And, in looking back
on the incident, what now rose most clearly before Mary's mind was the
way in which Mrs. Urquhart--poor thing, she was never able to go
anywhere with her husband: either she had a child in arms or another
coming; the row of toddlers mounted up in steps--the way in which she
had said, with her pathetic smile: "Ah, my dear! Willie needs some one
gayer and stronger than I am, for company." Mary's heart had been full
of pity at the time, for her friend's lot; and it swelled again now at
the remembrance.
But oh dear! this was straying from the point. Impatiently she jerked
her thoughts back to herself and her own dilemma. What ought she to do?
She was not a person who could sit still with folded hands and await
events. How would it be if she spoke to Purdy herself? . . . talked
seriously to him about his work? . . . tried to persuade him to leave
Ballarat. Did he mean to hang on here for ever, she would say--never
intend to seek promotion? But then again, the mere questioning would
cause a certain awkwardness. While, at the slightest trip or blunder on
her part, what was unsaid might suddenly find itself said; and the whole
thing cease to be the vague, cloudy affair it was at present. And though
she would actually rather this happened with regard to Purdy than
Richard, yet . . . yet. . . .
Worried and perplexed, unable to see before her the straight plain path
she loved, Mary once more sighed from the bottom of her heart.
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