At sunset Eli and Major Edward, grey and anxious, watching from the shadow of the oaks, saw him leave the burying-ground, look back once as he closed the gate, and come slowly down the hill.  When he reached the house, and, after going to his own room, came down into the library, it was to find Major Churchill ensconced in an old chair by the western window, with a book in his hand.  He looked up with eyes yet keen and dark beneath their shaggybrows.  “If you’ll allow me, Fair, I’ll borrow this Hobbes of yours.  It is printed larger than mine, and it has no damned annotation!”

Major Edward spent the night at Greenwood, and the two played chess until very late.  The next morning, coming stiffly down at an early hour, he found no host.  Fairfax Cary, he discovered on enquiry, had ordered his horse the night before, and as soon as it was light, had ridden off alone.  Major Churchill passed the morning as best he might.  He looked once from the windows toward the little graveyard on the hill, and thought of going there, then shook his head and pressed his lips together.  He was old, and now, when he could, he evaded woe.  The young had fibre and nerve to squander; brittle folk must walk lightly.  The Major stared at the feathery trees that marked the place.  The green became a blur; he stamped his foot upon the floor with violence, said something between his teeth, and turned from the window to a desolate contemplation of the backs of books.

It was after midday when Fairfax Cary returned.  He came in, white and steady, apologized for his absence, and ordered dinner.  The two ate little, hardly spoke, but drank their wine.  As they passed out of the dining-room, the elder said, “You have been—­”

“Yes.  The river road.”

They reentered the library and, at Cary’s suggestion, sat down again at the chess-table.  They played one game, then fell idle, the young man staring straight before him at some invisible object, the elder watching him covertly but keenly.

“When,” said the Major at last,—­“when will you come with me, Fair, to Fontenoy?”

The other shook his head.  “I do not know.  Not now.  I must not keep you here, sir.”

“I have little to occupy me at home.  You will tell me when I can do nothing for you here.  You must remember, Fair, that Dick and Nancy and Unity and I and even little Deb want you, very heartily and lovingly want you, with us there.  Unity—­”

The young man took from his breast a folded note.  “I have this from Unity.  Read it.  It is like her.”

He unfolded it and gave it to the Major, who read the line it contained.

     FAIRFAX,—­I will marry you to-morrow if you wish.  I know—­I know it
     is lonely at Greenwood.  UNITY.

Major Churchill cleared his throat.  “Yes, it is like her.  And why not, Fair?  Upon my soul, I do advise it!  I advise it strongly.  Not to-morrow, perhaps, but next day or the next.  It can be quietly arranged—­there could have been no wiser suggestion!  Take her at her word, Fair.”