"But how are we to get away?" said Sophy. "We can't walk to the station; it is twenty miles off."
"I know that, but I have arranged everything. Mike Doolan will have the jaunting car at the top of the back avenue in fifteen minutes from now. I only want to pack and lock our boxes; they must follow us by and by. Now, don't waste another moment talking."
Janet's words were so strong, her gestures so imperious, that Sophy found herself forced to do exactly what she was told. The ribbons, laces, trinkets, which she and Janet had amassed out of poor Bridget's stores during their stay at Castle Mahun were tossed anyhow into their trunks; the trunks were locked and directed, and the two girls had left the house without saying a word to anyone long before Squire O'Hara and Bridget returned to it.
Janet was worthless through and through; Sophy was very little better. The curtain drops over them here as far as this story is concerned.
What more is there to tell?
How can I speak of those events which immediately followed the departure of Janet May and her sister?—the wonder and consternation of Lady Kathleen Peterham; the astonishment and curiosity of the retainers; the secret triumph of Norah Maloney and Pat Donovan; the intense amazement of the boys!
Amazement had its day, curiosity its hour, and then the memory of the English girls faded, and the waters of oblivion, to a great extent, closed over them. Lady Kathleen sent their trunks to the address which Janet had put upon them. They were addressed to a Miss Jane Perkins, and Lady Kathleen concluded that she was the Aunt Jane of whom Janet stood in such wholesome dread.
The squire made an important discovery on that unhappy day. It was this: O'Hara of Castle Mahun could brook no dishonor in the person of his nephew, or sister, or cousin; but the child of his heart could be forgiven even dishonor.
"I will myself write to Mrs. Freeman," he said, after he and Bridget had concluded their long conference. "O Biddy, child! why did you not tell me before; could anything, anything turn my heart from thy heart? But listen, acushla macree, your Aunt Kathleen and Pat and Gerald must never know of this."
Of Bridget's future history, of her many subsequent adventures, both at school and at home—are they not written in the book of the future?