Thwaite —whitewashed houses, a church, and a few shops. After that, she saw only trees and hedges beside the road. Then there was nothing but blackness out the carriage

windows on both sides. Suddenly she felt a sharp jolt. "We're on the moor now!" Mrs. Medlock exclaimed. The yellow light of the carriage lamps revealed some bushes and low-growing things along the road. In the darkness, the wind made an eerie, low, rushing sound. "Is it the sea?" Mary asked. "No, not the sea, or fields, or mountains," answered Mrs. Medlock mysteriously. "The moor is just miles and miles of wasteland, and no one lives on it except wild ponies and sheep." Mrs. Medlock paused. "I think it's a dreary place, but some people like it in springtime." The carriage rattled over bridges and bumps. Mary could hear water rushing very fast under them. She felt like they were driving over a windy black ocean.

"I don't like the moor," she thought. "I don't like it at all!" At last the carriage stopped in a clearing in front of a very long house built around a courtyard. A single light glowed from an upstairs window. Mary followed Mrs. Medlock to a huge oak door that opened into an enormous hall with a stone floor. In the dim light, Mary could make out portraits on the walls and figures in suits of armor. She felt very small and lost in the shadowy hall.