NEARLY eight months had now elapsed without a letter from George.  Susan could no longer deceive herself with hopes.  George was either false to her or dead.  She said as much to her false friend.  This inspired him with an artifice as subtle as unscrupulous.  A letter had been brought to him by Jefferies, which he at once recognized as the planned letter from Crawley to another tool of his in Farnborough.  This very day he set about a report that George was dead.  It did not reach Susan so soon as he thought it would, for old Merton hesitated to tell her; but on the Sunday evening, with considerable reluctance and misgivings, he tried in a very clumsy way to prepare her for sad news.

But her mind had long been prepared for bitter tidings.  Fancy eight weary months spent in passing every possible calamity before her imagination, death as often as any.

She fixed her eyes on the old man.  “Father, George is dead!”

Old Merton hung his head, and made no reply.

That was enough.  Susan crept from the room pale as ashes.  She tottered, but she did not fall.  She reached her room and locked herself in.

CHAPTER LXXX.

MR. MEADOWS did not visit Grassmere for some days; the cruel one distrusted his own firmness.  When he did come he came with a distinct purpose.  He found Merton alone.

“Susan sees no one.  You have heard?”

“What?”

“Her sweetheart.  He is dead.”

“Why, how can that be?  And who says so?”

“That is the news.”

“Well, it is a falsehood!” said Mr. Meadows, coolly.

“I wish to Heaven it might,” whispered old Merton, “for she won’t live long after him.”

Mr. Meadows then told Merton that he had spoken with a man who had got news of George Fielding not four months old, and he was in very good health.

“Will you tell Susan this?”

“Certainly.”

Susan was called down.  Meadows started at the sight of her.  She was pale and hollow-eyed, and in these few days seemed ten years older.  She was dressed all in black.  “I am a murderer!” thought he.  And remorse without one grain of honest repentance pierced his heart.

“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.)