“Speak out, John,” said the father, “the girl is not a fool. She has borne ill news, she can bear good. Can't you, Susan?”
“Yes, dear father, if it is God's will any good news should come to me.” And she never took her eyes off Mr. Meadows, but belied her assumed firmness by quivering like an aspen leaf.
“Do you know Mr. Griffin?” asked Meadows.
“Yes!” replied Susan, still trembling gently, but all over.
“He has got a letter from Sydney from a little roguish attorney called Crawley. I heard him say with my own ears that Crawley tells him he had just seen George Fielding in the streets of Sydney, well and hearty.”
“You are deceiving me out of kindness.” (Her eyes fixed on his.)
“I am not. I wish I may die if the man is not as well as I am!”
Her eyes were never off his face, and at this moment she read for certain that it was true.
She uttered a cry of joy so keen it was painful to hear, and then she laughed and cried and sank into a chair laughing and crying in strong hysterics, that lasted till the poor girl almost fainted from exhaustion. Her joy was more violent and even terrible than her grief had been.
The female servants were called to assist her, and old Merton and Meadows left her in their hands, feeble, but calm and thankful. She even smiled her adieu to Meadows.