He left the room and passed through the silent house, mounted his horse, and rode away.  A crowd had witnessed his arrival there; only a few wondering servants were gathered to see him depart.  He gave them gold, but though they thanked him, they thanked him with a difference.  He felt it, and that more keenly than he might have felt a greater thing.  Could he not even give largesse like one to the manner born, or was it only that all the air was hostile?  He rode away.  From the saddle he could have seen the distant summer-house, but he forced himself not to look.  The lawn fell away behind him, and the trees hid the house.  The gleam of a white pillar kept with him for a while, but the driveway bent, and that too was hidden.  With Joab behind him on the iron grey, he passed through the lower gate, and took the way that led to Mrs. Jane Selden’s on the Three-Notched Road.

CHAPTER XII

A MARRIAGE AT SAINT MARGARET’S

“Yes,” said Unity.  “That is just what the Argus says.  ’On Thursday M. Jerome Buonaparte, the younger brother of the First Consul, passed through Annapolis with his bride—­lately the lively and agreeable Miss Elizabeth Patterson of Baltimore.  M. Buonaparte’s Secretary and Physician followed in a chaise, and the valets and femmes-de-chambre in a coach.  The First Consul’s brother wore—­’ I protest I don’t care what the First Consul’s brother wore!  The Argus is not gallant.  If you were the First Consul’s brother—­”

“The Argus should describe the bride’s dress, not mine,” said Fairfax Cary.  “How lovely you would look, in that gown you have on, in a curricle drawn by grey horses!  What is the stuff—­roses and silver?”

“Heigho!” sighed Unity. “’Tis a bridesmaid’s gown.  I am out with men.  I shall never wear a bride’s gown.”

“Don’t jest—­”

“Jest!  I never felt less like jesting!  I laugh to keep from crying.  Here is the coach.”

The great Fontenoy coach with the Churchill arms on the panel drew up before the porch.  It was drawn by four horses, and driven by old Philip in a wig and nosegay.  Mingo was behind, and Phyllis’s Jim and a little darky ran alongside to open the door and let down the steps.  “All alone in that!” exclaimed Cary.  “I shall ride with you as far as the old road to Greenwood.  Don’t say no!  I’ll hold your flowers.”

Unity looked down upon the roses in her arms.  “They should all be white,” she said.  “I feel as though I were going to see them bury Jacqueline.”  Her voice broke, but she bit her lip, forced back the tears, and tried to laugh.  “I’m not.  I’m going to her wedding—­and people know their own business best—­and she may be as happy as the day is long!  He is fascinating,—­he is dreadfully fascinating,—­and we have no right to say he is not good—­and everybody knows he is going to be great!  Why shouldn’t she be happy?”

“I don’t know,” answered Cary.  “But I know she won’t be.”