I was struck dumb.
"Whatever shall we do?" she cried again. "Oh, Miss Gertrude, he mustn't come! I can't bear it. I must send him a telegram at once. I must!"
Too much staggered to answer, I looked at her blankly. She collapsed on the rustic seat by my side, covered her face with her pretty new French apron, and went off into an old-fashioned, uncontrollable fit of weeping.
To the sound of her sobs, I tried to decide what course was best. Susan's plan of an immediate telegram commanding him to stop at home seemed good at first. But I glanced at his words again, and all doubt vanished. I knew that Susan might as well tell to-morrow's sun not to rise, to-morrow's tides not to flow, as tell Ruddington that to-morrow he must not invade Sainte Véronique. Nor could I blame him, or wonder at him. With such a letter as mine in his hand, I should have despised him if he had not flown on the wings of the wind.
"Stop crying, Susan," I said. And, with a bitterness which she did not understand, I added, "It is I who should be upset, not you."
"Yes, Miss, I know, Miss," sobbed Susan. "With you so ill and weak, it's horrible, it's dreadful!"
"I don't mean that, Susan," I said. "But do you think I like his coming here? First it was Gibson, and now it's Lord Ruddington."
She turned on me white with terror.
"I know, I know, oh, I know, Miss Gertrude!" she crooned, wringing her hands. "What if Gibson meets him, Miss? They'll fight, and they'll both be killed!"
"Don't talk nonsense," I said irritably; "if they killed each other, at least we should have some peace. As for sending a telegram, what's the good? He's made up his mind. Very likely he has started. If so, no power on earth will turn him back again."