"What have I done?" she murmured. "How can I allow myself to get into that horrid girl's power? Oh, surely it would be much, much better to tell my father everything."
She leaned out of the open window, and looked down on the terrace. Her father was lounging on one of the rustic benches. He was smoking a pipe, and Bruin was lying at his feet. Looking at him from her window, Bridget fancied that his old figure looked tired, more bent than usual, more aged than she had ever before noticed it.
"I can't, I won't give him pain!" murmured the girl fiercely. "I'd rather be under the power of twenty people like Janet than break his heart. But, O Biddy, Biddy O'Hara, what a wicked, senseless girl you have been!"
"Is that you, acushla?" called the squire up to her. "Come right downstairs this minute, and let me hear all your fine plans for Norah's and Pat's wedding. What a colleen you are for planning and contriving! But come away down at once, and let me hear what's at the back of your head."
"Yes, father, in a minute!"
Bridget rushed over to her glass. She looked anxiously at her fair, bright face; it reflected back little or nothing of the loathing with which she regarded herself.
"Oh, what a living lie you are!" she said, clenching her fist at it. "Oh, if father but knew what a base daughter he has got! But he mustn't know. He must never, never know!"
She ran down and joined her father on the terrace.
He put his arm round her, made room for her to seat herself by his side, and the two began eagerly to talk and to make arrangements for the coming wedding.
"But you're out of spirits, my darling," said Dennis O'Hara suddenly. "Oh, you needn't try to hide it from me, Biddy. Your heart and soul aren't in your words; I can tell that in the wink of an eye. What's up with you, mavourneen?"