CAPTIVITY.
There are times in life when all one's preconceived ideas are
completely upset and altered. We looked at the world from a certain
point of view. From that special angle of our own it showed in gold
and rose color and blue. A day came when we were forced to change our
vantage ground, and on that day we for the first time perceived the
grays and the blacks of that same old world--it ceased to smile on us,
it ceased to pet us--it ceased to say to us, "I was made to render
your life beautiful, I was made to minister to every selfish desire of
yours; I am your slave, you are my mistress; do with me what you will."
On this particular day the world ceases to speak in those gentle and
submissive tones. With all its grays and its blacks turned full in
view, it says: "You are only an atom; there are millions of other human
beings to share my good things as well as my evil. After all, I am not
your slave, but your mistress; I have made laws, and you have got to
obey them. Up to the present I have treated you as a baby, but now I am
going to show you what life really means."
It was in some such fashion that the world spoke to Bridget O'Hara on
this special summer's morning.
Mrs. Freeman took her unwilling hand, led her into Miss Patience's dull
little sitting room, which only looked out upon the back yard, and,
shutting the door behind her, left her to her own meditations.
"You remain here, Bridget," she repeated, "until you have promised to
obey the rules of the school. No longer and no shorter will be your
term of punishment. It remains altogether with yourself how soon you
are liberated."
The door was closed then, and Bridget O'Hara found herself alone.
The summer sounds came in to her, for the window of her dull room was
open, the birds were twittering in the trees, innumerable doves were
cooing; there was the gentle, soft whisper of the breeze, the cackling
of motherly hens, the lowing of cows, and, far away beyond and over
them, the insistent, ceaseless whisper of the gentle waves on the shore.
Bridget stood by the window, but she heard none of these soothing
sounds. Her spoilt, childish heart was in the most open state of
rebellion and revolt.
She was in every sense of the word an untamed creature; she was like a
wild bird who had just been caught and put into a cage.
By and by doubtless the poor bird would be taught to develop his
notes into something richer and rarer than nature had made them, but
the process would be painful. Bridget was like the bird, and she was
beating her poor little wings now against her cage.
Her first impulse was to open the door of her prison and go boldly out.
She had not passed a pleasant morning, however, and this plan scarcely
commended itself to her.
For some reason her companions, both old and young in the school, had
taken upon themselves to cut her.
In all her life Bridget had never been cut before.
At the dear old wild Castle in Ireland she had been idolized by
everyone, the servants had done her bidding, however extravagant and
fanciful that bidding had been. She led her old father where she wished
with silken reins. The dogs, the horses, even the cows and the calves,
followed Bridget like so many faithful shadows. In short, this wild
little girl was the beloved queen of the Castle. To cut her, or show
her the smallest incivility, would have been nothing short of high
treason.
This morning Bridget had been practically "sent to Coventry." Even
Dorothy was cold in her manner to her. The small children who had hung
upon her words and followed her with delight the evening before, were
now too frightened at the consequences of their own daring to come
near her. Janet, Ruth, and Olive had shown their disapproval by marked
avoidance and covert sneers. Bridget had done a very naughty act, and
the school thought it well to show its displeasure.
There was little use, therefore, in rushing out of her prison to join
her companions in their playground or on the shore.
Should she run away altogether? Should she walk to Eastcliff and take
the next train to London, and then, trusting to chance, and to the
kindness of strangers, endeavor to find her way back to the dear and
loving shores of the old country, and so back again to the beloved home?
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she thought of this plan; but, in the
first place, she had no idea how to manage it, and, what was a far more
serious obstacle, her little sealskin purse, her father's last present,
was empty.
Bridget could certainly not return home without money.
She sat down presently on the nearest chair and covered her face with
her hands. She could only resolve on one thing--she would certainly not
yield to Mrs. Freeman's request--nothing would induce her to promise to
obey the rules of the school.
A story book, belonging to the school library, happened to be lying
on a chair close to her own. She took it up, opened it, and began to
read. The tale was sufficiently interesting to cause her to forget her
troubles.
She had read for nearly an hour when the door of the room opened, and
Miss Patience came in. Miss Patience was an excellent woman, but she
took severe views of life; she emphatically believed in the young
being trained; she thought well of punishments, and pined for the
good old days when children were taught to make way for their elders,
and not--as in the present degenerate times--to expect their elders
to make way for them. Miss Patience just nodded toward Bridget, and,
sitting beside a high desk, took out an account book and opened it.
Miss O'Hara felt more uncomfortable than ever when Miss Patience came
into the room; her book ceased to entertain her, and the walls of her
prison seemed to get narrower. She fidgeted on her chair, and jumped up
several times to look out of the window. There was nothing of the least
interest, however, going on in the yard at that moment. Presently she
beat an impatient tattoo on the glass with her fingers.
"Don't do that, Bridget," said Miss Patience; "you are disturbing me."
Bridget dropped back into her seat with a profound sigh. Presently
the dinner gong sounded, and Miss Patience put away her papers and
accounts, and shutting up her desk, prepared to leave the room. Bridget
got up too. "I am glad that is dinner," she said; "I'm awfully hungry.
May I go up to my room to tidy myself, Miss Patience?"
"No, Bridget, you are to stay here; your dinner will be brought to
you." Bridget flushed crimson.
"I won't eat any dinner in this horrid room," she said; "I think I have
been treated shamefully. If my dinner is sent to me I won't eat it."
"You can please yourself about that," said Miss Patience, in her
calmest voice. She left the room, closing the door behind her.
Bridget felt a wild desire to rush after Miss Patience, and defying all
punishment and all commands, appear as usual in the dining room.
Something, however, she could not tell what, restrained her from doing
this. She sank back again in her chair; angry tears rose to her bright
eyes, and burning spots appeared in her round cheeks.
The door was opened, and a neatly dressed servant of the name of
Marshall entered, bearing a dinner tray.
She was a tall, slight girl, fairly good-looking, and not too
strong-minded.
"Here, Miss O'Hara," she said good-naturedly, "here's a lovely slice of
lamb; and I saved some peas for you. Them young ladies always do make
a rush on the peas, but I secured some in time. I'll bring you some
cherry tart presently, miss, and some whipped cream. You eat a good
dinner, miss, and forget your troubles; oh, dear! I don't like to see
young ladies in punishment--and that I don't!"
While Marshall was speaking she looked down at the pretty and
rebellious young prisoner with marked interest.
"I'd make it up if I was you, miss," she said.
Marshall, with all her silliness, was a shrewd observer of character.
Had the girl in disgrace been Janet May or Dorothy Collingwood, she
would have known far better than to presume to address her; but Bridget
was on very familiar terms with her old nurse and with many of the
other servants at home, and it seemed quite reasonable to her that
Marshall should speak sympathetic words.
"I can't eat, Marshall," she said. "I'm treated shamefully, and the
very nicest dinner wouldn't tempt me. You can take it away, for I can't
possibly touch a morsel. Oh, dear! oh, dear! how I do wish I were at
home again! What a horrid, horrid sort of place school is!"
"Poor young lady!" said Marshall. "Anyone can see, Miss O'Hara, as
you aint accustomed to mean ways; you has your spirit, and I doubt me
if anyone can break it. You aint the sort for school--ef I may make
bold to say as much, you aint never been brought under. That's the
first thing they does at school; under you must go, whether you likes
it or not. Oh, dear, there's that bell, and it's for me--I must fly,
miss--but I do, humble as I am, sympathize with you most sincere. You
try and eat a bit of dinner, miss, do now--and I'll see if I can't get
some asparagus for you by and by, and, at any rate, you shall have the
tart and the whipped cream."
"I can't eat anything, Marshall," said Bridget, shaking her head. "You
are kind; I see by your face that you are very kind. When I'm let
out of this horrid prison I'll give you some blue ribbon that I have
upstairs, and a string of Venetian beads. I dare say you're fond of
finery."
"Oh, lor, miss, you're too good, but there's that bell again; I must
run this minute."
Marshall departed, and Bridget lifted the cover from her plate and
looked at the nice hot lamb and green peas.
Notwithstanding her vehement words, some decided pangs of hunger seized
her as she saw the tempting food, She remembered, however, that in
the old novels heroines in distress had never any appetite, and she
resolved to die rather than touch food while she was treated in so
disgraceful a manner.
She leant back, therefore, in her chair and reflected with a sad sort
of pleasure on the sorrow which her father would feel when he learnt
that she had almost died of hunger and exhaustion at this cruel school.
"He'll be sorry he sent me; he'll be sorry he listened to Aunt
Kathleen," she said to herself.
A flash of self-pity filled her eyes, but there was some consolation in
reflecting on the fact that no one could force her to eat against her
will.
Marshall reappeared with the asparagus and cherry tart.
She gave Bridget a great deal of sympathy, adjured her to eat, shook
her head over her, and having gained a promise that a pair of long
suède gloves should be added to the ribbons and Venetian beads, went
away, having quite made up her mind to take Bridget's part through
thick and thin.
"It's most mournful to see her, poor dear!" she muttered. "She's fat
and strong and hearty, but I know by the shape of her mouth that she's
that obstinate she won't touch any food, and she won't give in to obey
Mrs. Freeman, not if it's ever so. I do pity her, poor dear, and it
aint only for the sake of the things she gives me. Now let me see,
aint there anyone I can speak to about her? Oh, there's Miss Dorothy
Collingwood, she aint quite so 'aughty as the other young ladies; I
think I will try her, and see ef she couldn't bring the poor dear to
see reason."
The girls were leaving the dining room while these thoughts were
flashing through Marshall's mind. Dorothy and Janet May were walking
side by side.
"Miss Collingwood," said Marshall, in a timid whisper, "might I say a
word to you, miss?"
"Yes, Marshall," said Dorothy; she stopped. Janet stopped also, and
gave Marshall a freezing glance.
"We haven't a moment to lose, Dorothy," she said, "I want to speak to
you alone before the rest of the committee arrive. That point with
regard to Evelyn Percival must be settled. Perhaps your communication
can keep, Marshall."
"No, miss, that it can't," said Marshall, who felt as she expressed it
afterward, "that royled by Miss May's 'aughty ways." "I won't keep Miss
Collingwood any time, miss, ef you'll be pleased to walk on."
Janet was forced to comply, and Dorothy exclaimed eagerly:
"Now, Marshall, what is it? How fussy and important you look!"
"Oh, miss, it's that poor dear young lady."
"What poor dear young lady?"
"Miss Bridget O'Hara. She aint understood, and she's in punishment,
pore dear; shut up in Miss Patience's dull parlor. Mrs. Freeman don't
understand her. She aint the sort to be broke in, and if Mrs. Freeman
thinks she'll do it, she's fine and mistook. The pore dear is that
spirited she'd die afore she'd own herself wrong. Do you think, Miss
Collingwood, as she'd touch a morsel of her dinner? No, that she
wouldn't! Bite nor sup wouldn't pass her lips, although I tempted her
with a lamb chop and them beautiful marrow peas, and asparagus and
whipped cream and cherry tart. You can judge for yourself, miss, that
a healthy young lady with a good, fine appetite must be bad when she
refuses food of that sort!"
"I'm very sorry, Marshall," said Dorothy, "but Miss O'Hara has really
been very naughty. You have heard, of course, of the carriage accident,
and how nearly Miss Percival was hurt. It's kind of you to plead for
Miss O'Hara, but she really does deserve rather severe punishment, and
Mrs. Freeman is most kind, as well as just. I don't really see how I
can interfere."
"Are you coming, Dorothy?" called Janet May from the end of the passage.
"Yes, in one minute, Janet! I don't know what I'm to do, Marshall,"
continued Dorothy. "I should not venture to speak to Mrs. Freeman on
the subject; she would be very, very angry."
"I don't mean that, miss; I mean that perhaps you'd talk to Miss
Bridget, and persuade her to do whatever Mrs. Freeman says is right. I
don't know what that is, of course, but you has a very kind way, Miss
Dorothy, and ef you would speak to Miss O'Hara, maybe she'd listen to
you."
"Well, Marshall, I'll see what I can do. I must join Miss May now, for
we have something important to decide, but I won't forget your words."
Marshall had to be comforted with this rather dubious speech, and
Dorothy ran on to join Janet.
"Well," said Janet, "what did that impertinent servant want? I hope you
showed her her place, Dorothy? The idea of her presuming to stop us
when we were so busy!"
"She's not at all impertinent," said Dorothy. "After all, Janet,
servants are flesh and blood, like the rest of us, and this poor
Marshall, although she's not the wisest of the wise, is a good-natured
creature. What do you think she wanted?"
"How can I possibly guess?"
"She was interceding for Bridget," said Dorothy.
"Bridget O'Hara!" exclaimed Janet, "that incorrigible, unpleasant girl?
Why _did_ you waste your time listening to her?"
"I could not help myself," replied Dorothy. "You know, of course,
Janet, what Bridget did last night?"
"Yes, yes, I know," replied Janet, with a sneer; "she did something
which shook the nerves of our beloved favorite. Had anyone else given
Miss Percival her little fright, I could have forgiven her!"
"Janet, I wish you would not speak in that bitter way."
"I can't help it, my dear; I'm honest, whatever I am."
"But why will you dislike our dear Evelyn?"
"We won't discuss the whys nor the wherefores; the fact remains that I
do dislike her."
"And you also dislike poor Bridget? I can't imagine why you take such
strong prejudices."
"As to disliking Miss O'Hara, it's more a case of despising; she's
beneath my dislike."
"Well, she's in trouble now," said Dorothy, with a sigh. "I think you
are very much mistaken in her, Janet; she's a very original, clever,
amusing girl. I find her tiresome at times, and I admit that she's
dreadfully naughty, but it's the sort of naughtiness which comes from
simply not knowing. The accident last night might have been a dreadful
one, and Bridget certainly deserves the punishment she has got; all the
same;--I'm very sorry for her."
"I can't share your sorrow," replied Janet. "If her punishment,
whatever it is, deprives us of her charming society for a few days, it
will be a boon to the entire school. I noticed that she was absent from
dinner, and I will own I have not had a pleasanter meal for some time."
"Well, Marshall is unhappy about her," replied Dorothy. "She said that
Bridget would not touch her dinner. I don't exactly know what Mrs.
Freeman means to do about her, but the poor girl is a prisoner in Miss
Patience's dull little sitting room for the present."
"Hurrah! Hurrah! Long may she stay there! Now, do let us drop this
tiresome subject. We have only ten minutes to ourselves before the rest
of the committee arrive, and that point with regard to Evelyn Percival
must be arranged. Come, Dorothy, let us race each other to the Lookout!"