"Do you positively mean to do this cruel thing?" she repeated.
"Cruel?" said Bridget, stamping her foot; "it's the only bit of justice left; it's the one last chance of our ever retrieving our position. Oh, do come with me at once; there's just time for us to see Mrs. Freeman before tea."
"You can go, Bridget," said Janet. "If you are determined to go I cannot prevent you. You can make all this terrible mischief if you like; but you must do it alone, for I shall not be with you. The effect of your confession will be this: you will suffer some sort of punishment, and by and by you will be forgiven; and by and by, too, you will forget what you now consider such an awful tragedy; but what you are now doing will ruin me for all my life. I am only sixteen—but no matter. However long I live I shall never be able to get over this step that you are taking. If you go—as you say you will—to Mrs. Freeman, there is only one thing for me to do, and that is to run away from school. I won't remain here to be expelled; for expelled I shall be if you tell what you say you will of me. They'll make out that I am worse than you, and they'll expel me. You don't know the effect that such a disgrace will have on my future. I am not rich like you; I have no father to break his heart about me. The only relations I have left in the world are an old aunt, who is very stingy and very hard-hearted, and who would never forgive me if I did the smallest thing to incur her displeasure; and one sister, who is three years older than myself, and who is very pretty and very silly, and who has written to me to say she has lost her situation as companion. If you do what you are going to do, Bridget, I shall walk back to Eastcliff, and take the next train to Bristol, where Aunt Jane lives. You will ruin me, of course; but I don't suppose that fact will influence your decision. I did what I did for you out of a spirit of pure kindliness; but that, too, will be forgotten, now that your conscience has awakened. I am just waiting for you to choose what you will really do, Bridget, before I run away."
When Janet finished speaking she moved a few steps from her companion. She saw that her words had taken effect, for Biddy's determined expression had changed to one of indecision and fresh misery; her troubled eyes sought the ground, her red lips trembled.
"I see you have made up your mind," said Janet. (She saw quite the reverse, but she thought these words a politic stroke.) "I see you have quite made up your mind," she continued; "so there is nothing for me to do but to go. Good-by! I only wish I had never been so unlucky as to know you."
Janet turned on her heel, and began to walk down the avenue.
"You know you can't go like this," Bridget called after her. "Stop! Listen to me! You know perfectly well that, bad as you are, I don't want to ruin you. I'll go by myself, then, and say nothing about you. Will that content you?"
"I see you are going to be reasonable," said Janet, returning, and taking her companion's arm. "Now we can talk the matter out. Come down this shady walk, where no one will see us. Of course, the whole thing is most disagreeable and unpleasant, but surely two wise heads like ours can see a way even out of this difficulty."
"But there is no way, Janet, except by just confessing that we have behaved very badly. Come along, and let us do it at once. I don't believe you'll get into the awful scrape you make out. I won't let you! I'll take your part, and be your friend. You shall come to Ireland with Aunt Kathleen and me, and father will be ever so kind to you, and perhaps—I'm not sure—but perhaps I'll be able to give you one of the dogs."