I fetched smelling-salts and brandy, and everything I could think of--fetched Martha too, and between us we got her on the sofa, but lady Cairnedge lay motionless. She breathed indeed, but did not open her eyes. John stood ready to do anything for her, but his countenance revealed little compassion. Whatever the cause of his mother's swoon--he had never seen her in one before--he was certain it had to do with some bad passage in her life. He said so to me that same evening. “But what could the sight of my uncle have to do with it?” I asked. “Probably he knows something, or she thinks he does,” he answered. “Wouldn't it be better to put her to bed, and send for the doctor, John?” I suggested at last. Perhaps the sound of my voice calling her son by his Christian name, stung her proud ear, for the same moment she sat up, passed her hands over her eyes, and cast a scared gaze about the room. “Where am I? Is it gone?” she murmured, looking ghastly. No one answered her. “Call Parker,” she said, feebly, yet imperiously. Still no one spoke. She kept glancing sideways at the window, where nothing was to be seen but the gathering night. In a few moments she rose and walked straight from the room, erect, but white as a corpse. I followed, passed her, and opened the hall-door. There stood the carriage, waiting, as if nothing unusual had happened, Parker seated in the rumble, with one of the footmen beside him. The other man stood by the carriage-door. He opened it immediately; her ladyship stepped in, and dropped on the seat; the carriage rolled away. I went back to John. “I must leave you, darling!” he said. “I cannot subject you to the risk of such another outrage! I fear sometimes my mother may be what she would have you think me. I ought to have said, I hope she is. It would be the only possible excuse for her behaviour. The natural end of loving one's own way, is to go mad. If you don't get it, you go mad; if you do get it, you go madder--that's all the difference!--I must go!” I tried to expostulate with him, but it was of no use. “Where will you go?” I said. “You cannot go home!” “I would at once,” he answered, “if I could take the reins in my own hands. But I will go to London, and see the family-lawyer. He will tell me what I had better do.” “You have no money!” I said. “How do you know that?” he returned with a smile. “Have you been searching my pockets?” “John!” I cried. He broke into a merry laugh. “Your uncle will lend me a five-pound-note,” he said. “He will lend you as much as you want; but I don't think he's in the house,” I answered. “I have two myself, though! I'll run and fetch them.” I bounded away to get the notes. It was like having a common purse already, to lend John ten pounds! But I had no intention of letting him leave the house the same day he was first out of his room after such an illness--that was, if I could help it.