Mary said nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked rather discomfited by
her apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on.
Not but that it s a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven s
proud of it in his way and that s gloomy enough, too. The house is six
hundred years old and it s on the edge of the moor, and there s near a
hundred rooms in it, though most of them s shut up and locked. And
there s pictures and fine old furniture and things that s been there
for ages, and there s a big park round it and gardens and trees with
branches trailing to the ground some of them. She paused and took
another breath. But there s nothing else, she ended suddenly.
Mary had begun to listen in spite of herself. It all sounded so unlike
India, and anything new rather attracted her. But she did not intend to
look as if she were interested. That was one of her unhappy,
disagreeable ways. So she sat still.
Well, said Mrs. Medlock. What do you think of it?
Nothing, she answered. I know nothing about such places.
That made Mrs. Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh.
Eh! she said, but you are like an old woman. Don t you care?
It doesn t matter said Mary, whether I care or not.
You are right enough there, said Mrs. Medlock. It doesn t. What
you re to be kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I don t know, unless
because it s the easiest way. _He s_ not going to trouble himself about
you, that s sure and certain. He never troubles himself about no one.
She stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time.
He s got a crooked back, she said. That set him wrong. He was a sour
young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was
married.
Mary s eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to
12