"Thank you," said Janet. "I know quite well what you mean, Biddy. I know I'm not young for my age. I needn't pretend when I am with you, Biddy," she continued, speaking with a sudden emphasis; "you wouldn't be young, either, if you had always had to lead my life. I have had to do for myself, and for Sophy, too, since I was ever so little. I have had to plot, and to plan, and contrive. I never had an easy life. Perhaps, if I had had the same chances as other girls, I might have been different."
"I wish you would always talk like that," said Bridget, an expression of real friendliness coming into her face. "If you would always talk as you are doing now—I mean in that true tone—I—I could bear you, Janet."
"Oh, I know what your feelings are well enough," said Janet. "I am not so blind as you imagine. I know you hate having me here, and that if it wasn't for—for something that happened at school you wouldn't tolerate my presence for an hour. But you see something did happen at school; something that you don't want to be known; and you have got to tolerate me; do you hear?"
"You're mistaken in supposing that I would be rude to you now you have come," said Bridget. "I don't think I should have invited you; I didn't invite you. My aunt didn't even tell me that she had done so. She thought we were friends, and that she was giving me a nice surprise when she told me that you were coming."
"I took care that you didn't know," said Janet in a low tone, and with a short little laugh. "You don't suppose Lady Kathleen would have thought of the nice little surprise by herself? It was I who managed everything; the surprise, and the gay jolly time we are to spend at the Castle, and all."
"You are clever," said Bridget, "but I don't think I envy you your kind of cleverness. All the same, now that you are here you are my visitor, and I shall do what I can to give you a good time."
"Thanks," said Janet, "I dare say I can manage that for myself. By the way, did you notice that a letter has come from Eastcliff?"
"From Mrs. Freeman; yes, what of that?"
"There is no good in your saying 'What of that?' so calmly with your lips, Bridget, when your heart is full of the most abject terror. Didn't I see how your face changed color this morning when you saw the letter, and didn't I notice you when you whispered something to your father? You are very, very sorry that letter has come. It would be very terrible to you—very terrible for you, if its contents were known."
Sophy was still flitting on in front. The sunshine was bathing the sloping lawns, and the dark forest trees, and the smooth bosom of Lake Crena. It seemed to Bridget for the first time in her young life that sunshine, even when it fell upon Irish land, was a mockery and a delusion.