Ultimately, protesting that they were incapable of telling what they did not know—­which Lady Charlotte heard with an incredulous shrug—­they related piecemeal what they did know, and Weyburn’s name gave her scent.  She paid small heed to the tale of Mr. Weyburn’s having come there in the character of young Mr. Collett’s old schoolmate.  Mr. Weyburn had started for the port of Harwich.  This day, and not long subsequently, Lady Ormont had started for the port of Harwich, on her way to London, if we like to think it.  Further corroboration was quite superfluous.

‘Is there a night packet-boat from this port of yours?’ Lady Charlotte asked.

The household servants had to be consulted; and she, hurriedly craving the excuse of their tedious mistress, elicited, as far as she could understand them, that there might be and very nearly was, a night packet-boat starting for Flushing.  The cook, a native of Harwich, sent up word of a night packet-boat starting at about eleven o’clock last year.

Lady Charlotte saw the chance as a wind-blown beacon-fire under press of shades.  Changeing her hawkish manner toward the simple pair, she gave them view of a smile magical by contrast, really beautiful—­the smile she had in reserve for serviceable persons whom she trusted—­while thanking them and saying, that her anxiety concerned Lady Ormont’s welfare.

Her brother had prophesied she would soon be ’running at his wife’s heels,’ and so she was, but not ‘with her head off,’ as she had rejoined.  She might prove, by intercepting his Aminta, that her head was on.  The windy beacon-fire of a chance blazed at the rapid rolling of her carriage-wheels, and sank to stifling smoke at any petty obstruction.  Let her but come to an interview with his Aminta, she would stop all that nonsense of the woman’s letter; carry her off—­and her Weyburn plucking at her other hand to keep her.  Why, naturally, treated as she was by Rowsley, she dropped soft eyes on a good-looking secretary.  Any woman would—­confound the young fellow!  But all ’s right yet if we get to Harwich in time; unless . . . as a certain coldfish finale tone of the letter playing on the old string, the irrevocable, peculiar to women who are novices in situations of the kind, appeared to indicate; they see in their conscience-blasted minds a barrier to a return home, high as the Archangelical gate behind Mother Eve, and they are down on their knees blubbering gratitude and repentance if the gate swings open to them.  It is just the instant, granting the catastrophe, to have a woman back to her duty.  She has only to learn she has a magnanimous husband.  If she learns into the bargain how he suffers, how he loves her,—­well, she despises a man like that Lawrence Finchley all the more for the ‘magnanimity’ she has the profit of, and perceives to be feebleness.  But there ’s woman in her good and her bad; she’ll trick a man of age, and if he forgives her, owning his own faults in the case, she won’t scorn him for it; the likelihood is, she ’ll feel bound in honour to serve him faithfully for the rest of their wedded days.