Part 9 (1/2)
But the ceremony once over, and lessons begun, Miss Tasker had no cause for complaint, for Bridget was a ready and ambitious pupil. She had a good memory, and being an imaginative child, it was a special pleasure to her to learn poetry, in repeating which she would quite forget herself and her awkwardness and pour forth page after page without a single mistake.
At such times, Miss Tasker's chill remarks of ”Your shoulders, Bridget”--”Don't poke, Bridget,” generally fell on unheeding ears, but there was one occasion on which Bridget did feel them to be especially trying and out of place.
She had been learning one of the ”Lays of Ancient Rome,” and was now repeating it all through. In proud consciousness of not having missed one word, and in full enjoyment of the swing of the poetry, she stood with her head thrust forward and her chin in the air:
”So he spake, and speaking sheathed His good sword by his side, And with his armour on his back Plunged headlong in the tide!
No sound of--”
”My _dear_ Bridget, draw in your chin,” said the cold voice, and poor Bridget, dropping suddenly down from the heights of heroic deeds to dreary commonplace, felt that this was hard indeed.
She had said it all without a mistake, and the only thing that seemed to matter was how her chin, or her shoulders, or her arms looked. It was unkind. It was unfair. It was too bad. She could not help being awkward, and as they worried her so about it, she should not try to be any different.
From this time forward she would be just herself--plain, awkward Bridget. So she resolved as she took the book back from Miss Tasker, and sat down sullenly in her place, and so she continued to resolve as several days went on. You know how, when one has once begun to be a little naughty, everything that happens seems to increase the feeling, and so it was with Bridget; everything Miss Tasker said, or did, or even looked after this, made her feel more and more ill-used and injured, till one unfortunate day brought matters to a climax.
If there was one day in the week that Bridget disliked more than another at this time it was Thursday, for Thursday was ”dancing-day.” It would be hard to give you an idea of how much misery that meant to her, or how fervently she used to pray for something to happen to prevent her going to the cla.s.s, which was held at a friend's house some miles away. A sprained ankle, or a slight earthquake, not bad enough to hurt anyone, were among her usual aspirations, but nothing of the kind ever occurred, and she was borne away with her brothers and sisters by the relentless Miss Tasker to the scene of torture; the suffering of martyrs, whom she had read about, were, in Bridget's opinion, not worthy of mention beside those to be endured at a dancing-cla.s.s.
Everything seemed to go wrong on this particular day, perhaps because she did not try to make them go right, and at last, after the whole cla.s.s had been practising a step together, the dancing-mistress said rather severely:
”I wish Miss Bridget Watson to do the minuet steps alone: all the others may sit down.”
With downcast eyes, and one shoulder pushed nervously up, Bridget stood alone in the middle of the room. She felt that thousands of eyes, like the little sharp p.r.i.c.ks of so many needles, were transfixing her luckless figure, for there were a good many lady visitors present besides the children.
”Now, if you please, Miss Watson. Straighten the shoulders. Take the dress gracefully between fingers and thumb. Raise the head. One--two-- three--begin!”
The music played. Bridget was intensely nervous, but through it all she felt a perverse pleasure in irritating Miss Tasker, so she performed some grotesquely uncouth steps which raised a smile on almost every face.
”Again, if you please.”
It was done again, and if possible worse than before.
”You may return to your seat.”
Which Bridget did with swift ungainly strides, feeling covered with disgrace, and as she pa.s.sed, an unfortunate whisper from one of the visitors reached her ear:
”What a windmill of a child to be sure!”
She plunged into her seat, her eyes wet with tears of mortification, but no one saw them except Bobbie, who sat next her. He did not understand the full extent of her distress, but he looked up in her face and put his small hand in hers. It was a sympathetic but sticky clasp, for Bobbie always carried sweets in his pockets for solace at odd moments, yet it comforted Bridget a little, and she gave it a silent squeeze in return.
But, hurt and sore and angry as she felt, the cup was not quite full until that evening, when Mrs Watson came into the school-room while the children were having tea. After her usual little chat with them she said just before going away:
”I am sorry to hear from Miss Tasker that Bridget does not seem to think it worth while to take pains with her dancing, though she knows how anxious I am about it.”
She looked at Bridget, who blushed hotly, but made no answer; and, indeed, she could not, for she felt as though Bobbie's largest ball were sticking in her throat.
”I know,” continued her mother, ”that you cannot all do the same things equally well, but you can at least try to do your best, however much you may dislike any particular lesson. I should be more pleased to know that Bridget tried to hold herself upright and took pains with her dancing, than to hear that she had said all her lessons quite perfectly, because I know one is a difficulty to her and the other none.”
Mother looked very grave, and she so seldom reproved any of the children, that they felt this to be a solemn occasion, and their little serious faces were all turned upon Bridget.
She could not bear it. As her mother left the room she started up abruptly, upsetting her cup and saucer, and, heedless of Miss Tasker's warning voice, rushed out into the garden blinded with her tears.