It was impossible to hide the change in his mood from
Polly--even if he had felt it fair to do so. Another thing: when he
came to study Polly by the light of his new plan, he saw that his
scruples about unsettling her were fanciful--wraiths of his own
imagining. As a matter of fact, the sooner he broke the news to her the
better. Little Polly was so thoroughly happy here that she would need
time to accustom herself to the prospect of life elsewhere.
He went about it very cautiously though; and with no hint of the sour
and sorry incidents that had driven him to the step. As was only
natural, Polly was rather easily upset at present: the very evening
before, he had had occasion to blame himself for his tactless behaviour.
In her first sick young fear Polly had impulsively written off to Mother
Beamish, to claim the fulfilment of that good woman's promise to stand
by her when her time came. One letter gave another; Mrs. Beamish not
only announced that she would hold herself ready to support her "little
duck" at a moment's notice, but filled sheets with sage advice and old
wives' maxims; and the correspondence, which had languished, flared up
anew. Now came an ill-scrawled, misspelt epistle from Tilly--doleful,
too, for Purdy had once more quitted her without speaking the binding
word--in which she told that Purdy's leg, though healed, was
permanently shortened; the doctor in Geelong said he would never walk
straight again.
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