She answered me with a cold stare.
“I will go and tell him you are here,” I faltered; and passing her, I sped along the passage to the drawing-room.
“John!” I cried, bursting in, “she's come! Do you still mean to see her? Are you able? Uncle—”
There I stopped, for his eyes were stern, and not looking at me, but at something behind me. One moment I thought his fever had returned, but following his gaze I looked round:—there stood lady Cairnedge! John was face to face with his mother, and my uncle was not there to defend him!
“Are you ready?” she said, nor pretended greeting. She seemed slightly discomposed, and in haste.
I was by this time well aware of my lover's determination of character, but I was not prepared for the tone in which he addressed the icy woman calling herself his mother.
“I am ready to listen,” he answered.
“John!” she returned, with mingled severity and sharpness, “let us have no masquerading! You are perfectly fit to come home, and you must come at once. The carriage is at the door.”
“You are quite right, mother,” answered John calmly; “I am fit to go home with you. But Rising does not quite agree with me. I dread such another attack, and do not mean to go.”
The drawing-room had a rectangular bay-window, one of whose three sides commanded the door. The opposite side looked into a little grove of larches. Lady Cairnedge had already realized the position of the room. She darted to the window, and saw her carriage but a few yards away.