Guy flushed and then paled. This revelation of his uncle's intentions was a shock to him. But he controlled himself, and after waiting for a few moments to see if his uncle had more to say, quietly left the room.
The two breakfasted together the next morning as usual. It was not a pleasant day for a ride. It had been snowing in the night, and a sparse white covering lay on the ground; every now and then the keen north wind would bring a shower of sleet. Neither of the gentlemen, however, remarked upon the weather as they took their breakfast. The squire gave his whole attention to the "Times," and Guy occupied himself with a sporting journal, and with a favourite dog that sat "begging" by his side and shared his meal.
On rising from the table, Stephen Lorraine went to his desk. Guy watched him as he selected a sheet of notepaper and then began to write in his small, neat hand. The servant entering to clear the table, Guy gave orders that his horse should be ready for him in half an hour.
"Ah," said old Stephen, half-turning as he spoke,—"it is rather a rough morning; perhaps you would prefer to have the carriage. You could put it up at Woodham, and wait till Mr. Greenwood was at liberty to return with you. You would have no difficulty in passing the time agreeably with your friends."
There was a sting in the last words for Guy. He coloured angrily as he replied—
"Thank you, sir, I prefer to ride. I shall be back in a little more than an hour, and I can bring you word what time will suit Mr. Greenwood if you like to send the carriage for him."
"Oh, very well," returned his uncle; and he proceeded slowly with his letter-writing, whilst Guy went off to prepare for his ride.
Guy would not have minded the biting wind had his errand been an agreeable one; but as it was, the ride could hardly have been more unpleasant. He stole a glance at the Blands' house as he went down the High Street; but no one was visible at the windows. Hilda, complaining of a headache, was still in bed. She had lain awake, crying and imagining herself the most unhappy of heroines, till long past midnight, and the morning found her weary in mind and body, and convinced that an early death would close her miserable life.
Mr. Greenwood had just arrived at his office, and welcomed Guy genially. He was a little man, with black hair and black "mutton chop" whiskers, small, shrewd, dark eyes, and a brisk, pleasant manner.
"Good morning, Mr. Guy. The New Year begins roughly, does it not? How is the weather at Wyndham? You do not find it too warm to-day, eh?"