Devine. Mary had engaged to
guide her friend's tottery steps on the slippery path of Melbourne
society, did Mr. Devine enter the ministry. And poor little Agnes with
her terrible weakness. . . and Amelia and her sickly babes . . . and
Tilly, dear, good, warm-hearted Tilly! Never again would the pair of
them enjoy one of their jolly laughs; or cook for a picnic; or drive out
to a mushroom hunt. No, the children would grow up anyhow; her brothers
forget her in carving out their own lives; her friends find other
friends.
For some time, however, she kept her own counsel. But when she had tried
by hook and by crook to bring Richard to reason, and failed; when she
saw that he was actually beginning, on the quiet, to make ready for
departure, and that the day was coming on which every one would have to
know: then she threw off her reserve. She was spending the afternoon
with Tilly. They sat on the verandah together, John's child, black-eyed,
fat, self-willed, playing, after the manner of two short years, at their
feet. At the news that was broken to her Tilly began by laughing
immoderately, believing that Mary was "taking a rise out of her." But
having studied her friend's face she let her work fall, slowly opened
mouth and eyes, and was at first unequal to uttering a word.
Thereafter she bombarded Mary with questions.
"Wants to leave Ballarat? To go home to England?" she echoed, with an
emphasis such as Tilly alone could lay.
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