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Weyburn's conscience through a disturbance of his balance, telling him that he was on a perilous road, if his relish for food had been blunted. He had his axiom on the subject, and he was wrong in the general instance, for the appetites of rogues and ogres are not known to fail.
Lady Ormont preferred the Continent. Two days later she came to the armchair, as before, met Weyburn's eyes when he raised them; gave him no home in hers not a temporary shelter from the pelting of interrogations. She hardly spoke. Why did she come? But how was it that he was drawn to think of her? Absent or present, she was round him, like the hills of a valley.
So fell was her mood, that an endeavour to conjure up the scene of her sitting beside the death-bed of Matthew Weyburn's mother, failed to sober and smooth it, holy though that time was. The false heart she had put into the pride of her name was powerfuller than the heart in her bosom. But to what end had the true heart counselled her of late?
Nor ought they to summon morality for support of a polemic. Matey Weyburn's object of worship rode superior to a morality puffing its phrasy trumpet. And, somehow, the sacrifice of an enormous number of women to Lord Ormont's glory seemed natural; the very thing that should be, in the case of a first-rate military hero and commander Scipio notwithstanding.
He, who could have been a pictorial and suggestive narrator, carried a spinning head off his shoulders from this wonderful Countess of Ormont to Matey Weyburn's dark-eyed Browny at High Brent, and the Sunday walk in Sir Peter Wensell's park. Away and back his head went.
The calling on Captain May and the writing to the sort of man were acts obnoxious to his dignity; so he despatched Weyburn to the captain's house, one in a small street of three narrow tenements abutting on aristocracy and terminating in mews. Weyburn's mission was to give the earl's address at Great Marlow for the succeeding days, and to see Captain May, if the captain was at home.
Morsfield sprang to Weyburn's place. That was witnessed by Aminta and Weyburn. She stepped to consult him. He said to the earl's coachman a young fellow with a bright eye for orders 'Drive as fast as you can pelt for Dornton. I'm doing my lord's commands. 'Trust yourself to me, madam. His hand stretched for Aminta to mount. She took it without a word and climbed to the seat.
The thought of the difference between themselves and the boys must have been something like the tight band call it corset over the chest, trying to lift and stretch for draughts of air. But Browny's feeling naturally was, that all this advantage for the boys came of Matey Weyburn's lead.
Her dear and lovely Countess of Ormont, for whom she then uncomplainingly suffered, who deigned now to call her friend, had spoken the kind good-bye, and left the house after Mr. Weyburn's departure that same day; she, of course, to post by Harwich to London; he to sail by packet from the port of Harwich for Flushing.
She sank down the valley, where another wave was mounding for its onward roll: a gentle scene of Weyburn's favourite Sophoclean chorus. Now she was given to him it was she. How could it ever have been any other!
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