“You see what my mother is after!” said John. “You have now to believe _her_, that I am subject to fits of insanity, or to believe _me_, that there is nothing she will not do to get her way.” “Her object is clear,” I replied. “But if she thinks to fool my uncle, she will find herself mistaken!” “She hopes to fool both you and your uncle,” he rejoined. “The only wise thing I could do, she will handle so as to convince any expert of my madness--I mean, my coming to you! My reasons will go for nothing--less than no-thing--with any one she chooses to bewitch. She will look at me with an anxious love no doctor could doubt. No one can know _you_ do not know that I am not mad--or at least subject to attacks of madness!” “Oh, John, don't frighten me!” I cried. “There! you are not sure about it!” It seemed cruel of him to tease me so; but I saw presently why he did it: he thought his mother's letter had waked a doubt in my uncle; and he wanted me not to be vexed with my uncle, even if he deserted him and went over to his mother's side. “I love your uncle,” he said. “I know he is a true man! I _will_ not be angry with him if my mother do mislead him. The time will come when he will know the truth. It must appear at last! I shall have to fight her alone, that's all! The worst is, if he thinks with my mother I shall have to go at once!--If only somebody would sell my horse for me!” I guessed that his mother kept him short of money, and remembered with gladness that I was not quite penniless at the moment. “In the meantime, you must keep as quiet as you can, John,” I said. “Where is the good of planning upon an _if_? To trust is to get ready, uncle says. Trust is better than foresight.” John required little such persuading. And indeed something very different was in my uncle's mind from what John feared. Presently I caught a glimpse of him riding out of the yard. I ran to a window from which I could see the edge of the moor, and saw him cross it at an uphill gallop. He was gone about four hours, and on his return went straight to his own room. Not until nine o'clock did I go to him, and then he came with me to supper. He looked worn, but was kind and genial as usual. After supper he sent for Dick, and told him to ride to Rising, the first thing in the morning, with a letter he would find on the hall-table. The letter he read to us before we parted for the night. It was all we could have wished. He wrote that he must not have any one in his house interfered with; so long as a man was his guest, he was his servant. Her ladyship had, however, a perfect right to see her son, and would be welcome; only the decision as to his going or remaining must rest with the young man himself. If he chose to accompany his mother, well and good! though he should be sorry to lose him. If he declined to return with her, he and his house continued at his service. CHAPTER XXIV. HAND TO HAND.