“Oh, Mother! oh, Mother! you’ve done it! You’ve got your wish—he’s dead!”
And Mrs. Frizzell, darting forward, was just in time to catch her as she fell.
But a little later, after being carried back to bed with the aid of Mrs. Cross—whom Martha prudently banished on the first sign which Susie gave of “coming to”—the poor girl wept as much with gladness as with grief.
“He did love me, Mother; you see how he did love me, and he did mean to make amends. Thank God for that! Oh, thank God for that! If he hadn’t ha’ wrote you’d never ha’ believed me; but I knew—I knew! But now I shall never see his face no more.”
And then, pressing the letter to her heart, she turned and hid her face upon the pillows, refusing to be comforted.
Mrs. Frizzell went downstairs and sank into the elbow-chair.
“Lard forgive me!” she said to herself over and over again. “Good Lard, forgive me! I can scarce think I wished en dead, but I did wish for en not to come back, and I did tell so many lies that they’ve a-come true to punish I. There, my child be a-breakin’ her heart, and ’tis me as has done it.”
By-and-bye Mrs. Cross peered in again, anxious and curious.
“What did make Susan take that bad turn, I wonder?”
“Why,” returned Mrs. Frizzell, looking up with red eyes, but with an odd sense of returning self-respect—this time, at least, she was telling no untruth—“it be enough to upset her. She’ve a-had a letter from her husband, wrote afore he died: so lovin’. And it be all stained wi’ blood.”