She's 'ad all the pains and none
of the pleasures; and now, just when I was hoping to be able to give 'er
a helping hand, THIS must happen."
The one bright spot in Tilly's grief was that the journey would be made
in a private conveyance. Mr. Ocock had bought a smart gig and was
driving her down himself; driving past the foundations of the new house,
along the seventy odd miles of road, right up to the door of the mean
lodging in a Collingwood back street, where the old Beamishes had hidden
their heads. "If only she's able to look out of the window and see me
dash up in my own turn-out!" said Tilly.
Polly fitted out a substantial luncheon-basket, and was keenest sympathy
to the last. But Mahony was a poor dissembler; and his sudden thaw, as
he assisted in the farewell preparations, could, Polly feared, have been
read aright by a child.
Tilly hugged Polly to her, and gave her kiss after kiss. "I shall NEVER
forget 'ow kind you've been, Poll, and all you've done for me. I've had
my disappointments 'ere, as you know; but p'raps after all it'll turn
out to be for the best. One o' the good sides to it anyhow is that you
and me'll be next-door neighbours, so to say, for the rest of our lives.
And I'll hope to see something of you, my dear, every blessed day. But
you'll not often catch me coming to this house, I can tell you that!
For, if you won't mind me saying so, Poll, I think you've got one of the
queerest sticks for a husband that ever walked this earth.
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