He drove up to the door at last, and Henry ran out and brought him in. He looked pale, and sat down exhausted.
Mrs. Little restrained her impatience, and said, “We are selfish creatures to send you on our business before you are half well.”
“I am well enough in health,” said he, “but I am quite upset.”
“What is the matter? Surely you have not failed? Guy does not refuse his forgiveness?”
“No, it is not that. Perhaps, if I had been in time—but the fact is, Guy Raby has left England.”
“What, for good? Impossible!”
“Who can tell? All I know is that he has sold his horses, discharged his servants all but one, and gone abroad without a word. I was the friend of his youth—his college chum; he must be bitterly wounded to go away like that, and not even let me know.”
Mrs. Little lifted up her hands. “What have we done? what have we done? Wounded! no wonder. Oh, my poor, wronged, insulted brother!”
She wept bitterly, and took it to heart so, it preyed on her health and spirits. She was never the same woman from that hour.
While her son and her friend were saying all they could to console her, there appeared at the gate the last man any of them ever expected to see—Mr. Bolt.