Susan is herself again. I don't mean that she isn't still burdened with the worries and anxieties of her amazing good luck. Indeed, she confesses that she has had a wakeful night. But in her work and her behaviour she's once more as good as gold.
After all, it was lean and ungenerous of me yesterday to be jarred by her one low-class remark. We are none of us at our best every single minute of our lives.
When I'd written in this diary, with my teeth chattering, at five o'clock this morning, I crawled back into bed in a very sour temper; and if Susan had come in sulky with a second lot of weak toast and strong tea, it would have finished me off. As it was, I lay trying to get warm, and wondering whether it mightn't be better to leave Susan and Ruddington to patch up their ridiculous match in their own unthinkable way.
At a quarter to seven Susan brought me three perfect square inches of toast, and a perfect tablespoonful of China tea in that sweet little thin birds'-egg-coloured porcelain cup which I thought was broken. She saw at once that I hadn't slept; and, in her quiet, untoadying, genuine old way, she was ever so much concerned. But I didn't let her begin talking.
I must do my duty by Susan.
Haven't I often felt inwardly virtuous on the strength of my compassion (more sentimental than practical!) for Susan's motherlessness? How do I know that the poor good creature has not consciously pitied me on the same account? It isn't too much to say that Susan has been almost a mother to me over and over again. Surely, then, it is my duty to be a mother to her in this big, sudden strain on her simple wits.
Rumour says that Ruddington is all right. But Rumour sometimes has a lying tongue even when she speaks in a man's praise. I have no guarantee whatever that Lord Ruddington intends to treat Susan honourably. If he doesn't, I know I shall be a poor defender of Susan, and that I can't hope to be his match in worldly knowledge and cunning. But I don't mean to fail for want of doing my best.
This is the reply I have drafted:--
THE GRANGE,
TRAXELBY, Friday.
Your letter of Tuesday was not one to be answered, or even acknowledged, in a hurry.