“I scarce do know what I feel. I scarce can think it be true. If it bain’t true, what’s to become o’ Susan? As you do say, Mrs. Cross, she’s very near out o’ her mind now. And if it be true—there, them as wrote did say as he were so terrible bad he were bound to be crippled for life.”
“Crippled!” ejaculated both women together; and they looked at the mother aghast.
“Then,” cried Mrs. Cross, “Susan ’ull have en to keep!”
She exchanged a look of blank dismay with her companion; it was plain that in the eyes of both the calamity originally believed in—that of the honourable demise of Private Griggs—was regarded as a much less serious misfortune.
“And when do ye think ye’ll be likely to know for certain, my dear?” insinuated Mrs. Cross, with her head on one side.
“Well, they be a-sending somebody home, they do tell me, but whether it be Susan’s husband or not I can’t say. I suppose we’ll know as soon as he gets to England.”
“Ah-h-h, dear, it do seem a strange story, to be sure. And very likely when you do see en ye’ll find as it bain’t Private Griggs at all.”
“Very likely indeed,” agreed Mrs. Frizzell, with extraordinary warmth of manner, but with a sinking heart.
* * * * *
How she contrived to keep Susan from divulging the whole story to her interested neighbours was a mystery known only to the indomitable little mother herself; for the girl, in her excited state, was for doing away at once with pretence and owning the truth to all comers. It was lucky for both that the suspense was not of long duration. A few weeks after receiving the astonishing tidings of Jim Barton’s resurrection came the news that he had arrived in England, and that he had been actually sent to the temporary hospital at the Artillery Barracks in Dorchester.